He blinked.

  Our child.

  The future heir of Fervia. The line of succession.

  He took a deep breath. “I’d like to discuss this further with you,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

  “Certainly. Do you need your lawyer on the line, or…”

  “No, I mean I’d like to discuss this with you face to face. I’d like you to come here, to Fervia.”

  There was a stunned silence on the line. “I’m… not sure that’s necessary?”

  “On the contrary. I’d say it’s crucial,” he said, putting as much persuasion as he could in his voice. “This is far too important to talk about over the phone.”

  And I want to see you again. But he didn’t say that aloud—he could barely admit it to himself.

  “I have work,” she protested weakly.

  “Of course, I’d pay for all expenses,” he added quickly, pressing his advantage. “And compensate you for any lost wages.”

  She paused again.

  “Please, Clara,” he said quietly.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll come.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “I’ll get everything set up and contact you. We’ll talk soon.”

  When he hung up, he felt like crowing with excitement—and light-headed from the news.

  He had a woman he was wildly attracted to.

  He had a child on the way.

  Now, he thought, I just have to convince Clara to marry me.

  5

  True to his word, Erik got her a ticket to Fervia the next day. What he’d neglected to mention was the ticket would be first class. She’d never traveled first class before, and even though it wasn’t a long flight, she’d felt ridiculously pampered. She reclined in the spacious seats, enjoyed the gourmet food, and looked out at the gorgeous, dramatic landscape of the island as they got closer. She hadn’t had the time or money to travel before, so this was a number of firsts for her.

  Stop it.

  She sighed, resting her hand on her stomach. She’d been doing that more lately, thinking of the tiny person currently growing inside her. As much as she dreamed of going to university and taking on some job with international politics at the U.N. or similar, this little bean took precedence. Erik was right: this was crucial. No matter what, she’d be tied to Erik through the child they shared for the rest of her life.

  Still, she wasn’t here to try to kindle some nonexistent romance, or enjoy the gorgeous sights of the island, or pretend to be a princess. This was strictly a business trip. She’d go, discuss the details of Erik’s support, and then she’d go back to her little flat and little job and little life. This wasn’t a fairy tale story. It was cold, hard reality.

  It was hard to hang on to that, especially when she got picked up by a limousine that then wound its way through the picturesque landscape. They approached a huge castle, high up on a cliffside overlooking the sea, stopping at a long stone bridge that led to the entryway. The medieval castle was something out of a movie, all gleaming grey stone columns, and towers, and…

  Good God, were those gargoyles?

  Even though she felt like a total bumpkin, she couldn’t help but gape at the magnificent sight.

  As the car approached the bridge, Erik stood at the end, waiting for her. He was dressed to the nines, in a gorgeous suit that put the one he’d worn to sing at the wedding to shame. Charcoal grey with the tiniest pinstripe, with a dove grey shirt and silver tie beneath, he looked the epitome of princely elegance.

  “Clara,” he said, and dammit if his voice still didn’t shiver across her skin. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

  “Would you follow me? Albert will get your bags,” he said, then frowned as the driver produced her single small roller. “Is that it?”

  She blinked. “I, ah, only packed an overnight,” she murmured. He hadn’t mentioned a duration, and she wasn’t even sure she’d be staying at a hotel. How long were these negotiations supposed to take? It’s child support, not a peace treaty!

  “Oh.” Erik looked thoughtful, then smiled. “We’ll talk about it. Come, let’s go inside and get more comfortable. There’s a chill off the sea.”

  She followed him through the massive front doors, into a breath-taking entryway with soaring ceilings and an ornate chandelier with a million lights. Murals—she wasn’t any kind of art expert, but they looked rich and historical and important. It all looked magical.

  “Let’s go sit in front of the fireplace in the family room,” he said, curving his arm over her shoulders and rubbing them lightly. “There’s a chill in the air, and we want you to be comfortable.”

  She was so overwhelmed, and she let him guide her, going so far as to lean ever so slightly against him. He smelled just like he had that night—like linen and woods and something spicy. He smelled good.

  Stop sniffing him! Stay focused!

  She cleared her throat as he led her to a room that was not like any “family room” she’d ever heard of. It was almost as large as her flat, with a long table on one side, and a three-sided booth of high-backed dark wood, replete with crimson pillows, sitting in front of a fireplace she could’ve walked into. The fire roared, quickly warming her.

  “Please,” Erik said, and she sat, looking at him warily. If he’d meant to impress her, or intimidate her with the obvious shows of his wealth and status…

  … well, it was kind of working.

  The baby’s too important. Stick to your guns.

  Erik sat next to her, not close enough to touch, but closer than he probably would’ve sat next to someone in a business meeting with him. She frowned, then artlessly plunged forward.

  “Listen. I’m a bit nervous, and I think I don’t need to be. This is not brain surgery. I promise, I don’t want to cause any problems or gossip for you or your family. I just want to make sure the baby is taken care of, and that’s going to be a bit of a challenge for me on my own.” Just saying the words made her shoulders scrunch a bit. “If I didn’t need the help, I still would’ve let you know, because this is your child, too, and that’s only fair. But I don’t want you to think I’m in this for a meal ticket or hush money.”

  “I swear, I don’t think that,” Erik said. “I may not know you well, but I know that much.”

  Tears pricked at the sincerity in his voice. Damned pregnancy hormones!

  “Then all we have to do is agree to the amount, and maybe the details of the disbursement,” she continued, glad her voice remained steady. “And I’ll be happy to sign whatever paperwork your lawyers feel is appropriate.”

  “This is my child, too,” Erik said quietly. “Did you really think that I would just want to vanish from their life, with a check to assuage my guilt?”

  She felt her cheeks heat. While he’d trusted her to not be grasping, she’d basically just accused him of being shallow, ashamed of what had happened. “I’m sorry. It’s just you were incognito, and you only wanted a one-night stand. Why would you want a child with a stranger?”

  “Because it’s my child,” he said, and the fierce pride in his voice made her heart clench in her chest. “Our child. And not to put too fine a point on it, but I’ve never thought of you as a mere one-night stand.”

  She felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. That heat, that strange, compelling connection she’d felt so strongly with him that night hit her like a sledgehammer. She stared at him, trying to figure out what he was saying.

  “So… you’re thinking… co-parenting?” she ventured, her voice shaky.

  “I want you to marry me.”

  She couldn’t help it. She let out a shocked bark of laughter, then promptly slapped her hand over her mouth.

  “That was not the answer I was hoping for,” he said with a wry, sexy grin.

  “You didn’t technically ask,” she said, around a nervous giggle. “And you can’t possibly be serious.”

  “I have never been more serious,” he countered, and she could see from the set expression on that sinfully handsome face of his that he was.

  “But why?” she spluttered out. “You hardly know me!”

  “First, you need to understand. My brother and his wife can’t have children—so it’s up to me to carry on the line of succession. Which means you’re carrying the future king or queen of Fervia.”

  She gasped. She hadn’t even considered that possibility.

  “All right,” she agreed slowly. “But—does that mean that you have to marry me? The baby will be the heir whether we’re wed or not, I’d think?”

  “Technically, no, we don’t need to,” he admitted. “But it will help establish the child as legitimate, and will smooth out the narrative around the circumstances of their birth, which can only help.”

  She nodded, seeing that angle. From a political standpoint, it made sense.

  “When would you want to be married?”

  “As soon as possible.” He looked determined. “In fact, I’d like to suggest you move in here, in the palace, tonight. We’ll start planning the wedding immediately.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Immediately?” she repeated. “But… it’s such a huge step…”

  “A royal wedding will take months,” he said smoothly. “Plenty of time to get to know each other better, and reassure you that this is the right step to take.”

  “Reassure me?” She felt like a parrot, echoing him. “What, you don’t need reassurance?”

  “No, I don’t.” His smile was just this side of cocky, shocking her.

  “Why not?”

  He leaned closer, stroking her cheek. She felt the electric thrill of his touch, the same as always.

  “Because I’ve been forcing myself to date every damned socialite, noblewoman, and celebrity I could in the past two months,” he rasped, “and I haven’t felt a thing besides bored frustration. It’s nothing at all like what I felt for you after seeing you once. I don’t understand it, but I’m not going to ignore it. Not when we have this opportunity.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Not when her skin was still tingling at his slight touch, and when her body started leaning toward him like a flower towards the sun before she even realized she was moving.

  “Please, Clara.” That shiver-inducing voice begged. “Please marry me.”

  She took a deep breath, like she was going to hurl herself out of a plane.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

  His smile was like the sun, and he closed the distance, pressing a chaste kiss on her lips. “I’ll make sure you don’t regret it,” he promised.

  Oh, God. What am I doing?

  With her permission, he’d called in his brother, the Crown Prince, and his father, the King. She could see the resemblance as she shook their hands: all three men were tall and lanky, with broad shoulders and long-distance runner builds, and sharp, immaculately tailored suits. That said, the mischievous spark in Erik’s eyes was absent in his more stoic father. She could see why they called him “The Lion of Fervia.”

  “You’re doing an important thing for Fervia,” the King said, like she was disarming a bomb rather than having a baby. “You have no idea what this means to the royal family.”

  “Um.” What did you say to something like that? You’re welcome? I’m glad my wild night of sex is going to keep the dynasty afloat? She let out a nervous giggle, and quickly squelched it.

  “Erik said that you’ll be moving into his tower,” Pelle added, nodding with approval. “I’m sure you have many details to attend to, but Aliana and I would be happy to help in whatever capacity possible, to make you more comfortable.”

  Pelle was nice, if a bit stiff and formal. She smiled back at him. “I appreciate the offer.”

  “Comfort,” Erik said, snapping his fingers. “That reminds me. Is there anything you need? I know the flight isn’t that long, but still, you’ve been traveling since morning, and even first class can be a pain in your condition.”

  She was about to protest when the King scowled at him. “First class? She flew commercial? Why didn’t you arrange for a private jet?”

  “I was in a bit of a rush,” Erik said dryly.

  “I didn’t need all that,” she added.

  The King harrumphed. “It’s a matter of principle.”

  Eager to head off what looked like a disagreement with Erik and his father, she put a hand on Erik’s arm. “Actually, if you could point me to the kitchen,” she said quickly, “I am a bit peckish.”

  “Are you?” Erik looked immediately stricken. “I should have thought! I’ll have the kitchens send up a selection of things, anything you might like.”

  “Oh, that’s fine,” she protested. “I can just go and explore a bit, find some nibbles. Or crisps. I don’t want anyone to go to any trouble.”

  Erik frowned. His father and Pelle, on the other hand, looked like she’d sprouted another head.

  “Ah… that’s not really the way things work, here at the castle,” Pelle said gently, his smile ever so slightly condescending. “The royal family doesn’t just pop down to the kitchens.”

  “I’ll order a selection of snacks,” Erik said, picking up a nearby phone before she could stop him. She frowned.

  “It may seem unusual,” the King intoned, shifting her focus from Erik to his stern expression. “But you’ll learn that life as a royal is different in many ways. I’m sure you’ve been used to simpler circumstances. This can be overwhelming, but I think that, with just a bit of guidance, you’ll find yourself understanding and embracing our way of life.”

  She tried not to scoff at this. A way of life where she, a pregnant woman, had to ring for some poor servant when she had a craving to graze through her cupboards at two in the morning? She gritted her teeth. Not bloody likely.

  Still, she’d promised to make the best of this, for her baby. It was only the first day here. Surely it would get easier.

  Wouldn’t it?

  6

  Three weeks after she accepted Erik’s proposal—such as it was—Clara looked ready to explode. Actually, she looked ready to throw someone out a window, then tell the entire royal family to go to hell. And then explode.

  “Remember, Clara,” the royal etiquette coach intoned, hovering over Clara as she sat at the dining table, a spread of food in front of her, the table set as if for a state dinner. “Elbows in. Not open enough that one could drive a lorry through. And posture! I could easily identify a royal by her posture alone.”

  “Do we have to have these meetings in the morning?” Clara said. Erik got the feeling her voice would’ve been sharper if she wasn’t quite so peaky. She was still wrestling with morning sickness, and it showed in her paleness and her absolute revulsion at certain kinds of food. Which they’d discovered when the etiquette coach had tried to walk her through “how to eat turbot” the week before.

  He sighed. Unfortunately, he didn’t know about her morning sickness firsthand. Not that he wanted to be present, per se… but he hated the idea of her suffering alone. That said, considering he’d pitched this marriage as “please help me save my country and preserve the line of succession,” he’d felt like a bit of a cad if he’d tried to instantly shuffle her into his bed, as well. She seemed a bit shy, too, and he was doing everything he could to reassure her.

  “We have crazy chemistry,” she’d said, her cheeks going rosy in that way that drove him mad. “But… we should probably see if we get along when we’re not… you know. Don’t you think?”

  Intellectually, he’d agreed, and emotionally, he wanted to do whatever it took to help her feel secure and happy. He wanted it because he cared about her, and also because their wedding and child were what he’d promised to his father—possibly the single most important contribution he’d ever give to Fervia in his position as prince. He wasn’t going to screw this up.

  The etiquette coach was a drill sergeant in a Chanel suit. “I know that it’s odd to have what ought to be supper in the morning,” she said, her voice stern. “But really, it’s not that early, dear. Beyond that, your schedule doesn’t seem to allow anything else.”

  Which was true. In the past three weeks, Clara had been fitted for an entirely new, “appropriate” wardrobe—which she’d balked at, considering she was “just going to get bigger anyway”—and daily meetings with the press secretary, a slew of royal publicists, and the Minister of Communications. Any free time beyond that went toward tying up loose ends with her old life back in London—packing up her tiny flat, giving notice to her jobs, and a million other pesky details that the staff tried to help with as much as possible.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” the etiquette coach pressed, “and his Majesty was quite specific: your training takes precedence.”

  “I know how to eat,” Clara said sullenly.

  “Not like a royal, you don’t,” the etiquette coach replied firmly, her grey eyes like steel. “Elbows in! Pressed to your sides! Now, knife in the right hand, fork in the left. We are hardly barbarians like those Americans, now, are we?”

  Clara picked up the various utensils, her own jade green eyes mutinous, her normally full lips pulled into a tight line.

  “Now, you’ll be cutting into the venison—no! No. There can be no scraping of cutlery across the plate. Did you forget already?”

  Clara’s eyes flashed, and for a second, Erik was afraid Clara was going to stab the etiquette coach with the steak knife.

  “Now, small piece, and you’ll take a bite… no, no, no. Tines down! Always tines down!”

  “How the hell am I supposed to…”

  “This isn’t that difficult!” the etiquette coach said. “And what did we say about coarse language?”

  “We,” Clara said, and Erik recognized the dangerous turn of her voice, “said we’ll talk however we damned well please, and anybody who said otherwise could go—”

  “Whoa!” Erik interrupted quickly, putting his hands on her shoulders, encouraging her to put down the cutlery she was clutching in a death grip. “Come now, you’ve been working so hard this week. Why don’t we take a little walk, what do you say?”