Читать книгу Claiming His Secret Royal Heir - Nina Milne - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

August 15th—Online Celebrity News with April Fotherington

Who will be the new Lycander Princess?

All bets are off!

It’s official! Lady Kaitlin Derwent is no longer a contender for the position of Lycander Bride—the people’s favourite aristo announced that her new squeeze for the foreseeable future is Daniel Harrington, CEO of Harrington’s Legal Services.

Who’d have thought it?

Exit Lady Kaitlin!

So Prince Frederick, ruler of Lycander, is on the lookout for a new bride.

Who will it be?

Will it be the type of woman who graced his arm and his bed back in his playboy days, before the tragic death of his older brother and the scandalous death of Prince Alphonse, his flamboyant father, in a house of ill repute propelled him to the throne?

FREDERICK II OF the House of Petrelli, Prince and Ruler of Lycander, stopped reading and pushed his screen across the ornate carved desk, resplendent with gilt—a royal gift from an English monarch of yore.

The phrase pounded his brain—tragic death of his older brother—but he forced his features to remain calm, and made himself focus on the man standing in front of him: Marcus Alrikson, his chief advisor. After all, he needed all the advice he could get.

‘I don’t understand what the problem is—this article is nothing more than a gossip fest. And it’s old news.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘That is the problem. The article serves to remind the people of your past.’

‘Don’t you mean my sordid, scandalous and immoral past?’ Might as well tell it like it is, he thought.

‘If you like,’ Marcus returned evenly. ‘The bigger problem is that we both know you are holding on to the crown by your fingertips. The people did not want you on the throne because of your past—so any reminder causes damage.’

‘I understand that.’

The all too familiar guilt twisted his insides—the people had wanted his brother on the throne. Axel had been born to this. He would have been the ideal ruler to bring prosperity and calm to the land after their father’s turbulent rule.

But Axel was dead and buried—victim of a car crash that should have been Frederick’s destiny. Frederick should have been in that car on his way to a State dinner; instead he’d asked Axel to step in and take his place and his big brother had—no questions asked. So Frederick had attended a party on board a glitzy yacht to celebrate a business deal...and Axel had died.

The dark secret tarnished Frederick’s soul, weighted his conscience.

And now Lycander was stuck with the black sheep of the royal line and the people were threatening to revolt. Bleak determination hardened inside him. He would keep the crown safe, whatever the cost—he owed that at least to Axel’s memory.

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I suggest you find a new bride—someone like Lady Kaitlin. Your proposed alliance with Kaitlin was a popular one. It showed the people that you had decided to settle down with a suitable bride, that you’d changed—proof there would be no repeat of your father’s disastrous marriages.’

‘I have decided to settle down.’ To bind himself to a lifestyle he’d once sworn to avoid and the formulation of a cold-blooded alliance undertaken for the sake of the throne. ‘But Kaitlin is no longer an option—she has fallen in love with another man.’

Irritation sparked inside him. He wished Kaitlin well, but it was hard to believe that the cool, poised Lady Kaitlin had succumbed to so foolish an emotion.

‘Which is not good news for Lycander.’

Marcus resumed pacing, each stride swallowing up a metre of the marble floor, taking him past yet another portrait of one of Frederick’s ancestors.

‘Kaitlin was the perfect bride—her background is impeccable and she reminded the people of Lycander brides of the past.’

Unlike the succession of actresses, models and gold diggers Frederick’s father had married.

‘The people loved her.’

Unlike you.

The unspoken words hovered in the air between them.

‘I understand all this. But Kaitlin is history.’

‘Yes. And right now the press is focused on your history. That article zones in on your former flames—the actresses, the socialites, the models. Giselle, Mariana, Sunita... Hell, this reporter, April, even tried to track them down.’

Frederick froze.

Sunita.

Images flashed across his mind; memory reached across the chasm of tragedy.

Sunita.

Shared laughter, sheer beauty, almond-shaped eyes of a brown that veered from tawny to light, dependent on her mood. The raven sheen of her silken hair, the glow of her skin, the lissom length of her legs.

Sunita.

The woman who had left him—the woman he’d allowed to go...

Without preamble, he pulled his netbook back towards him, eyes scanning the article.

But where is Sunita now?

This is where it becomes a little mysterious.

Mere weeks after the end of her relationship with the Prince of Lycander—which, according to several sources, she ended abruptly—Sunita decided to ‘take a break’ from her highly lucrative modelling career to ‘rediscover her roots’.

This involved a move to Mumbai, where her mother reportedly hailed from. But the trail ends there, and to all intents and purposes Sunita seems to have vanished.

‘Frederick?’ Marcus’s voice pulled him from the article and he looked up to see his chief advisor’s forehead crease into a frown. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ Under the sceptical gaze Frederick shrugged. ‘It just sounds unlike Sunita to give up her career.’

Sunita had been one of the most ambitious people he knew—had been defined by that ambition, had had her career aspirations and goals mapped out with well-lit beacons. The idea of her jacking it all in seemed far-fetched at best.

Marcus drummed his fingers on his thigh. ‘Could her disappearance have anything to do with you?’

‘No.’

‘What happened?’

‘We spent a few weeks together—she moved on.’

‘She moved on?’

Damn. ‘We moved on.’

‘Why?’

Keep it together. This is history. ‘She decided to call it a day as she’d garnered sufficient publicity from our connection.’

Marcus raised his eyebrows. ‘So she used you for publicity?’

‘Yes. To be fair, she was upfront about that from the start.’

More fool him for thinking she’d changed her mind as time had gone on. He’d believed their time together, the long conversations, the laughter, had meant something. Well, he’d been wrong. Sunita had been after publicity and then she’d cut and run. Yet there had been something in her expression that morning...a transitory shadow in her tawny eyes, an errant twist of her hands that had belied the glib words dropping from her lips. But he hadn’t called her on it.

Enough! The past was over and did not bear dwelling on because—as he knew with soul-wrenching certainty—it could not be changed.

Marcus’s dark blue eyes met his as he resumed pacing. ‘So weeks after this publicity stunt she disappeared off the modelling scene? That doesn’t make sense.’

It didn’t. But it had nothing to do with him. Two years ago Sunita had affected him in ways he didn’t want to remember. He’d missed her once she’d gone—an unheard-of weakness he’d knocked on the head and buried. Easy come, easy go. That was the Playboy Prince’s motto. Sunita had gone—he’d accepted it. And then, mere months after her departure, Axel had died and his life had changed for ever.

‘I’ll look into it,’ Marcus said. ‘But right now you need to focus on this list. Potential brides. A princess, a lady and a marquesa. Take your pick.’

Frederick accepted the piece of paper but didn’t so much as glance down. ‘What do you mean, “look into it”?’

‘If there is any chance of potential scandal we need to shut it down now. So I plan to find Sunita before April Fotherington or any other reporter does.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I’ll send someone to talk to her. Or go myself.’

‘No!’ The refusal came with a vehemence that surprised him. However it had ended, his time with Sunita had marked something—his last moments of joy before catastrophe occurred, perhaps. He didn’t want her life tainted...didn’t want Marcus or his minions to find her if she didn’t want to be found.

‘It needs to be done.’ Marcus leant forward, his hands on the edge of the desk. ‘I understand you don’t like it, but you can’t take even the smallest risk that there is a scandal floating around out there. The crown is at stake. The throne is rocking, Frederick, and if it topples it will be a Humpty Dumpty scenario.’

Great! A Humpty Dumpty scenario—exactly what he needed. Of course he could choose to ignore the warning, but that would be foolish. Marcus knew his stuff. The sensible option would be to allow Marcus to go ahead, investigate and deal with any problem. But for some reason every fibre of his being cavilled—dammit, stupid though it sounded, it wasn’t the honourable thing to do.

A small mocking smile tilted his lips as he faced his chief advisor. Frederick of Lycander—man of honour. Axel would be proud of him. ‘Fine. I’ll check out Sunita.’

Marcus’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘With all due respect, that’s nuts and you know it. The press will jump on it.’

‘Then let them jump. I’m the boss and this is what’s going to happen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’ And for once he’d like to stand on a tiny wedge of the moral high ground. ‘What would Axel have done? Sent you in to spy on a woman he’d dated?’

‘Axel would never have got himself into a position where it was necessary.’

‘Touché. But I have and I will deal with it.’ His brain whirred as he thought it through. ‘I can schedule a trip to Mumbai—I’d like to follow up on how the Schools for All project is rolling out anyway.’

It was a project set up by Axel, but Frederick had taken it over and had every intention of making it into a success.

‘I’ll locate Sunita, confirm there is no scandal, and then I’ll come back and find a wife from your shortlist. No argument.’ A mirthless smile touched his lips. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.’

August 17th, Mumbai

Sunita stared down at the screen and reread the article for approximately the millionth time in three days as a mini-tornado of panic whirled and soared around her tummy.

She told herself that she was climbing the heights of irrationality. April Fotherington hadn’t found her—she was safe here in this spacious, anonymous Mumbai apartment, surrounded by cool white walls and the hustle and bustle of a city she’d come to love. Soon enough the flicker of interest the article might ignite would die out. No one had discovered her secret thus far—there was no reason to believe they would now. She was safe. They were safe.

But she couldn’t help the sudden lurch of fear as she gazed round the living room and the evidence of the life she’d created. Signs of her baby son were everywhere—a wooden toy box in the corner, the cheerful play mat by the sofa, board books, beakers... She knew all too well how quickly life could change, be upended and destroyed.

Stop. No one would take Amil away. Alphonse of Lycander was dead, and he had been the greatest threat—a man who had fought virulent custody battles for four of his children and used his position and wealth to win them all. She had no doubt he would have done the same for his grandchild—would have used the might and power of his sovereignty to win Amil.

Just as Frederick still might.

The peal of the doorbell jolted her from her thoughts and a scud of panic skittered through her. It couldn’t be her grandmother and Amil—they had only left a little while before. Chill. They could have forgotten something, it could be a neighbour, or a delivery or—

Only one way to find out.

Holding her breath, she peered through the peephole.

Shock dizzied her—she blinked and prayed the man at her door was a figment of her overheated imagination, brought on by reading the article so many times. The alternative was too ghastly to contemplate. But, however many times she blinked, Prince Frederick of Lycander was still right there.

What to do? What to do? Ignore him?

But what if he waited outside? What if he was still there when Amil came back? Or what if he went away and returned when Amil was here? What if he was here to take Amil?

Enough. She had not got this far to give up now. She was no longer that ten-year-old girl, reeling from her mother’s death, powerless to stop the father she had never known from taking her. No longer that eleven, twelve, thirteen-year-old girl at the mercy of her stepmother and sisters who had graduated with honours from Cinderella school.

She’d escaped them without the help of a handsome prince and left that feeling of powerlessness far behind. No way was she going back there—especially now, when her son was at stake.

Adrenalin surged through her body as she did what life had taught her—moved forward to face up to whatever was about to be thrown at her. She might dodge it, catch it, or punch it, but she would confront it on her own terms.

True to her motto, she pulled the door open and raised her eyebrows in aloof surprise. ‘Your Highness,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

Stepping out into the communal hall, she closed the door behind her, searching his gaze for a sign that he knew about Amil.

‘I came to see you. April Fotherington wrote an article saying you’d vanished.’

Sunita forced herself not to lean back against the wall in relief. Instead, she maintained her façade of reserve as they stood and studied each other. Against her will, her stomach nosedived and her hormones cartwheeled. Memories of the totally wrong sort streamed through her mind and fizzed through her veins as she drank him in. The same corn-blond hair, the same hazel eyes...

No, not the same. His eyes were now haunted by shadows and his lips no longer turned upward in insouciance. Prince Frederick looked like a man who hadn’t smiled in a while. Little wonder after the loss of his brother and his father, followed by a troubled ascent to the throne.

Instinctively she stepped closer, wanting to offer comfort. ‘I saw the article. But before we discuss that, I’m sorry for your losses. I wanted to send condolences but...’

It had been too risky, and it had seemed wrong somehow—to send condolences whilst pregnant with his baby, whom she intended to keep secret from him.

‘Why didn’t you?’

The seemingly casual question held an edge and she tensed.

‘If all your girlfriends had done that you’d still be reading them now. I didn’t feel our brief relationship gave me the right.’

Disingenuous, but there was some truth there. For a second she could almost taste the bitter disappointment with herself for succumbing to the Playboy Prince’s charms and falling into bed with him. Hell—she might as well have carved the notch on his four-poster bed herself.

She’d woken the morning after and known what she had to do—the only way forward to salvage some pride and dignity. End it on her terms, before he did. It had been the only option, but even as she had done it there had been a tiny part of her that had hoped he’d stop her, ask her to stay. But of course he hadn’t. The Playboy Prince wouldn’t change. People didn’t change—Sunita knew that.

Anyway this was history. Over and done with.

‘I am offering condolences now.’

‘Thank you. But, as I said, that’s not why I am here.’

‘The article?’

‘Yes. I’d like to talk—perhaps we could go inside.’

‘No!’ Tone it down, Sunita. ‘This is my home, Frederick, my private sanctuary. I want to keep it that way.’

He eyed her for a moment and she forced herself to hold his gaze.

‘Then where would you suggest? Preferably somewhere discreet.’

‘In case the press spot us and tips me as the next candidate for Lycander Bride?’

The words were out before she could stop them; obscure hurt touched her with the knowledge he didn’t want to be seen with her.

‘Something like that. You’re my unofficial business.’

For a moment there was a hint of the Frederick she’d known in the warmth of his voice, and more memories threatened to surface. Of warmth and laughter, touch and taste.

‘My official reason for this trip is charity business—I’m patron of an educational charity that is rolling out some new schools.’

The tang of warmth had disappeared; instead impatience vibrated from him as he shifted from foot to foot.

‘Are you sure we can’t talk inside? It shouldn’t take long. All I want is the solution to April’s mystery.’

Sunita checked the hollow laughter before it could fall from her lips. Was that all he wanted? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

‘I’m sure we can’t talk here.’

Think. But coherent thought was nigh on impossible. Raw panic combined with her body’s reaction to his proximity had unsettled her, sheer awareness wrong-footed her. Think. Yet her mind drew a blank as to any possible location, any café where she and Amil weren’t regulars.

Fear displaced all other emotion—Frederick must not find out about Amil. Not now, not like this. One day, yes, but at a time of her choice—when it was right and safe for Amil.

‘I’ll just grab a coat and we can go.’

‘A coat?’

‘It’s monsoon season.’

Sunita turned, opened the door, and slipped inside, her mind racing to formulate a plan. She’d always been able to think on her feet, after all. If Frederick wanted a solution to the mystery of her disappearance from the modelling scene, then that was what she would provide.

Grabbing her phone, she pressed speed dial and waited.

‘Sunita?’

‘Hey, Sam. I need a favour. A big favour.’