The Grumpy Count, page 1
THE GRUMPY COUNT
ROMANTIC COMEDY
WHAT THE ROYALS WANT (IT’S RAINING ROYALS)
ALIX NICHOLS
A NOVEL IN THE MONTEVOR ROYALS SAGA
Copyright © 2023 Alix Nichols
Editing provided by Janine Savage
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
CONTENTS
About the Author
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Books by Alix Nichols
Preview of THE BOSS PRINCE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a USA Today bestselling author of sexy, riveting romances that “keep you hanging off the edge of your seat” (RT Book Reviews) and “deliver pure pleasure” (Kirkus Reviews).
At the age of six, she released her first book. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper. Decades later, she still writes. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have topped bestseller charts around the world. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog.
Connect with her at alixnichols.com, or at:
FOREWORD
Thank you for downloading “The Grumpy Count”, a full-length standalone romance in the Montevor Royals saga.
Margot Nolan here—a feminist in a tight spot.
I’m currently working out of a London mansion, property of Count Jonas d’Alenq.
He took in my theater company after the previous host dropped us a week before the start of our show, “The Immersive Pride and Prejudice Experience.”
But, of course, there’s a catch.
Beneath his wealth, good looks and love for his young son, Jonas d’Alenq is an ogre with antiquated ideas.
An ogre who asked to play a part in the show. Not just any part, but that of Mr. Darcy!
His lordship is an amateur actor, you see.
To show her gratitude, our director said yes.
Big mistake! I play Caroline who fawns on Mr. Darcy. Flattering a macho man—whether he’s Darcy or d’Alenq—is no fun at all.
Even more annoying is that despite our clashes, my silly heart flutters every time that macho smiles.
And my unreasonable body melts when he kisses me…
On the verge of betraying everything I stand for, I realize he has a secret agenda.
What is our brooding host and his furtive visitors after?
Is Jonas a spy? An upper crust criminal?
Whatever he is, I’ll derail his plans.
And he’ll never have his wicked way with me again!
Well, maybe just one last time…
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CHAPTER 1
MARGOT
I wander around for fifteen minutes until I stumble on the Sky Hall. The mansion is huge and full of winding corridors, but that’s not the reason for my protracted search. It took me so long because I went upstairs first. But guess what? The Sky Hall is located on the ground floor.
Ha-ha. Whoever named that hall must’ve thought herself very clever.
She wasn’t.
By the time I scurry in, most of the cast has already arrived. They’re now flocking to our director Sandra—a plump mixed-race woman with a gray-streaked mane billowing around her bespectacled face. On the program today is a fresh read-through for our host’s benefit.
He hasn’t arrived yet.
Sandra points at me. “Margot, I want Caroline Bingley to fawn on Darcy like he’s made of gold. Think Anna Chancellor chasing after Colin Firth in the 1995 BBC show. And then chase harder.”
As much as I worship that adaptation, I don’t see my Caroline Bingley being quite as cringey as Anna Chancellor’s. It has nothing to do with my feminist views or the fact that I despise women behaving that way, I promise!
Respectfully, I begin, “What about—”
She flashes a palm. “No.”
“But Caroline is such a haughty, proud woman,” I try again.
“My advice is to imagine she has a switch she uses to turn off her dignity wherever she gets a chance to flatter Darcy.”
“OK.” Giving up, I nod.
But someone else takes up the torch. “I believe Caroline is obsequious enough with Darcy the way Jane Austen wrote her.”
That was Peter who plays my brother Charles. It’s sweet of him to side with me against our director. He’s been nothing but kind ever since Sandra brought me in to play Caroline. Everybody on the cast and crew has been helping me fit into the Sandra Wright Company, but this guy has gone the extra mile.
“True,” Sandra agrees with him. “Except, our production is immersive. Our audience pays accordingly and expects to partake in the fun. That is why I want a more intense Caroline.”
Liam, her assistant, chimes in, “Ten grand! It’s what seven of them forked out each to be Elizabeth Bennet for a day. We owe those superfans a challenging rival.”
“If our Elizabeths have to work hard for their prize, they’ll appreciate it even more,” Sandra says to me.
“Understood.” I do see their point. When Sandra hatched The Immersive Pride and Prejudice Experience, everyone in the industry from theater owners to her fellow directors deemed it a risky undertaking. But all seven performances in its pilot season have now sold out. Sandra’s brainchild turned a profit before its opening night, which is rare in our line of work.
Sandra turns to Peter, “Rest easy. My goal is to convey each character just the way Anna Chancellor’s brilliant ancestor wrote them.”
As she carries on, panic stirs in my chest. She won’t give me away, will she? No, I don’t think so. If Sandra had already forgotten our deal, she might’ve said, “the way Margot’s brilliant ancestor wrote them.”
Being a grandniece nine generations removed of Jane Austen is what Anna Chancellor and I have in common. My branch of the family is much less distinguished than Anna’s. But like her, I’ve always tried to hide the connection in the professional context.
I’ve been working my tail off since I was eighteen, still a student of theater. Now at twenty-seven, all that effort is beginning to pay off, even though my banker may not agree. But then, my banker is my sister, and she’ll never admit she was wrong to call me a loser. But that’s OK. I can handle loser. What I don’t wish to deal with is my fellow actors whispering behind my back that I got the part of Caroline because of who I am.
A hubbub by the door breaks me from those unpleasant thoughts. Someone is walking toward us. His progress is slow because he stops to greet everyone who greets him. A charmer and a looker! In his mid-thirties, the man is tall, broad chested and firm jawed. As he gets nearer, I catch a scent of fresh, wintry air laced with a panty-melting cologne. His cheeks are reddened by the cold and his impeccable black coat is sprinkled with white snowflakes.
Yay! I was beginning to fear we’d roll into February without any snow.
When the stranger is close enough, Sandra extends an open hand in his direction. “I give you the owner of this modest abode, our savior, Count Jonas d’Alenq!”
My goodness, the man himself has arrived!
I leer even harder. I’d heard that Count d’Alenq was young and yummy, but I hadn’t bothered to look him up, which is why I was unprepared for just how yummy he is.
Our Most Benevolent Savior bows ceremoniously. We clap, resisting the urge to prostrate ourselves at his feet.
Easy on the snark, Margot!
This guy did get us out of a very tight spot. Last week the owner of the north London mansion we’d rented backed out, and our show found itself homeless. He paid the cancelation fee all right, but what good was a fee to us with no home for our production? We searched hig h and low, but we couldn’t find any suitable venues in time for the announced performance dates. We were on the verge of calling off the show, issuing refunds, and scrambling for gigs to pay rent.
That’s when Count Jonas d’Alenq swept in and made all our troubles go away.
When he straightens up, a sly smile is playing across his chiseled face. “I apologize for my tardiness. It won’t happen again.”
He sounds friendly enough, but his expression lacks something you’d expect in these circumstances, something that should be illuminating his gaze… warmth. It lacks warmth.
With his smile still crinkling the skin around his sexy mouth, he adds, “Please, call me Jonas.”
“OK, Jonas!” many of my colleagues respond.
Others in the group say, “Hi, Jonas!”
He glances at Sandra. “I thought this would make the transition easier.”
Nodding, Sandra turns to the rest of us. “Jonas is joining the cast for the pilot week.”
A surprised murmur ripples through the troupe.
“Who will you play? Has it been decided?” people ask.
Jonas and Sandra exchange another look.
She raises a hand to command attention. “Jonas will play Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
What in the world?
Everybody looks around searching for Nat, our dashing Mr. Darcy. He doesn’t seem to be in the room.
“He left this morning,” Sandra says.
A chorus of appalled reactions fills the room.
In response, Sandra adds, “He was let go with full pay and a very handsome check from Jonas.”
We shift our reproachful gazes to the culprit.
The rich toff gives a shrug. “He took it. And I really wanted Darcy’s part.”
CHAPTER 2
MARGOT
Despite a few giggles, most of the actors, techs and musicians look morose. Resentful, even. We liked Nat. It feels wrong that he was paid to bugger off to make room for our titled and entitled savior.
The latter surveys us, his eyes narrowing as he reads the room.
“Nat and I parted on excellent terms,” he says. “And I won’t ruin your show, I promise! I have taken acting classes and played in amateur shows. And I’ve memorized all Darcy’s lines from the script.”
Sandra rewards him with a smile. “Liam and I viewed a couple of your performances. You’ll do.”
“He will without a doubt!” Liam joins in, a little too eagerly perhaps. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask why this room is called ‘Sky Hall.’ ”
I know Liam is trying to change the topic and preempt any further inquiry into Jonas’s qualifications and the irregular circumstances under which he got the part. A shame because those are valid questions. But, I must admit, so is Liam’s.
Jonas points to the ceiling above our heads. “Because of that fresco.”
I look up. The superhigh ceiling is stained in pale blue with fluffy white clouds painted over the intricate plaster moldings.
Ooh. I get it now.
“Did anyone think it was a sky lounge and look for it upstairs?” Jonas removes his coat, revealing more of his swoon-worthy bod.
A few of us raise a hand, eyes glued to his torso.
He drapes his coat over a chair, and tut-tuts in self-deprecation. “Please accept my sincere apologies! I should’ve asked Oli to warn you. You see when this hall was redone and renamed in the 1860s, sky lounges were yet to become a thing.”
“Fascinating!” Sandra exclaims. “Your house has so much history! And it was built in Jane Austen’s day, which makes it a perfect fit for our show.”
“Indeed,” Liam echoes, “this Georgian townhouse is much more in keeping with the Regency period than the Victorian mansion that canceled on us.”
Jonas rubs his hands together. “Listen, why don’t I give you all a quick tour before we begin the read-through?”
“You’re too kind,” Sandra objects. “Mrs. Everly and Oli already showed everyone their rooms.”
“Let’s begin with this very hall,” Jonas says, ignoring her. “Originally, it was less spacious and less tall. In Georgian houses, the reception halls were on the piano nobile, the floor above the semi-basement. As part of her modernization project, my great-grandmother had this hall eat into the surrounding rooms and the ground floor.”
“We’re lucky she did that,” Liam adds his two cents worth. “What with the sky already painted on the ceiling, all we need is some video mapping and birdie sounds to turn this hall into Meryton or Pemberley!”
Jonas leads us out the door. “This house, like all Georgian homes, favors symmetry and balance both inside and outside.”
“There aren’t many Georgians left in Bloomsbury, are there?” Sandra asks.
“Very few, aside from Bedford Square and Gower Street,” he agrees. “The Bedford houses are almost as grand as this one. The terraced houses on Gower were a tad too plain for their time.”
That may be so, but they shine compared to the ugliness of modern architecture. I like Gower Street. Having said that, its identical brown-brick housefronts do look monotonous next to the comforting cheer of this property. I picture its façade of regularly cut red bricks and evenly distributed rows of tall, white-trimmed windows, and a grand entrance flanked by neoclassical columns.
The epitome of Regency pep.
The only disproportioned element is the small, wildish garden at the back. I glimpsed it through the window of the narrow dressing room where I’m going to sleep on a couch between a shoe rack and a chest of drawers for the next two weeks. My French mom, who loves the formal rigor of gardens à la française, would hate it. But she’d like the house.
Liam made the sleeping arrangements with Mrs. Everly’s help. To be honest, I’m not sure how to take the fact that I have no roommates. Was it a nice gesture on Liam’s part to welcome me to the company or was it a sign of mistrust? Should I be concerned?
Jonas leads our group into the chimneypiece salon flooded in light and fragrant with woodsmoke. The next stop on the tour is the kitchen. Its pantries, tables and cupboards are so Downton Abbey in their look and feel that I half expect Mrs. Patmore’s ample bosom to fill the doorway, followed by the rest of her.
Something’s baking in the oven. I think it’s scones. Their comforting smell makes my mouth water. Please, let them be for us!
We step into the entrance hall. Opposite the main door, a grand staircase carpeted in cream and blue gracefully rises. As instructed by Mrs. Everly and taking our cue from Jonas, we remove our shoes before climbing to the second floor.
Here, he shows us a dining room, two drawing rooms, a morning room, two studies, and a library. We’re shepherded from room to room as noiselessly as a herd of cats, if such a thing existed. Being shoeless helps. As does the fact that the floorboards are covered with soft carpets displaying beautiful floral patterns in noble colors—not that the patterns or the colors contribute in any way to the muffling properties of the carpet.
All the rooms, except Mrs. Everly’s study and the library, have been disfigured by camping beds, backpacks and suitcases. We’re thirty-four souls between the actors, musicians, and techs. Unfortunately for Jonas, the third-floor bedrooms had been insufficient for so many people.
