She put the fork and knife down with a clatter, grumbling under her breath.

  “Tines down,” the coach said, seemingly oblivious to just how close she was to being murdered. “To signify you’re finished eating, your fork should be placed tines down, with the knife edge turned inward, and the silverware positioned between four and six on the plate.”

  “Oh, bite me,” Clara muttered, and Erik quickly shepherded her out of the dining hall, back towards his private tower. “Did you have to sit through all that crap?”

  He laughed. “Growing up? Absolutely. My father and mother insisted. I could name every single utensil for a full eleven course meal before I turned into a teenager.”

  She goggled. “Eleven courses? I mean, I know, like, appetizer, main course, dessert. And sometimes The Botanical or the weddings would serve stuff that was fancier. But eleven?”

  “You know… appetizer, soup, fish, entrée, some kind of remove, sorbet, roast, salad, cold dish, sweets,” he rattled off easily, “and, of course, dessert.”

  She shook her head, staring at him. “Good grief. If I ate that much, I’d probably be sick.” She rubbed her stomach. He eyed her, seeing that she still didn’t really have a baby bump, and was surprised that he felt a small stab of disappointment. “Now especially.”

  “How are you holding up?” he asked, rubbing her shoulders gently. “I’ve worried, but I didn’t want to push.”

  She sent him a wan smile. “It’s been a lot,” she admitted. “And I miss my family. But I have to think it will all be worth it. Especially for the baby.”

  He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple. He had to think that all of this would be worth it, as well, for the exact same reason. “Tell you what,” he said slowly, thinking hard of how he could help the situation. “What say we do something fun, hmm? Something just the two of us.”

  She let out a little broken laugh. “No offense, but please don’t tell me you’re after a quick tumble,” she said. “Because you are ridiculously hot, but I am exhausted and ready to toss up dry crackers, much less the stupid rare venison and poached salmon that awful woman tried to have me eat.”

  “No, no,” he quickly reassured her, even though his body grumbled in response. “What do you have this afternoon?”

  “Strategy meeting with the Minister of Communications,” she ticked off on her fingertips, “then a meeting with the publicity team, practicing my paparazzi poses and reporter responses. Something about a meeting with the royal jeweler, to talk about engagement and wedding ring designs—you’ll probably be there, too, I imagine? And tonight, we’re supposed to have dinner with your father, and Aliana and Pelle.”

  “After all that,” he said, “I’ve got an idea, one that might be a little more relaxing. Take your mind off things. What do you say?”

  “If it doesn’t involve food or fake smiles, then I am all for it,” she said, groaning lightly. “I suppose I ought to get going to the minister’s office. In the meantime.”

  She turned to him, seemingly without thinking, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

  “See you later,” she said, then walked down the hallway with purpose.

  He stood there, thrown temporarily off balance. She’d just kissed him, not seductive, not leading. Just affectionate.

  And I really liked it.

  He cleared his throat, shook his head. Focused. He knew just what he wanted to do to help her feel better. It would just take a little coordination.

  After he and Clara had dinner with his family, she turned to him. “It has been a brutally long day,” she said with a weary sigh.

  He winced. “Do you still want to do something fun?” he asked carefully. “Or are you too tired?”

  “I would love to do something fun,” she said with feeling, and his tension eased. “I have been fairly stressed. I genuinely thought I’d punch that etiquette coach through a mural. By all means, entertain me.”

  “All right then. Follow me.”

  He led her to a private bar in his tower, one he’d often used for small parties with his friends and fellow princes, Ben and Nic. He’d made sure the karaoke set up was out. On the dark wood bar, a wide selection of virgin cocktails were set up.

  She burst out laughing. “Those are some fruity drinks,” she said, gesturing to the variety. “It’s like a rainbow. With umbrellas, even!” She picked one up, making an encouraging noise as she sipped. “Did you make them all?”

  “No. The castle’s bartender did.”

  “You guys have your own bartender?” she said, then shook her head, chuckling. “Of course you do. The Royal Mixologist. I might have known.”

  “Well, you can’t drink alcohol, so I thought this might be a nice change of pace,” he said.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, and he felt his chest warm at her smile of gratitude. “But what are we here to do?”

  He tugged her over to the karaoke machine, then grinned.

  Her eyes widened. “You want me to sing?”

  “C’mon,” he wheedled. “It’ll be fun.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. “You love it, don’t you?”

  “What, singing?”

  “Music.”

  He let out a little huff of laughter. “Wouldn’t have gotten my degree in music if I didn’t,” he tried to joke, even though he felt a pang. His parents had been… well, disappointed wasn’t quite the word. But they certainly weren’t impressed when he’d decided to pursue music at uni. He shook off the thought. “Here, now. Make yourself comfy, and I’ll warm us up.”

  He settled her into a plush couch, and chose a song—an ABBA song, “Take a Chance on Me.” It was upbeat and peppy, old school disco, just this side of ridiculous. She beamed at him, and he went full wedding singer, wiggling his hips, dancing on his knees, winking as he played up the lyrics. She crowed with laughter, clapping her hands at the end. Pleasantly out of breath, he handed her the microphone, laughing himself as she tried to protest.

  “Come now,” he said. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”

  Her eyes were mischievous. She flipped through the song catalogue, then stood on the stage, her expression challenging him. He sat on the couch, eager to hear her, to see her loosen up and have fun.

  Apparently, she was not into disco, since she belted out “London Calling” by the Clash like she was Joe Strummer himself. She strutted, she hollered, she gesticulated.

  She was, in a word, terrible.

  That said, she was enthusiastically terrible. Erik found himself grinning ear to ear, utterly enchanted by her. When she stepped down, mopping at the slight sheen of sweat on her brow, he handed her another fruity mocktail.

  “That was…”

  “Wretched?” she answered, taking a big gulp of something pineapple-gold and sweet-smelling. “I should have warned you, I suppose. But what’s the fun in that?”

  He barked out a laugh.

  They then tried a duet, “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease, complete with goofy acting and over-the-top singing. She then followed up with “Toxic” by Britney Spears, which had him both amused and, strangely, a bit turned on since, despite her inability to sing, Clara could move quite gracefully—and quite suggestively, he discovered.

  Of course, he’d promised. They were taking things slow. Platonic. Until she was reassured.

  Keep your head in the game, Devlin, he chastised himself.

  He applauded, then got up and pulled out his own ace: a slow, emotion-packed love ballad. And not just any ballad. A classic.

  He started “Something” by the Beatles. He’d sung it countless times, for fun, for weddings… hell, for royal events and friends’ parties and just for the sheer admiration of it. But he’d never sung it like this: where he meant it, where he felt something. It spoke of longing, and love, and uncertainty. And promise.

  And when it was done, they simply stared at each other for a long moment. And emotion arced between them, not the white-hot sexual chemistry that they’d had since the moment they first laid eyes on each other. This was something softer, something sweeter.

  Something infinitely more dangerous.

  She was the one who broke the silence, clearing her throat. “Well, I’m for bed,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’m exhausted, and that… that demon etiquette woman will insist on returning.”

  He laughed, surprised to find his own voice a bit rattled. “Let me at least walk you to your door,” he said, offering her his arm. Smiling, she took it, and he accompanied her upstairs, to the door of her private guest suite.

  “Thank you, Erik,” she said quietly, her eyes gleaming. “For tonight. For taking care of me.”

  “It was genuinely my pleasure,” he answered, tucking her hair behind her ear, brushing the bluebird tattoo that he was so intrigued by. “And I’ll take care of you for as long as you let me.”

  She let out a tiny sigh. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She went into the room and shut the door.

  He stood in the hallway, his brain battling against his body. He wanted nothing more than to raise his arm, knock on her door, and ask her to either come up to his bed, or allow him into hers. Not just for sex—although God knows, that would be glorious. But just so he could hold her. So he could wrap her up and warm her with his body, so he could brush kisses on her shoulders, so he could love her until morning.

  But it was too soon. When she was ready, she’d let him know. Until then, there was nothing to do but retreat to his empty apartments.

  7

  I think I’m ready.

  Clara couldn’t stop thinking of their karaoke night, and more importantly, the charged moment after they had sung—right before she’d gone to bed. She had barely slept as a result. She’d almost gotten up, padded barefoot down the hallway, and knocked on Erik’s bedroom door. And told him that her whole decision to keep things platonic until they were sure that marriage was a good idea was possibly the worst decision she’d ever made in her life.

  She would probably then drop her robe, leap upon him on the bed… and then things would… ensue.

  Right now, though, she’d survived another eating lesson with that horrid etiquette woman. At least they’d decided that Clara could consume food without too much embarrassment, so they’d moved on to the riveting topic of “properly sitting in chairs.” And if she passed that with flying colors, they’d eventually graduate to shaking hands in a receiving line. Heady stuff.

  Still, it meant that she could leave class early. She didn’t have to meet with the minister of Communications or any publicists for the rest of the week, so she and Erik had some free time to just hang out. They’d spent some time walking the medieval parapets, and while the heights made her a little dizzy, the view was simply stunning. Having Erik’s arm around her shoulder didn’t hurt, either, warding off the chill of the wind. From there, they’d descended to check out a courtyard garden she’d seen from atop the wall. It wasn’t huge, like the grounds around Buckingham or anything, but it was precious and sweet, filled with an abundance of multicolored flowers, like a little jewel box. There was even a small pond in the center, where a mama duck and her downy little babies swam in lazy circles. She held Erik’s hand, sighing.

  This felt very couple-y. And natural. And right.

  We’re definitely ready to move to the next level, from an intimacy standpoint.

  “Is that a new dress?” he teased, since pretty much all her wardrobe was new. “It’s pretty.”

  “Yes, thank you for noticing,” she said, doing a little fake curtsey. “You look rather nice, yourself.”

  Although “nice” didn’t quite do it justice. He was wearing another suit, this time in a deep navy blue, with a snowy white shirt and a dark blue tie with silver diagonal stripes. He looked like he’d just stepped out of GQ. He could put that on Instagram and get a billion likes within minutes.

  She swallowed. Definitely ready to move to the next level.

  She knew that she might be justifying things because, on a physical level, she simply wanted Erik, to the point where she was ready to smuggle him up to his royal apartments and spend the rest of the afternoon replaying their night in London—and then some.

  “Erik, I was thinking…”

  “Are you all right?” he asked quickly, concern crossing his handsome face. “Do you need to sit down?” He guided her towards an ornate stone bench. She sat, patting the seat next to her. When he sat down, she could feel his body heat, up against her side.

  “Um. Last night was a lot of fun,” she began, wondering how to say “I would like to have wild passionate sex with you” in a delicate and couth way.

  “It was fun.” He grinned. “We should do that again sometime.”

  They were quiet for a moment, just watching the ducks. She cleared her throat, trying again.

  “I know I said…”

  But before she could continue, the mobile phone in her pocket rang. She winced, having forgotten she’d brought it with her. She pulled it out, then frowned when she saw it was her father. “I’m sorry,” she quickly told Erik, then answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Hello, petal,” her father said, sounding uncomfortable. “I’m not catching you at a bad time, am I?”

  Well, he sort of was, but she was hardly going to say that. Besides, she hadn’t spoken with her parents in a week. “It’s fine, Da. How are you and Mum doing?”

  “Now, that’s the thing.” The discomfort in her father’s voice intensified. “Your Mum’s had another flare-up, I’m afraid.”

  Clara shot to her feet. “How bad?”

  “Ah, Clara, you know how these things go…”

  “How bad, Da?” she asked, more insistently.

  He sighed. “She’s having trouble walking, pet. All that pain in her hips. We’re thinking she won’t be able to go back to the café for at least a few days, maybe a week.”

  Clara blanched. “Oh, God.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “Now, now!” he quickly protested. “I just wanted you to know, because I know you’d scald me if your mum was off her feet for a week and I didn’t tell you. Mum didn’t even want me to ring you, to be honest.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your life just got a lot more complicated, didn’t it?” he replied. “Pregnant, and off with a prince, to boot!”

  She’d shared the news with her parents over the phone, letting them know that she was moving to Fervia and marrying Erik. They’d taken it largely in stride, although she suspected her father thought it all might be some kind of reality show prank or something. She could still hear the disbelief in his voice.

  Of course, there were some days she wasn’t sure it was real, either, so she couldn’t blame him.

  “I’m pregnant, not completely incapable,” she protested. “And you can’t tell me you don’t need the help.”

  Her father remained stubbornly silent.

  “Besides, I don’t want Mum alone all day, in pain, if I can help it,” she said. “I’ll figure out a flight and be home soon. All right?”

  Her father sighed. “It would be a help,” he agreed. “But I’m sorry we’re dragging you away…”

  “It’s no trouble when it’s family,” she said, her heart warm. “Talk soon.”

  She rang off, then turned to Erik, who was studying her carefully. “Your mother,” he said. “Something’s wrong? Is there an emergency?”

  He looked worried. Actually, he looked like he was going to be sick. Then she remembered abruptly: his mother had died, some five or six months ago now. “No, no, nothing like that,” she quickly reassured him. “My mum has fibromyalgia, and every now and then, she has flare-ups. It’s not life threatening, but it is chronic. The attacks last a few days or a week, sometimes a bit longer. In that time, she has difficulty moving—walking, getting from room to room, what have you.”

  “I don’t know much about it,” he admitted. “It sounds bad.”

  “It’s no picnic,” she said, sighing. “But Mum’s a trooper. That said, when Mum’s in that way, she can’t go to work. She can barely get herself to the loo, you know? She certainly can’t clean or cook or anything.” She felt her voice slipping into the cadences of Towers Hamlet, her parents’ accent, not the plummy upper-class accent she’d cultivated during her work at Kew and her course at college.

  Erik tilted his head, like an inquisitive bird. “So…?”

  She blinked at him. “So?” She paused, surprised by the question. “So I need to go back to London.”

  He blinked back. “Why?”

  “Because… because she needs my help!”

  He frowned.

  “But Clara,” he said, his voice completely matter-of-fact. “Of course you can’t go. Not now. Not at all.”

  Clara’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”

  Erik knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing somehow, but he just wasn’t sure what. “You can’t possibly leave right now,” he restated. And sure enough, her green eyes glowed incandescent with anger.

  “We’ll get to the part where you’re telling me what I can and can’t do in a moment,” she said, her voice glacial cold. “First off, though, why do you think I shouldn’t leave?”

  He sighed. “We’ve got the royal engagement announcement in just ten days,” he pointed out. “That’s going to be huge, a bigger deal than I think you realize. News outlets from around the world are going to be covering it. We still haven’t nailed down all the talking points around revealing the royal pregnancy, either, and I know the minister will want us to practice the language.” He sighed, wanting to rub his temples at the headache he knew that would induce. “And on the heels of that, we’ve got the trade summit between Fervia, Mynia, Reinia, and Aldland. Not that you need to be a part of that, per se, but I’m sure there are more etiquette lessons and whatnot that will have to happen, especially prior to the big gala at the finale of the conference. And that doesn’t even touch on the royal wedding plans that we really need to address a bit more quickly.”