The Playboy Prince and the Nanny (Royal Duology 1)

And so she’d deal with her feelings with Diego.

* * *

For the better part of a week, Rose and Diego were polite when they crossed paths. There were no more picnics for four in the garden, though. Diego often took the children out after their morning lessons and activities so they could expend some energy and get some fresh air, and Rose made the inevitable excuse as to why she couldn’t go with them. Raoul, too, made more of an effort, setting aside time each day to have tea with the children in the nursery, hear about their day, and praise their reading skills or artwork. Their eyes lit up when their father came to see them, and Rose was gratified to see that they were the happiest they’d been since her arrival. Diego must have had another chat with Raoul, too, because one day he brought a framed family photo that the children could put in the nursery. When he placed it on a little table, he said, “This way you can look at it and remember that your mama loved you more than anything in the world.”

There were tears, of course, but then they started sharing a few little memories. Rose slipped out of the room, wanting to give them their privacy to remember. And to heal.

The day following that particular nursery visit was a rare day off. Ernestina stepped in to watch the children, promising them a trip to the kitchen to help Senora Ortiz make mantecados—cinnamon crumble cakes—for teatime. Rose dressed in plain jeans and a light sleeveless blouse, put her hair up in a ponytail, and put a pair of sunglasses and a hat in her bag. She was going to go down to the city and do some exploring—no Diego along for the ride this time. Marco drove her down to the square in an unmarked car, and she made her way through the little streets and alleys with her senses wide open.

Boxes and stone walls cascaded with vibrant bougainvillea, oleander, and stephanotis, and the perfumed scent of hibiscus and jasmine mingled with salty air, fresh from the nearby coast. In the narrow streets she was shaded from the harsh sun, but once she entered the town square, there was less protection from the rays and she donned both sunglasses and hat. A café provided strong coffee and delicate pastry, and she smiled and tipped her server generously as she sat back and people-watched. More than once a sense of the unreal washed over her. She was drinking coffee in the Med on her day off from her job at the royal palace. It made her feel rather like Cinderella at the ball, except there were no horrible stepsisters waiting for her. And no Prince Charming to sweep her away.

Well, there was a prince. And he was definitely charming. But he wasn’t for her. It didn’t matter that he’d kissed her. They both knew a relationship was impossible.

Still. It was rather romantic and dreamy. And it was a secret memory she’d carry with her forever. Maybe she’d tell her children and grandchildren about it someday.

If she ever had any children. Maybe her sister was right about that one thing. She spent her time looking after other people’s children rather than thinking about having her own.

Once she’d eaten her pastry and watched passersby long enough, she wandered farther into town to the market. Not the stalls in the square, where tourists gathered, but deeper into the area where the locals shopped for their produce and goods. One man with a magnificent mustache manned a cart featuring the bright colors and citrus scents of oranges, lemons, and limes. She bought three oranges and tucked them in her bag, intending to keep them for a snack with the children later. There were rows and rows of flowers and bunches of herbs, the heavy scent of basil and oregano blending with the slightly sharper aroma of rosemary and cilantro. Oils, vinegars, wine, cured meats, and cheeses with their overwhelming must drew her in, and she tried several before selecting some dry-cured sausage, smoked cheese, and bread for an impromptu lunch later.

There was the daily catch available, and her eyes widened at the mounds of oysters, slabs of tuna, and—she shuddered—whole eels. One ambitious vendor tried to sell her a cone of fresh baby shrimp, but she smiled and waved a hand before moving on. She’d always preferred her seafood to be properly battered, deep fried, and served with chips.

There were no children to worry about today, no Diego to distract her. It gave her time to think about her own family, and to miss them a little bit. In her other jobs, she could take a few days and catch a train and be home for a quick vi

sit. Or pop up to London and see Hayley and Alice. Hayley usually gave Rose a hard time, and got in little digs about her job. Visiting Alice was the real bright light to those trips. The last time she’d splurged on tickets to take her niece to the ballet. Hayley had taken the opportunity to head to the clubs since she was usually “tied down.”

Even Devon . . . he was a good sort, if a little staid. He still enjoyed a good game of cards and a cold beer now and again. Now she wasn’t sure when she’d be home again.

But she could send presents home, couldn’t she?

At a silversmith’s, she employed Emilia’s haggling strategy and purchased a silver and rose-quartz bracelet for Hayley and an intricate hair clip for Alice in the shape of one of the many hibiscus blossoms she’d seen this morning. Vivid fabric was draped over stands at another shop where she bought a fine silk scarf for her mother and then paused at the sight of delicate white lace. It was absolutely exquisite, and she pressed her hand over her heart, gaining the attention of the merchant. So much for being coy.

“Cuánto cuestas?” she asked, touching the material with a finger. That was all, though. She was afraid of marring its perfection.

The woman looked at her shrewdly, then named a price that even Rose knew was exorbitant.

She stepped back and dropped her hand, then shook her head. Even with her fine wages, she couldn’t justify spending so much on something she might never use. What would she ever do with a length of fine lace, anyway? It would more than likely sit packed away somewhere. Utterly impractical . . . and yet something about it called to her. Begged for her to buy it. She was not an impulse shopper, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to walk away, either.

The woman shrugged, and turned back to her table, where she was tidying stacks of printed fabrics.

Rose turned away, then turned back again and named her price—half of what the woman had asked.

The light returned to the woman’s eyes, and she tilted her head a bit and studied Rose. Rose left her sunglasses on. She had a horrible poker face, and this might give her the tiniest edge in bargaining.

The woman named a new price. Not much better than the first. Rose adjusted her bag on her shoulder and turned to walk away.

“Senorita! Wait.” She said the word in English. Rose turned back around as the woman quoted a new price. A much better price.

Rose countered, and so it went on for a good five minutes. She started to enjoy herself as the woman pointed out the fine craftsmanship, the quality of the thread, the perfection of the design. Rose made a point of taking out her phone and doing the currency conversion into Euros, then turning the screen around so the woman could see. “That is the absolute most I can spend,” Rose replied, her heart beating fast. Bargaining had been exhilarating!

The number was just over two-thirds of the original price. With a beaming smile the woman agreed, wrapped the carefully folded lace in tissue, and then placed it into another bag for safekeeping. Rose took it, paid her money, and carefully tucked the lace into her tote, away from the aromatic cheese and meat.

That left only her father and brother. She purchased a bottle of fine Marazurian brandy for her father, and found an old, worn copy of Don Quixote, in the original Spanish, at a book stall for Devon.

Her bag was getting quite heavy now, so Rose left the market behind and simply made her way out of the city by heading downhill toward the harbor. It was by no means a short walk, and by the time she could see the vast blue of the ocean she was tired and her feet hurt. She flagged down a taxi, and gave halting instructions to be delivered to the closest beach. She wanted to dig her toes into the sand, feel the water lapping around her ankles, soothing her aching soles. She’d eat her lunch, wander for a bit more, and then call Marco to retrieve her.

The taxi driver spoke in rapid Spanish, and Rose struggled to keep up. She pieced together enough to know that the harbor was in town but any sort of beach was outside the city. She frowned a bit, wondering if it had been such a good idea to wander alone all day without so much as a map. The last time she had Diego with her, and a small but dedicated security detail. She didn’t need that now, but she wasn’t quite as confident as she’d been first thing this morning.

The beach was, indeed, outside the city and Rose paid the driver and shouldered her bag. The sand was dotted with umbrellas and people, and the waves looked deliciously refreshing. The breeze was brisk, and as she bent to slip off her shoes, a gust caught the brim of her hat and flipped it off her head, sending it reeling over the sand.