Free Royal Baby (A British Bad Boy Romance) by Avery Wilde Page B

that!” he snapped, not waiting for an answer before continuing. “What are you doing here?”
    “Her Majesty said that I could see the pictures in the Long Gallery.”
    “Poppycock!” he said. It was hard to make the word ‘poppycock’ sound threatening, but Prince Michael more or less managed it. “Sneaking around in places where you shouldn’t be, then telling lies about it. I suppose I shouldn’t expect any different from my brother’s little plaything.”
    Whatever sharply witty rejoinder I might have planned, it died on my tongue at those words. His brother’s little plaything ? What the hell was he talking about?
    “I…I’m not…”
    “Don’t play dumb with me,” Michael said, delighted to have regained the initiative and found my weak spot. “You think it’s a secret? Why else would my brother hire some clueless American bitch as his personal maid? It’s not like it’s the first time he’s done it. You’re not from here, and as a result you obviously haven’t got a clue how to do the job you were hired for, but you’re happy enough to give him the ‘job’ he really hired you for. That’s my brother all over, too lazy to go into town to visit his latest whore, so he installs her under the same roof.”
    Browbeaten, shell-shocked and with no idea what to say, I could only suffer through the Prince’s words. For all I knew, it could be true—or at least, that could’ve been Andrew’s intention at some point.
    “So I ask again,” Michael continued in acid tones. “What are you doing here? Are you meeting him? Got bored of his room, did you? Is that it?”
    “She’s meeting me.”
    The sound of the Queen’s voice, redolent with regal authority, made both Michael and I jump. Her Majesty really did have a way of creeping up on people unheard. Prince Michael’s mouth first hung open, then snapped shut, then yo-yoed up and down with uncertainty of what to say next.
    “Keira and I had an appointment to view the paintings in the Long Gallery,” Queen Constance continued in level tones. “She may be a maid, but she just so happens to have a degree in fine arts, as I discovered yesterday, and I wanted her to educate me on a few things…if that’s quite all right with you, Michael.”
    Prince Michael’s face turned scarlet. “Yes. Yes. Gosh. Quite all right.”
    “Oh, good,” the Queen said, her voice now thick with sarcasm. “I’m glad. Now perhaps you’d like to apologize to her?”
    “Er…of course.” Michael turned to me, his expression a mixture of anger and forced congeniality that made him look as if unseen hands were pulling his face in different directions. “Sorry,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
    “That didn’t strike me as particularly heartfelt,” the Queen said.
    He gritted his teeth. “I’m very sorry.”
    “Nor did that, but I suppose it will have to do. Now, Keira and I are already running late and I don’t wish to deny her the tour any longer, so we’ll be getting along.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Michael, clearly relieved that this was apparently the end of the matter.
    “But you and I will be discussing this later.”
    “Yes, of course.” Suddenly Michael looked a whole lot less relieved. “How—if you don’t mind me asking—how long were you standing there?”
    The Queen didn’t answer but merely walked past him to the door of the Long Gallery. “Come, Keira.”
    I followed her, and the door closed behind us.
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “I apologize for my son,” she replied, looking quite irritable.
    “It’s fine. He didn’t know I had permission to be here.”
    “You didn’t tell him?” asked the Queen.
    “I…how long were you standing there, your Majesty?”
    The Queen arched an eyebrow. It wasn’t quite as effective as Rogers doing it, but still made its point well. “I’d like to know why both you and my son seem so keen to know the answer to that. And I suspect that when I find out I would rather wish that I