Royal Boy

By Hannah Morse

Can an English Nobleman and a Texan find enough in common to build a life together?

Duke George Corbyn commands both wealth and power. An attack before he flies to the states leads him to getting an American bodyguard. George is nonplussed. A babysitter is a no, but a Daddy would be a yes, because what nobody knows is that under his posh exterior, he’s a little longing for a Daddy.

When drill sergeant Aaron Anderson needed a job, he was recruited into CARE, Inc.—a security company that gave him a new start as a bodyguard. Assigned to watch over George, Aaron is not only attracted to the man, but also very aware that Georgie needs a firm hand to guide him. And that hand probably needs to be on the brat’s behind.

When the attacker returns, they learn more is at stake than just their hearts.

#DDLB

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9780369505514

Book preview

Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2022 Hannah Morse

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0551-4

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Jessica Ruth

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To the person who said I was better on paper … turns out you were right.

ROYAL BOY

CARE Inc.

Hannah Morse

Copyright © 2022

Chapter One

Red liquid spattered sticky and thick across George Edward Corbyn’s face and suit. It immediately started to drip, forcing him to swipe it out of his eyes with his sleeve. An uproar rose around him, cameras popping, people yelling, all underscored by the chemical stink of paint.

Thank goodness it was only paint.

Duke, over here! Who do you think did it? a member of the press hollered.

George wiped his hand through more blood-red paint running down his cheek. You’re the one with the camera. You tell me, George snapped.

Lettie, her mouth in a grim line and her graying blonde hair up in a bun, appeared at his side. Lord Eastshire, now would be an excellent time to shut the hell up. His head of security tugged at his suit jacket.

No, it’s not. George held up a red-coated hand. What happened? Who did this? he roared at the gathered crowd, press, and security. I’ve been hounded by you lot since I was seven. I can’t take a bloody piss without it being in the papers, and now, when I need you, you’re all … fucking … useless.

One of the reporters smirked, brandishing his microphone like a sword.

Lettie plastered a smile on and grabbed George’s arm, bodily dragging him away from the front of the hospital where he’d just attended a fundraising luncheon in his smart new suit. It was now ruined. It’d cost more than what most of the people around him made in a year, and not one of them had seen, let alone caught, the arse who’d done this to him.

His limo was waiting, surrounded by security, and Lettie shoved him into the back seat. She spoke to the others briefly, then joined him, a frown on her face. Like usual.

I want answers, he spat, trying to sound like the twenty-seven-year-old aristocrat he was, and not the child she’d been watching since George’s parents had perished in a yachting accident. She didn’t let him near the water if she could help it.

Lettie groaned. It was some pissing idiot. You know that. And you can guess why.

No, I can’t. It would’ve helped if they’d yelled something homophobic, but for all we know their grandda hates some piddling tax and they’re taking it out on me. He poked at the rapidly drying paint. She was probably right. Being openly gay and in the public eye as a prominent member of the royal family did paint a target on him, quite literally as it turned out. They ruined the suit. I like the suit.

You can get another.

True enough, but it didn’t help him at the moment. Nobody had even asked if he was doing all right. They just assumed he was fine and tossed him in a car, in paint-stained clothes, with the goopy feel of it in his hair and on his skin. He hated being dirty. George ran his fingers through his curls, hoping they would end up blond after this and not a lovely pink color that’d need fixing, or worse, that he’d have to shave his head. He’d look terrible bald.

Shite, he mumbled, staring down at just how red his hands were. The limo lurched and pulled into traffic.

Lettie grunted. She pulled her phone out, her fingers moving quickly. He knew it was all to ensure a smooth landing for him at his current residence and to spin up the publicity people so they could control the narrative and paint him as a victim. Which he was, more or less. What he’d like to be portrayed as was somebody who didn’t put up with this kind of nonsense, but they’d trot the story out about a poor little rich queer boy being bullied, like they had for almost two decades. That was his role in public. In private, he was known for being difficult, which George didn’t care one whit about. If people would do their blasted jobs, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen, and then he wouldn’t have to yell.

Where was my bodyguard? he barked.

Lettie didn’t look up from her phone. Standing off to the side like I’ve instructed them not to do in a crowd situation. I’ve reassigned the idiot to bin maintenance for a month.

George struggled to remember what the bodyguard even looked like. There was always a new one. George was not an easy or fun assignment, and the turnover was high. His foot tapped. Good. Would it kill her to offer him a napkin? She was an excellent head of security and amazing at organizing, but being human wasn’t her forte.

The limo turned, shade from overhead trees shadowing the car, providing blessed relief from the heat.

His mobile stayed silent, even though the video of him getting splattered had to be all over the Web by now.

A few more turns and the limo stopped at a gate while it slid open. Then they were through, and he could relax. Lettie’s phone chirped loudly, and she slumped in her chair. Blast, she grumbled. There was paint thrown at the steps of your house as well. It’ll get cleaned, but there was a typed-out note in a plastic bag.

Fuck, not even my home is safe? What good are you lot? George flexed his hands. He was powerless to stop any of this hate directed toward him, and being alone at the center of it was even worse. It’d just been him and the maelstrom of publicity for most of his life. He wished he could get used to it.

The limo stopped and the door opened, the staff member doing a double take as George got out. What, something on my face? George said as he walked toward his back door. Inside was a flurry of activity, security checking every nook and cranny like someone else with a can might be hiding under the formal dining table.

George shed his paint-soaked suit jacket, letting it tumble to the floor as he marched to the security center of the house.

George, Lettie squawked from behind him as he strode into the room with its monitors and folding tables.

He grabbed the letter, which was encased in a plastic sleeve, from a startled-looking man in a police uniform. George scanned the letter while paint dripped down his arm and onto the tiles. It was fairly generic as far as threatening, homophobic letters went, full of bible verses in all caps and bleats about how he was a black eye on England’s royal face.

Fancy that, he muttered, shoving it back at the cop. Should I act surprised? Oh, dear me, somebody wants me dead for being queer. The only part that stands out is the ‘blood of the lamb’ bit, and only because of the red paint. He held up his hands and grimaced, making the dried paint smeared on his face tug and flake. Somebody better test this. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t just acrylic.

He headed for the stairs to shower, needing less of whatever the hell this was that was dripping down the crack of his arse.

George, wait. Lettie hustled to get in front of him.

What? He hated himself for how much he wished she’d wrap him up in a hug and tell him everything would be okay. That was as likely to happen as he was to be crowned queen of Sheba. Though he could be a queen if he wanted to, messy curls and thin frame notwithstanding.

I need to inform you that I’ve already asked the palace to authorize additional security funds for the American trip. You’re going to be in Vegas, and, well, there’s a couple of spellings in this latest threat letter that suggests whoever sent it was from the States. I’m concerned.

It was the closest Lettie would come to saying she was scared for him.

What does all that mean?

She wrinkled her nose.

Lettie, out with it.

I want you to have a local bodyguard with you twenty-four-seven for the entire time we’re there. I had to nail down an agency before asking for it to be covered. I got a good recommendation for a Seattle-based firm. They said they’ll put their top guy on it. He used to be a drill sergeant.

Why are you telling me that like it’s a fucking selling point? Just what he needed at a world poverty summit in a country and city he didn’t remotely want to visit. The amount of irony in trying to solve a worldwide economic crisis in Sin City was comical. The summit was already under fire, though they said it was to show the crassness. All it would mean would be lightly attended sessions because the attendees most certainly weren’t suffering from personal economic issues and would be showering the casinos with cash.

You need a—

Babysitter? He sneered the word, even if the faintest thrill echoed at the base of his spine. You might have missed this, but I’ve been forced to be an adult since I was in grammar school.

Lettie put her hands on her hips. Please, George.

There’d be no winning this fight. Fine, but put a clause in the contract. If I get another faceful of paint, this American cowboy-bodyguard-soldier-whatever is not going to get paid.

He stepped around her, making his way to the posh bathroom with its white walls, tiles, and shower. He left the ruined clothes in a pile and scrubbed at his hair under the hot water. At least the paint seemed to be coming off. He stayed put until the water ran clear. The plush white towel draped over a heating rod didn’t turn colors when he wiped his face on it, and a quick check in the steamed-up mirror showed no obvious pink on his skin or face. Just the usual smattering of freckles. There was a faint strawberry color to the roots of his hair that nobody would notice through his curls unless they were looking for it. What a blasted mess.

A new suit waited for him in his bedroom, but George only pulled on the blue-striped boxers before padding over to the door to make sure it was locked.

He needed a minute of privacy.

Not to have a wank, which was probably what his staff would think he was doing. Fine with him—he’d rather they think he was a perv than know the truth.

Lying in the bed, he pulled the covers up before removing his worn stuffed dog from its hiding place in a secret drawer of his nightstand. George guessed his staff also didn’t imagine that the dog, with its soft brown fur, white patch, and button eyes was what George kept in that drawer. He preferred it that way.

He cuddled the plushie in his arms while lying on his side.

It’s okay, Spot, he said. It’s okay. We’ll have to be careful on this trip, but there’s going to be someone looking at me all the time. He sighed. He hadn’t asked to be a queer member of the peerage, or one so in the public eye after his family’s dramatic death. He barely remembered them. They’d always been gone to one exciting place or another or out at a party. Or recovering from the party the next day. It’d basically just been him and Spot before they’d died. And then, as a newly minted duke, he’d had to grow up overnight. Spot had gone into hiding, saved when a lot of his other toys simply disappeared.

George longed for these moments, when he could curl up with his plushie and forget everything else. They never lasted long, because he was still responsible for himself. There was nobody—no Daddy—to watch over him.

The little thrill from earlier returned. As much as he didn’t want some invader in his space, part of him longed to be cared for. He closed his eyes and imagined sitting on the floor, Spot close by as he played with one of those fancy farm toy setups, one with all the cows and horses and lots of tractors with moving parts.

Another part of him wondered what the hell a former drill sergeant would look like. Would he be tall? Probably rugged in an American cleft chin way.

He’d probably think George was a complete tosser.

Not that he’d be wrong, exactly.

George curled up tighter around Spot in the too-big bed with its perfect white sheets and quilt. Even though the paint was gone, he could still feel it clinging to his skin, a