Bad Boy Prince: A British Royal Stepbrother Romance (3 page)

“Seriously, though. You’re… you know, royal blood and not bad looking and all,” he says, waving his hand to indicate my whole person. “Is he giving you the right and proper fucking you deserve? You know, wild and crazy, up against a wall in the garden? Cum so hard you can’t see for a minute?”

“Jesus! No, we don’t even…” I start, flustered, then catch myself.

“Oh my god,” Rex says, a grin bursting across his face. “Oh my god, you don’t fuck him? Oh, Kitten.”

“Don’t fucking call me that. And I literally just found out that my… well, almost my fiancé, is cheating on me… Don’t you have any sense of propriety?” I hiss.

“Nope.” Rex leans back and blows more smoke rings.

“Stop, for god’s sake,” I say. “You’re going to ruin this dress.”

Rex huffs a laugh and leans back, putting the cigar out in one of the empty flower vases.

“Someone’s going to have to clean that, you know,” I snap.

“Yeah, but not you. I think you’ve enough to worry about,” he says, leaning forward. He reaches over and taps the tablet’s screen with a finger, his hand brushing mine as he moves.

I wish I could say that electric tingles
didn’t
slide up my arm at the mere touch of his skin against mine…

“Fuck,” I say, shaking my head.

“Just turn the screen on,” he says, sitting back again, looking bored.

I know he’s right, although he’s being quite an asshole about it.

Silence lapses, heavy and awkward. Someone knocks on the door, making me jump.

“Fuck off!” Rex shouts, briefly snapping into his commanding voice once more, and whoever it is obeys him.

When Rex wants to be obeyed, he makes people listen. He leaves behind Rex and takes of the mantle of HRH Alasdair Magnum Augustus Rex Westwood.

When we were younger, I used to tease him about going into Prince Mode. Eighteen year old Rex’s Prince Mode was a weak imitation of the man he’s become, though.

Now when he gives an order, he has authority written all over his face, stitched in his proud posture, the way he takes up all the space around him. And his voice. Deep and somber, his voice is nothing short of commanding.

I shiver.

“Are you going to look at it, Kitty?” he asks after a full minute.

“Don’t call me that,” I warn him.

I glance at him. I think he’s going to be amused, mocking me, but he’s deadly serious.

“This is bad,” I tell him.

He hesitates, then shrugs.

“Maybe Dianah’s lying, maybe she’s not. Either way, you have to know.”

Dianah, that’s it. I couldn’t quite remember, but I knew that she was a familiar face.

I press my lips into a thin line and nod, picking up the tablet. I press a button on the front to wake it up, and a freeze frame of a video comes up with a big blinking button in the middle.

Play?
it prompts.

Heart in my throat, I tap the arrow.

There’s Dianah, in her full and naked glory. She’s sprawled on a bed, beckoning. After a second Charles steps into the shot, also naked. He kneels and crawls on top of her.

“Shit,” I say.

The camera angle changes, and I gasp.

“They’re in my bed,” I choke out, pointing at the screen. “Oh god, I just bought those sheets for our new apartment a week ago.”

We both watch in horrified silence for a second, then Rex takes the tablet from me.

“Kit, look at me,” he says.

When I don’t obey, he reaches out and lifts my chin with gentle fingers, until I’m staring up into those big blue eyes, unable to escape.

“I will deal with this,” he promises.

I laugh, a pathetic sound.

“How? What’s to be done?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells me.

The way he’s watching me, his eyes dark and intense, it’s too much. He’s too much, making things too intimate. This isn’t the easygoing, cocky Rex I know.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, pulling away from him.

He has the nerve to look offended.

“I’m always nice to you, Kit,” he says.

I scoff, turning away to wipe at my eyes again. “That’s not true.”

Rex shrugs, looking impatient.

“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll have him put out, discreetly.”

“No reason to be discreet at this point,” I sigh.

Rex gives me a look, then stands and moves to the door.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he tells me. “We should talk about… well, we should talk.”

I stare at him, confounded by everything that’s happening.

Then he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a definitive
click
.

I fidget. I wait. I try to calm myself. This closet is protecting me from everything outside, but damn if it isn’t making me claustrophobic.

Where else would I go, though?

After an age, a knock sounds at the door.

“Kitty? It’s Marj.”

I drag myself to my feet and open the door. Marj takes one look at me and clicks her tongue.

“Come on, you. Alasdair is making a huge scene in the ballroom, so it’s time for you to make your exit out the back.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“Where to?” I ask. “I live with that cheating asshole.”

“Not for long, judging by the tenor of the conversation in the ballroom,” Marj says. “I think Alasdair might have killed him if Prince Archie hadn’t stepped in.”

“Rex is taking this surprisingly to heart. Says it’s because we’re family now.” I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds like I missed some juicy drama. Too bad it’s surrounding me now.”

“Actually, almost everyone is gone. I think your mum and Archie sent people packing.”

“Well, that’s a relief, I guess.”

“Can you come out of the closet now?” Marj asks.

I sigh and nod. Marj takes my hand, and I smile at how easy the friendship between us can be, like slipping on a comfortable and beloved old sweater.

“Marj, where am I going to go? I’ll have to get a hotel,” I say, already daunted by the prospect of finding a change of clothes before I crash for the night.

“Are you mad? You’re staying with us, of course,” Marj says. “Jesus, Kit, you act like we’re perfect strangers.”

I flush.

“Sorry, Marj. I’m a little turned on my head,” I sigh.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll get you fixed up. Right you are, down the back stairs with me,” Marj says.

As she leads me down to the back drive, I realize how glad I am to have Marj here. She’s got that classic Courtland attitude,
grin and bear it, you’ll get through it
, sort of vibe. It’s pushy and loud and maybe too practical for my situation, but it’s comforting in the extreme.

I guess that’s one more thing I’ve missed, living in the States.

“Lady Katherine,” Darian says, pulling the door open for me.

“This isn’t your side of the palace,” I say, my lips pulling up into a smile when I see him at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for us. “I assume you’ve already heard that I’m snared in scandal.
Again
.”

“Rules are meant to be broken, eh?” Darian says. “If you’d like, I can make sure your former flame meets a grisly end.”

He says it calmly, almost like it’s a joke, but I get the feeling that Darian is perfectly serious. Darian does have that ex-military thing about him; I wonder if he couldn’t just make Charles
disappear
without another word.

“Alas, I don’t think he’s worth a jail sentence. Thanks, though.”

Darian winks at me. A Bentley pulls up before us and Darian rushes to open the car door, ushering Marj and me inside.

“See you soon, ladies.”

We both wave goodbye, and then the door is shut and we’re pulling off.

“What a night,” I sigh.

“Right?” Marj says. “Bloody American chap, I’d string him up if I could.”

I reserve my judgement. Instead, I slink down in my seat and rest my head on Marjorie’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Will there be ice cream?” I ask, and she laughs.

“Anything you want, Kitty.”

Marj is always so easygoing, she makes my life better just for being in it.

If only I could say that of everyone in my life…

T
he King
and Queen of Courtland are staring me down as I sit across the table from them, stuffed in an uncomfortably short chair. To most people, their twin scowls of disapproval would be enough to inspire terror, or at least awe.

To me, it’s just the same old lecture that my grandparents have been giving me half my life by now. As a fucking twenty-five year old man, I’ve long since given up on being able to please them; now I’ll settle for living through the long list of admonishments they are going to heap on me.

I recall some of the better scoldings, and their results:

Alasdair, you must attend university before you may serve in the military.

I did both, at the same time, and singularly excelled at each.

Alasdair, you must achieve higher goals in the Royal Air Force’s Elite Guard. You must be the best of the best, they all look up to you.

I did all that, left with the top honors, and continue to serve a month each year.

Alasdair, you need a career.

I became a Formula One driver, which of course they
loathed
.

Alasdair, you must have a real career and let people know you’re serious, that you’re repentant after… that unpleasant business.

So I founded the Asher Charity, which again my grandparents utterly despise, because it reminds them of my mistakes. It reminds me, too, but I think that can only be a good thing.

Alasdair, you need to settle down, find a respectable girl.

All right, I admit I’ve never even
tried
on that account. Desired heir aside, I’ve given them everything they ever asked for, jumped through every hoop.

After the accident, I finally grew up a little bit, came into my own as a man, and realized that I needed to start doing things for
myself
. Living my life, experiencing everything I could — while making a positive contribution to the world, instead of wasting my days getting high and wishing that Asher was still alive.

Grandmother straightens in her seat and clears her throat. She’s going to try to play good cop, I can tell.

My grandfather is going to be the bad cop; he’s
always
the bad cop. Even with his hair gone to silver, when he’s scolding me he still looks
just the same
as he did when I was a little kid.

It’s nothing short of funny now, since I tower over him by several inches and at least fifty pounds; I’m always given the lowest seat in the room, to make sure everyone knows that my grandfather has all the power.

My grandmother clears her throat, brushing off the skirt of her tasteful pink dress suit. Even this evening, when they’re only receiving close family, she’s coiffed and dressed like a portrait of herself.

“Alasdair, darling. Your grandfather is quite upset about the amount of attention you’ve received in the press recently,” she says.

No fucking shit
.

My grandmother beckons to the footman hovering by the door, who produces a pile of glossy tabloid papers. She takes them and lays them down one by one on the table in front of me, letting me get a good look at each.

For my convenience, someone has thought to put them in fucking order of publication date, so it’s like she’s replaying the last few years of my life for me:

P
rince ‘Magnum’ Westwood
Hits the Club Scene Harder Than Most

Z
oom
! Magnum Risks Life in the Formula One Fast Lane

O
RGY
?? Prince Magnum Leaves Club with A Dozen Pretty Ladies

O
n Again
? Prince Magnum and Model Alessia Pearson

B
ad Prince
!! Magnum Caught Smoking More Than Just Tobacco

B
reakup Blues
: Prince Magnum Dumps Model GF… Or Does He??

P
rincess Camille to Prince Magnum
: You’re Partying Too Hard!!

F
iery Crash
, Magnum Walks Away Unscathed, Tells Family to ‘Stuff It’

R
oyal Intervention
: King Tells Magnum ‘Slow Down!’

M
agnum in Fatal Car Crash
— Best Friend Found Dead At Scene

‘
I
Won’t Quit
’: Magnum Unrepentant, Plans To Continue Racing

T
here are more
, but I put up a hand to stop her.

“I get the idea,” I say.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” my grandfather growls, shoving to his feet. “We’ve had quite enough of your attitude and behavior.”

“I’ve changed since that night. Hugely,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

“Not in any ways that matter,” the King tells me. “You know what we expect from you, Alasdair.”

“He means a grandchild, darling,” my grandmother says, though I had no doubt what he meant. “An heir. You can’t just dash around, putting yourself in danger, when you don’t have an heir!”

“Which means,” my grandfather cuts in, “No more running around, flaunting yourself in the press. If I see another photo of you on a yacht with some foreign supermodel, I will cut off your stipend.”

I try not to sigh. I have no wish to be cut off, of course, but I also have quite a bit of my own money by now. I invested my Royal Air Force pay well, and banked everything I made from racing Formula One.

Not that I’m going to point that out just now. Just like I won’t point out that I haven’t been in the tabloids in nearly half a year. Or that I’ve let most of my shitty friends slide, or that I’m doing real and meaningful work now.

They don’t care about any of that, and I know it well enough.

Grandfather is two seconds from frothing at the mouth, and I don’t want to be the one who gives him an aneurysm. Especially not before he can achieve his ultimate dream of finding a good reason to disinherit me.

“You’re fourth in line to the throne, Alasdair,” my grandmother says.

“I couldn’t possibly forget, ma’am,” I say, keeping my tone light.

Her eyes narrow; now I’ve annoyed her, as well.

Excellent work, asshole,
I chide myself.

“I am going to have my secretary send you a list of names,” she said.

“Names?” I ask.

“Appropriate single women of noble birth,” she says. “You’re too high up in the line of inheritance to just marry…
whomever
.”

The way she says the last word, glancing down at a photo of me with Alessia Pearson, makes me want to roll my eyes. Alessia was a major party girl. Bringing her to a few royal events was a big fucking mistake, apparently.

I’ve never heard the end of it, though I broke things off with Alessia nearly a year ago.

“Of course, ma’am,” I say, unwilling to drag this conversation out any longer.

“We must face facts,” she says, picking an invisible piece of lint off her skirt. “Your sister Camille may never be able to produce heirs.”

“She’s only twenty-nine, Grandmother. It’s premature to say that,” I say, growing defensive.

Cam’s been in tears over this very issue for months now, bending over backwards trying to get pregnant so that my grandparents will approve of her.

It pisses me off to no end, the way they make my sister feel like such shit about herself. Like a timer went off when she was married, and suddenly she’s not good enough anymore unless she starts pumping out babies.

It’s beyond fucked up, and there’s no solution in sight.

Worse, I’m only a few years younger than her, and I know the second I bring home some ‘acceptable match’, my grandparents are going to be breathing down
her
neck just as hard.

“I think we all know that she’s not capable. She’s been married two years now,” my grandfather says.

I grind my teeth, trying not to say the hundred things crowding my brain. After all, no matter that they’re my grandparents, no matter that they bounced me on their knees when I was a baby, or that I’ve known them my whole life.

One does not yell at the King and Queen.

“I disagree, but that’s not really what we’re here to discuss,” I say.

Foolish, perhaps, to draw the conversation back to myself, but I’m desperate not to lose my temper. Camille’s my biggest sore spot, and I’m about to go off any second now.

The King goes so red in the face that I’m pretty sure his head’s about to fucking explode.

“Six months!” he thunders, making my grandmother jump.

“Percival…” she says, but he holds up a hand and she falls silent.

“No. Six months. I want you married in six months, an heir in a year, and I want it all done the right way. Not a whiff of scandal, I tell you! If you’re anything like your disappointment of a sister, you’d better put a ring on some lucky girl right away, because you’re going to run out of sand in the hourglass while you’re trying to knock her up.”

“That’s insane,” I say, rising and crossing my arms.

“It’s final,” he says. “You’re dismissed, Alasdair. Or should I say, Prince Magnum?”

His use of the paparazzi’s preferred nickname makes my fucking blood boil. I just shake my head and stalk out of the room, disgusted by his controlling bullshit.

Everyone thinks being a royal is all fucking privilege and parties at castles
, I think.
No one sees this side of it, where you aren’t allowed to live your own goddamned life.

Shaking my head, I trot down the stairs into the front drive. Already, a valet is pulling my Aston Martin One-77 up. Thank fucking god, because I want to be
anywhere
but here.

The sun’s already long gone down. I glance at my watch as I slide into the custom leather driver’s seat and slam my door, revving the engine.

Yeah, not too early for a drink.

Strangely, I don’t feel like drinking alone. The prospect of going back to my empty apartment is usually appealing after a long day working at the charity, but tonight I can’t handle it.

What are my options, though? I’ve kept myself out the club scene for months now, haven’t stepped foot in one since the night of the accident. I’d love to just go grab dinner and drinks somewhere low key, but I’ve put so much distance between myself and all my former friends and flings…

There’s really no one that I
want
to call.

In a moment of complete fucking insanity, I think about calling Kit. Her face flashes in my mind, the way she bites her lip and blushes when she’s a little embarrassed.

The fuck. No. Absolutely not.

It’s like I
want
to get burned again.
Haven’t I learned my lesson where Katherine fucking Saville is concerned?

Apparently not, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be stupid enough to… what, pursue her? I’ll see her plenty, now that she’s my fucking stepsister-to-be.

The thought
kills
me.

So I push aside the thought of her, of how fucking incredible she looked yesterday when she first stepped into the grand ballroom, of how I got hard the second I laid eyes on her.

Instead, I take a deep breath and press a button on my console to turn on the voice command. If I want to go out, be around people, I know one person who will be ready to roll.

“Call Bramford,” I order as I pull out of the palace’s front drive.

I don’t wait for them to finish opening the massive wrought-iron front gates. Instead, I gun it and shoot through the narrow gap, barely missing the gate on both sides.

“Alasdair, my man!” Bramford shouts into the phone, making me wince. “Where have you been?”

“Are you out?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“Well, yeah, man.”

Of course he is. My cousin Bramford is always out. I’m not even sure that he keeps a flat anymore. It seems like he usually sleeps at some random girl’s place.

“Where are you?” I ask, crossing the bridge from the palace’s little island into Valencia City proper.

“Club Tonixxx, got a bunch of girls here, plus some party favors,” he says.

“Listen, Bramford, do me a favor. Get rid of any of the girls you don’t know. Like really, really know. And ditch the party favors. I’m keeping it as low key as possible, I don’t need that shit in my face.”

“Yeah, sure, man.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

I disconnect the call and hop on the motorway, speeding the whole way downtown. Once I’m in the thick of the city, my chest starts to feel less tight. Like a big weight lifted off my shoulders, being back in my old routine.

That might not be a good thing
, I think, but then I’m climbing out of my car in front of Tonixxx, tossing my keys to a uniformed valet.

I stretch and pull off my dark suit jacket as I stroll up to the door. Without it, my dark t-shirt and jeans don’t meet the dress code, but I’m not worried.

I’m Prince Magnum; there’s no club in Valencia City that would turn me away, even if I showed up high, wearing half a fucking sleeping bag.

Much like my disreputable friends waiting inside, they simply aren’t picky.

The doorman unhooks the velvet rope and lets me in without a word. I stroll into a familiar setting: big dark room, sparkling bar all along one wall, flashing strobe lights, go-go dancers in cages, booths and tables scattered here and there.

It’s early yet, but there are already girls dancing in the cages and on the dance floor. I stop at the bar and order a magnum of champagne. The same kind of bottle I used to order when I first started going out and running with this group of guys.

That fateful day, I held up the huge bottle of champagne and told them that it was named after me, Prince Magnum, and the nickname spiraled out of control in less than a damn
week
.

Now, the words
Prince Magnum
make me fucking cringe. All the things people say about me, the whispers of spoiled playboy, complete asshole, waste of space. Those things were true, down to the last letter.