A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  Emmaline set down her fork.

  “What’s the matter? Are you allergic to eggs or something?”

  Perfect. That was a perfect solution. Although she’d better be careful. She didn’t want to rule out a whole dairy group, just in case she wound up staying with him longer than this morning, despite her intention to flee as soon as breakfast was over.

  “I’m not allergic to eggs,” she said. “Just to . . . sprouts.”

  “Alfalfa?”

  “All sprouts.” It came out more harshly than she intended, and she made an attempt to smile. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  “Well, there are plenty of eggs. I can make you an omelet without sprouts,” he offered, pushing back his chair.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll just have some . . .” She reached toward the heaping plate in the middle of the table.

  “Toast?” He pushed it toward her. “Go ahead. I made a lot.”

  And all of it was positively scorched. “Did you toast the whole loaf?” she asked weakly. It certainly appeared that he had.

  “There are a few slices left.”

  “I’ll just have some bread, then, thank you.”

  “With butter? Marmalade? Peach-mango chutney?”

  She gulped. Her stomach was in full spin cycle. The last thing she wanted to do now was eat anything, but some instinct told her to do the opposite of what made sense. Food would ease the nausea. Plain food. Not peach-mango chutney. Or sprouts.

  “Just a slice of bread would be fine,” she told Granger. “I can get it.”

  “No, you sit. You still look a little green. I’ll get it.”

  He jumped up and left the dining room.

  Emmaline clasped a hand to her mouth, fighting back another wave of morning sickness. This was torture. How long was it going to go on? She didn’t think she could bear it another day, let alone for nearly eight more months.

  “Here you go.” Granger breezed back into the room with a plate that he set in front of her. “Sure you don’t want anything to go with this? Peanut butter or something?”

  “No, thank you,” she said hastily.

  He went back to his seat, and to his eggs.

  She hesitated, wishing he would go back into the other room and leave her to eat—or perhaps to throw up again—in peace. It wouldn’t even be so bad if he were seated at the opposite end of the large rectangular table. But he had insisted that she sit at the head, and he had taken a seat to her right, his plate mere inches from hers.

  Well, she couldn’t stall all day. She noted, as Granger doused his omelet with a blizzard of salt, that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  Reluctantly, Emmaline picked up the bread, took a bite, and forced it down.

  Okay. So far, so good.

  Another bite.

  Force it down.

  Another bite.

  Force it down.

  Once she got into the rhythm of it, she found the queasiness subsiding. She was so relieved at what was beginning to feel like a miracle cure that she almost forgot Granger was there, until he cleared his throat noisily.

  Emmaline looked up to find him staring at her. She noticed that in this light, his navy polo shirt made his eyes look deeper blue. It was rumpled, as were the khaki shorts he wore with leather deck shoes—no socks. His cheeks were shaded in razor stubble.

  Emmaline couldn’t help comparing his casual style to the perpetually clean-shaven, neatly combed Remi’s buttoned-up wardrobe.

  Not that Granger didn’t clean up quite nicely, she thought, remembering how dashing he had been that night, months ago, at the black-tie reception at the palace.

  “You don’t look like you’re enjoying that bread very much,” he commented.

  “It’s fine.”

  “But you’re so businesslike about eating it.”

  She shrugged.

  “Do you have . . . Maybe I shouldn’t ask, but . . . I mean, you’re so skinny. Do you have an eating disorder or something?”

  “An eating disorder?”

  Hmm. An eating disorder.

  He kept offering possible explanations for her behavior, and it was tempting to seize this one just as readily as she had the allergy excuse.

  But Emmaline reminded herself that she couldn’t keep up the charade forever. Sooner or later she was going to have to tell him the truth about the baby.

  Unless, of course, she fled the country immediately and never saw him again.

  Which had been her plan first thing this morning, before Granger—and a cascade of vomit—intervened.

  She took another bite of bread for fortification, then looked him in the eye. “I don’t have an eating disorder,” she told him firmly.

  “You’re just a picky eater, then.”

  She eyed the unappetizing breakfast he had prepared.

  Then she reminded herself that he was just trying to be a good host, and that she should be grateful to him for all he had done for her.

  But what about what he did to you? a disapproving voice inquired. If it weren’t for him, you’d be . . .

  If it weren’t for him, she’d be on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean right now.

  With Remi, she reminded herself.

  Married to Remi.

  She didn’t want that . . .

  Not any more than she wanted . . .

  This.

  But what she wanted didn’t matter.

  She was stuck with this.

  Stuck with Granger Lockwood.

  At least for the time being.

  “Yes,” she said stiffly, “I guess I am rather . . . discriminating when it comes to food.”

  “Well, you’re not missing much. This omelet sucks. The toast, too. I think it’s burned.”

  “You . . . think . . . it’s burned?” She watched him shovel a charred hunk of toast into his mouth, and found herself laughing, shaking her head.

  He laughed, too. “Hey, what can I say? I’ll eat anything when I’m hungry.”

  “In that case . . .” She reached under the table and pulled off her black leather slingback.

  “What’s this?” he asked, staring at the shoe.

  “Dessert. Would you like it as is, or à la mode?”

  He chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Princess.”

  “My shoe?”

  “Your sense of humor. You actually have one. And it catches me off guard every time.”

  “Really?” She regarded him thoughtfully, chewing and swallowing another bite of the deliciously yeasty bakery bread before asking, “Why is that? Aren’t princesses supposed to be amusing?”

  “None that I’ve ever known have been.”

  “Then you’ve known quite a few princesses, have you?”

  “None as amusing—or as beautiful—as you are.” The twinkle was still in his eyes, but so was something else. Something that made her heart beat faster and her breath catch in her throat.

  She exhaled slowly, staring at him, the smile fading from her lips. “Granger . . .”

  He leaned across the table. “You have a crumb . . .”

  Her heart raced.

  He reached out and brushed her cheek. “. . . right there,” he murmured.

  “Is it . . . ?” Her voice, when she managed to find it at all, was hushed.

  “It’s gone.” He leaned closer.

  Before Emmaline knew what was happening, his fingers had been replaced by his lips. He grazed her cheek, then found her mouth. As tender warmth bloomed with the kiss into blazing heat, Emmaline forgot everything . . . everything but the here and now, and this man.

  When he tore his mouth away from hers long enough to say, “Come with me,” she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and went willingly.

  If the master bedroom had been any farther from the dining room; if she’d had a moment to collect her thoughts, to realize what she was doing, she might have found the strength—and common sense—to resist.

  But mere steps down the hall and preci
ous few breathless seconds led her to Granger’s king-sized bed.

  There they tumbled; fumbled with buttons and zippers and clasps until at last there was no barrier between them. Cradled in his strong arms as he eased her into a downy heap of pillows, Emmaline felt sheltered in a sanctuary from which she never wanted to emerge.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

  She nodded and closed her eyes as his warm mouth trailed tantalizing kisses along her skin, delving into the hollow beneath her ear and the one at the base of her throat, and then lower still. She moaned as his tongue encountered one swollen nipple.

  “Did I hurt you?” he whispered, lifting his head.

  Her breasts had grown increasingly tender these past few days, yet now his touch aroused a curious, pleasurable ache in them.

  “No, you didn’t hurt me. It’s—” She gasped as his mouth once again brushed her delicate flesh.

  Her arms tucked beneath his, her hands splayed on his shoulders, she could feel the ripple of muscle beneath his taut skin. Filled with wonder, she stroked his back, his biceps, captivated by his masculinity.

  It was all so extraordinarily innovative to her—this exquisite proximity to a man, this ability to touch him, to inhale the intoxicating scent of him, to see, when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, the undiluted desire in his blue gaze.

  Clasping his shoulders, she opened herself to him, and his body melted into hers. This time, unlike their last, she knew what to expect.

  Yet it was different, somehow. There was no last-minute concerned hesitation on his part, no discomfort or pain on hers, just an intense rush of pleasure mingling with a closeness unlike anything she had ever felt.

  Emmaline was overcome by the exhilarating physical sensation of him moving inside her, of his body encompassing hers. Somehow, it seemed reciprocal, as though she had slipped inside him, too—as though she had become a part of him, and he of her.

  She never wanted it to end; yet when she felt him heave a shuddering groan and realized what was happening, she was filled with an electrifying satisfaction. Giddy with newfound sensual power, she marveled that she was capable of creating this astoundingly tangible response in a man—in this man.

  When Granger collapsed against her, spent, breathing hard, she stroked his hair, steeped in contentment.

  Then he rolled onto his back and pulled her with him, tucking her head against his chest and encircling her in the crook of his arm. She listened as his breathing slowed and finally slipped into the telltale rhythm of sleep. She told herself that she should get up, get dressed, start making plans.

  But she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave the shelter of his body. Not yet.

  She yawned.

  Just a few more moments.

  Then she would . . .

  When she opened her eyes, the light had shifted.

  Granger was stirring beneath her.

  They had been asleep. Both of them.

  And before they fell asleep . . .

  She lifted her head and found him looking at her.

  “What are you smiling about, Princess?” he asked lazily.

  “It’s just . . . it’s quite incredible, isn’t it?”

  “What we did?” He grinned and nodded. “I’d say so.”

  “I can’t believe I never realized . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  “And now that you know,” he said, seductively tracing her jaw with the back of his finger, “are you content with your choice?”

  She stiffened.

  It all came back to her.

  The wedding.

  The escape.

  The baby.

  I have to tell him, she realized. I can’t keep this from him another moment, and certainly not for a lifetime.

  It was Granger’s child, too. They were in this together. Suddenly, that once-frightening knowledge was comforting.

  “We have to talk,” she said.

  “You keep saying that. And you’re right. We do have to talk. But first . . .” He stretched and rolled away. “I have to run a quick errand.”

  “An errand?”

  “Yup.” He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and bent to look underneath it, presumably for his discarded clothing.

  “Can it wait?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What can you possibly have to do so urgently on a Sunday morning?” she asked, ire rising within her. Certainly it wasn’t more important than what she had to say.

  “I have to get the newspaper. We need the classifieds.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “That can’t wait?”

  “This is Manhattan, Princess.”

  “I’m quite aware of our geographic location,” she said tartly, and wanted to add that he was supposed to be calling her Emmaline. At the memory of how she had reacted earlier to the sound of her name on his lips, she held her tongue. She wasn’t in the mood to be seduced again. And anyway, he managed to make “Princess” sound like a pet name and not an official title.

  “Well, I need to find an apartment, immediately,” he was saying. “I don’t know if there’s an abundance of affordable real estate in Verdunia, but it’s not exactly ripe for the picking in these parts.”

  “But Granger—”

  “We’re talking cutthroat competition.” He was pulling his khaki shorts on as he spoke.

  “I need to—”

  “We’re talking first come, first served.”

  “Granger—”

  “I’ll be right back, and then we can—”

  “Granger!”

  He fell abruptly silent at her shout, then turned to look at her. “What is it?”

  “It’s . . .”

  It’s now or never.

  She gulped, then took the plunge. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Granger echoed.

  His initial shred of disbelief gave way to a landslide of conviction.

  “Pregnant,” he said again.

  She was pregnant. Of course she was. Now everything made sense . . .

  Sort of.

  Her nausea and exhaustion made more sense now.

  Yet now, the fact that she was here with him made even less sense.

  He looked at her. She was sitting up in bed. Her glorious, passion-tousled dark hair spilled over her naked shoulders, and his hungry mouth had erased every trace of lipstick from hers. She had drawn the comforter tightly over her breasts, clinging to it like a shield, and her eyes bored warily into his.

  “You’re pregnant.”

  “I’m quite aware of that.”

  “But . . . pregnant?”

  “Will you please stop saying that word!”

  “Does Remi know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Your parents?”

  “No.”

  “Does anyone know?”

  “No. Not even Tabitha. Just you.”

  He was so flattered by the fact that she trusted him, of all people, with her secret, that it took him a moment to remember to wonder why.

  “Shouldn’t you have told Remi?” he asked, frowning.

  “I couldn’t. He wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe you’re not giving him enough credit,” Granger said reluctantly. He wasn’t an ardent Prince Remi supporter, but that didn’t mean the guy was an ogre—or that he didn’t deserve to know he was going to be a father.

  Emmaline cleared her throat and said delicately, “Maybe you aren’t aware that as his royal bride, I was presumed to be—and medically certified to be—a virgin. That was before I met you.”

  A virgin.

  The word was a high-speed freight train slamming into him.

  A virgin.

  He had known that. Of course he had. The night they were together . . .

  She had been a virgin.

  He had been her first.

  Perhaps . . .

  “Emmaline . . .” His voice was hoarse, but at least he
’d managed to locate it. “Was I . . . was I your only . . . ?”

  “You were the only one,” she confirmed softly.

  “Not even Remi . . . ?”

  “Just you.”

  “So . . . it’s mine? The baby? It’s . . . it’s my baby?”

  Baby.

  The word tasted foreign on his lips. He realized that, quite possibly, it wasn’t a word he’d ever even uttered. He’d simply never had occasion to talk about babies, singular or plural.

  In Granger’s world, babies were . . .

  Well, babies just weren’t. They weren’t in his world. They didn’t belong here, either.

  “Granger.” Emmaline was staring at him. “You mean you thought . . . you thought it was Remi’s baby?”

  He nodded mutely.

  “But if it was Remi’s baby, why would I be here?”

  “I don’t know. I guess maybe if you were ashamed to be a pregnant bride . . . or if you were feeling trapped . . . I don’t know. I guess it wouldn’t make any sense for you to be here if it were his, would it?”

  She shook her head.

  And he found himself thinking that it made even less sense for her to be here, carrying his child. Did she actually expect him to . . . well, to marry her? To be somebody’s father?

  Father.

  A word that had crossed his lips almost as sparsely as the word “baby” had. But his mind—well, that was a different story.

  Granger’s thoughts darted back along a dim, but familiar path.

  He remembered awakening to a shadowy image of a tall man stealing into the bedroom long after Granger had fallen asleep—a tall man, bumping into things, leaning over to clumsily kiss his sleeping child. He had always smelled of cigarettes, and gin, and night air.

  Perhaps it had happened only once. Perhaps it was a regular routine.

  Or perhaps it had never happened at all—Granger’s father stealing in to kiss him good night. Perhaps he only wanted to think that it had.

  “Well?” Emmaline asked, jarring him back to the present.

  He looked at her.

  She was expressionless, waiting.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said at last. “I—you—this is totally unexpected. What are . . . you . . . going to do?”

  He had intended to say, What are we going to do? He knew it was what he should say. Yet somehow the word wouldn’t come. He wasn’t ready to be a “we.”

  I haven’t even had a chance to be a me, he protested inwardly. Selfishly. But he couldn’t help it.