Kings of Mercia Academy 1-4: The Complete Bully Romance Read online

  Marissa fumed in silence all the way to the headmaster’s office. Guilt twanged at my heartstrings for not defending her. It wasn’t like me to be so distracted by a guy’s good looks, but there had been three of them, and my good sense had turned to mush.

  The headmaster was a man in his early forties with pinched features topped by hair that had started to thin. Instead of black, academic robes, he wore a pinstriped suit and a dotted red tie—the kind of attire more suited to Wall Street.

  “Welcome to Mercia Academy, Miss Hobson.” Mr. Chaloner raised his bent arm to glance at his chunky gold watch, which also revealed matching, diamond-encrusted cufflinks. “Consider yourself fortunate to have been awarded a place at such short notice, as we’re oversubscribed.”

  Marissa folded her arms across her chest. “Mr. Trommel made a sizable donation to the school for Emilia to jump the waiting list.”

  My brows drew together. The more they revealed, the more I thought my time here wasn’t a last-minute decision. Rudolph had probably arranged my place here the moment Mom had accepted his proposal of marriage. He must have been desperate to get rid of me if he paid the school a bribe.

  The headmaster’s smiling facade dropped. “As a charitable institution that accepts donations, Mercia Academy is grateful to its many patrons and benefactors around the world.” He turned to me. “Regardless of the generosity of your stepfather, Miss Hobson, while at Mercia, you will be subject to the same disciplinary procedures as all the other students.”

  My eyes bulged. How much exactly did Rudolph pay to keep me at the other side of the world? “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded. “In case you’re thinking of using it to leverage preferential treatment, the donation is non-refundable even if you’re expelled or decide to resign your place. Is that understood?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Mr. Chaloner curled his lip. “And I expect you to conduct yourself with the decorum befitting a student of a prestigious and ancient British institution steeped in tradition and history.”

  My teeth clenched. What kind of behavior did he expect from me?

  “Is. That. Understood?” he asked.

  A lead weight of dread pulled down my spirits. With warnings like that, what the hell could I expect from Mercia Academy? “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 2

  The headmaster explained that I would be rooming in Elder House, one of the two buildings dedicated to sixth-form students studying to take their Advanced Level exams. I nodded. He added that I would be in the lower-sixth, which was the equivalent of a high school senior in the States.

  Without even making a phone call, he informed me that our housemaster, the man who would be in charge of my educational progress and welfare, was busy. I bristled as he escorted us out of the door and handed us over to his secretary. It was as if Marissa calling him out on acting like I was lucky to have been accepted had crushed his fragile ego.

  Normally, I would have stewed at the affront, but I couldn’t help thinking about the trio we’d met at the stairs. They had to be sixteen. Or seventeen, like me, which would make them sixth-formers. But would they be in Elder House, too? The black-haired runway-type looked friendly, but I wasn’t sure about the blond. Jocks like him usually had girls scrambling after them and could sit back and take their pick.

  I shook my head. Why was I even thinking about them? All three of them probably had every girl in Mercia Academy desperate to get into their pants. The last boy with the brown hair and sharp, blue eyes seemed to hate me already. If the contempt he displayed to Marissa was an indication of how he would treat me, I would stay away and keep a low profile.

  The headmaster’s secretary tapped my name into her computer and printed out the longest schedule I’d ever seen. Six days of classes, and ‘prep’ in the evenings before and after dinner. When did they expect a person to relax?

  She returned to her computer. “Elder House… Elder. There’s a prefect at the end of the hallway. Her name’s Charlotte Underwood. Stay here, and I’ll bring her over.”

  Marissa muttered, “At least someone has manners around here!”

  I gave her a pat on the shoulder and what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. This was supposed to be such a classy institution, but so far, most people we had met had made an effort to make Marissa seem like she was disturbing their peace. All she’d wanted were directions.

  She turned to me, brows furrowed. Somewhere between here and the limo, she’d lost her false eyelash. “I have to go now, but if you have any problems with these people, you call me. Alright? I’ll be in London for the week and just a phone call away.”

  “Sure.” My smile tightened. How could the assistant of an assistant help me if she was in another country in an even further away timezone? “I appreciate it.”

  Marissa walked down the hallway making as much noise as she could with her heels. I clasped my hands behind my back and turned to a portrait of a man dressed in armor, head bowed and holding a sword between his stretched hands. Hopefully, nobody would think the noise had come from my school loafers.

  The secretary returned with a mousy-haired girl about my age whose Hooters girl curves strained through her blazer. Without meaning to, my gaze flickered down to my own B cups. Girls like her made me feel like a stalk of corn. Tall and thin with golden hair. At about five-feet-six, she stood four inches shorter than me, and yet somehow managed to look down her upturned nose at me as if I were a turd stuck to her Manolos. Her hazel eyes flickered up and down my body, then her thin lips tightened with disdain.

  A rush of irritation scattered across my skin. Who did this girl think she was? The Queen of Mercia, probably.

  “Emilia Hobson,” said the secretary. “May I introduce you to Charlotte Underwood. Charlotte is a prefect at Elder House and will give you a tour of the grounds and show you to your room.” The secretary scurried to her seat and picked up the phone. Probably to act as though she wasn’t listening to whatever Charlotte would say.

  I held out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched with disgust. “I have no doubt of that.”

  My hackles rose. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t you observe social niceties in America, Hobson?” She tossed her head, nearly whacking me across the eyes with her ponytail, and strode down the hallway.

  “Usually, we say that we’re pleased to meet someone,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  Her head tilted to one side, lips stretched in a tight, condescending smile. “Here, we say, ‘how do you do?’”

  My brows furrowed. “How do you do what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I’ll have to sign you up for etiquette lessons. Where did you go to school?”

  “New York.” I was beginning to miss Park Prep already, where the mean girls threw insults, not patronizing puzzles.

  She paused abruptly by a gold-framed portrait of a man in a long, white wig who seemed to look down at us with stern disapproval. “I mean where did you go to school? Charterhouse, Rugby, Shrewsbury?”

  I’d be damned if I would admit to not knowing any of those places. “You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s a small, exclusive prep school in Manhattan.”

  Charlotte sniffed. “I’ve heard the island is a rat-infested dump.”

  “Funny,” I said. “Someone said the same about this place, but it’s lovely. I guess only the gullible repeat unfounded rumors.”

  Charlotte gave me one of those tight smiles that said, touché, bitch… stand by while I upgrade my shade-throwing game. As we descended the stairs, she launched into an explanation that this was the main building, where all the classical lessons were taught, such as Latin, Classical Greek, Mathematics, Philosophy, and Literature.

  We left through the back doors and walked along a pathway lined with magnolia trees, whose leaves had turned amber in the fall. The sun shone through their canopy, making the leaves glimmer like gold. On our left lay a square of lawn the size of ten footba
ll fields bordered by a number of old buildings that could have each been grand mansions.

  She pointed out the art block, the drama block, the gymnasium, and the science block, explaining that wealthy alumni and other donors had funded the expansion of the school over the centuries. I clamped my lips together to hold back gasps at the historical sights. Even the newest of the buildings were older than anything found at home.

  “Where did you say your family was from?” she asked, “New England?”

  I tried not to gape at a building whose pillars reminded me of the New York Public Library. “Manhattan.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I heard the—”

  “Underwood,” said a cultured voice from behind. It was as smooth as dark coffee, and gave me a jolt.

  I turned around to find the trio of handsomeness walking a mere twenty feet behind us. My heart flip-flopped, and I took deep breaths to cool down the excited flush shooting up to my cheeks.

  Charlotte smirked. “These three are also in Elder House.”

  “For our sins.” The black-haired boy flashed a grin of gleaming, white teeth, making me catch my breath. He looked even more handsome in the sun with his tanned skin, thick eyebrows, and dimpled chin. If this was a production of Cinderella, he’d be Prince Charming. Tall, dark, and horny. “I’m Blake. Blake Simpson-West.”

  “How do you do?” My words came out a little stilted.

  His face broke out into a wolfish smile, as though I’d said something stupid. I glanced at Charlotte, whose smirk of triumph made me want to slap myself upside the head. Who the hell asked people ‘how do you do’? What did that even mean?

  Blake gestured at the taller blond, who gazed down at me with expressionless eyes so green, they made the lawn look dull. “This handsome brute is Henry Bourneville of the Bournevilles.”

  My mind went blank. Was that supposed to mean something? I scrambled for an intelligible response, but all I could think of was Tess of the d'Urbervilles. I clamped my lips together to keep myself from blurting out something stupid.

  His brows rose as though surprised I’d never heard of the name. With an amused quirk of his lips, he said, “How d’you do?”

  My intestines formed several tight knots. Was he making fun of me or was there a specific reply to that nonsensical phrase? I kind of wished I’d sat through the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland or had at least skimmed through the book. It was the sort of thing the madcap characters would say to each other. “Ummm… I’m fine, thanks.”

  The last guy, the one with the mahogany hair whose ends shone like burnished copper and with eyes as blue and fathomless as the ocean, scowled, making the blood drain from my face. My stomach knots formed a noose I could use to hang myself. Maybe I’d used the wrong reply. Breached some kind of unbreachable British etiquette. Charlotte’s huffed laugh was just background noise compared to the contempt screaming on his face.

  “You’re an American,” he said in clipped tones. “Much like the woman who accompanied you into the main teaching block.”

  “Yes,” I whispered, voice cracking.

  “I haven’t finished the introductions!” Blake’s smooth voice sliced through the tension, making the knots in my stomach untighten. “This unfriendly bastard is Edward Mercia, heir to the Duchy of Mercia.”

  “And the de-facto owner of Mercia Academy,” added Charlotte.

  All the moisture evaporated from my mouth, leaving a tongue as stiff and as dry as pumice. Duchy meant duke, didn’t it? What on earth did a person do when they met minor royalty? Bow, curtsey, or act like they were a regular person? My mind jumped back to what Blake had said. If Edward was the heir, that meant he wasn’t yet the duke.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m… pleased to meet you.”

  The smile he gave me was as cold as a snowdrift. “The pleasure is all yours, of that I am assured.”

  Charlotte stepped forward. “This is Emilia… Emilia…” She tapped her bottom lip. “Did you even have a last name?”

  My hackles rose. The secretary had told her my full name, and she’d used it at least once. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Hobson.”

  “Emilia Hobson comes to us from an exclusive prep school in Manhattan which she refuses to name.”

  “Park Preparatory,” I snarled. “And you didn’t ask.”

  She waved away my correction like it was an annoying gnat. “Never heard of it.”

  Edward turned his cold gaze back to me. Even from the distance of six feet away, the glare lanced me through the gut like an icicle. “Emilia… whatever your name is.” His voice was deep and smooth and resonant. The type that could slip through a girl’s defenses and command her to do whatever he wanted. “We don’t like Americans here at Mercia Academy.”

  My brows drew together. “Why not?”

  “For reasons too numerous and too complex for a vacuous tart like you to understand. Save yourself a term of torment and turn away. We’ve never had an American last a term. Leave now, and you’ll at least preserve your sanity.”

  I placed my hands on my hips. “And I suppose you’re talking as the so-called owner of the academy?”

  “I’m giving you a final warning.” Edward stepped forward, close enough for his sandalwood and cypress scent to fill my nostrils. “Call back your Cadillac or whatever jalopy dragged you to our fine establishment and get out. If I have to tell you again, you won’t like my methods.”

  Fury pumped hot blood into my veins, heating my skin. How dare this conceited asshole talk to me like he already owned the academy and decided who could stay and who could leave? If this was any indication of the kind of shit-talk I’d have to endure, I would turn around and go home. Why would I subject myself to such hateful, judgmental, and bigoted people?

  I was about to tell him to pull the branch out of his ass when Marissa’s words returned to the forefront of my mind. Rudolph had challenged me to endure two years of a British boarding school to develop the mental toughness I needed for a career in journalism. If I was going to let an arrogant asshole run me out of the academy after a day, then I didn’t deserve the internship or the funding he would give me for an Ivy League college education.

  Forcing my lips into a sweet smile, I tilted my head to the side. “Sorry, I forgot your name already, but thanks for the warning. I’ll take it with a grain of salt.”

  Even with his face flushed and nostrils flared, Edward was breathtakingly handsome. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I gave the school crest on his blazer a contemptuous pat and continued down the path, saying over my shoulder, “I take back what I said. There was no pleasure in meeting you at all.”

  Moments later, Charlotte caught up. “Ooooh! The boys are going to put you in your place, and I can’t wait to watch.”

  “Really?” How else was I supposed to respond to a comment like that? Turn around, grab her shoulders and beg her to tell me what the boys had planned? It was probably nothing, given the grueling schedule of classes and sparse free periods.

  Charlotte tired of gaping at my face for a reaction and continued her tour, explaining that Elder House was the original seat of the Duke of Mercia, who used his home to train elite soldiers for the hundred years war for King Henry V. I cast my mind back to history lessons. That would have been in the fifteenth century.

  “The academy is now the training ground for the ruling classes of Great Britain,” she said. “My family has attended for centuries. Father’s the Secretary of State for the Supreme Court. He practically runs the country and makes all the most important decisions.”

  My brows rose. We’d also studied a bit of British politics at Park Prep. “Really, what do the Prime Minister and the rest of the cabinet do, while your father’s the de-facto King of England?”

  Blake, the runway model lookalike, snickered from behind. “Underwood’s father is an administrator who barely serves on the cabinet.”

  My head jerked back. He was following us?

  Charlotte’s face
turned purple with rage.

  I smiled, imagining Noelle standing beside me. “We had insecure girls at Park Prep who tried to make themselves more important, too. I guess England isn’t much different from the States.”

  She clenched her teeth. “Get out, you low-born Yank. You don’t belong here.”

  I smoothed down the lapels of my blazer. “Mercia Academy can’t be that exclusive if they let a lowly Yank jump the waiting list, can it?”

  Charlotte paused beside a bench with a gold plaque etched with the name of the person who had donated it to the school. I don’t know whether my timing was off, or if she’d deliberately paused at the bench with the name of an Underwood ancestor, or if her family had donated all the benches, but I would have colored myself impressed if I hadn’t just been threatened and insulted.

  She tossed her hair. “Hobson probably used her feminine wiles on the headmaster.”

  Blake grinned. “I’d let her in for a chance of those wiles.”

  I rolled my eyes and let out a weary sigh. “Can you stop the puerile speculations and just show me to my room, please?”

  Charlotte turned on her heel. “Find it yourself. And enjoy a life of torment and solitude with rancid-Rita!”

  I shook my head, watching her storm off down the path and back toward the main teaching block like an offended cat. She’d been so desperate to demonstrate her superiority, she’d exaggerated her father’s importance in British politics. I might have kept quiet and not called her out if she hadn’t been so disparaging.

  “Emilia,” murmured Blake in that smooth, smoky voice. “I’ll escort you to Elder House and help you get comfortable.”

  I glanced around for someone—anyone not associated with either Charlotte and that hostile Edward Mercia, but nobody else was roaming the pathway. Twenty feet behind us, Edward and Henry stood shoulder-to-shoulder, probably planning their next bout of insults and glaring. I was left with Blake, the only friendly face, even if he did agree that I’d slept my way into the academy.