Cruel Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 3) Read online

  She’s just a girl that I wanted, and I had her. That’s all.

  Still, my feet carry me to the window. I glance out and look for her in the rose garden. When I don’t see her, my shoulders slump and I turn away from the glass. I let out a heavy sigh and press my hands to my temple.

  This is exactly what happened with Paulette. I got involved, and I got addicted, and then I ruined it all. I couldn’t resist her, and then it all went to shit.

  Here I am, six years later, doing it all over again.

  How stupid could I be?

  I stalk over to my desk and sweep my arm across it. A roar erupts through my chest as papers, and glasses, and pens go flying across the room. Slamming my hands on the desk, I exhale sharply and lean over it, panting.

  “Daddy? Are you okay?”

  I jump at the sound of my daughter’s voice. Turning toward the door, I see her in the doorway with wide eyes. She looks at the carnage on the floor and back to my face. Her eyes water and she shrinks away from me.

  My chest tightens and I reach for her, crouching down.

  “I’m fine, kiddo,” I say, forcing a smile. I swallow, grimacing as Flora’s eyes look at the mess on the floor again. “I’m okay.”

  “Why did you do that?” She doesn’t come near me, and my heart breaks at the thought that she might be scared of me.

  I inhale through gritted teeth, then walk toward her. “Come here,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. How was your day?”

  She’s wearing flannel pajamas, and her hair is wet from a bath. She takes one hesitant step, and then relaxes as I wrap my arms around her. I carry my daughter to the sofa on the opposite side of the room and sit her down next to me.

  “Now,” I say. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Well,” Flora says, turning her eyes away from the mess on the other end of the room and smiling at me. “Mrs. Grey said my subtraction quiz was perfect today.”

  “What’s six minus two?”

  “Four,” Flora answers with an exaggerated eye roll. “That question is for babies, Dad.”

  “Of course,” I laugh, ruffling her hair. “I forgot you’re a math whiz.”

  “Jo says she’ll get me new books when she goes to Farcliff. She said she knows an old bookstore with all her favorites.”

  “Jo?” I try to sound casual, but a lump forms in my throat.

  “The rose gardener. She’s Mr. Marcel’s daughter, and she’s writing a book. I asked if I could read it, but she said only when I was older. How old do you think I’ll have to be to read it?”

  “I’m not sure, honey.” I force a smile. “You don’t need to go to a bookstore to get new books. We’ll just order them.”

  “Jo says that a bookstore has a special smell—one that’s like nothing else in the world. What does it smell like, Daddy?”

  “It smells… sleepy and comfortable. Just like you’re going to feel in five minutes, because it’s bedtime. Come on, I’ll read you a story.”

  Flora jumps off the couch, her fear forgotten as she slips her hand into mine. As usual, my daughter’s calming influence soothes my heart, and I follow her down the hallway to her chambers.

  “How well did you know Mr. Marcel, Flora?” I glance at my daughter, wondering how exactly it is that my six-year-old has a secret life that I don’t know about.

  “He was my favorite,” Flora answer simply. “Last year, he gave me the most beautiful roses in the garden—he said so himself. He had lots and lots of books—just like me. I hope he’s feeling better now.”

  “Mm,” I answer, frowning. My daughter even knew that he’s sick?

  I tuck her into bed and read her favorite story, which she interrupts with a thousand and one questions about the rose garden, Marcel, Violet, and Jolie. I do my best to steer her away from them, because every time she says Jolie’s name, a pang passes through my heart.

  “Jolie is so beautiful,” Flora sighs when I close the book. I doubt she’s heard a word I’ve said. She glances at me. “Don’t you think, Daddy?”

  “I think you’re beautiful.” I lean down to kiss her forehead.

  “I hope I grow up to be like her. She’s so brave. Did you know she lived in New York City all by herself?”

  “No, I didn’t.” There’s a lot I don’t know about my rose gardener, apparently. I just wish my daughter would stop talking about her. “Time for bed now.”

  Flora smiles at me, and points to her cheek with her finger. “One more kiss, please.”

  I chuckle and do as she says. When I straighten up, Flora looks up at me.

  “Daddy, why don’t I have a mom?”

  It’s hard to keep a straight face when your heart shatters in your chest. I swallow thickly, and stroke my daughter’s cheek. “You have a mother, kiddo. She just lives somewhere else.”

  “Doesn’t she love me? Is it because I’m sick?

  “Of course she loves you.” I sit down again, frowning. “It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with her. She just… She couldn’t take care of you.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “In a way, yes. Where is this coming from?”

  Flora sighs, shrugging. “I don’t know. Goodnight, Daddy.” She closes her eyes as if to tell me the conversation is over.

  I walk to the door and glance back at my daughter once more before slipping out. When I walk back to my own chambers, my chest aches. I rub my fingers over my temples, trying to get rid of the headache that’s gathering behind my eyes. The scar on my face pulses.

  For the first time since I left Farcliff Castle, I wonder if raising Flora on my own was the right decision. Has she missed having a mother her whole life—just like me?

  17

  JO

  THE PRINCE LEAVES my cottage and I stare after him, feeling deflated and a little embarrassed. Apparently, my taste in men hasn’t changed. It’s still terrible. I lean against the kitchen counter and take a deep breath, raking my hand through my hair.

  My body is still buzzing from my orgasms, but my mind is a mess and my chest feels hollow. Biting my lip, I head for the bathroom to wash the sex off my body.

  We didn’t even use protection, which is stupid and irresponsible. It’s not like me.

  Or maybe, it’s exactly like me—stupid and irresponsible seems to be my modus operandi. Maybe that’s why everything in my life always falls apart.

  Standing under the stream, I replay the evening’s events in my mind. The Prince is hard to read, and has his defenses up almost all the time. The only moment that I saw a flash of something real inside him was when I tossed him his clothing. He had this look on his face—a little smile, and a brightness in his eye.

  I wash myself slowly, unsure of exactly how I feel. A big part of me regrets what happened. I shouldn’t have slept with him—that much is obvious. I let my desire jeopardize my position in the castle. My heart squeezes at the thought of leaving Westhill. I’d be leaving Sam and all my new family behind. I’d have to leave Flora, too. I’d ruin my father’s hopes of ever coming back here.

  As I dry myself off and put my pajamas on, I steel myself against the guilt and shame that try to wriggle their way into my heart. I refuse to feel bad about what happened. Prince Gabriel followed me to the cottage. I didn’t pursue him. If he’s unhappy about the fact that we had sex, that’s on him.

  I’m drying my hair with a towel when someone knocks on the cottage door. I freeze, my heart thumping. Is Prince Gabriel back? Is he fucking serious? That man needs to make up his damn mind.

  Barefoot, I walk toward the front door. My mouth goes dry and a lump forms in my throat. I’m still holding my damp towel in my hand as I take a deep breath and pull the door open.

  “Oh,” I say when I see Sam on the other side.

  “Disappointed to see me?” She grins. “Who were you expecting?”

  “Of course I’m not disappointed,” I respond, stepping aside for her to come in.

  She holds up a plate covered in tin foil. “Broug
ht you some dessert. George made mille feuille. I grabbed you a piece before it disappeared. The staff are like starving animals in that kitchen.”

  I smile, accepting the plate. I take the foil off the top of it and bring the plate up to my nose, inhaling the scent of pastry and cream. I sigh.

  “George is a magician. Here, let me cut this in half.”

  “I already had my share.” Sam shakes her head.

  I cut it in half anyway, and Sam accepts the slice of dessert with a guilty grin.

  “Twist my arm, why don’t you.”

  I laugh, and the two of us sit down.

  Sam nods to my discarded bra on the floor. “Messy! What would Mrs. Grey say at that kind of slovenly behavior?”

  My cheeks flush, and I focus on the pastry in front of me. I can still feel Sam’s eyes on me, though, and I know the question is coming. It only takes a few more seconds for her to prod me.

  “So?” She asks. “What did the Prince say?”

  “You weren’t just coming over here to bring me dessert after all,” I laugh.

  “Maybe it was a bit of a bribe,” Sam says with a giggle. “So, spill it! What did he say?”

  I take a deep breath. How do I answer this? “He asked me what I was doing in the East Wing.”

  “And?”

  “And I told him that Princess Flora had brought me up there.”

  “He was happy with that?”

  “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say happy,” I reply, remembering the way the anger rolled off the Prince in waves, “but he accepted it.”

  “So, you still have a job?”

  I laugh, nodding. “I still have a job—for now.”

  I glance away from Sam, afraid that if I look at her too long, more secrets will come out of me. The last thing I want to do is tell anyone about what happened in the cottage tonight—or how it ended. I may have a job now… but what about tomorrow?

  Sam stays with me for an hour or so, and we giggle and gossip about everything happening at Westhill. When she leaves, my heart feels calmer than it did before, and I’m able to get to sleep.

  I WAKE up ready to work. Pulling on my gardening clothes, I know that I’ll have a long day of weeding ahead of me. It’s only a matter of days before the first roses bloom and I want to make sure that they’re well taken care of. The Annual Rose Festival judges will be coming to Westhill to judge this year’s blooms, so the pressure is on.

  I have some instant oats in the cupboard, and I eat some quickly to avoid going to the castle kitchens this morning. It might cause gossip among the staff, but all I want to do is go and see my flowers.

  When I open my front door, a golden envelope catches my eye. It rests on my welcome mat, with my name on it in big, round letters.

  I bend over and pick it up, glancing around the lawns to see if I can spot its messenger. Seeing no one, I turn back to the envelope. It’s sealed shut, and the golden paper is so beautiful that it feels wrong to rip it open. I tear it as carefully as I can and pull out a card.

  I frown as I read it. Gulping, I try to make sense of the words I’m seeing.

  Dine with me tonight.

  —G.

  I glance up at the huge building as my heart hammers against my ribcage. Retreating back inside my cottage, I slump down onto the nearest chair and read the words again.

  There’s no doubt in my mind who ‘G’ is. The invitation—if you can call it that—sounds like it was written by the Prince. He’s as commanding as always. I look up from the card, staring off into nothing.

  Is this a joke? Some sort of sick power play? Is the Prince toying with me?

  Or, does he actually want to see me again?

  Inhaling sharply, I drop the card and envelope onto the table and head back for the garden.

  That man makes no sense. One minute, he wants to screw my brains out, and the next he’s storming off. Then, he wants to see me again? I can’t keep up.

  Who invites their gardener to dinner? My parents weren’t even sure the Prince knew their names until the day they left.

  My steps are hurried as I make my way to the rose garden. I’ve oiled the hinges on the gate and it swings open noiselessly. My eyes drift up to the windows above me, looking for any movement.

  They stay empty, and I get to work.

  I weed viciously, pulling out the pesky plants until sweat drips off my forehead and my shirt is soaked. When the sun is high in the sky, my stomach grumbles and I finally look up from my work.

  Sighing, I wipe my brow with my forearm and stand up. My back aches, and my shoulders feel tight. I stretch my neck from side to side and make my way to the palace kitchens.

  As I step inside the castle, I brace myself for the onslaught of questions that will surely come my way. Everyone will be wondering why I was called to see the Prince last night. What would they say if they knew I was having dinner with him?

  I wipe my shoes off on the mat in the servant’s foyer and when I look up, Bertrand is staring at me from the doorway.

  “His Highness would like to know if you’ll be accepting his invitation?”

  The butler’s face stays perfectly still, and his eyes are unreadable. If he’s surprised by the invitation, he doesn’t show it.

  I clear my throat. “Uh… Yeah, I guess. What time?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  Bertrand bows to me—which, to be honest, feels weird—and disappears down the hallway. I stare after him, and the only thought that crosses my mind is: What the hell am I going to wear?

  The only dress I have is the yellow sundress I wore to the Westhill Town Fair. Otherwise, I only own ripped jeans and gardening clothes. When I left New York, I didn’t exactly think I’d be attending any royal dinners.

  I glance down the hallway, hoping to see Bertrand to ask him more questions. What do I wear? What fork do I eat with? Why is this happening?

  But he’s gone, and I’m alone with my thoughts, which I already know will plague me until seven o’clock tonight.

  18

  GABRIEL

  I STRAIGHTEN MY TIE, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. I should be getting rid of Jolie—not inviting her to dinner. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, though, and all I’ve thought about is her. Well, her and Flora. Jo is the only person besides Flora that I’ve met in the past six years who’s made me feel like a regular person. She’s the only person who’s prompted Flora to ask about her own mother.

  It’s hard to ignore the connection. Maybe having Jolie around will be good for Flora.

  That’s worth something, isn’t it?

  Scoffing at myself, I shake my head. I can’t pretend that my intentions are pure. I’m not having dinner with Jo just to vet her as a mother figure for my daughter.

  I want to see her again. I want to have her again.

  When I get to the dining room, she hasn’t arrived yet. Bertrand pulls my chair out for me, and flicks my napkin over my lap after I’ve sat down.

  I sip fine wine and wait for Jolie to arrive. The seconds tick by, and I start to sweat. I pull at my collar, loosening my tie before taking another sip of wine. Staring at the crystal glass throwing light across the table, I wonder if she’s stood me up.

  It wouldn’t surprise me—she seems like the headstrong type who would refuse me, just to prove a point. As time stretches onward, it becomes harder and harder to ignore her absence. My knee bounces up and down, and I stare at the door as if my gaze will make her appear.

  Finally, she does. The door opens and Jolie steps through, wearing the same yellow sundress she wore to the Westhill Town Fair. The sight of her in that dress does the same thing it did to me when I was perched on the dunk tank platform. My body starts to heat up, and my pants get tighter.

  Jolie’s hair is curled into soft waves, pinned back from her face. She smiles at me as I stand up to greet her, and Bertrand pulls out a chair to my right.

  Her eyes drift down the long, polished table and then they slide over to me. She smiles te
ntatively.

  “Your Highness,” she nods.

  “Thank you for joining me—finally.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “First of all, the invitation didn’t have a time. Bertrand said seven, and it’s,” she glances at the grandfather clock against the wall, “six fifty-eight. So, don’t give me that ‘finally’ bullshit.”

  Bertrand inhales sharply, and I stare at Jolie. Heat teases my insides as a smile curls over my lips. Jolie’s soft curls tremble as she stares at me. I gesture to her seat again.

  With a huff, she sits down.

  I like pushing her buttons, I realize. The tip of her nose gets really red when she’s angry, and she pinches her full lips together so tightly they look like a thin line. I get some sort of sick enjoyment out of seeing the frustration ooze out of her every pore.

  As the first course is served, Jolie steals a few glances my way. Her shoulders relax, and the anger leaves her face. That’s another thing I like about her—she doesn’t seem to hold a grudge.

  “I have to say, Your Highness, I was a little surprised to receive your invitation.”

  “Were you?”

  She glances at the waiter as he fills her wine and a blush creeps over her cheeks. “I was.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The waiter hovers, topping off my glass and taking his time to clear the table. Jo shifts in her seat, and I grin. Is it wrong that I like seeing her like this? She’s usually so self-assured. Seeing her off-balance gives me a dark kind of pleasure.

  Does that make me an asshole?

  Yes. Definitely.

  Do I care?

  Not really.

  Jo clears her throat and steals another glance at the waiter. I wave my hand to dismiss him, putting Jo out of her misery. As soon as the door closes and we’re alone, Jolie’s eyes lift up to mine.

  “I was surprised you invited me here because I didn’t think you enjoyed my company.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either.”