Royal Scandal Read online

  Royal Scandal is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Marquita Valentine

  Excerpt from Royal Affair by Marquita Valentine copyright © 2017 by Marquita Valentine

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Royal Affair by Marquita Valentine. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399594748

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover photographs: amuzica/Deposit Photos (woman’s legs and background), Preobrajenskiy/Shutterstock (tiara hanging on woman’s heel)

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: Colin

  Chapter 1: Colin

  Chapter 2: Della

  Chapter 3: Colin

  Chapter 4: Della

  Chapter 5: Colin

  Chapter 6: Della

  Chapter 7: Colin

  Chapter 8: Della

  Chapter 9: Colin

  Chapter 10: Della

  Chapter 11: Colin

  Chapter 12: Della

  Chapter 13: Colin

  Chapter 14: Della

  Chapter 15: Colin

  Chapter 16: Della

  Chapter 17: Colin

  Chapter 18: Della

  Chapter 19: Colin

  Chapter 20: Della

  Chapter 21: Colin

  Chapter 22: Della

  Chapter 23: Colin

  Chapter 24: Della

  Chapter 25: Colin

  Epilogue

  By Marquita Valentine

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Royal Affair

  Prologue

  Colin

  There’s no such thing as happily ever after—at least not for a prince exiled to a foreign country.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  You’re a prince, you bloody arsehole—a happily ever after is guaranteed. Birds dig princes with British accents and castles, and fancy cars.

  Ah, but do those very fit ladies enjoy dirty nappies and colic and spit up…and exploding bottles of formula? Because that’s my life right now.

  Literally.

  “Towel please,” I command, trying to remain perfectly calm as my brother Theo stands there, sniggering like a fool, while formula drips off my face and onto a priceless antique rug.

  He snickers. “First let me take a picture to commemorate the money shot.”

  “Off with your fecking penis, if you don’t help me this instant.”

  Theo puts away his mobile. “Right then.” Grabbing a towel, he smashes it against my face. I catch it before it drops, then wipe off my face as quickly as possible, but there’s nothing to be done about the sticky residue left behind.

  I need a shower and a vacation, but at this moment, neither is possible.

  “Told you he’s not hungry,” Theo says, then grimaces as Pierce starts up again. “It’s the sound of a future tyrant after being told no more kingdoms.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He shrugs and takes the bottle from me, setting it down on the changing table. “No idea.”

  “Why are you here again?”

  “Because you needed me.” Perhaps I was too quick to judge him.

  “And I was bored,” he adds a beat later.

  I narrow my eyes at him. Nope, I was right on target. “Far be it from me to keep you from your nightly stud services.”

  Pierce lets out another ear-piercing scream, fat tears running down his face. His little tuft of hair is nearly as red as his cheeks. His legs are sticking straight out and his hands are little fists.

  He won’t eat. He won’t sleep, and nearly nothing consoles him.

  “Come now, big boy,” I croon as I toss the towel and pick him up from the crib. “It’s not so bad.” I lick at my lips and grimace at the taste. “Damn. It’s bloody awful.”

  Pierce continues to cry, but as I begin to pace the room, he quiets down to a pitiful whimper.

  “He misses his mother,” my brother says quietly. “And we need a nanny. We don’t know the first thing about raising children.”

  I give him a sharp look over Pierce’s head. “He’s got me. You. Charlotte and Imogen. Sinclairs can do anything they set their bloody minds to.”

  Google and YouTube help as well.

  Theo inclines his head toward the small toddler bed on the other side of the room, where Aiden, bless him, has slept through every bit of his baby brother’s fussing. “He called me Daddy today. I…” Theo swallows. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “I’ll take care of it.” I say this with much more authority and confidence than I feel, but if I learned anything from our dearly departed parents, it is to never let anyone see you as weak.

  Not even your family…only family is all I’ve got now.

  Aiden lets out a whimper and I inwardly cringe, imagining what a nightmare it will be to deal with a fifteen-month-old toddler and a four-month-old baby.

  “How?” Theo walks to our brother’s bed and touches his cheek softly while murmuring nonsense words until Aiden settles down. “He doesn’t understand that they won’t ever come back.”

  “I realize that, which is why they—I…If they call me Dad, then we won’t correct them, and when the time is right, I’ll tell them the truth.”

  Theo’s blue eyes burn into mine. Admiration flashes in them, but it’s quickly replaced by mischief and a cheeky grin. “Plan to use the single-dad angle to meet women?”

  “When would you suggest I put that to use?” I counter. Pierce snuggles into me, his weight light but substantial. “I have yet to venture beyond the grounds.”

  Theo shoves a hand through his light-colored hair, making it stand up in odd places. “Perhaps on weekends at the local park? What a fetching picture you’d make pushing the pram while Aiden toddles alongside.”

  I cock my head to one side, raising a brow. “You’d give up the manwhoring in order for me to have a go at meeting the ladies?”

  “You say manwhoring.” He waves a hand in the air. “I say community service.”

  Leveling him with a look, I adjust Pierce in my arms, cradling the back of his head with my hand. “Do any of these women actually know how old you are?”

  “Naturally they do.”

  “And that would be?”

  A dimple appears in his cheek. “Twenty-one.”

  “You mispronounced seventeen.”

  He rolls his eyes, unrepentant. “I’m done with school. I have no gap year on the horizon and we’re independently wealthy. What better use of my time than to cheer up lonely women? Honestly, I’m getting an education from them.”

  Dear. God. “You could go to university. Volunteer at a worthwhile charity. Hell, you could get up with the boys in the morning, every now and then.”

  “I need my beauty sleep,” he counters. “The ladies keep me up quite late.”

  How he has met so many ladies in such a short period of time is anyone’s guess, but we’re all dealing with our parents’ death and our family’s exile in different ways.

  I’m trying
to gain control.

  Theo wants to lose control.

  The twins have locked themselves in their adjoining rooms.

  It’s a bloody fucking mess and I don’t know how to fix any of it. Hell, my life has been upended. While I’ve learned to change nappies and fix bottles, my mates are in military service, cleaning guns and practicing the finer points of Ymladd Iscuitt, which literally means “fighting shield” or “shoulder,” and is the Isle of Man’s self-defense system used by the soldiers in Her Majesty’s Army. The same army I was supposed to lead once my little sister, Imogen, became queen.

  While I am a crown prince, I am not next in line for the throne. Our monarchy only allows for queens, not kings. So the oldest daughter is the heir apparent, not the oldest son.

  Suddenly, the baby jerks in my arms, his body becoming stiff as he starts to cry again. I want to cry, too. Mostly because I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a stretch of uninterrupted sleep.

  “Then go to bed earlier. And alone.”

  With that, I leave the nursery and make my way outside. Hopefully, we won’t wake the girls or the rest of the staff along the way.

  Beaumont appears at the French doors that lead outside, but he doesn’t open them. Instead he blocks my path. “Evening, Your Highness.”

  “Beaumont. We’ve decided to take a stroll around the pool.”

  My head of security nods, stepping to one side and opening one of the doors. “Very good.”

  “Don’t bother following us.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” he says pleasantly, then falls into line behind me.

  It can’t be helped and I cannot complain. Beaumont exiled himself to protect us, and for that sacrifice I will be forever grateful.

  Another whimper leads to full-on screaming.

  I groan, my head starting to throb behind my eyes. “At least you waited until we were outside.”

  “Hey you! We need to have a chat.”

  Befuddled, I turn around to see a woman striding toward me, her pale red hair streaming out behind her like a banner.

  Is she paparazzi? An assassin?

  Shit. “Beaumont?”

  “While she is rather angry at the moment, I can assure you she’s been properly vetted.”

  “Don’t move. I know you see me, Sinclair,” she calls out.

  “She seems lovely and well-informed,” I reply wryly.

  “I would not have allowed Ms. Hughes the opportunity to chat with you otherwise.”

  For that reason alone, I allow her to get close to Pierce and me.

  “As for your identity, she merely thinks that the Sinclairs are a wealthy family from the British Isles who, after their parents’ deaths, have decided to start anew in the States.”

  Trust Beaumont to think of everything. “And our identities as members of the House of St. Claire?”

  “Completely scrubbed except for the most tenuous of ties.” Beaumont melts into the shadows.

  Now I’m stuck with facing the woman who obviously is determined to tell me off…plus the fact that my family doesn’t exist anymore—at least not in a way that would directly connect my siblings and me to the royal family of the Isle of Man.

  The lights by the pool shine on her face and I suck in a breath, welcoming the distraction she brings. Her lips are full and wide, her platinum-colored eyes framed by rather dark lashes, and her cheeks are flushed pink.

  She’s young, most likely close to me in age. Her faded T-shirt is stretched over a rather nice pair of breasts and her legs are at least a mile long in her shorts.

  “Eyes up here,” she snaps, then brandishes a piece of paper at me.

  “May I help you?”

  “You can explain why you’ve evicted my family from our house. We’ve lived here for generations, working for St. Claire Estate…and this is how you repay us?”

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She fixes her gaze on me. “Why would you care about the little people who live on your estate.” It’s not a question.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, could we please start with the niceties. I’m Colin Sinclair. I’d shake your hand, but they’re rather occupied at the moment.” I nod at Pierce.

  Her light-colored eyes turn nearly black. “Della Hughes. I live right over there.” She points to beyond the pool. “Caretaker’s house. Where all the Hugheses have lived since St. Claire’s was first built.”

  “And,” I prod, my stomach sinking rapidly.

  She crosses her arms, the paper in her hand fluttering with the movement. “You’ve kicked us out.”

  “I’ve done no such thing,” I insist. Although I could have. In the last two weeks, I’ve signed so many bloody documents that it’s possible I sold my kidneys on the black market.

  She takes a step forward, uncrossing her arms. “This letter says otherwise.” She shoves it in my face, up near my forehead, like she’s trying to avoid the baby.

  “Could you hold it out a bit so I can read?”

  A growl emanates from her throat, but she does as I ask. “This better?”

  I skim the contents. It’s damning. My signature is at the bottom. “Yes, it does and…I’m sorry.”

  “I told you…Wait. What?” Her brows knit together—adorably so.

  I swallow. “I signed it, therefore I am guilty of kicking you and your family out. Again, I apologize.”

  Her mouth twists. “Not so pompous when you actually have to talk to the evictees in person, huh?”

  “I have no idea since I’ve never been attacked at home.” Della’s eyes begin to blaze, so I take a different tact. “There are perfectly good reasons why your family can no longer live in the caretaker’s home.”

  “And those would be?” She taps her foot on the cement.

  Well, I can hardly tell her that I’m a crown prince exiled to America and my family needs the privacy St. Claire affords us while we work through our grief and attempt to figure out our future.

  For one, she wouldn’t believe me, and two, she wouldn’t believe me.

  No one in this small town knows who we are and I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  I settle for what is the most truthful answer I can give her without betraying my family. “We desire privacy.”

  “Who doesn’t in a small town,” she counters.

  “I have children to look after and since their mother died, it hasn’t been easy.” Again, not a lie and judging by the lack of interest my father had in the boys, I doubt they are his.

  Fidelity is not written on our coat of arms and it was not something my parents put into practice.

  “You have another child?”

  I nod once.

  “Oh.” She tries to remain hard and determined to see her mission through, but her eyes are a dead giveaway. They go from platinum to the color of a sky on a rainy day the minute he whimpers pitifully. “Is she…he okay?”

  “He’s…I have no bloody idea.” I exhale thickly. “I’ve only been at this a fortnight. Barely.”

  “A fortnight sounds like a long time. May I?” She holds out her hands and I hesitate.

  “I’m really good with kids and not because I have boobs, either. They really like me…and I’ve been babysitting since I was thirteen. I even have references.”

  What could it hurt? It’s not like I’m doing a bang-up job at the moment.

  “Have at it.”

  She takes Pierce, all but drapes him over one shoulder, and begins to lightly tap him on the back. My brother lets out a rather lusty burp. Immediately, the baby quiets and I want to shout my frustration. He had fucking gas of all things.

  Gas!

  Pierce’s eyes drift shut as she continues to tap and bounce him around. He’s not screaming and his little body isn’t rigid anymore, which means I can get sleep tonight. Glorious, want it so bad I’d murder for it sleep.

  Nothing is ever going to feel as good as my bed tonight, and I owe it all to the angel holding him
.

  “I could kiss you right now. Tell me what I can do to repay you?”

  What look like tears fill her eyes, but she blinks and stares me down again. “More time to find another home. A different job.”

  Guilt claws through me. It’s not her family’s fault mine has been ripped apart, and what kind of bloke am I to do that to hers?

  Besides, what’s the harm in allowing them to stay? To continue what they’ve been doing for at least a century.

  Everything.

  I ignore that pessimistic part of my soul. “You don’t need more time. Your family can stay—indefinitely. Your father—I assume he is the caretaker—can keep his job as well.”

  Della’s mouth drops open a little before she recovers. “Actually, my stepmother is the caretaker. She took over his duties after he…after he passed. I help her after school and between shifts at the diner in town.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” An acute pain settles in my chest and I breathe into it, willing it away. “Your stepmother may resume her duties at once.”

  “Thanks, Your Highness,” she says drily and my pulse speeds up.

  Then I realize she’s being sarcastic. “Call me Colin.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be calling at all.”

  Despite the days of exhaustion, or perhaps it’s because I’m a man who can’t resist the challenge she’s presented, I add, “And what if I were the one doing the calling?”

  Beaumont emerges from the house, holding Aiden, who is squirming and crying.

  “I’m very sorry your…Mr. Sinclair, but the little prince wants his da—you.” I stiffen at the slip, but Della doesn’t say a word. Perhaps she thinks it’s an endearment or nickname.

  “Hey there, big boy.” I take him from Beaumont. Aiden sniffs, then wipes his nose on my shirt where it joins the formula from Pierce’s exploding bottle.

  If only the women I used to know could see me now. They’d run in the opposite direction.