Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

Uh-huh. And cleaning her room was the first thing an heir to an earldom would do to cure that? Not in her experience—not even for someone who wasn’t about to be the lord of the land.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft as she tried to work out the puzzle that was Nick Vane, self-proclaimed lazy git.

He shook the paper out but didn’t emerge from behind it. “Remember that later when you admit defeat on this whole earl thing.”

She shut the door, a smile playing on her lips. Yeah. He wasn’t going to get off the hook that easily. She was going to win that bet and then Bowhaven—and everyone who lived there—would benefit, even if they never realized exactly who was behind it or why. That part didn’t matter to her. She’d learned the hard way that the spotlight wasn’t for her.

…

Dallinger Park’s dining room, with its many windows overlooking the manicured garden and the french doors opening out onto the stone walkway that led to a small fountain surrounded by a riot of white roses, was one of Brooke’s favorite rooms in the house. The table for sixteen, which was currently set for two, had been in the Vane family for generations.

When she’d emerged from her room—dressed, thank you very much—she made her way down the stairwell decorated with stag heads and stuffed grouse to the dining room currently bathed in sunlight. The earl was nowhere in sight, but Nick was in one of the chairs, his honey-brown hair sticking up here and there as if he’d rammed his fingers through it, and he was staring at the full Yorkshire breakfast before him with a mix of curiosity and horror.

She cleared her throat to alert him to her presence and strode in, stopping at the edge of the table. “This is the perfect way to begin your lessons.”

Few things marked one as an outsider as effectively as how one ate a meal—especially among the upper crust. Imagine the horror of his fellow earls-to-be if Nick nibbled from the cheese plate at the beginning of a luncheon instead of during the cheese course. They’d be aghast. And for some reason, that image made the corner of her mouth curl up. Thank God she had the wherewithal to smother it immediately.

“What is this?” Using the tip of his knife, he nudged the circle of black pudding nestled between the fried bread and beans. “And why are there pork and beans for breakfast?”

Closing her eyes, she forced herself to remember the lemon-clean scent of her bedroom and the way the duvet had been one smooth line without a wrinkle in sight. He was goading her on purpose. He had to be. There was no other explanation for why he would be so kind one second and such a pain in the arse the next. Well, he could try to provoke a reaction, but she wasn’t going to give in. To borrow a saying from the earl, if Churchill didn’t give in, neither would she.

“Black pudding and beans is a Yorkshire tradition.”

He continued to jab at it. “What’s it made of?”

All right. She loved black pudding, but even her stomach rebelled a little when she remembered the ingredients. A Canadian pen pal she’d had in primary school had once compared it to hot dogs—they were delicious as long as one didn’t think about what went into making them. “You don’t want to know—just enjoy it.”

Nick looked up at her, a lazy smile playing on his lips. As easygoing as it was, though, it didn’t match the serious, contemplative look in his eyes. Someone wasn’t as disengaged as he wanted everyone to believe. Interesting. Brooke filed that bit of information away to ponder later.

“No,” he said, attention back on the black pudding as he used the side of his fork to cut off a piece. “I really do. What’s in it?”

“It’s a delicious mix of pork blood, pork fat, and oatmeal.” Ugh. Just saying the words kind of ruined it.

“Sounds delicious,” he said with a hearty slathering of sarcasm and then stabbed the piece with his fork and lifted it up in the air, studying it from all angles.

The annoyed sigh escaped before she could stop it. This man would try the patience of a doting grandmother with her only grandchild. “Just try it.”

> After giving it another look, he popped it in his mouth and left it there for a second before starting to chew. Gaze directed up at the ceiling as if he was noting all the flavor layers, he took his time to finish the single bite. Finally. Did the man have to examine everything?

Wonder what it would be like to be the one on the receiving end of all that attention?

Oh my God! Where had that come from? Cheeks burning, she dropped her gaze down to the tips of her very sensible loafers.

“It’s pretty salty,” Nick said, drawing her attention back to him. “But I like it.”

“Our country can rest well at last.” She managed—just barely—not to roll her eyes as she said it.

He pointed his fork at a place set for the earl. “Are you going to join me?”

Like that could even be considered in good form. She was an employee, not a member of the family. “The earl will be here soon.”

“There are fourteen more seats.” He laid his fork down on the side of his plate and shot her an imploring look. “Eating while being stared at is just weird. Sit. Please.”

She shouldn’t. It wasn’t right. But she sat down anyway. Something in that “please” hit her right in the feels.

Nick dug in to his breakfast, scarfing down the dry-cured English bacon, pork sausages, eggs, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, and fried bread. He wasn’t making a mess of it, but he set his fork down between bites and cut up his entire sausage in one go—not like an English earl at all. That just would not do.

“Time for your first lesson,” she said. “When it comes to meals, you need to hold your fork at all times and only cut one bite at a time.”