Page 3 of Royal Trouble
Everly forced a tight smile. She wouldnotchange her mind. If the promise of a bonus wouldn’t do it, then nothing would.
…
Alexander Stanley scanned His Majesty’s office and knew instantly that he’d made a tactical error. He was outnumbered three to one. Never good odds, particularly when it came to the royal family.
I should’ve stayed the fuck in bed.
He’d known his father’s summons was unlikely to be a social call, but he hadn’t anticipated a bloody family intervention. And what else could it be? There was no other reason for the king, queen, and heir to gather at such an ungodly hour.
He glanced at his watch.
Half past eleven.
Not so early, then.
Xander blinked. His eyes felt like they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper, and the bright rays of sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows were a personal attack. He lowered himself into one of the plush armchairs opposite his father’s mammoth desk and crossed his legs. As a child, he’d thought the mysterious Resolute desk—and the majestic office that housed it—magnificent.
As an adult, all he saw was a gilded cage.
“Father. Mother.” He nodded a greeting to his brother, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the corner of Liam’s lips twitched in amusement.
“What in the bloody hell is this?” King George roared, tossing a copy ofThe Daily Scoopon the desk. Xander slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, smirking at the photo of him posing naked with a pool cue. It was an old picture—taken four or five years ago—and the quality wasn’t great, but there was no mistaking his golden hair.
Xander was the only fair-haired royal in the whole damn palace.
“What’s the big deal?” he asked, keeping his voice smooth and neutral. No sense provoking his father this early in the day, not when he was nursing a hangover of epic proportions. “They covered all the important bits with an eggplant. A rather large one, I might add.”
The king’s nostrils flared as he thumped a meaty palm on the desk. Behind him, Queen Marguerite sighed, the only outward sign of her own displeasure. “Thebig dealis that your brother and I are working our arses off to bring this country together for the royal wedding and these stunts of yours are going to ruin everything!”
Ah, yes, the royal wedding. He should’ve known. Since his return to the palace, it was all anyone wanted to talk about. Xander leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Which part bothers you most, Father? The fact that I whipped out my knob like a bloody slag or the fact that it’s in the populars for the world to see?” He was fairly certain his father didn’t give a damn what he did with his cock as long as it wasn’t in the tabloids, but thanks to the hangover, his mouth was moving faster than his brain.
What did it matter anyway? He was the spare. The extra. The backup plan. As soon as Liam and Elena started popping out little princes and princesses, no one would give a damn what the bad boy of the royal family did anymore. Thank Christ. He hoped they produced a dozen little heirs—put him as far from taking the throne as possible—and the sooner the better.
“Honestly, why is this even news?” Xander asked, jerking his chin toward the paper. “There are far bigger stories than the size of my cock.” He shook his head in disgust. If people took half as much interest in the real issues as they did in his fuckups, the world would be a better place. “Bloody shame, really, that this is where people spend their energy.”
“Agreed,” Liam said, crossing his legs and turning to face Xander. There was no judgment in his brother’s eyes, and when he spoke, his words were matter of fact. “But as long as you’re getting pissed and making a spectacle of yourself in the papers, you’ll be in no position to make a difference.”
As usual, his brother was the picture-perfect royal. Neatly trimmed hair, clean-shaven face, crisp shirt and tie. He wasn’t sure how Liam always managed to beon, but he didn’t envy him the burden of the crown. Hell, most days Xander wished he’d been born into a different family.
One with fewer rules and lower expectations.
“If you can’t keep your exploits out of the papers until the wedding,” his mother said with a sniff, “we’ll be forced to add a minder to your staff.”
Bollocks. He wasn’t twelve years old, and he sure as shit didn’t need a babysitter trailing his every move.
“Is this a fucking joke?” he asked, irritation creeping into his voice.
“Do I look amused?” his father barked. “You’re a bloody prince. It’s well past time you started acting like it.”
He snorted and opened his mouth to reply, but Liam cut him off.
Probably just as well. They’d never actually spoken of Xander’s parentage, but the prevailing theory at court was that he was the bastard son of his mother’s tennis instructor, who had the same pale blond hair and piercing blue eyes, traits none of the other Stanleys possessed.
“Xander doesn’t need a minder,” Liam said smoothly. “He needs proper motivation.”
He lifted a questioning brow.
“Father and I have been discussing the creation of a new charitable organization to support the families of Valeria’s fallen soldiers. We’ll call it the Blue and Gold Foundation.”