“What do you think your new wife will say about your son? What are you going to tell her when you have to leave to come back for his birthday party or when you have to send off an extra Christmas gift? Or are you even going to bother telling her anything? Maybe it would just be easier to send a card and not come back at all, right?”
Her eyes go glassy, but her voice stays strong and firm. “I will not let my son be your dirty little secret, and I am not going to be your royal mistress.”
I hate that I don’t have answers for all of her questions, but I can explain some of it away. “I don’t want to marry Freyja.”
“If it’s not her, it will be someone else,” Jane-Ann says. “What will be different?”
“Love,” I say simply. “If I marry someone else, I want it to be for love. Not because of duty or tradition. And if I marry for love, I’ll tell her about you and Tyler. You won’t be a secret. Not between my immediate family and me. Maybe to the world, but that would be for your benefit. And Tyler’s.”
I hope Jane-Ann doesn’t make a connection between this admission and the way I’d given serious thought to the idea of marrying her. She doesn’t need to know how I feel. Not when it only makes everything more difficult.
For the first time, she doesn’t seem to have an argument. She lifts her chin. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Well, I have an idea. But it is a little crazy.” Understatement of the century. “And I’d need your help.”
Jane-Ann frowns, and I love the way the freckles across her nose wrinkle. “How?”
I smile and shrug. “How would you like to be my fake fiancée?”
Chapter 21
Jane-Ann
Christian is smiling at me in a mischievous way that sends tingles into my kneecaps and other places I’d rather not discuss, especially so close to giving birth. So, I replay his words over in my head, using them to sharpen my indignation.
“Excuse me?” I ask, popping one hip out to the side and planting my hand there. It’s a move my mother pulled on my father often. Even after twenty-eight years of marriage, he still cowers at the sight.
He sighs and moves forward, head low, his blond hair falling forward into his eyes. “If you come to Sigmaran and pretend to be my blue-blooded fiancée, my parents will lay off of me with Freyja. They only want me to marry her to prove to the country that I’m capable of making a serious commitment to someone. So, if you help me prove that, I won’t have to marry Freyja.”
“But you’ll have to marry me,” I say, spinning around and marching into the kitchen. I can’t stand in front of him and talk seriously about pretending to be his fiancée. Not when I’d so recently considered it an actual option. Not while the wound is still fresh. “If I’m not good enough to marry for real, I don’t see how I’m good enough to fake-marry.”
“No, we won’t,” he says, following after me. “That’s part of the plan. You’ll end the relationship and break my heart, and everyone will feel so bad for me, it won’t be suspicious when I don’t date seriously again for a few years. It gives me time to find someone besides Freyja. Someone I could actually love.”
Someone who isn’t me. Because how could he ever love me?
I hate that I had any stock in the idea of us becoming a real family. I hate that I’m disappointed. That I once again let myself be vulnerable with him.
I start making coffee even though I’m way too agitated for caffeine. I just need something to keep myself busy. “When exactly did you start thinking about this plan?”
“A few days ago,” he says, having enough decency to seem ashamed. “The more time I spent here, the more I realized I could never be happy with Freyja.”
“Don’t,” I say sharply, pressing my palms into the countertop. “Don’t flatter me with compliments and what could have been. I’m not going to be manipulated into helping you.”
I don’t hear him cross the kitchen, but I feel him standing behind me. The warmth of his body. A current flows down my spine in his presence.
“I’m not flattering you,” he says softly. “I’m telling the truth.”
I spin around and regret the decision immediately. He is too close. Too handsome and tall and warm. And blond. Too Christian. Why couldn’t he be an ugly prince? That would have made things so much easier.
I remind myself that he has made his feelings clear. Twice. The first time was the night we met. The night he left me naked in bed. The second time is currently happening. This entire plan is just proof that I’m not good enough for him or his family or his country. I’m only good enough to be used as some prop in his game. It could never be real between us, and I’d do well to remember that.
“These last few days with you and Tyler have made me realize that I can’t settle for anything less than love. I want to feel comfortable in a relationship. I want to feel the way I feel with you. In this house. I don’t want my marriage to be a sham for the sake of my country. Because for the sake of my country, I have to be happy. And I will never be happy with Freyja.”
Christian takes a step back as soon as he is done unloading his feelings, and I can see by the paleness in his cheeks that he didn’t mean to say so much. To be so honest with me. He doesn’t love me the way I want him to, but it feels good that he has at least admitted how easy it is between us. At least I’m not completely delusional. Even though I’m still angry with him, I’ve lost the hard edge.
“You deserve to be happy,” I say grudgingly.
His face lifts at my words, and I recognize the expression. Hope.
“I don’t expect you to help for free,” he says. “I’ll pay you for—”
“I’m not going to be an escort,” I snap. “I may not be as wealthy as you, but I have some self-respect.”
Christian’s eyes go wide. “No. That’s not what I meant. Fake fiancée. As in, not real. No behind the scenes…anything going on.”
I look away, embarrassed, and Christian runs a hand along the back of his neck.
“You would just come to Sigmaran for a week or two. We’d be seen together, discuss how our relationship has been a long time coming. Maybe we’ve been pen pals over the years.”
“Pen pals?” I snort. “I haven’t had a pen pal since I was ten years old.”
He rolls his eyes, though there is amusement there. He can tell I’m beginning to crack.
“You can help me with the story,” he says, “but we’ll admit that we continued talking during my relationship with Freyja, and though nothing inappropriate happened, we realize our feelings for one another are more than friendly and have become engaged. We will maintain that story for a short time before you decide you cannot handle my very public lifestyle, and we split ways. I’ll be heartbroken, and you will be free to live your life with Tyler undisturbed.”
“What about the press?” I ask. It seems like an obvious oversight. “Won’t I be recognized?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Had you ever heard of me before you saw me in that honky-tonk? No offense, but Americans don’t tend to bother themselves with the goings-on of other countries. And since I’m not British royalty, my engagement won’t make American papers. Especially not the Round Rock, Texas, papers.”
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms. “I can’t leave Tyler. It’s too soon.”
“I can delay the engagement another month or two,” he says quickly. “I can give you time. And you’ll only need to be in Sigmaran for a couple weeks.”
I can tell he is desperate, and despite everything, part of me wants to help him. And another part of me—a part I’m ashamed of—wants to do it just so he doesn’t get engaged in the next month. Even though he won’t be mine, I’m not ready for him to be someone else’s. Especially if that someone else will keep him away from his son.
“And I’ll pay you,” he says again. “Handsomely.”
I don’t want to be lured in by the money, but with a newborn baby and no job prospects aside from Rufus’ Sofa Shack, I can’t rea
lly turn down the offer.
“How handsomely?”
“One million dollars. Cash.”
I laugh. And then quickly cover my mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Christian says, smirking at me.
“That’s not a real amount of money. You can’t just give me a million dollars. For a favor? No.”
“I can,” he insists. “And I will. We can write up a contract if you’d like?”
“No, I trust you.” I say the words before I can contemplate their meaning.
Do I trust him? Yes, I really do. But why? Christian has been anything but reliable, yet he has never broken a promise. Because I never asked him to make one. Our night together nine months before was just that—one night. And he had never said anything about living in the cottage with me and Tyler long-term. He’d asked if he could stay with us for a while, and I’d agreed.
Wishful thinking had led me to believe he might choose us over his born duty. I was still angry with Christian for so many things, but I couldn’t be mad at him for lying. He’d always told the truth.
He nods. “So, one million dollars for a couple weeks of your time?” he asks, extending his hand.
I stare at his long fingers, at his pale skin, and the tight coil of muscles sticking out of the bottom of his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Taking his money feels like a cop-out. Like the easy solution. But that money could change my life. And Tyler’s. Though admittedly, I’d rather have Christian decide to step up and be a present father to our baby than take the money, but since that isn’t an option, the money is the least he can do.
Before I can change my mind, I reach out and grab his hand, shaking it once. “It’s a deal.”
Chapter 22
Christian
Two Months Later
The wind is wailing, and a light mist splatters against the windows of the small airport. I’ve never been a nervous flyer, but that is because I prefer commercial airplanes to the private planes reserved for the royal family. However, the newly revealed love interest of Prince Christian of Sigmaran couldn’t fly into a standard airport. It would have been a media circus. More so than usual, anyway.
The papers have been buzzing with any scrap of news about Lady Ann Callister. Though there is admittedly little since she only sprang into existence eight weeks ago when Jane-Ann agreed to my crazy plan. Insofar as Lady Freyja returned to Sweden the moment she heard about my love connection with a beautiful aristocrat from overseas, the plan has worked. Freyja is rumored to be dating a Danish prince and seems no worse the wear for my rejection of her. But in terms of having a healthy relationship with the mother of my child, the plan has been a failure.
Jane-Ann hasn’t answered or returned any of my calls for the last two months. She sends pictures of Tyler every day and sends generic updates about his development and doctor appointments, but I have no idea how she is doing, mentally or physically. The last time we spoke on the phone, she kept things brief, wanting to know when she should fly in, who would greet her at the airport, and what she should wear.
I assured her it would just be the two of us when she landed, and if she sent along her measurements, I’d have a wardrobe tailored and ready for her, so she wouldn’t need to pack anything. In a truly un-Jane-Ann fashion, she had no comments about any of the plans and agreed to everything with a few generic hums.
So, standing inside the airport and looking into the gray, stormy clouds for any sign of her small plane, I can’t help but wonder if the weather is a harbinger of what is to come.
My parents are ecstatic to meet Lady Ann. I showed them a photo, one sent to me by Jane-Ann of her at a cousin’s wedding. She looks every bit the aristocrat she’s pretending to be. My mother went on and on about how cute our children would be—and it took everything inside of me not to pull out the latest photo of Tyler to show him off—and my father patted me on the shoulder and congratulated me on finding a beautiful lady.
They were so excited that I almost got carried away by the moment, wanting to admit to them that Lady Ann is actually Jane-Ann, and we met at a honky-tonk in Texas and had a child after our first night together. But common sense and the reminder that Jane-Ann was barely even speaking to me kept me from spilling the truth. I was pretty certain that asking for this favor from Jane-Ann had ruined the very slim chance there was that there could ever be something more lasting between us.
There is a flash in the clouds, and I look up just as the small passenger plane begins to descend, red lights on the wings breaking through the stormy haze. My heart patters against my ribcage like the rain against the windows, and my palms begin to sweat. What am I going to say? How are we going to interact? I’ve planned every second of the afternoon with my family, yet I hadn’t stopped to think about what Jane-Ann and I would do when we are alone together.
Before I can come up with anything worthwhile, she steps out of the plane, and my breath catches. Her blond hair is loose and tumbles around her shoulders in thick, shiny waves. She is wearing a pair of tight, high-waisted black trousers with a white shirt tucked in with a classy leather loafer. Watching her be escorted from the plane by two men carrying umbrellas, it is hard to remember that our story is a lie. That she isn’t truly my fiancée. She looks the part.
Except for her face.
Her eyes are wide, and her lips are pressed together so hard I’m afraid they’ll never look normal again. She is tense and nervous, and I can see it from a mile away. So, I jog into the rain, one hand held over my head as if that will do anything to stop the rain that is slowly turning into a deluge.
“Darling,” I call over the storm. “I’m so glad to see you.”
When she sees me, she looks anything but glad. But quickly, she arranges her face into a halfway believable smile and reaches for my hand, allowing me to lead her toward the side of the small building where a limo is waiting.
“Let’s get you out of this rain,” I say, grabbing an umbrella from one of the airport employees, and holding it over her.
Jane-Ann doesn’t respond as we walk to the limo or as I open the back door for her. She remains resolute and silent as I tell the driver we are ready and slide the divider screen into place, offering us a small amount of privacy.
The limo’s windows are deeply tinted, but Jane-Ann stares out them as we drive toward the palace. And I stare at Jane-Ann.
For weeks, I’ve imagined what it would be like to see her again, and it is both exactly and nothing like I pictured. She is just as gorgeous as I remember, looking glamorous and slim despite having just given birth two months before. But there is a coldness I’ve never experienced before. Not even during the conversation when I’d introduced the idea of this entire plan. At least then, she’d been angry with me. Anger was better than nothing.
“Did you have a good flight?” I ask when the silence becomes too much to bear.
Jane-Ann tenses and, after a few seconds, looks away from the window and gives me one solemn nod.
“How is Tyler?” I’m desperate to see him, but since I can’t, hearing more than just a quick daily recap of his activities would be nice. Is he wide-eyed and curious? Does he cry often or is he a happy baby?
“Healthy.” I can tell by the way she looks out the window that this is all the answer I’m going to get right now.
“Good,” I say. “That’s great. Wonderful.”
This is not good, great, or wonderful. This is a disaster. An absolute disaster.
In a few short minutes, our limo will pull through the palace gates, and Prince Christian and Lady Ann will step out of the limo to present themselves in front of the King and Queen Consort of Sigmaran, expected to look every bit the part of a couple madly in love. Yet, Jane-Ann can’t even look at me.
I look over at her, hoping for some change in her demeanor, some sign that she understands the importance of what is to come. But there is nothing. Just stony, resolute silence.
We are so screwed.
When the limo pulls throu
gh the gates, I turn to her and toss my dignity to the side.
“Please, Jane-Ann. I’m sorry. For everything. But my parents are going to walk down those steps any second, and I need you to look at me. At least. I can tell them you aren’t feeling well. Or that you’re a nervous flyer. But nothing will excuse this coldness between us. We have to be in love. Or, look like we are in love.”
The car comes to a stop and I hear the driver open and close his door. Jane-Ann does not look at me and says nothing as her door opens and the driver offers her a gloved hand. She takes it, her fingers resting delicately against his palm, and stands.
I hesitate, wondering if it would be better to hop across the divider into the driver’s seat and take off. But after a second, I follow her, praying I can do something to salvage this situation. Something to keep everything from falling apart within the first hour of her arrival.
Mother comes down the steps first, with Jory and Niles not far behind. They are arching their necks around our mother to get a better look at Lady Callister, who is standing next to the limo, hands folded in front of her daintily. My younger brothers see her and then look at one another, eyebrows raised. I don’t pretend to know what the look means. I have bigger issues to deal with.
I take large steps around the back of the car so I can head my mother off before she throws herself at Jane-Ann. Maybe I can delicately allude to the idea that she has to use the restroom. It would buy me a few minutes to talk with her and try to smooth out the rough patches in our relationship.
Before I can get around the car, though, Jane-Ann steps forward and bows her head, dropping down into a flawless curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” she says. “Christian has told me so much about you. I’m thrilled to finally be meeting you.” She smiles up at my mother, and she looks radiant.
It takes me a second to recognize the change in her voice. Rather than the slow Texan drawl she usually has, Jane-Ann’s words are clipped, coming out in a mix of British and American. She sounds like every wealthy American I’ve ever met.
Prince Baby Daddy - A Secret Baby Royal Romance Page 15