Читать книгу The Princess Is Pregnant! - Laurie Paige - Страница 10

Megan paced from her desk to the window, then started back. She paused in front of the hearth and considered ordering a fire. But that might be construed as too intimate. God forbid she appear eager for intimacy with the handsome Earl of Silvershire.

She would have laughed at the irony but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop. Poor princess, everyone would say as they carried her away. She just couldn’t handle the affairs of state.

It was affairs in general that she couldn’t handle, she admitted with gallows humor.

An authoritative knock sounded at the door. Candy, her personal maid, hovering over the table set for two, glanced her way in question. Megan nodded and stayed at the hearth.

Jean-Paul entered, thanked the maid, then looked directly into Megan’s eyes, trapping her with his commanding presence when she really wanted to bolt to her bedroom and hide in the closet. He bowed with careless grace.

Tonight he wore all black—slacks, shirt, sans tie, and velvet jacket. He looked like a storybook prince.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as if this were such a simple truth it should be obvious to anyone who saw her.

Although the night often grew cool due to the sea breeze, she’d chosen a long summer dress of golden silk with satin leaves of deep green around the neckline and elbow-length sleeves and hem. He handed her a golden rose wrapped with ribbons of variegated green.

“Thank you. That was thoughtful.” She slipped the wrist corsage over her left hand, staring at it in confused wonder.

“I called and asked Candy about your outfit,” he explained.

An odd resentment flowed through her at the casual use of her maid’s name. Then it was gone as she recalled the whisper of her own name on his lips. Megan, he’d said in a husky murmur that magic night. Sweet selky.

At that moment, had she been such a creature, she would never have traded her human form for that of the sea mammal, although selkies supposedly yearned to return to their watery home.

She was brought back to the present when Jean-Paul crossed the carpet and lifted her hand to his lips. His kiss was brief and formal. But only for a moment, then he turned her hand and kissed her wrist. She gasped.

The maid gave a surprised exclamation, then quickly coughed to cover it. When Megan frowned her way, the girl smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in the tablecloth.

“You may serve the first course,” Megan said, sweeping past the earl and hearing the whisper of the silk against her thighs at the same instant she inhaled his scent, which was that of balsam cologne, shampoo and talc…and one she was thoroughly acquainted with.

She had to stop thinking like that!

“Please join me,” she invited, stopping at the table, which, set for two, seemed much too confining. However, they could hardly discuss their problems at the family table.

Besides, her mother was filling in at some royal function for the king this evening and the twins were out of the country, so only the princesses were at home. Megan didn’t want to share Jean-Paul with her sisters at present.

Thinking of the king, Megan wondered what important project had come up. Her father hadn’t been seen the past five days. Neither Megan nor her sisters knew what was up, which was not unusual; their father had left the raising of the children to his queen while he attended royal affairs.

On second thought, Meredith, who worked with the Royal Intelligence Institute, might know, but she hadn’t said.

Growing up in a palace, one learned to discern the faintest nuances of intrigue. Megan had discovered long ago that things were seldom as they seemed in a royal household and that personal matters always were last in priority. Her gaze went to her handsome guest.

“Deep thoughts?” Jean-Paul’s smile was mocking but not sarcastic or cruel. She’d never seen him act in a mean-spirited manner, a good trait in a father.

Quickly, before her unruly mind went off on another tangent, she sat and arranged her skirts while he took the chair opposite her. Candy served a chilled plum soup from fruit grown on the royal farm. Megan saw Jean-Paul’s eyes linger on the girl, a frown in the blue depths.

“That will be all for the evening, Candy,” Megan told the maid. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

With a confused bow, the young woman, recently turned eighteen, left the sitting room.

“Alone at last,” her guest murmured, his face relaxing into a pleased expression.

Startled at the laughter in his eyes, she managed a smile and picked up her spoon. The meal was consumed in near silence. She was glad she’d chosen only four courses, for she couldn’t come up with a topic of small talk, and he didn’t try.

After they finished the white chocolate mousse, they returned to the sitting area. He chose the sofa after she took a chair at right angles to it.

She poured him a cup of coffee, black with no sugar as she remembered from their week in Monte Carlo, then prepared her own with half milk and one spoon of sugar.

“What is your position on marriage?” he asked as soon as the formalities were complete.

The question shook her composure like a broadside hitting a sailing ship. “I don’t approve of arranged ones.”

A frown snapped a groove between his eyes. “Has one been proposed for you?”

The fury startled her. “No. Of course not. Meredith would be wed first.”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “Life as a royal is damned difficult. I suppose we would need to spend most of the year here. That wouldn’t be a problem while my father is alive. When I inherit, we’ll have to spend at least half the time at Silvershire.”

“This is absurd,” she began. He was planning where they would live while she hadn’t yet come to terms with a possible marriage.

His eyes met hers in a brilliant glance of blue fire. “You’ll like it there. We have the sea and the mountains just as you do here. I’ll show you my secret places.”

“Wait!” she cried softly. “You’re…this is going too fast. I haven’t told my parents yet.”

“I said I’d speak to your father. Do you think I’d let you take the heat alone?”

“That’s noble of you, but as you noted, there’s no need to rush into anything.”

“Yet,” he added, his gaze sweeping over her. “You’re small. A child will show soon. Have you been ill in the mornings?”

She nodded, shy about admitting it. The fact seemed more intimate than the night they’d shared.

“And there is this,” he murmured, continuing his train of thought.

His move took her off guard as he gathered her into his arms, then easily lifted her to his lap. His lips touched her cheek, then followed a line down to her mouth when she dared look at him.

“I should reprimand you,” she told him sternly, but the scolding was for herself, for wanting his kiss.

“Are you going to?” he asked, not pausing in the light skimming touches of his lips on hers.

“No. I’m as wicked as you.”

He stopped, then laughed. “I’ll have to get used to your honesty.”

She laid a hand on his chest inside his jacket. “Do you deal only with dishonest women?”

“Perhaps. Or only with those who are very practiced at dissembling.”

The cynical admission reminded her that his life had been spent in the public eye much as hers had. Another bond, she thought and wondered how many more might be formed between them…and if that was good or bad for the heart.

He stroked her arms through the thin silk. “I’ve missed the taste of you. One night wasn’t enough.”

“How many would be?”

Raising his head, he studied her with a certain tinge of hostility in his gaze. “Where did that come from?”

She met his eyes levelly. “You. You’ve lived a liberal existence. Would one woman please you?”

He deftly rose and set her on her feet. “Perhaps. If she is the right woman.” His eyes pierced the thin ice that surrounded her heart. “And if I so choose.”

Megan managed not to flinch in the face of his cool statement of truth. She even smiled, because that magic night she’d let herself dream of their falling in love and sharing a true fairy-tale romance. But that was fantasy. Reality was having lunch and hearing her sisters speculate on the handsome Earl of Silvershire.

“Perhaps he seeks a bride,” Anastasia had suggested with irrepressible humor. “Which shall he choose—the brain, the nun or the jock?”

They had mocked the news media by choosing nicknames among themselves, a secret bit of foolishness for their own amusement. Owen was referred to as the cowboy and Dylan was the captain due to his fascination with the sea and pirates. Only among the royal five did they use these names.

Megan sighed. At lunch, a desire to confide all to her sisters had nearly overwhelmed her. However, first she must speak with her father. No. First she would speak to her mother. The queen would know what to do.

Jean-Paul’s expression softened fractionally. “It has always been my intention to be true to my wife. Is that your only worry?” he demanded imperiously.

She ignored the question. “My sisters wondered if you came seeking a bride.”

“Did you tell them that choice was made?”

“Forced, you mean.” Her shoulders slumped. “How could we have been so foolish?”

She meant it as a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway. “What mortal can resist a selky?”

He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. For a long second those icy blue eyes delved into hers, making her hot instead of cold.

“An alliance between us would work out well.” He paused as if in deep thought. “If you don’t want the baby, I will take it. My mother would love to have a grandchild to spoil.”

“I would never give up my child!”

His manner became frigid. “Neither would I. We may have behaved foolishly, but the little one had no part in that. We must do what is best for his or her future.” He released her and walked toward the door. “Think upon that.”

She was speechless as he left her apartment. He wanted the child and thought she didn’t?

Wrapping her arms across herself, she contemplated the future. A child, she mused in wonder. A child that came from a magical night. And she knew who the selky had been in that wonderful coming together…

Queen Marissa turned her head at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Oh,” she said softly, surprised.

Her husband of thirty years, King Morgan, stopped, picked a red rose, removed the thorns and came to her.

Heart suddenly thudding, she watched him with a wary stance. She hadn’t seen him in over a week. Which wasn’t unusual. It was the way of a royal marriage.

She’d been twenty-three to his twenty-eight when they’d wed. An arranged marriage, of course, conducted through officials and ambassadors. Courtship had taken place after the wedding.

A blush lightly warmed her cheeks as she recalled that wondrous honeymoon.

As if he, too, were swept back into a distant time, Morgan bowed before her. With a slight smile on his handsome face, he reached out with the long-stemmed rose and lightly drew it along her cheek, its cool petals like damp satin against her skin. He then continued down her throat until finally he paused at the vee of her morning gown.

With a deft movement, he tucked the flower between her breasts. Heat spread to a point deep inside her. She searched his face, not sure of the meaning of the rose. She saw passion in his eyes and felt an answer in herself. It had been such a long time…

Finally he sighed and retreated a step. “I must be going,” he said, “but I saw you in your garden and knew I couldn’t ignore such beauty.”

She studied the paleness of his skin. No matter how busy he was, he usually took time for brisk walks during the day. “You’ve been working very hard of late,” she began, then stopped, not wanting him to think she was complaining.

“And will be doing so in the future,” he added with a grimace. “Matters of state demand long hours.”

He lifted one finger to his mouth, then touched her lips, implanting a kiss there. A thrill went through her as if she were a young bride just getting to know her husband.

“I will see you…soon,” he murmured, his eyes hot, almost feverish, as he bid her farewell.

It took her a moment to get her breath after he disappeared inside the palace. A knock on the outside garden door caused her to start and gasp.

“Mother?” called the voice of her middle daughter. “May I come in?”

“Please do,” she answered, composing herself.

Megan entered and closed the door carefully behind her. She executed a perfect curtsy, then came forward. Marissa noted her second child’s hesitant air and immediately put her own worries aside.

“How lovely you look,” she said, patting the bench beside her under the old rose arbor. “It seems ages since I’ve seen you.”

Megan settled herself, paying much attention to arranging the skirts of her morning gown. “We’ve all been busy of late.”

Contrition ate at Marissa’s conscience. She and the king had so little time for their children anymore. The girls had their own interests and the twins loved adventuring around the world.

“You seem worried,” she said, giving the girl an opening gambit.

Megan nodded, not sure how to begin. “When you and father were married, did he love you?”

She watched her mother anxiously and held in all the words that ached to tumble from her tongue in a surfeit of confession, guilt and uncertainty.

“I…” The queen stared at her in confusion, then an understanding smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Are you in love, my darling?”

Megan blinked back the sting of tears. She shrugged.

“Might I ask with whom?”

“It wasn’t love,” Megan said after a long silence. “I mean…I don’t think…I’m not sure…”

Her mother touched her hand lightly, comfortingly. “Tell me what I can do to help?”

Megan stared at the rose tucked into her mother’s gown. “You and Father love each other, but your marriage was arranged. Did you fall in love before the marriage? Or afterward?”

Megan saw she’d totally stunned her mother, who reddened then went pale. She swallowed and tried to think of words to explain to her parent the welter of feelings that darted around inside her without rhyme or reason.

“You are in love,” the queen said softly.

“No! That is, there is someone—” Megan realized she was going to have to tell her mother the bare facts at the very least if she were to ask for advice.

“Who?”

“Jean-Paul Augustuve of Silvershire,” Megan answered.

“Jean-Paul,” her mother repeated. She frowned. “His bloodline is acceptable, but he is known as something of a rebel. Your father may not be pleased.”

“There is another problem.”

“Yes?”

“There is a child.”

“Jean-Paul has a child?”

Megan didn’t blame her mother for looking confused. “Not yet.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I am with child,” Megan said in a low voice, as if the stone walls around the queen’s private garden had ears.

Her mother clasped both hands to her bosom. She lifted the rose from between her breasts and stared at it as if the flower might interpret this news for her.

“Jean-Paul’s child,” the queen concluded.

Megan nodded and sighed as a weight lifted slightly from her shoulders. Her mother was quick to catch on. She was also thoughtful. Megan was grateful the older woman didn’t push a lot of questions at her, but instead contemplated the rose with an enigmatic smile hovering on her lips.

“Tell me what you can,” her mother invited.

“You recall I went to Monaco for the trade conference in Meredith’s place in April?”