Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride

by Yvonne Lindsay

  Just, perhaps, not from herself.

  Six

  Ottavia woke the next morning with the distinct impression she was not alone. But a quick glance around the sumptuously decorated bedroom showed she was the only person there. Still, the sensation lingered and she sat up in the massive bed, where she’d enjoyed what probably had been her best night’s sleep in a long time, and looked around.

  She gasped as she realized the other side of the bed showed indications of recent occupancy. The sheets were mussed and there was no mistaking the indentation on the feather pillow. Nor was there any mistaking the old-fashioned pale pink rose on that pillow, complete with a handwritten note.

  The rose released a faint burst of fragrance as she picked it up and held it to her nose. It was just a hint of scent, so subtle as to almost not be there at all. And the color—the outer petals were a creamy white, the center a soft blush pink—was incredibly beautiful. She turned the bud in her hand and noticed one outer petal was imperfect—damaged by insects or weather. She touched a fingertip to the crumpled edge. The imperfection didn’t detract from the beauty of the flower; instead it added character. She liked the fact that it had been left that way.

  Like herself, she thought, the bloom had weathered adversity before it reached this stage of beauty. But it was ridiculous to think he had chosen the flower for that reason. It wasn’t as if he knew what made her damaged.

  She looked at the indentation in the pillow again and swept up the note he’d obviously left for her.

  You are as beautiful when you sleep as you are awake.

  That was it. No signature, but she recognized the bold slash of pen across the paper from his handwriting on their contract. Had Rocco slept here beside her all night? Had he watched her? All evidence showed he had. And she hadn’t so much as noticed? She shook her head. Indulging in the sleeping tablet she’d taken before slipping in between the sheets last night had been a rare moment of weakness and something she couldn’t afford to repeat. She had to keep her wits about her—even, it seemed, at rest.

  With the drug in her system, she’d been completely helpless last night. What if he’d decided to renege on the terms of the contract and forced her to be intimate with him? She cast the idea from her mind almost as quickly as it had come. She didn’t know him well, but she sensed that he’d never force any woman. He was nothing like— No, she wouldn’t even begin to entertain the thought.

  She dropped the rose on the bedside table and slid from the mattress, her bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet as she made her way quickly to the paneled doors she hadn’t bothered to explore the previous night.

  She pushed them open, her eyes narrowing as she took in the rows of suits and shirts, arranged by color and season by the look of them. Every built-in drawer was filled with menswear, and the obviously handmade shoes on the rails beneath the suits looked like a perfect fit for the man who was king of Erminia.

  Ottavia backed out of the dressing room. So, he’d installed her in his room—and in his bed, no less. Annoyance swelled. He no doubt thought he’d won some invisible battle by manipulating her this way. She’d clearly underestimated him and that was a mistake she would not make again.

  It was abundantly clear he wanted her, sexually. She’d felt the impressive evidence of his desire when they’d kissed yesterday. An unaccustomed flush of heat swept over her. His desire had definitely never been in question, but hers? That had surprised her. She’d never had any problem separating mind and body from her role. In fact, she had carefully maneuvered her client list to ensure the situation had never arisen.

  She was good at her job. While she could not claim she deeply enjoyed her work, she found it acceptable. It ensured she was well paid, which was the most important thing. Not for her own sake, but for Adriana’s, to keep her sister at the facility where she was well-cared-for and protected in a country that had an appalling record of care for those born with special needs. It had been difficult at first, making ends meet while supporting the cost of her care, but Ottavia had persevered.

  She thought again of the contract she’d signed with Rocco last night. The sum she’d chosen had been designed to put him off, not to tantalize him. But he’d agreed and that money, managed carefully with what she had managed to invest over the years, could probably keep her for the rest of her life without the need to be a courtesan ever again.

  Of course, her existence would be simpler, less exotic and elaborate—and hadn’t she craved that all along? The chance to lead an uncomplicated life? She’d be thirty at her next birthday. Not old by any standards, but her beauty would begin to lack the freshness of youth and with it her shelf life would very likely diminish, she thought cynically. Not unlike the bloom Rocco had left for her this morning, one day she too would be spent.

  The melodic chime of a clock in the sitting room reminded her that the day was passing. After a quick shower she dressed in one of the sleeveless tunics she favored, teamed with a pair of wide-legged trousers in a deep amethyst tone. She brushed her hair out, leaving it to fall loose around her shoulders, and applied her makeup with an artistic hand—lining her eyes more heavily than usual and applying a solid slash of magenta pink to her lips. Finally satisfied with the bold impression she’d make, she left the suite of rooms and went in search of her king.

  She didn’t have to go far, as he was coming down the hallway toward her. Garbed in another perfectly pressed suit, paired with a dove-gray shirt this time and with a tie emblazoned with the ubiquitous Erminian crest, he could pass as any businessman in the capitol city. But no one could deny the power that exuded from him, or the air of entitlement that sat so snugly across his shoulders. He was a king born and bred. In one hand he carried an embossed folder.

  “Have you eaten?” he demanded as he drew nearer.

  “Good morning to you, too, Sire.”

  “Rocco. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I haven’t eaten yet,” she commented.

  “Good, come with me.”

  Was this how he expected to treat her? To toss commands at her as if she was little better than a performing seal?

  “Please,” she said calmly, not moving an inch even though he’d already begun to walk away.

  Rocco stopped and turned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you’d like me to come with you, then you need to ask nicely. I’m sure that one of your many tutors or nursery maids taught you the benefit of good manners, even if your parents did not.”

  He arched one dark brow in response. “You think to malign my family?”

  “Is your rudeness something of your own making? If so, then I do apologize for any aspersions I have cast upon your family. I’m sure their example was exemplary and that you simply chose not to follow it.”

  He stepped toward her, coming to a halt with less than a hand’s breadth between them. “I am your king. It is your duty to obey me.”

  “Are we going to squabble about everything, Sire?” She sighed softly.

  “Only if you don’t do as you’re told,” he said with a stern frown.

  But Ottavia didn’t mistake the look of humor that flickered and warmed in his eyes.

  “And the name is Rocco,” he added. “If you can remember that, then perhaps I can remember to say please once in a while.”

  Her lips twitched in response. “Then, Rocco, I would be delighted to accompany you.”

  “Thank you.”

  They traversed the hallway and he guided her into a small private elevator that took them to the ground floor. He led her onto a wide terrace.

  “They’ll bring your breakfast soon,” he said as he held a chair out for her. “While we wait, I would like to seek your opinion.”

  “My opinion?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “
Well, I am. You have not struck me as the kind of man for whom other people’s opinions matter.”

  “Ahh,” he answered. “And I suppose my...rudeness...led you to that conclusion?”

  “Not to mention your holding me captive on the suspicion that I might cause trouble for you.”

  “I was protecting my sister,” he replied in a voice that made it quite clear that protecting what was his was paramount in his life.

  Ottavia felt a shaft of envy. It was not an emotion she admitted to often but, for once in her life, she craved to be the protected rather than the protector. She wondered if Rocco’s sister had ever realized what a champion she had in her brother.

  Rocco continued. “I would be an autocratic leader if I didn’t seek the opinion of others from time to time.”

  “True.” She paused as a neatly dressed maid brought a heavy tray laden with cups and saucers, a milk jug and sugar bowl, and an ornately engraved silver coffeepot. “Thank you, Marie,” she said to the young woman. “I’ll pour for us.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll be back in a moment with your croissants, ma’am.”

  “You know her name?” Rocco asked, a curious expression on his face.

  “Of course.”

  “Hmm, you surprise me.”

  “How so?” she asked, pouring two cups of black coffee and her hand hovering over the sugar bowl. “Sugar?”

  “No, no milk, either. Thank you,” he finished with exaggerated politeness before picking up the cup and taking a sip.

  “There, that didn’t hurt, did it?” Ottavia smiled in response as she added both milk and sugar to her coffee and stirred.

  “I would have thought you wouldn’t bother with small details like learning the names of my staff—especially since you were a prisoner here.”

  “I had to find something to do to pass the time. Besides, I have always thought that good service should not go unappreciated,” Ottavia said lightly. “Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

  Rocco tapped his forefinger on the folder he set down on the table. “I’m curious to see what you think of these women. It appears that in the whole of Europe there are only two princesses left who are considered suitable for the position of my wife.”

  “Do you know either of them personally?” Ottavia asked, all the while pushing aside the unexpected streak of jealousy that pulsed through her at the thought of Rocco marrying some unknown woman.

  Stop being ridiculous, she told herself sternly. You have no attachment to him whatsoever, nor do you want one.

  Rocco eyed her over his coffee cup for a moment before replying. “I don’t. But that isn’t important. I need to find a wife. Preferably one who is fertile.”

  “And must she have strong teeth and a biddable nature as well, Sire?”

  Rocco uttered a sound that resembled nothing less than a growl. “It is not a joking matter. I need a wife and an heir.”

  He hesitated a moment, as if weighing up how much he should tell her.

  “Rocco, you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to but please rest assured of my complete and utter confidentiality.”

  He nodded sharply in acknowledgment. “There is a law, which has been mostly ignored for the past several hundred years, that relates to succession of the crown.”

  Ottavia waited patiently as Rocco explained the law. Then she sat back in her chair and studied him carefully.

  “Goodness,” she commented.

  “Is that all you can say?”

  Questions whirled around in her mind but she held on to them as Marie returned with a basket of warm croissants and small pots of jam and marmalade.

  “There you are, ma’am. Enjoy your breakfast.” She curtsied to Rocco and then to Ottavia again before withdrawing.

  “Eat before those get cold,” Rocco urged her. “Please.”

  Ottavia laughed out loud. “There, see? You can do it.”

  He smiled at her and she basked in the open and natural friendliness of it.

  She selected a croissant and tore it open, inhaling the scent of the freshly baked pastry before spreading it with a sliver of butter and a little marmalade.

  “Did you want some?” she offered, suddenly uncomfortable under his steady gaze.

  “No, I’ve eaten already.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” she replied pushing aside her self-consciousness and biting into the moist and flaky roll with delight.

  * * *

  Rocco watched her and fought with the urge to lick his lips. Did she attack everything with the same level of passion and gusto? He certainly hoped so. For a woman who could appear to be the epitome of grace and beauty, she also exuded an earthy sensuality at times.

  He tapped the folder again. “Back to the matter of my bride. These are the short list. I’d appreciate your thoughts.”

  “Mine?” Her finely plucked brows flew up in arches of surprise. “Whatever for?”

  “You extolled your virtues last night, as a woman of education and discernment. I’d like you to put those skills to use.”

  She replaced her croissant on the china plate before her and took another sip of coffee. “Surely you have a multitude of advisers who would be far better suited to aiding you in your choice of a bride than myself,” she said as she carefully set her cup back down.

  “Undoubtedly, but here you are, and I find myself interested in your opinion.”

  He picked up the folder and handed it to her.

  “You want me to read these now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  The crisp click of sharp heels sounded across the paving of the terrace. Rocco looked up in irritation. He’d specifically asked not to be disturbed, but of course Sonja wouldn’t think that edict applied to her.

  “Sonja,” he acknowledged, looking up at her.

  The older woman’s gaze swept the table, her eyes alighting on the folder that Ottavia now held. “You have an urgent call. It’s the prime minister.”

  Rocco rose. “I’ll be right back, Ms. Romolo. Wait for me here. Please.”

  Ottavia smiled in response. “Since you asked so nicely, of course I’ll wait for you.”

  He found himself smiling back, an act that earned a look of surprise from his adviser.

  “You have left your documents on the table,” Sonja pointed out as he walked away with her.

  “I know.”

  “Your private documents,” she reiterated. “Aren’t you concerned she will attempt to read their contents?”

  “I certainly hope she will, for I have already asked her to do so.”

  “Have you completely lost your senses?”

  “Not the last time I looked. I’ve asked Ms. Romolo for her opinion on my potential brides.”

  “I can’t imagine why you would value her thoughts,” Sonja remarked in surprise before pulling herself back together. “Anyway, that is of little significance. Whatever your courtesan thinks, you will marry one of the women in that folder. You have no other choice now.”

  Rocco’s steps halted abruptly and his blood ran cold. “No other choice? The vote is in?”

  “It is.” Sonja opened the door nearest to them and gestured for him to enter.

  Rocco eyed the bright steady light on the phone on the desk as if it was the eye of a serpent that was coiled and ready to strike. And wasn’t that indeed the case? Wasn’t there a viper in his midst, causing all this unrest?

  “Thank you, Sonja, you may wait outside.”

  She bowed her head and closed the door behind her. Perhaps he’d imagined it, but had he seen a faint glimpse of triumph on her face? Perhaps he was just becoming oversensitive about the issue in what was an extremely trying time. Maybe he was seeing things where they di
dn’t exist. But, he couldn’t help remembering her words from the previous night and wondering how many of the rest of his staff felt he should stand down, too.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t afford to think about that now. More pressing was taking the official call from his prime minister confirming the outcome of the vote to nullify the succession law. He reached for the phone.

  When the call had ended, Rocco sank back against his chair and closed his eyes. He’d honestly believed that his efforts to overturn the law would succeed. After all, hadn’t the law been devised at a time when a man was old at thirty-five years, not like modern times when a man was entering his prime at that age? He certainly didn’t feel old and decrepit, with the need to signify an heir as the end of his reign approached. There were plenty of other European heads of state who had fathered children, legitimate and otherwise, well after the age of thirty-five.

  No matter his internal arguments, it didn’t change the facts. He had to marry and the news made the contents of the dossier he had left with Ottavia all the more important. On paper, either woman would do. In fact, in ancient times, he or his advisers would have simply made a choice and married the maiden without ever having met her. The very thought of it made his mind and body revolt.

  And yet, wasn’t that precisely what he’d expected his sister to do after their father had brokered her marriage when she was still no more than a child? Rocco began to experience a new appreciation for what he’d put Mila through for the past several years, not to mention gain a stronger grasp of her reasons for masquerading as her fiancé’s courtesan in an attempt to make him fall in love with her. Her quest had been successful, but not without its bumps in the road.

  He wondered what Mila would think of the situation he now found himself in. He knew she was a great advocate of marrying for love. If she’d been anywhere but on her honeymoon he’d have asked her opinion, and no doubt surprised her with the request because when had he ever sought her judgment on any issue? The next time they saw one another he would begin to make amends.