Prince Baby Daddy - A Secret Baby Royal Romance Read online

  Prince Baby Daddy

  Layla Valentine

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  Prince Baby Daddy

  1. Christian

  2. Jane-Ann

  3. Christian

  4. Jane-Ann

  5. Jane-Ann

  6. Christian

  7. Jane-Ann

  8. Christian

  9. Jane-Ann

  10. Jane-Ann

  11. Christian

  12. Christian

  13. Jane-Ann

  14. Jane-Ann

  15. Jane-Ann

  16. Christian

  17. Jane-Ann

  18. Christian

  19. Jane-Ann

  20. Christian

  21. Jane-Ann

  22. Christian

  23. Jane-Ann

  24. Jane-Ann

  25. Jane-Ann

  26. Christian

  27. Christian

  28. Jane-Ann

  29. Christian

  30. Christian

  31. Jane-Ann

  Epilogue

  The Baby Scandal

  1. Grace

  Want More?

  Also by Layla Valentine

  Prince Baby Daddy

  Copyright 2019 by Layla Valentine & Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Christian

  August

  Light glares off the polished white floors, burning my bloodshot eyes. I blink and close my bedroom door, pressing my forehead against the cool wood. My room is dark and quiet, and I want nothing more than to crawl back into bed and not get out all day. But Mother and Father would have servants pounding on my door within the hour. Probably within the half hour. Mother hates when I’m late for breakfast.

  For the life of me, I can’t remember why I agreed to stay in the main palace over the weekend. My private residence is only a few blocks away. There, I have frozen breakfast burritos in the freezer that are perfect for soaking up the last bit of alcohol in my system after a night of particularly rough partying. It’s a trick I learned from a woman I once met during a night out. I don’t remember her name, and I never saw her again, but every time I make one of the burritos, I raise it to her memory.

  But this morning there will be no breakfast burritos. Just bowls of fruit and puffy eggs and muffins. All fine fare under normal circumstances, but the thought of it now makes my stomach flip.

  I groan and press my cheek against the wood. It’s going to leave an imprint on my face, but I can’t bring myself to care about anything other than the headache pounding in my temples and the nausea rocking through me.

  Finally, after several deep, steadying breaths, I peel open the door and propel myself into the hallway quickly. Like ripping off a bandage.

  The halls have the familiar scent of lemon cleaning product and dust, though there isn’t a speck of dust in sight. The maids couldn’t sleep if there was even the slightest smudge on the glass-topped tables that line the hallways. The smell of dust is probably from the simple fact that every piece of furniture in the palace is ancient. Like, “keep your mitts off of that—it was a gift from the King of England for your great-great-grandfather’s thirtieth birthday” kind of old.

  Growing up here was like living in an art museum. Velvet ropes blocked off the most prized paintings and busts and running, playing, or quick movement of any kind was highly discouraged. Every kid’s dream.

  Last night comes back to me in flashes as I take the stairs slowly, clinging to the solid wood railing. Drinks, dancing, more drinks, whispers in back booths, more drinks. Just the memory of the drinks makes me want to lie down. I’ve made a name for myself as being a partier, but clearly I’d gotten a bit drunk last night and then decided to go for a new record. Father won’t be pleased if he finds out. So, he won’t find out.

  I pinch my lips together, relaxing my face into a neutral mask, and breathe. I just need to get through one breakfast and then I’ll be done for the day.

  Mother called the tailor so I could be fitted for a new suit for some charity event or another I apparently agreed to attend, but other than that, my day is uncharacteristically free. After I eat and stand still for the tailor, hiding my nausea, I can go back to bed and sleep away the last remnants of my regretful evening on the town with no one the wiser.

  As soon as I turn into the smaller of our three dining rooms, I realize my plans have been dashed before they can even begin. Father throws a newspaper down over my place setting as soon as I turn the corner, the paper landing on the fine china like a gavel.

  “I’m surprised you have the strength to join us this morning,” he says with a rumble.

  “Good morning,” I say, smiling first at my three younger brothers, who all snicker under their breath but do not look up at me, at my father, and then my mother.

  Father’s face remains stony, but Mother softens as I expected her to. She tilts her face to the side and smiles; her eyebrows pulled together in concern and worry. Whatever Father has in store, it isn’t going to be pleasant.

  “Good morning, indeed,” he says, stirring his tea with too much intensity, the silver spoon rattling against the bone china. I see Mother reach underneath the table to touch his leg, to steady him. He drops the spoon and points to the paper, looking up at me. “Care to explain this?”

  “Ahh, yes, of course,” I say, grabbing the newspaper as I drop down onto the padded antique dining chair.

  The dining set has been in the palace since it was rebuilt in the nineteenth century after a fire destroyed the entire East Wing. Mother reminded me of the origins of the set many times as a child and teenager when I would lean back in the chair, putting undue strain on the back legs.

  “Well, this is a newspaper. One of many such sources of local and world news around the world. This one here is The Sigmaran Sun. Not the most prestigious of papers, especially with its oftentimes biased coverage of the royal family that paints the eldest son in a negative light, but it is still a good paper nonetheless.”

  Jory snorts, partially chewed bits of berry splattering on his plate, but Niles is too young to fully understand the hilarity of my joke, and Erikson is old enough to know better than to laugh. Despite my own antics, I’ve warned Erik plenty of times to listen to Father and keep his head down. In a year, he’ll be eighteen, finished with school, and free to choose what he does next. Freer than I will be, at least.

  Being the first born comes with more responsibility and the crown. Even if I was only a couple years older than Erik rather than almost thirteen years older, our lives would have been very different experiences. As it is, it is almost easy to forget we are brothers at all. It feels more like very close cousins with the difference in how Father treats us.

  Father is red-faced and steaming, his eyes narrowing at Jory before landing on me. When he picks up his glass of ice water, I’m surprised I can’t hear his feverish skin hiss at the temperature difference.

  “You think making a mockery of this family is something to joke about?”

  It has been several months since he last told me I was making a moc
kery of our name and titles. I was about due for a refresher.

  “Absolutely not,” I say. “It is a task I undertake with the utmost sincerity and seriousness.”

  Mother sighs and eats a square of melon, chewing it daintily with closed lips. She hates when we fight, which unfortunately for her, is most of the time.

  She nudges Niles and points to his bowl of fruit, raising her brows in a gesture for him to eat it. He rolls his eyes but obeys. If only I could respond the same way to my father’s not-so-gentle nudgings.

  Before I can say anything else, Father reaches across the table and tears the newspaper out of my hand. Anger radiates off of him like a physical heat. If I hadn’t felt the wrath of it so often in my life, I might have been more cowed.

  “I am tired of your carelessness with our reputation. You galavant all over the city, bedding women you do not intend to ever see again—”

  Mother winces at this and looks nervously toward my brothers. I’m less nervous about them and more ashamed my mother is present for this speech. Yet again. No one wants their mother to know the details of their sex life, especially as it is laid out by the press.

  “—and drinking your way to ruin. In your youth, these things could be more easily forgiven, but you are a man now, Christian. Or, at least, you should be.”

  “Ranell,” Mother warns, her eyes pleading.

  But Father continues as though she hasn’t spoken.

  “Cameras follow you wherever you go, and you act as though you are on some American reality television show. As though you are here to amuse your subjects rather than one day rule them. How are they supposed to respect you when they have seen you photographed like this?” He pauses to glance at the article and then continues once he has the information he needs. “With no less than four different women on your arm in the same evening?”

  I cast my eyes toward the ceiling, trying to remember each of the women I’d seen the night before. There was a blonde at the first bar, another blonde at the dance club, and then a dark-haired woman who got in the car with me as I left the club. Everything after that is a blur, though I do not give my father the satisfaction of admitting as much.

  “As you have just illustrated, the women will love me, and the men will—”

  His fast slams against the table, sending ripples of anger through everyone’s morning beverages like an earthquake.

  “I will not allow you to set such a poor example for your younger brothers. You will not speak to me like I am someone of no importance. I am your King.”

  “What of my father?” I ask. “Is he around for a chat?”

  He sighs, and part of me feels bad for the burdens he carries. The same burdens he will pass on to me. But no matter the burdens, I would never speak to my son this way. With that thought, the pity wilts and fades.

  “Your father has attempted to correct your course, and yet you have gone on unchecked and wild. Now, your King is desperate.”

  “We both want what is best,” Mother says, tilting her head and nodding. Understanding and empathy are woven into the lines of her face just as annoyance is sewn into my father’s.

  I’ve tried on many different occasions to imagine my parents young. To see them in their youth, carefree and in love. But I can’t maneuver around my father’s frustration and my mother’s endless understanding that she extends to him and everyone else.

  They make a good match. She can see past the firm hand with which he rules his people and his home, including her on many different occasions, and he disciplines me so she doesn’t have to. But now I cannot picture them any other way. If any scandalous articles were written about either of them, they are not available to me now.

  Oh, to be born before the advent of the internet. Such a dark yet freeing time that would be.

  Me, on the other hand, I make the papers multiple times per week. Occasionally the articles are complimentary, but usually they are fodder for my father to dump over me at mealtimes.

  “You should want what is best for yourself,” my father snaps. “And for your people. No matter how you feel about it, you will be the King when I am gone, and your people will depend on you. I only worry the women and the drink will become a lifelong distraction.”

  I finally pick up a triangle of toast and take a bite. It hits my stomach like a concrete block into a pool, sending my insides lurching, but I manage to swallow and then take another bite. And another. Then, I realize my family is looking at me, waiting for me to respond. I wave them away with the remaining toast in my hand.

  “It’s just a bit of fun.”

  Father bristles at this. “Maybe the time for fun is over.”

  “I didn’t realize being King meant you had to give up fun. It sure does explain a lot.”

  I’m being surly, but he went on the attack before I could even sit down and my hangover is worse than normal. They seem to be getting worse every year. Perhaps the time for that kind of fun really is nearing its end. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to get so rip-roaring drunk in another ten years. It might actually kill me.

  “Can I go?” Erikson pushes away from the table, a half-eaten sausage between his fingers. His face is relaxed and bored, but I can tell he is wondering when their gaze will be turned to him. When he will be the one scrutinized over brunch.

  I want to ask him to stay so he can see what he is in for should he deign to ignore the commands of the King. But Father dismisses him and the younger two with a nod. They all scurry away, but not before Niles can shove his wet finger in my ear and howl in delight. I’m still wiping away his spit when my mother starts to talk.

  “Christian, the defiance I have always admired in you is becoming a hindrance. If you accept your father’s correction, it could become a great tool in your arsenal as you lead Sigmaran. But carrying on as you are, it will lead to nothing but scandal.”

  With the younger boys gone, I feel cornered. Perhaps, that was the point of sending them away. They know I would never fully yield to them while my brothers were watching me.

  I speak up with a rebuttal. “The crown has always dripped with scandal. Some innocent flirting isn’t going to ruin anyone’s innocence. I think this has been blown out of proportion.”

  My father’s only response is to throw the newspaper at me.

  Finally, I pick it up and examine the front page where a large photo of me, eyes half-closed as I was well into my drunken stupor, with my arm around a woman in a dress that looks more like a child’s tank top graces the entire section above the fold. Somehow, my night on the town became front-page news.

  “I’d appreciate if your escapades could be page-six news at the least,” he says. “But you insist on making headlines. On making us all look like one big joke. And I won’t stand for it anymore.”

  I lower the paper and fold my hands on the table in front of me. “Fine. I’ll deny my place as the first born and hand my inheritance on to Erikson. Or maybe Niles would be best. That wet willy he gave me on his way out of here was very calculated. I think he’ll be a benefit to the throne.”

  My father’s rage is tempered only by the calming hand of my mother on his shoulder. She turns her eyes to me, the kindness in them waning. I know things are bad when even she becomes annoyed with me.

  “No one can take away what is rightfully yours, Christian. But something has to change.”

  I sigh, too exhausted to continue deflecting their criticisms with humor. I need a pain reliever and a nap.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll cut back over the next few weeks, stick to the bars that are further from the city center. I go unnoticed at a lot of those places once the evening gets going and everyone is having a good time. I’ll lay low.”

  “It is more than laying low and letting this storm pass,” Father says. “This behavior will only continue as long as you are left to roam free.”

  I furrow my brow. “Are you threatening to send me to the dungeons or something? What are you talking about?”

  “You
’re almost thirty, Christian,” Mother says, eyes widening with hope. “It is about time to think about transitioning to a family life, don’t you think?”

  I can’t help it. I bark out a laugh.

  “Your father and I had already been married for five years by the time we were your age,” she says as if my laugh might have offended her. “It isn’t so absurd to think you could be settled down with a suitable woman.”

  There’s the catch. Suitable woman. A blue-blooded debutante never seen without white gloves and a set of pearls. The kind of women I’d grown up with all my life and never once found tempting.

  “Very true,” my father says. “What’s absurd is our son’s aversion to rules and propriety and tradition.” He turns to me. “It is not the tradition that bothers you, but our insistence upon following it. You want to be rebellious.”

  “That is hardly fair,” I say, though he isn’t entirely wrong.

  Finding a way to pursue my own joy while also enraging my father has become a favorite hobby of mine. Though, since I am nearing thirty, I know the time is coming when I will have no choice but to accept my role as a cog in the well-oiled royal machine. I just don’t expect it to be dumped on me over the course of one meal.

  “It is completely fair,” he counters. “You have been like a rebellious teenager for the last fifteen years, and I’m tired of playing nice.”

  I just barely manage to bite back the laugh at even the suggestion that my father has been playing nice with me. If this is nice, then I’d hate to see what mean would feel like.

  “What does that mean? Am I grounded?”

  “Christian, please—” Mother starts, though Father interrupts her with a wave of his hand.

  “No, Mia. We are not asking him anymore. Christian, we are here to inform you that you need to be married within the next two years.”

  “Excuse me?” Even my pounding headache is caught off guard, and the beating between my eyes goes still and quiet as I stare at my mother then my father and back again. “I have a deadline for marriage?”