Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Christmas Prince
    Christmas Prince
    Christmas Prince
    Ebook159 pages2 hours

    Christmas Prince

    By RJ Scott

    4.5/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    The love story of a lonely prince, the man who steals his heart, and the magic of a snowy castle at Christmas.

    Labeled as a playboy Prince, Raphael has done many crazy things in his life but commissioning a new museum to employ a stranger as a curator may top them all. For him, the game began in London when he outbid Marc at a Sotheby’s auction, but what started as a misguided attempt at flirting ends when Marc confronts him and tells him home truths that cut deep. No one has ever stood up to Raphael before, and it’s enough to have him questioning his role as the youngest son of an ancient royal family. He wants to be a better man, and if he happens to fall in love on the way there, then that’s just perfect.

    The threat of losing his job means this could be the worst Christmas of Marc’s life. Not only has he been outbid on a piece of history to a prince with more money than sense, but his career at the British Museum is now on the line. When the same prince offers him a dream position, his first instinct is to refuse out of principle, but he knows he can never turn down being part of a team that reveals centuries of hidden history. His professionalism turns to horror when he discovers that he’s not part of a team at all and that Raphael—call me Rafe—is determined to shadow his every move. Hours alone in the castle archives start frosty, but when the ice melts, the magic of Christmas could lead to love.

    Christmas Prince is a standalone, opposites attract, Christmas M/M romance with a lonely prince, a stunning castle in the snow, a touch of magic, and a beautiful happily ever after.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRJ Scott
    Release dateDec 2, 2018
    ISBN9781785641411
    Christmas Prince
    Author

    RJ Scott

    RJ Scott is the author of the best selling Male/Male romances The Christmas Throwaway, The Heart Of Texas and the Sanctuary Series of books.She writes romances between two strong men and always gives them the happy ever after they deserve.

    Read more from Rj Scott

    Related to Christmas Prince

    Related ebooks

    Contemporary Romance For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Dustin Lance Black.

      Jun 4, 2019

      Dustin Lance Black.
      8 min read

    • Article

      Re-Imagining Masculinity

      Jun 10, 2019

      Re-Imagining Masculinity
      4 min read

    • Article

      La Otra Historia

      Jun 30, 2022

      La Otra Historia
      14 min read

    • Article

      Books

      Feb 19, 2021

      At a local newspaper in South East London in 1957, journalist Jean Swinney receives a curious letter written to the editor. Gretchen Tilbury – abeautiful, well-to-do woman – claims her 10-year-old daughter is the product of a virgin birth. Gretchen h

      5 min read

    • Article

      Letter From The Founder

      Feb 7, 2020

      For the majority of my life I’ve been underestimated. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I vividly recall, when I was a child, my grandmother inviting a fortune teller to divine the potential trajectory of my life. In particular, I remember th

      3 min read

    • Article

      Stranger Than Fiction

      Sep 2, 2021

      Stranger Than Fiction
      2 min read

    • Article

      Luxe, Calme Et Volupté

      Oct 12, 2018

      Luxe, Calme Et Volupté
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Punk Philatelist

      Jan 13, 2023

      The Punk Philatelist
      6 min read

    • Article

      Bless You Father

      Jul 7, 2022

      Bless You Father
      10 min read

    • Article

      Bless You Father

      Jul 7, 2022

      Bless You Father
      10 min read

    • Article

      Make A Spectacle Of Oneself

      Oct 27, 2022

      AWARE THAT QUEEN Elizabeth I said to Robert Cecil, a much greater man than I, “Little man, little man: must is not a word to be used to princes,” I am hesitant to address my new Sovereign Lord with the word “must”. But the Coronation must not be a se

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Straw Hat

      Aug 2, 2018

      The Straw Hat
      6 min read

    • Article

      The Madness of Venice

      Apr 2, 2018

      1. I lived in Venice for two years, and I hated it. In conversations I used euphemisms and turns of phrase (among my favorite either you love it or hate it! and it’s a… difficult city), but I was lying through my teeth. I fucking hated it

      10 min read

    • Article

      Scoundrel’s Lair

      Jul 9, 2023

      Scoundrel’s Lair
      5 min read

    • Article

      Philippe Petit, Artist of Life

      Jun 3, 2019

      Philippe Petit, Artist of Life
      13 min read

    • Article

      Passion Killer

      May 17, 2021

      Passion Killer
      2 min read

    • Article

      The Inquisitor

      Dec 7, 2023

      The Inquisitor
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Inquisitor

      Dec 26, 2023

      The Inquisitor
      5 min read

    • Article

      Two-Stroke Toilets: The trouble with time travel.

      May 8, 2014

      What’s this?” I said, looking down at the change the old woman had put down on the counter between us. There were bills of the wrong size and color, clunky-seeming coins that were too big and too dull. I stirred a finger in the little pile. She glanc

      31 min read

    • Article

      Storytelling Should Never Be Confused with Sociology: The Millions Interviews John Domini

      Oct 3, 2019

      John Domini’s new novel concludes his trilogy set in Naples after a fictional earthquake, engrossing readers in a gripping mystery. The post Storytelling Should Never Be Confused with Sociology: The Millions Interviews John Domini appeared first on T

      7 min read

    • Article

      Nick Laird

      Dec 15, 2017

      I was trying to write like an adult.I had children.I was at the end of something. As I waited at my table by the window for the coffee,I saw that the sirocco had depositeda scrim of dust on the sill overnight,and it was the dark red of powdered blood

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Man I Should Have Married

      Dec 29, 2019

      The Man I Should Have Married
      11 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Christmas Prince

    4.5/5

    6 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Christmas Prince - RJ Scott

      One

      Marc

      I’m a fish out of water. An outsider.

      I was desperate to be back at the British Museum, with my artifacts, my history, and a whole lot of peace. Not sitting in the frantic mess of Sotheby’s London auction rooms with some of the richest people in the world, all while feeling like I didn’t belong.

      Normally acquisitions like this were handled discreetly over the phone, a nameless financial representative armed with the budget they couldn’t exceed. No junior curator like me should have been there with the task of acquiring an artifact, but the anonymous financial donation had come with one stipulation; that Marc Chandler of the British Museum be the one to bid at the auction on Lot eighty-nine, from the Château Bertrand.

      With that protocol had been shattered. Much to the disgust of my boss who had attended to keep an eye on me, and who burned with animosity and anger. He’d even brought his PA with him, as if he needed people to know he was the man with power here, and not me.

      Whatever.

      All three of us were out of place.

      There was so much money being bid; a million here, another million there. Royalty rubbing shoulders with the nouveau riche, all wanting that elusive, unique item that marked them as successful. A phone bidder representing a private collector had just dropped three-point-four million on a miniature dating from the Renaissance. I would have loved that miniature; the detail elaborate for such a tiny thing, but I wasn’t royalty or rich.

      He’s here, someone faux whispered behind me.

      I didn’t have to ask who they meant. The paparazzi waiting outside were a clear indication that the auction would attract one certain person. The same man who had complained that the majority of the contents from the interior of the château belonged to the royal family of Montaunoit.

      Not all of the contents, of course. Some were to be freely shared with the world, but there were certain things that apparently Montaunoit was not letting go. I’d followed his comments on the matter, the interviews he’d given, and couldn’t help but be impressed with his determination that he was going to be taking various important items back with him today. Luckily, it wasn’t my box of country history that he wanted. The prince was allegedly interested in a sapphire necklace once owned by Marie Antoinette, created by a master craftsman in one of the small workshops on the famous Rue Catherine in Montaunoit.

      That was what the Royal family wanted back. And they could have it; there were no secrets to be given up by the kind of million-euro bling everyone had seen and that most academics had commented on at one point in their lives.

      There were five lots from the château in total; the prince didn’t bid on the wines; most of them were fortified Portuguese. He stayed right away from the two paintings, attributed to an obscure French Renaissance artist which sold for a cool two million each. Then it was the turn of the necklace, and the prince remained in a slouch. I suspected he wouldn’t be the one raising his hand to bid; that would’ve been tacky for royalty. No doubt some minion was on the end of the phone to one of the handlers at the front, or maybe he was already logged in with a substantial opening bid to lock the item down.

      I chanced a look at the man I’d read so much about. Prince Raphael-Alessandro Milland of Montaunoit, youngest son of the House of Berneux.

      Gay.

      And one of the most stunning men I’d ever seen in the flesh. His pictures didn’t do him justice. Mostly because each one was the result of a paparazzi shot in which he was either scowling and furious or had his gameplay mask on.

      Personally, I thought that Raphael was the great white hope for any gay boy who fancied themselves in need of a prince in their lives. If only he didn’t seem quite so arrogant and unobtainable, he’d have had quite the following. I took my fill of him, of the profile of someone who knew his position in life and had the money to back it up. He lounged in his seat, as if he didn’t care about this auction at all, like none of it mattered to him.

      He had a strong face. Shoulder-length dark hair fell in perfect waves to his collar, some of it pulled back from his face and held there with a tie. His gaze was fixed firmly on the screen in front of us, and he only gave one indication he was interested in the item. This was a man used to sitting still and facing the world with a certain image, but it didn’t stop him from moving his long fingers in a rhythmic tapping on the arm of his chair. He was worried about something; maybe that he would be outbid on the necklace? Who knew?

      What is it like to be a prince?

      The Montaunoit principality, while small, was an incredibly rich country, a place not unlike Monaco with its tax havens. Raphael-Alessandro must have all the money in the world to be able to buy anything he wanted. When I think of all the parties and glittering events, the doors that must open, the things he must see, it’s only one thing I focus on. That he gets to touch history in his palace every single day of his life without even thinking about it.

      He stopped tapping his fingers and smoothed strands of his long hair behind his ear. His skin had a warmth to it, a Mediterranean heritage against my pale, white skin. I could imagine being in bed with him, my pale skin next to his, both of us sated after finishing with each other.

      I wonder what he’s like in bed?

      Would he be selfish, or needy, would he care about his partner, or maybe expect nothing less than perfection?

      Would he top? Would he hold me down and—

      He turned to face me. Shit. Stared right at me.

      His dark eyes were unfathomable. We were no more than ten feet apart. His gaze fixed on mine, and I was lost. What did I do? I’d been staring at him, sizing him up, contemplating how rich he was, and even, on a smaller scale, what he was like beneath the perfect designer suit that was tailored to fit him perfectly. Do I look away and pretend it was nothing more than coincidence that I was staring at him? Or do I face this like I was fronting my role here today? I inclined my head in a nod.

      I’m here on official business. I’m an expert in my field.

      Even if I were a newbie, I had the smarts to have earned a seat at this auction.

      He inclined his head, slowly, in acknowledgment, his left eyebrow rising. Then something the man next to him said had him turning away, and the moment of connection was gone. I turned to face the front, aware that Richard was saying something to me that I had completely missed.

      I did sneak one more look at the prince, but when I did, he was no longer lounging in his seat. He was bolt upright and frowning; the bids on the necklace were already at four million, and he only relaxed when they reached seven point two and he was done.

      I assumed that he’d won, because he wasn’t paying any attention to the next lot. Eighty-nine flashed up on the screen. There was no box that we could see, everything was too big to be hoisted out, but anyone interested had been given sight and touch of the items. There was so much in there I wanted to read, to decipher—a whole world of possibilities.

      Do this right, Richard warned, and then muttered something about how things should have been done.

      A couple of our nearest neighbors turned to check out the source of the words, and I went scarlet. The paddle in my hand was damp, I was tense, the hush in my head enough for me to ignore everything, thankfully.

      I just wanted Richard to stay quiet. He had no time for modern art or Egyptian statues or Iron Age coins. Nope, he was all about the things that would fit in our Gallery of which he was the chief curator. Of course, that wasn’t a bad thing, we all had our areas of expertise, but he was stridently nasty about every other item.

      I wanted to stop him from talking, but what I wanted to say would have been bad for my career, like hitting him with my catalog or stabbing him with the sixteenth-century dagger that we’d bid on successfully earlier. Of course, said dagger was in a reinforced lockbox as befitting a weapon once wielded by kings. But, practicality aside, stabbing my boss was not a good thing.

      He’d hated we were even here. He hated that we’d lost out on artwork to the Edinburgh Museum, had vowed revenge, in fluent German, on Berlin’s Neues Museum for beating us to a miniature of Princess Marie Alexandra of Baden. Not to mention the closer we got to lot eighty-nine, the twitchier he became.

      Richard also hadn’t gotten over the fact that it was me bidding on the lot. At twenty-six, I was only three years out from my Masters in European History from Cambridge, fully qualified on paper, but hardly with the expertise of his thirty years as chief curator. Or at least that is what Richard told everyone. Often.

      In the catalog, the lot didn’t look like much. A collection of bric-a-brac from a château sale; books, notes, dated from around 1880, along with a collection of antique ornaments that once adorned the thirty-foot Christmas tree which stood in the grand entrance hall of the château.

      I didn’t want the ornaments; they were things I would take note of and then put aside, although I would never tell anyone that. For all intents and purposes, I was there as part of the Europe team at my first ever auction. Or at least the first one that I had been instructed to attend on behalf of the museum. And I wanted those journals and notes. Desperately.

      I’d done my research. The château was actually a mini castle, with turrets that stood taller than the forest around them, and was over one thousand years old. It had been mentioned in writing for the first time in 1064 and sat on a rocky promontory on an oxbow on the River Tassigny, not far from the French border with Montaunoit. It was solid as a rock and now the property of a Saudi prince who didn’t see the value in old books and relics from the past. He allegedly had twenty-five Ferraris and Lamborghinis and didn’t even live in France. He had no need for a connection to the past buried in the idyllic French countryside. All he wanted was a garage.

      I bet he didn’t even know that the château he’d bought was a place full of wonder and history. In the 1960s, the parquet floor had been lifted to reveal a fascinating discovery. A carpenter, who had been brought in to work on the floor, had scribed messages on the underside of the wood. There was a day-to-day account of his work, of the rural village he lived in, charting his family, child murders, and church influence. It was an entire soap opera of normal life. That beautiful singular fact, that glimpse into past reality, was something a Saudi king wasn’t likely to even care about. Or a prince either, I thought as I glanced over at His Royal Highness Prince Raphael.

      Or maybe I was being too harsh in my assessment of the king or prince because I was sore that a treasure like the château was being shut to visitors and turned into a king’s playground.

      That was probably it.

      The mixed consignment contained more glimpses into everyday rural life, apparently. No one knew the full extent of what the notes and books covered because they

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1