A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  He cast a glance around the fully furnished apartment. “You must have spent a good part of the day hiding in the bathroom.”

  “I did. But I’d have been in there anyway,” she said ruefully, hugging her middle.

  He felt a prickle of sympathy for her. “The nausea hasn’t let up yet?”

  “It comes and goes. But it doesn’t go often enough. In fact, that’s how Brynn figured out that I was pregnant.”

  “Couldn’t she have assumed you’d eaten some bad clams or something?” he asked, scowling.

  “I tried to convince her it was food poisoning when I had to rush into the bathroom for the third time,” Emmaline told him. “And she might have believed me . . . if she hadn’t stumbled across the book you bought for me.”

  “Didn’t you hide it?”

  “I did. Under the bed. But she found it while she was crawling around, measuring for the carpet.”

  Granger rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway, we can trust her not to tell anybody,” Emmaline went on.

  “Is that the royal ‘we’?” he asked. “Or am I included?” For a change, he added, feeling prickly.

  “Of course you’re included. I meant ‘we,’ as in you and I.”

  He felt better instantly. “We.” What a terrific, cozy little word.

  “And I’m almost relieved that she knows,” Emmaline went on, “because thanks to her, we have an appointment a week from Wednesday.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re not.”

  “Oh, this time it’s the royal ‘we’? As in, just you?”

  “No, as in just me and Brynn.”

  Okay, so “we” wasn’t terrific after all. Not unless it was limited to himself and Emmaline.

  He disliked “we” intensely when he was left out of it.

  “Where are you going?” he asked impatiently.

  “To see Brynn’s doctor, who normally doesn’t take new patients.”

  “Not unless they happen to be pregnant princesses—is that it?” He sighed, and asked, “Is he an OB-GYN, at least?”

  “He’s a she, and of course she’s an OB-GYN. And I just told you that we can trust Brynn. The doctor has no idea who I am.”

  Though she had shifted the “we” to once again encompass him, he couldn’t help resenting her tone—that, and the fact that Brynn seemed to have suddenly stepped in and taken over.

  He didn’t waste time now wondering how his old friend had arrived on the scene in the first place, as Brynn had always had a way of popping up when—and where—you least expected her. She also had a way of taking over everything from his social life to his personal space.

  He paced toward the window, suddenly needing air. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re going to tell this physician?”

  “I’m just going to tell her that I suspect I’m pregnant.”

  Granger stopped in mid-stride and turned toward her. “You suspect you’re pregnant?”

  A tide of some emotion that felt more like fear than relief washed over him.

  “Well, I haven’t taken a test yet. But I have all the symptoms, so I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

  “Oh.” He couldn’t help wondering about that remaining one percent chance.

  What if she was wrong?

  What if there was no baby?

  If there was no baby, he was off the hook. Her problem was solved. They could go their separate, merry, unencumbered ways.

  But if there was no baby . . .

  Then he wouldn’t be a daddy.

  And for some reason, he desperately wanted to be a daddy. He felt like one already; felt the weight of responsibility as acutely as the thrill of anticipation whenever he thought about March.

  If she wasn’t pregnant, March would be just another month.

  His would be the only March birthday to celebrate, and he would be celebrating it solo. Forever.

  Granger cleared his throat, conscious of Emmaline’s green gaze resting on him.

  He asked, “Don’t you think it’s going to be pretty difficult to maintain a disguise in a doctor’s office? What if you knock your wig askew while you’re disrobing?”

  As he spoke, an image of Emmaline disrobing promptly skittered into his brain and lodged there. Acutely aware of a familiar stirring, Granger turned back toward the window, away from her, lest she glimpse the not-so-subtle evidence of his yearning.

  “Oh, I won’t need the wig after tomorrow,” she was saying airily. “Brynn is going to dye my hair for me, and cut it.”

  “Cut it?” He spun back to face her, horrified. “She’s going to cut your hair?”

  “She thought a shorter style would be flattering.”

  “Well, she thought wrong,” he said vehemently.

  “But Granger—”

  “What?” he barked.

  She stared at him. “It’s just . . . well, I’m surprised you have such strong feelings about my hair.”

  He had strong feelings about more than just her hair. And he didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t like caring this much about a woman.

  About this woman, in particular.

  She represented everything he was trying to escape. And yet there was no escape from her. Every time he turned around, every time he opened his eyes in the morning, every time he closed them at night . . . there she was. On his mind. Under his roof. In his dreams.

  The only place she wasn’t was in his bed.

  These last few nights, lying on the unforgiving, dusty floor, listening to her hushed breathing in peaceful slumber, had been torturous for him.

  Now his gaze fell on the inviting queen-sized bed that had materialized a few feet away. He pictured her there, naked beneath him, her long hair spilling over the pillow, just as it had that morning in his uptown apartment, and that night in his suite at the Traviata in Chimera.

  “Go ahead,” he said gruffly, turning away from her. “Cut your hair.”

  When she was silent, he assumed that she, too, had turned her back.

  Then he felt her gentle touch on his arm.

  He looked over his shoulder to see her standing beside him.

  “I won’t cut my hair,” she said softly. “Not if you like it the way it is.”

  “I do. But not like that . . .”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.

  She looked up at him expectantly, as though she were holding her breath, aware of what was coming, unable—or unwilling—to stop him.

  And so he took the plunge.

  “I like your hair like this,” he said in a low voice, pulling out first one hairpin and then another, and another.

  Her careful updo came tumbling down in a sweet-smelling, silken cascade.

  Granger laced his fingers into it, then buried his face in it, filling his lungs with her intoxicating scent.

  His mouth found its way to the nape of her neck, and she moaned as he nuzzled her there. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her over to the bed, careful not to jostle her as he set her on the comforter.

  He stood looking down at her, thinking that he had never seen a more exquisite creature. Now there was nothing stately or proper about Emmaline as she settled her wavy hair against the heap of pillows and sent him a heated gaze in silent invitation.

  He lay beside her, resting the hard length of his body against her soft curves. She squirmed, pulling him closer so that their bodies fit perfectly together.

  For a long time, they lay kissing.

  Just kissing.

  Feathery light kisses; deep, hungry kisses.

  And for a long time, the kissing was all either of them needed. It was enough just to lie in each other’s arms, kissing, like a couple of high school kids who had all the time in the world.

  Then, all at once, it wasn’t enough. Their hands began to wander, unfastening and then unzipping, helping each other out of their clothes until they were naked at last.

  Granger rolled on top of her once again, and then
into her. He savored her warm flesh against his, and her body’s fragile quivers beneath him, and the hushed sound of her breathing as they moved.

  With his molten release came her own shudder of movement beneath him. She clung to his shoulders and they rode it out together. When it was over, he pulled the quilt over them both and held her against his chest, stroking her head.

  “Well? Did that convince you?” he asked after a while, when his heart rate had slowed.

  “Convince me?” She lifted her head to look at him. “Convince me of what?”

  “Not to cut your hair,” he said.

  A delighted grin lit her face.

  “Not quite,” she said slyly, a devilish gleam in her eye. “Maybe you should try to convince me again.”

  His heart rate quickened. “Gladly.”

  And he did.

  A few hours later, lying in Granger’s arms, Emmaline woke from a light, contented sleep.

  She found Granger smiling at her.

  “Didn’t you sleep?” she asked.

  “A little. But I’d rather watch you.”

  She should have felt self-conscious about that. But somehow she didn’t.

  “What time is it?” she asked, yawning.

  “After midnight.”

  “That late?”

  “Why so disappointed, Princess? You didn’t turn into a pumpkin. Yet,” he added playfully, his fingers grazing her barely swollen belly.

  Before she could reply, her stomach did . . . with a loud growl.

  “Oh my goodness, excuse me,” she said, not the least bit embarrassed. It seemed that their incredible physical encounter had—at least for the time being—made Emmaline comfortable with Granger. More comfortable, somehow, than she had ever been with another human being.

  “Either our child is part beast, or you’re a little hungry,” Granger said with a chuckle.

  “I’m famished,” she said. “What a pity that breakfast is hours away. How I would love a platter of eggs with bacon and fried potatoes, and toast with jam.” Her mouth flooded with saliva at the thought. She swallowed hard.

  “I bought eggs the other day,” Granger said. “I can make some for—”

  “But there’s no bacon!” she protested sharply. “Or potatoes. I need potatoes. Fried potatoes. With lots of salt.”

  “Testy little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I just need bacon and potatoes,” she said reasonably—or perhaps a bit frantically.

  It was the oddest thing. She never ate fried anything, and she didn’t even like bacon. But suddenly, she wanted—needed—to taste its fatty, smoky flavor more than she had ever wanted or needed anything.

  Well . . . almost anything, she amended, allowing her fingertips to dance a trail down Granger’s naked, muscular torso.

  “In the morning, I’ll go buy you some bacon and potatoes,” he promised, stroking her hair. “I’ll even fry the potatoes in the bacon grease for you. With lots of salt.”

  “That’s sweet,” she crooned. “But I need it now.”

  He stopped stroking. “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  “You need bacon and potatoes right now? In the middle of the night? A rainy night, might I add?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t seem to help it, Granger. I’m quite ravenous.”

  “You’ve got to be kid—” He broke off, lifting his head and looking down at her face. “Wait a minute. Is this a pregnancy craving?”

  “If you don’t promise me bacon and eggs and fried potatoes and toast with jam—quince jam—I’m going to run stark naked into the street in the rain to find it myself,” she said calmly.

  “Yup, it’s a craving all right.” He sat up. “Come on. Let’s get dressed.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Yes, both of us. You don’t think I’m going out in the rain alone at this hour, do you?”

  “Surely you don’t think I’m going to be able to protect you?”

  Granger smirked. “No, but you’re going to keep me company. I know a place that serves terrific breakfasts twenty-four hours a day, and it’s not far from here.”

  She licked her lips. “Do they have bacon?”

  “Lots of bacon. And mountains of fried potatoes.”

  “Quince jam?”

  “Don’t push it, Princess. They have jam, but I’m not sure quince is as big around here as it is in Verdunia.”

  “I really need—”

  “You really need to get dressed,” Granger said. “And I promise you that if they don’t have quince jam, I’ll search every gourmet shop in town for it. Tomorrow.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then froze. “Granger?”

  “Now what?”

  “I can’t go out to a restaurant, that’s what!”

  “Oh, that.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Trust me, nobody in this restaurant at this hour is going to be in any condition to recognize you. Especially not if you wear your wig and sunglasses.”

  “At night? Indoors?”

  “I promise you won’t be the only one. Oh, and wear comfortable shoes. We’re walking.”

  “But it’s raining!”

  “Haven’t you ever walked in the rain?”

  “Yes, the other day with you,” she remembered. “All right, as long as you bring your umbrella I suppose it won’t—”

  “I don’t have my umbrella anymore.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go.”

  She hesitated, trying to quell her intense need for food. Specific food. “Granger, forget it. This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Sure it is. I promised myself that I was going to spring you from your gilded cage, remember? And all I’ve done so far is swap one cage for another. You need to get out of here. You need to learn how to live a little.”

  “I know how to live,” she said indignantly. “And I—”

  “You need bacon and potatoes,” he cut in. “Or am I wrong?”

  No. He wasn’t wrong. She needed bacon and potatoes.

  And maybe she needed a wee-hour walk in the rain, too. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll get my wig.”

  The sun was shining brightly this morning in Buiron, and Princess Josephine basked in its glow at the breakfast table on Prince Remi’s private terrace.

  She had spent the night at the palace again—in a guest suite, of course. It was just so much easier than traveling back and forth over the bumpy road home to Chimera.

  Naturally, the press had followed her comings and goings with interest. There had even been a bit of innuendo about the youngest princess trying to take her missing sister’s place in the prince’s heart.

  But for the most part, the media seemed to assume precisely what Josephine wanted them—and Remi—to assume: that she was comforting the prince in his time of need.

  She had yet to hear from Emmaline again. There was no sign that her sister had any intention of materializing in Verdunia as promised. Presumably—and, all right, hopefully—she had been swept off her feet by one Granger Lockwood and was planning to stay right where she was. For a while, at least—if not forever.

  And Josephine would be content to stay right where she was—forever. In a week’s time, she had gone from admiration to infatuation to madly in love with her would-be brother-in-law. And unless she was mistaken, the feeling was mutual.

  She had seen the appreciation—and longing—in Remi’s eyes when he looked at her.

  She had also seen the guilt.

  If only she could tell him where Emmaline was—and what she was doing behind his back.

  But familial loyalty wasn’t easily jettisoned in royal circles. Josephine couldn’t possibly break her vow to her sister—not even for love.

  A shadow fell over her. She looked up from her mimosa to see Prince Remi standing beside her.

  “Good morning.” Her heart quickened at the sight of him, clean-shaven, hair still damp from his shower, crisp and clean in white trou
sers and a blue silk shirt. “Did you sleep well, Remi?”

  “Unfortunately, I didn’t.” He sat across from her, and she noticed the deep circles beneath his eyes. “There’s something you should know, Josephine. I’ve come to an important realization.”

  “What is it?”

  Her heart quickened. Was he going to tell her that he loved her?

  “We aren’t any closer to finding Emmaline than we were a week ago,” he said. “The only place we haven’t thoroughly investigated is America—and you’re quite certain she wouldn’t be there.”

  “Fairly certain,” Josephine murmured, with a smidgen of contrition. Perhaps she shouldn’t have tried quite so hard to keep Remi off Emmaline’s trail.

  Then again, he hadn’t seemed all that eager to find Emmaline, either. In fact, the two of them had spent far more time flirting with each other and sharing candlelight meals and scintillating conversation than they had in earnest investigation of Emmaline’s whereabouts.

  “When I spoke to your father yesterday morning again, he seemed to believe that it was time to take a more drastic measure,” Remi said, sitting across from her.

  He stared glumly at the breakfast—which today included eggs with hollandaise sauce, thick French toast delicately dusted with powdered sugar, fresh raspberries, a fragrant pot of coffee, and the aforementioned mimosas.

  “How drastic a measure?” Josephine asked, lifting her half-filled flute to her lips to stave off dread.

  “He’s urged me to use whatever means I must to reach out to Emmaline and get her back here so that she and I can—”

  “Here . . . have a berry. They’re luscious.” Josephine popped one into his open mouth, successfully cutting him off.

  “Mmm . . . they are luscious,” Remi said, swallowing. “As I was say—”

  “Have another. You must be famished.” As she swiftly placed another plump berry in his mouth, Josephine’s fingers brushed against his lips. She longed to allow them to linger there.

  “Mmm,” he said again . . . with perhaps a hint of seduction.

  “Would you like another?”

  “Please.”

  She leaned closer and slowly fed him another berry.

  He fairly moaned in ecstasy.

  “I knew you were hungry,” she crooned.