Read Online Royal Brit Bastard: a badboy stepbrother romance by Alice May Ball - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice May Ball
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Roger went back to the bar. The landlord was leaned on the bar and looked faintly annoyed when Roger asked for two more whiskys.
The door creaked open and a small, round, rosy-cheeked woman bustled in. She hurried straight up to Roger and practically jumped up into his arms. The landlord looked at her, then at Roger and said, “Might have known it.”
Roger brought her and three large whiskys to the table.
“Clarissa, I want you to meet Honey.” She raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. “Honey, this is Clarissa, my mother.”
“Delighted, I’m sure.” She said, but she didn’t take my outstretched hand.
Roger and Clarissa caught up some and we had more whisky. She talked about the weather while we had more whisky. Then, over another round of whisky, she got around to the painful and acrimonious business of the handyman, her separation and divorce and Roger’s parentage.
“Could it be that I am Lord Chatterton’s son?” As he said it, I couldn’t tell which answer he was after.
“The old bastard used to take whatever he wanted anyway,” she said, “So it was pretty hard to tell. Yes, though. It’s true.”
“That Hardforth, the handyman, is my father?”
“Well,” she reached over to stroke his face. He allowed her, but I could see that he wasn’t comfortable. “I can’t say for sure if that’s true, but he and I did have a, you know, a thing.”
“And so, I may or may not be a by-product of your ‘thing.’”
“Oh, no, darling.” She looked genuinely shocked, “Oh, you think you weren’t wanted. No, you mustn’t think that. We all wanted you. You weren’t unwanted, not a bit of it.”
“ All? ” He looked startled.
“Yes, darling, poppet. Your father wanted you, obviously. He needed a son and he wasn’t getting any younger. Hardforth wanted you because,” she hesitated, “Well, he was quite smitten with me, and he wasn’t averse to what he called ‘sticking it to the ruling class.’”
“Was that his sole reason for heroically impregnating the whole of the downstairs female staff.”
“Oh. Chatterton told you that did he? Well, yes. He said, ‘Can’t help if me natural drives assert me principles in the one go.’ Which was sort of poetic, in an earthy kind of a way, don’t you think, darling?”
Roger looked sideways at her. “Not especially, no.” After a moment he said, “So are there many other credible candidates for the honor of being my father?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
“Not really?” he stormed, “In my experience, ‘not really’ usually means ‘yes.’”
“It’s all spilt milk now, dear,” she looked at me. Heaven knows why. An appeal for sisterly solidarity, perhaps. “But there was a DNA test.”
“So,” Roger was fighting back his anger now, “What was the result.”
She took a nip of her whisky, “Don’t know, dearie. Your father wouldn’t tell me.”
“My father or not, as the case may be.”
“Now, dear, he’s always treated you like his own son, whatever the rights and wrongs.”
“Yes, just as any poor, mistreated wretch that his son would have been, had one been so unfortunate as to have actually been his.”
“Well, you should be grateful. If he had another son, he’d almost definitely have left everything to him, you know that, I’m sure.”
“That’s right. In fact he does have this wonderful daughter,” he lifted a hand in my direction, “And he now wants to leave everything to her.”
“I know dearie,” She turned her face to me, “But, honestly,” she put her hand on top of mine, “There isn’t too much of him shows in you. In fact, you do seem quite nice, really.” She crinkled her eyes as she smiled and patted my hand, “For an American.”
Roger asked her, “So, Ma-ma, where is Hardforth now, do you know what happened to him?”
“Oh, yes.” She looked down and blinked two or three times. When she looked back up she said, “No, he died in
The door creaked open and a small, round, rosy-cheeked woman bustled in. She hurried straight up to Roger and practically jumped up into his arms. The landlord looked at her, then at Roger and said, “Might have known it.”
Roger brought her and three large whiskys to the table.
“Clarissa, I want you to meet Honey.” She raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. “Honey, this is Clarissa, my mother.”
“Delighted, I’m sure.” She said, but she didn’t take my outstretched hand.
Roger and Clarissa caught up some and we had more whisky. She talked about the weather while we had more whisky. Then, over another round of whisky, she got around to the painful and acrimonious business of the handyman, her separation and divorce and Roger’s parentage.
“Could it be that I am Lord Chatterton’s son?” As he said it, I couldn’t tell which answer he was after.
“The old bastard used to take whatever he wanted anyway,” she said, “So it was pretty hard to tell. Yes, though. It’s true.”
“That Hardforth, the handyman, is my father?”
“Well,” she reached over to stroke his face. He allowed her, but I could see that he wasn’t comfortable. “I can’t say for sure if that’s true, but he and I did have a, you know, a thing.”
“And so, I may or may not be a by-product of your ‘thing.’”
“Oh, no, darling.” She looked genuinely shocked, “Oh, you think you weren’t wanted. No, you mustn’t think that. We all wanted you. You weren’t unwanted, not a bit of it.”
“ All? ” He looked startled.
“Yes, darling, poppet. Your father wanted you, obviously. He needed a son and he wasn’t getting any younger. Hardforth wanted you because,” she hesitated, “Well, he was quite smitten with me, and he wasn’t averse to what he called ‘sticking it to the ruling class.’”
“Was that his sole reason for heroically impregnating the whole of the downstairs female staff.”
“Oh. Chatterton told you that did he? Well, yes. He said, ‘Can’t help if me natural drives assert me principles in the one go.’ Which was sort of poetic, in an earthy kind of a way, don’t you think, darling?”
Roger looked sideways at her. “Not especially, no.” After a moment he said, “So are there many other credible candidates for the honor of being my father?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
“Not really?” he stormed, “In my experience, ‘not really’ usually means ‘yes.’”
“It’s all spilt milk now, dear,” she looked at me. Heaven knows why. An appeal for sisterly solidarity, perhaps. “But there was a DNA test.”
“So,” Roger was fighting back his anger now, “What was the result.”
She took a nip of her whisky, “Don’t know, dearie. Your father wouldn’t tell me.”
“My father or not, as the case may be.”
“Now, dear, he’s always treated you like his own son, whatever the rights and wrongs.”
“Yes, just as any poor, mistreated wretch that his son would have been, had one been so unfortunate as to have actually been his.”
“Well, you should be grateful. If he had another son, he’d almost definitely have left everything to him, you know that, I’m sure.”
“That’s right. In fact he does have this wonderful daughter,” he lifted a hand in my direction, “And he now wants to leave everything to her.”
“I know dearie,” She turned her face to me, “But, honestly,” she put her hand on top of mine, “There isn’t too much of him shows in you. In fact, you do seem quite nice, really.” She crinkled her eyes as she smiled and patted my hand, “For an American.”
Roger asked her, “So, Ma-ma, where is Hardforth now, do you know what happened to him?”
“Oh, yes.” She looked down and blinked two or three times. When she looked back up she said, “No, he died in
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