Royal Charmer (The Rourkes Book 4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Royal Charmer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Royal Charmer

  © 2019 Kylie Gilmore

  Alice

  First thing you should know about me—I’m on my honeymoon on Villroy Island without my groom, which was a no-brainer given how my ex-fiancé decided to “accidentally” fall in love with my best friend. I don’t want to talk about it.

  Second thing: I’m a romance author on a generously extended deadline, and I’ve sworn to use this time away productively. So far my editor has hated all of my ideas featuring the crushing of men. Romance is dead within my blackened heart.

  I’m about to admit defeat when a prince with an image problem falls into my lap. And for some crazy reason, it’s decided that me posing as his fiancée would be a good idea. The last thing I want is to actually be committed to someone, but a fake engagement may make this next book write itself.

  Lucas

  I enjoy being the world’s most eligible royal bachelor (the internet voted and I won), but that’s not all I am. I want to contribute to the kingdom, be part of the legacy. I should be the CEO of our new business venture, but my oldest brother, Gabriel, the king, blocks me at every turn, convinced I’m too flighty.

  So when Gabriel’s wife, Anna, the unconventional queen, offers me a chance to prove myself with the bankers, and the only catch is bringing along a fake fiancée, I reluctantly agree. The ends justify the means, and Alice needs the fake engagement to inspire her story.

  I never expected to fall. Yet here I am, hell-bent on convincing a woman afraid to get involved that she belongs with me.

  NEXT FROM KYLIE GILMORE

  Don’t miss Royal Player! There’s an excerpt at the back of this book.

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  Chapter One

  Alice

  Only a badass would go on their honeymoon sans groom.

  This is proof that I, Alice Segal, am a badass. You heard it here first, folks. You knock me down and I just get back up again stronger than ever. I can hardly believe I’m really here in the royal honeymoon suite of an honest-to-God palace on Villroy Island. I throw back the white duvet cover and sit up in my amazing four-poster hand-carved mahogany bed. A sheer white gauzy canopy overhead adds to the dreamy romantic feeling. And I know romance. I’m a historical romance author.

  I snag my cat’s-eye glasses with silver hearts from the nightstand and slip them on. This two-hour nap can’t touch my sleep deprivation, but at least my brain is functioning again. I only dozed for a few hours during the long flight from Portland, Oregon. When I arrived here on Villroy Island, just off the coast of southwestern France, I figured a short nap would get me on the local time right away. I’ve got a full day of work ahead. Here’s the thing—I need this getaway for inspiration. My next book is due, like, yesterday to my publisher, and I haven’t written one word. First, I was too caught up in wedding preparations, and then, after Mason called the wedding off last week, I couldn’t even get off the sofa. My devout belief in romance is shattered, as is my heart, my soul, and my faith in humanity. I don’t want to talk about it.

  Suffice it to say, I love love, always have, and Mason killed that for me. Probably the worst thing you could do to a romance author on a deadline (or any woman with a beating heart). I force a deep breath and blink back threatening tears. I’m done with that now. Really. I’ve grieved and I’ve moved on.

  Here are the facts:

  1. Mason and I were together for a year, six months of which we were engaged.

  2. He cheated on me with Riley for the last three months, unbeknownst to me, while we were engaged.

  3. Riley has been my best friend since middle school.

  She was the extrovert to my introvert, a deeply trusted confidante, and the one person I could always turn to. Except how can you turn to your best friend when you’re devastated over something she did?

  The good news is—yes, there is good news, which is why I’m not currently curled up in a ball crying my eyes out—I just woke up with a fantastic idea in my head. My editor will be so pleased. Even if I turn in a rougher draft than usual, as long as I turn something in by the deadline, two weeks from now, I’m good. I never planned to write on my honeymoon, yet here I am, trying really hard not to freak out. It’s write-the-damn-book-or-get-fired time. This is the much anticipated third book in a trilogy set in Regency England. I grab my phone and call my editor, Quinn, to share the good news. We’re close, and I just know her excitement will feed mine and bring back my much-missed writing mojo. Voicemail.

  Okay, no problem. I will use this time productively. I pull out a small notepad and scribble down my idea before it can scamper away; then I tour the guest suite, taking notes. I was too tired before to really take it in. It’s not often you get a chance to stay at a centuries-old palace. Since the honeymoon was already paid in full, I went for it, figuring the change of scenery would be just what I needed, and so far that’s true. I’ll use some of the details of the suite for my hero’s residence. It really is lovely. The master bedroom is filled with antique mahogany furniture with elaborate carvings. Golden sconces on the walls resemble candles, and there are two shimmery light gold columns on either side of the bed, with adorable cherubs perched on top. I sniff the air. It smells like lavender, a soothing scent. Perfect.

  A round table holds a crystal vase of roses, an ice bucket, and a single champagne flute. Only one thick white robe hangs in the wardrobe. I called ahead to mention I was traveling solo, and it’s nice not to have couple reminders. Otherwise, I might get stabby. Ha-ha. No worries. I’m mostly stable.

  I wander into the living room of the suite, my eye catching on a fantastical sea painting on the ceiling with mermaids and nymphs. Riley and I used to puzzle over mermaids and how they had sex. This was during the height of our middle school obsession with fantasy creatures. I stare straight ahead, collecting myself for a moment, but my chest still feels tight like Mason and Riley are sitting on my lungs, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. I need fresh air.

  I grab my phone and stuff it into the pocket of my pretty pink with white flowers travel dress. I love this dress mostly because it’s super roomy, long, and it has pockets. I’m what you call a curvy girl, though I don’t know why people must reference me in terms of my body in the first place. Unfortunately, I have seen that description more than once in articles written about me (also full-figured and plus-size woman). Who cares if I shop in the plus-size section? Plus what? Comfortable reasonably sized material? I’d much prefer to be called an interesting woman or a witty smart woman, which I am, than a curvy or plus-size one. I blame the patriarchy. Also Hollywood, fashion, and just about every women’s magazine. Hmph. I slip my feet into my black chunky-heeled sandals and head to the mirror, where I smooth my nap-rumpled dirty-blond hair down. I lean closer, lowering my glasses down my nose for a better look at—damn, there are bags under my eyes. I’m twenty-three, much too young for bags. I shove my glasses back in place. I just need one good night’s sleep and that will clear right up.

  I whirl and
head straight out the door of my suite.

  A maid appears out of nowhere in the white button-down shirt and black pants all the servants wear around here. I’d been hoping for something a little more traditional in the way of uniforms. I pictured the maids in black dresses with white frilly aprons, along with footmen in formal coats with tails, and a butler in a tux. At least the butler was wearing a black suit.

  She smiles. “Hello, ma’am, I’m Christina. May I help you with something?”

  “Hello.” I point down the hallway. “I’m just going out for some fresh air.”

  “Ah. You might enjoy the palace courtyard. It leads to the formal gardens.”

  “Wonderful. If you could just point me in the right direction.”

  She begins an elaborate description of twists and turns and landmarks along the way that quickly turns to white noise in my beleaguered exhausted brain.

  “Could you take me there, please?” I ask.

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  We begin our walk, heading for the stairs. “How’re you enjoying your stay so far, ma’am?” There’s a soft hint of sympathy in her voice. It seems she’s been informed I’m here on a solo honeymoon.

  I immediately squash any pity heading my way. “Everything is great. Could you tell me more about the history of the palace?” I majored in history in college, which has come in very useful for writing historical romance. Not sure that Yale would like to take credit for contributing to my sexy romance novels, but hey, I appreciate the fine education.

  Christina dutifully launches into the palace’s history. Unfortunately, I’m too tired to process it all. I’m with her in the beginning with the Vikings, who sailed here with their Irish wives from an early Irish settlement and constructed a round stone fortress. She loses me somewhere along the second fire.

  “We’re here, ma’am,” she says, stopping by a wooden door in a long hallway lined with windows. “The gardens are just past the courtyard.” She points toward it through the window. It’s a nice view of a grassy courtyard flanked by the east and west wings of the palace with manicured formal gardens in the distance.

  “Thank you.”

  She bobs a curtsy and leaves. I open the door and step out into a sunny June day with clear blue skies and white fluffy clouds. I feel better already. I head to the center of the courtyard, throw my head back, spread my arms wide, and close my eyes. The sun warms my face. I don’t need a groom to enjoy this. In fact, Mason would’ve probably preferred we spend our time cycling around the island. He was big into cycling. I could never get comfortable on that tiny bicycle seat. Welp, now I don’t have to do what he wants to do. I’m a free woman. I straighten, a heaviness sinking into my limbs.

  My phone rings, and I snatch it from my pocket, thankful for the distraction. My editor’s name pops up on the screen. Yes! I punch the button. “I’ve got my next book.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Quinn says. She’s a New Yorker—direct and to the point.

  I take a seat on a nearby stone bench. “We’ve only seen glimpses of William before this in the other two books, so I’m going to give him a dark past. He’s a scoundrel.”

  “Like it so far.”

  “It’ll be a love triangle. A scoundrel and a slick gentleman both want the heroine. Her name will be Sigourney, which means victorious conqueror.” I rush on because we both know Sigourney is not a Regency-era name, but I love that she’s so kickass. “It’s the slick gentleman she will make pay and use the scoundrel to ruin him. In the end, both men will be ruined.” My heart beats a little faster, excited at the idea of crushing two men.

  Silence.

  “Quinn? Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” she says quietly. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. What’s wrong? You don’t like it? It’s exciting. She’ll bring them to their knees.”

  “Maybe you’re too bitter to write this story.”

  “I’m not too bitter!” My voice rises to an alarming pitch, and I lower it, working hard for a reasonable tone. “I’m fine. I have the story.”

  “This doesn’t sound like an Alice Segal story. It’s tragic.”

  My life is tragic. I swipe at an annoying tear and say urgently and loudly in an effort to convince her, “Dealing with a love triangle could be—”

  “Give yourself a little more time to grieve,” she says gently. “Send me something next week. Not ideas, an actual chapter. Better make it three, okay?” She mutters a quick goodbye and hangs up.

  I stare at the phone in shock for a full minute. She didn’t like my idea. That was my only idea. Three chapters by next week is generous. I should be turning in much more, but still.

  Who am I kidding? I can’t write romance when I don’t believe in it. I’m finished. Career over.

  I pull my knees up under my long dress like a turtle pulling into her shell. Then I wrap my arms around my knees, bury my head in my arms, and let the tears fall. I don’t want to lose this author gig. I’m completely unemployable as a history major with no job experience. I went straight from college into writing. Maybe I’ll end up teaching history to high school students, who don’t give a crap about the past because they’re too muddled with hormones and angst about where to sit in the lunchroom and who is their true friend and who is secretly talking about them behind their back. Not that I know anything about that.

  This su-u-u-ucks donkey balls!

  “Are you okay?” a deep male voice asks.

  My head jerks up, and I stare in utter shock, the breath whooshing from my lungs. Is it really him? I take off my tear-splotched glasses, clean them with the end of my dress, and shove them back on for a better look. It is. Prince Lucas Rourke—the world’s most eligible royal bachelor, the man who dates movie stars and models—is standing in front of me, asking if I’m okay. I suck in air. He’s like a romance-novel cover. Truly. I wouldn’t even need to write a story if I had him on the cover. People would buy my grocery list repeated a thousand times just to have his gorgeous self to gaze upon. His aquamarine eyes are a sharp contrast to his thick dark hair and neatly trimmed beard. If he were a hero in one of my stories, I’d describe him as six feet of broad-shouldered muscular perfection with a proud regal bearing. Maybe throw something in there about the snug fit of his breeches. Ahem. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black button-down shirt, and his forearms are tanned and muscular. I’m a bit of a connoisseur of forearms, and his are particularly sexy. I can’t help but notice this kind of thing. It’s in my job description and does not mean I’m actually going to do anything about my appreciative admiration. My blackened heart prevents any blood flow south of the belly button.

  I attempt a smile and manage to say, “I’m fine,” which sounds unconvincing even to my ears. It was kind of him to check on me, but I’m not about to unload on a total stranger.

  He shocks me further by taking a seat next to me on the bench. “I couldn’t help but overhear about the love triangle. That sounds rough.”

  I don’t know if I should laugh or cry because I was describing my story, and just now I realize I was describing my life. Duh. No wonder Quinn hated it. My life is far from a romance.

  His aquamarine eyes are sympathetic. “You don’t have to talk about it. I’ll just keep you company for a bit.” And he stays put.

  He’s being there for me, a total stranger in the midst of a breakdown. I didn’t even know he spent any time at the palace. I’ve seen pictures of him all over the world with many, many glamorous people, especially women. So many women. None of whom would ever be described as a curvy girl. What in the world is he doing here?

  I risk a sideways glance at him without turning my head.

  He offers a small smile. “I’m Lucas.”

  I snort. “I know who you are. You’re the world’s most eligible royal bachelor.” His lips curve into a sexy crooked smile. “I’m Alice. I’m here on my honeymoon.”

  “Oh.” He looks all around, probably wondering where the groom went. “I mis
understood. I thought you were a guest of my sister-in-law with your American accent.” He looks back to me. “You must be in the honeymoon suite.” At my nod, he lowers his voice. “Did you have a fight with your husband?”

  “No. Well, yes.” I flutter a hand in the air. “He’s not here, and we’re not married.”

  His brows knit. “Why did you say you were on your honeymoon?”

  I hesitate, debating confiding in a stranger. I don’t open up easily to anyone, and it’s still so painful to talk about.

  I lift my palms and force some energy into my voice. “I’m a badass.” And then my chin quivers, completely destroying my credibility.

  Chapter Two

  Lucas

  “Where are you from, badass?” I ask in an effort to hold off her tears.

  “Portland, Oregon, USA,” she says gamely and takes a deep quivering breath. She’s trying not to lose it. I know the signs. You don’t get to be the world’s most eligible royal bachelor without having plenty of experience with women.

  The contrast of her nerdy librarian glasses with her blond hair and lush curves caught my eye through the window a few moments ago. The breeze made her loose dress cling to her large breasts and hourglass figure. Incredibly sexy. Like if Marilyn Monroe wore nerdy glasses. It wasn’t until I pushed the door open that I realized she was dealing with a crisis. Her voice, even in distress, is a smooth rich tone that’s undeniably sexy. Why would she take a solo-honeymoon trip? The only thing I can think of is that it was paid for and she didn’t want it to go to waste. A practical sort.

  I check on the tears situation. None yet, though her blue eyes are shiny through her glasses. The black seriousness of the glasses is softened by little silver hearts on the corners of the frames. “So you’ll be in the guest suite for a week?” I purposely avoid calling it the honeymoon suite under the circumstances.

  “Two weeks.”

  I keep my voice upbeat like a two-week solo honeymoon could be a fun adventure. “Maybe you could do a little sightseeing in France. Nantes is close by, and Paris isn’t too much farther. Of course, you could always tour Villroy, though there’s not much to see beyond sand and sea.”