Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets

by Yvonne Lindsay

  Later, as she fidgeted under the weight of the elegant silk-dupion-and-lace gown that was being fitted to her gentle curves she couldn’t help but think back to that moment when she and Thierry had kissed good-night—or perhaps it had been good morning, she thought. She couldn’t hold back a smile as she remembered the exquisitely gentle pressure of his lips upon hers. If she closed her eyes and concentrated she could almost feel him again, smell the subtle scent of his cologne—a blend of wood and spice that had done crazy things to her inside—and sense the yearning that there could be more. A tiny thrill of excitement rippled through her—a ripple that was rapidly chased away by the sensation of a pin in her thigh.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Highness, but if you’d just keep still for me a moment longer...” The couturier’s frustration was evident in her tone.

  “No, it is I who should apologize,” Mila hastily assured the woman. “I wasn’t concentrating. It is not your fault.”

  She focused on a corner of a picture frame on the wall and kept her body still, turning or lifting and dropping her arms when asked—like a marionette. And that, essentially, was all she was to her brother, she realized with a pang. A puppet to be manipulated for the benefit of all of Erminia. There wouldn’t have been such pressure on her if he had married by now himself. But, when faced with a royal proposal, the girl he’d loved through his late teens and early twenties had decided royal life was not for her, and since then he’d steered clear of romantic entanglements.

  Rocco’s crown might sit heavily on his dark curls, Mila thought with a sad sigh, but hers was equally burdensome. But, there was a silver lining, she reminded herself. Her night with Thierry showed they were intellectual equals and he had at least appeared to respect her opinion during their discussions.

  If he could give a total stranger his ear, why wouldn’t he extend the same courtesy to his wife?

  * * *

  It was 2:00 a.m. and Mila was still wide awake. Never a good traveler, she struggled to adjust to the change in time zones. While most of the good people of Erminia would be fast asleep in their beds about now, Mila’s body was on Boston time and for her it was only seven in the evening. Granted, it had been an exhausting day with the hours of travel followed by that awful meeting with her brother. Given how she always suffered severe motion sickness, which left her physically wrung out, logically she should be more than ready to sleep. Sadly, logic was lacking tonight, she accepted with a sigh as she pushed back the covers on her pedestal bed and reached for the light robe she’d cast over the end of her mattress before retiring.

  Maybe some warm milk, the way Cookie used to make it for her back when she was a child, would help. After donning her robe, Mila headed for the servants’ stairs toward the back of the castle. Sure, she knew that all she had to do was press a button and someone would bring the milk to her, but a part of her craved the inviting warmth and aromas that permeated the castle kitchens and that were such an intrinsic part of her happier childhood memories.

  Her slippers barely made a sound on the old stone stairs and, as opposed to the usual daily busyness that made the castle hum with activity during normal waking hours, the air was still and serene. She could do with some of that serenity right now.

  To her surprise, the sound of voices traveled up the corridor toward her. Obviously some staff was on duty around the clock, but it was unusual for the senior household steward to still be afoot at this time of night. Mila recognized Gregor’s voice as it rumbled along the ancient stone walls. For a second she was prepared to ignore it, and the younger female voice she could barely hear murmuring in response, but her ears pricked up when she caught Thierry’s name mentioned.

  Mila slowed her steps as she approached the open door of the steward’s office and listened carefully.

  “And you’re certain of this?” the steward asked.

  Mila was surprised Gregor’s voice sounded so stern. While the man held a position of extreme responsibility, he was well-known for his warm heart and caring nature—it was part of why the royal household ran so smoothly. His brusque tone right now seemed at odds with the person she remembered.

  “Yes, sir. My second cousin assists the king of Sylvain’s private secretary. He saw the document soliciting the woman’s—” the young woman hesitated a bit before continuing “—services.”

  “What does your cousin plan to do with this information he so willingly shared with you?”

  “Oh, sir, he didn’t do so willingly. I mean, it wasn’t meant as gossip.”

  “Then what did he mean by it?”

  Mila heard the younger woman make a sound, as if holding back tears. “Oh, please, sir. I don’t want him to get into any trouble. It troubled him that the king would seek the services of a courtesan so close to his marriage, especially when it is known within the Sylvano palace that the prince is—was—saving himself for marriage.”

  A courtesan? Mila’s ears buzzed, blocking out any other sound as the word reverberated in her skull. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably and she fought the nausea that swirled with a vicious and sudden twist.

  A sound from the steward’s office alerted her to the movement of the people inside. She couldn’t be caught here, not like this. Mila turned back down the corridor and slipped into another office, this one dark and unoccupied. With her arms bound tight around her middle, she stared at the closed door framed by a limning of light. Her mind whirled.

  Thierry had procured a professional mistress? Why would he even do such a thing? How had she misjudged him so badly? Their time together that night in New York had been wonderful, magical—and entirely chaste, without the slightest hint that he was seeking physical intimacy. It had thrilled her to think that he was staying untouched for her, just as she had done for him. None of what she’d learned about him in the hours they’d spent together made sense against what she’d just overheard.

  Mila stiffened as she heard a light pair of footsteps walk briskly down the hallway—the maid, leaving Gregor’s office by the sound of it. She waited, wondering if she’d hear Gregor leaving the same way, and as she waited her mind spun again. What should she do now she had this knowledge? She couldn’t refuse to marry Thierry. That would cause upheaval on both sides of the border. And she didn’t want to, not really. But how could she consider a future with a man who was already in the process of installing a mistress in a home they were meant to share? She had toiled long and hard to make herself into a worthy wife for the man she thought he was. Had she been wrong about him all along? Was he just another ruler who treated marriage as nothing more than a facade—like so many royal marriages that had taken place in the past? Had he already given up on the idea that Mila could possibly make him happy?

  Was their marriage really to be nothing more than a peace treaty between neighboring nations? Were they not to share the communion of two adults with shared hopes and dreams for the future? Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She would not succumb to weakness in this. There had to be a way to stop him from taking a mistress, a way to somehow circumvent this. Think! she commanded herself. Here she was, well educated, astute about women’s issues and keen to do something about them, and yet, when faced with a problem all she could do was hide and then fight back tears? How clichéd, she scolded silently. Mila loosened her arms and let them drop to her sides and lifted her chin. She was a princess, it was about time she started to think and act like one.

  An idea sprang into her mind. An idea so preposterous and far-fetched it almost took her breath away with its audacity. Even Sally would be proud. But could she do it? Thinking about it was one thing, undertaking it quite another—and it would involve far more people than just herself.

  Just how important was a happy marriage to her? Was she prepared to accept a union in which she was merely a figurehead and lead her own separate life, or did she want Thierry as her husband in every
way, emotionally and physically? The answer was resoundingly simple. She wanted it—him—all.

  Mila reached for the door handle and entered the corridor and resolutely trod toward Gregor’s office.

  Five

  “But, Your Royal Highness!” Gregor protested. “What you’re suggesting...it borders on criminal. In fact, kidnapping is criminal.”

  She’d expected resistance and she’d hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this. Mila had long believed the pledge of absolute obedience made by staff to the royal household to be archaic and, frankly, ridiculous. Who in their right mind would vow to serve their royal family unquestioningly in this day and age—especially if it meant doing something illegal? But tradition still formed the foundation of everything in Erminia and, in this case, the end justified the means. It had to. Her happiness and that of any children she might bear depended on it. She couldn’t allow Thierry to begin their marriage with a professional courtesan already in place as his mistress—not without making every effort to win his love for herself, first.

  “Gregor, it is your princess who asks this of you,” she said imperiously. She hated herself for having to act with such superiority. She’d never been that person—never had to be. In fact, she’d never believed she could be, but, it seemed, when pushed hard enough she was no different from her forebears. “I have no desire to take another woman’s leavings when I meet my groom at the altar,” she said, taking the bull directly by the horns.

  Before her, Gregor blushed. One didn’t discuss that sort of thing in front of a member of the royal family—especially not a princess. He looked as if he was about to protest once more, but Mila held her ground, staring directly into his eyes. The man never faltered. He held her gaze as if he could change her mind by doing so but then it appeared that he realized she was set on her course of action—whether he helped her, or not.

  “I understand, ma’am.”

  And he did. She could see it in his eyes. No one who lived and worked within these walls understood her dilemma better. In his position he’d seen one generation after another form marital alliances that had been alternately mediocre and miserable—which, Mila guessed, was only to be expected when people were picked for their pedigree alone and not their compatibility. Thierry’s family had been little different, even though his parents purportedly married for love—and look how that had ended. Deep in her heart she knew that she and Thierry could have better than that. They deserved it.

  “Then you’ll assist me?” she pressed.

  “Your safety is paramount, ma’am. If at any time you are under threat—”

  “There will be no risk of that,” Mila interrupted. “First, however, we must find out who this courtesan—” she said the word with a twist of distaste on her lips “—is, and what her travel plans are. Everything hinges on that.”

  “It won’t be easy, ma’am.”

  “Nothing worthwhile ever is,” Mila said with a twinge deep down inside. “And, Gregor, thank you.”

  “Your wish is my command, ma’am,” Gregor said with a deep bow. “Your people only wish for your happiness.”

  Her happiness. Would she be happy, she wondered? She’d darn well better be if this plan to kidnap the courtesan and take her place worked. If not, well, the outcome did not bode well for any of them.

  * * *

  Thierry ripped the ceremonial sword belt from his hip and cast the scabbard onto his bed with a disrespectful clatter.

  “Nico!” he commanded. “Assist me out of this getup immediately, would you?”

  His valet scurried from the dressing room and helped Thierry from the formal military uniform he’d worn to his father’s funeral this afternoon. The weight of the serge and brass and loops of braid was suffocating and Thierry wanted nothing more than to divest himself of it and all it signaled for his life to come.

  The day had been interminable. First the lengthy procession from the palace to the cathedral, following his father’s coffin on foot through streets lined with loyal, and some not so loyal, subjects crowding the pavements. One step in front of another. It had gotten him through the ghastly parade of pomp and ceremony and through the endless service at the cathedral and finally through the gloomy private interment in the royal tomb back here at the palace. The entire event had been sobering and a reminder of the years of restrictive duty that stretched before him and what was expected.

  It was nothing more than he had been brought up to do, and nothing more than his children would be brought up to do after him, God willing. Children. He’d never stopped to think about what it might be like to be a parent. He only remembered his own dysfunctional childhood where his parents had been distant characters to whom he was always expected to show the utmost respect and reverence. Even to his mother, who’d thrown her position and her responsibilities to the wind long before she’d embarked on her final, fatal affair.

  “Is there anything else you require, sire?” Nico asked, as he took the last of the heavy raiments on his arm.

  “Not this evening, thank you, Nico. I’m sorry I was so short with you just now.”

  “No need to apologize. It’s been a trying day for you.”

  Trying. Yes, that was one word for it, Thierry thought as he stalked in his underwear toward the massive marble bathroom off his bedroom. He stripped off his boxer briefs and turned on the multiheaded shower in the oversize stall and set the jets to pulse. He had a meeting scheduled with King Rocco of Erminia in an hour. An appointment dictated by duty, although if they could shed their various hangers-on, one that could prove fruitful as they both wished for the same outcome. Peace between their countries and an opening of the border, which was slated to improve both their economies.

  Of course, there were still plenty of the old-school holdouts in their respective governments who wished to maintain the status quo. Trust no one, was their motto—and Thierry could see how that motto had been earned. But that era needed to end and it was time their nations grew with positive change rather than remain forever entrenched in the old ways.

  Water pounded against the tension in his neck and shoulders, slowly loosening the knots. Thierry wished he could escape to his hunting lodge in the mountains tonight, but he had to abide by the protocols set by others before him. The meeting with King Rocco needed to be a productive one. After all, the man was set to become his brother-in-law in only three weeks’ time.

  Later, in his library, Thierry lifted the heavy crystal stopper from a decanter and looked across to the powerfully built dark-haired man who lounged comfortably in one of the armchairs by the window.

  “Brandy?” he asked.

  “Actually, I’d kill for a beer,” his guest, the King of Erminia, said with a dazzling smile that lifted the darkness of his expression.

  Thierry replied with a smile of his own. “Glass or bottle?”

  “The bottle is made of glass, isn’t it?” Rocco replied.

  A man after his own heart, Thierry decided as he opened the fridge door, disguised as a fourteenth century cupboard, and snagged two longnecks from the shelf. No doubt their respective protocol advisers would have a fit if they could see them now. Well, let them. Thierry twisted off the tops and handed Rocco a bottle. They drank simultaneously, sighing their satisfaction after that first long pull.

  “A local brew?” Rocco asked.

  Thierry nodded.

  “I don’t believe we carry it in Erminia. We might need to do something about that, among other things.”

  And there they were, at the crux of their meeting. His forthcoming marriage to Rocco’s sister. Thierry tried to summon the interest he knew the subject was due—it was his duty after all—but it had been a long time since his first meeting with Princess Mila and it had not gone well at all. Though he supposed, it had gone better than if she’d thrown up on his shoes, and from the look he’d seen
on her face, that had certainly been a possibility.

  No, he castigated himself. He wasn’t being fair to her. She’d been a child still, brought up in a sheltered environment, nervous at meeting her future husband for the first time. What else had he expected? A beautiful woman of the world? Someone he could converse with at length on topics near and dear to his heart?

  For a moment he was caught by a flash of memory of a woman who’d been exactly that. That brief moment in time with Angel was less than a week ago, but it felt as if an entire lifetime had passed since then. He pushed the memory from his mind but he couldn’t hold back his body’s response. Just a thought of Angel and excitement rippled through his veins. For the briefest instant he wished he could have been an ordinary man. One who might have been permitted to pursue, to court, to bed his Angel. But he shoved the thought unceremoniously from his mind. His was no ordinary life. He was no ordinary man. And, he was soon to marry a princess.

  And just like that the thrill that had coursed through him was gone. Thierry took another slug of his beer and turned to his guest.

  “How is Mila? Did she enjoy her time in the United States?”

  And, pow, there it was again. The memory of his own time in the United States, with Angel. The scent of her skin as he held her while they slow-danced. The sweet, sweet taste of her lips as they bade one another farewell.

  He realized that Rocco had spoken and was awaiting a response. “I’m sorry,” he apologized swiftly. “Could you repeat that?”

  “Daydreaming about your bride already,” Rocco said with a tight smile. “A promising start to your forthcoming nuptials. I said that she has returned both well-educated and well-polished. Provided you look after her, she will make a most suitable consort for you, I’m sure.”