Prince's Son of Scandal

by Dani Collins

  “I’m a woman of extremes. You might as well know that about me. Give me that pillow.”

  He dragged it closer and she fell onto her side and buried her face in it. She sobbed so deeply, was in the throes of an anguish so terrible, he was stricken witnessing it. How did she withstand it?

  Let it run its course, her sister had said. That seemed cruel.

  He settled on the bed behind her, rubbed her arm and soothed her shaking back. It took several minutes for her crying to subside. She lifted her head and breathed as though she’d been running for miles.

  “I keep worrying I’ll have an attack while I’m in labor. My doctor says this won’t hurt the baby, but I’m so scared all this adrenaline is causing damage. What if we go through all of this and our child isn’t fit to reign? What if that’s my fault because I can’t control this?”

  “Is there nothing you can take? Something safe during pregnancy?”

  “No. I mean, maybe, but I can’t. Won’t.” She threw her arm over her eyes. “I tried drugs years ago. They made me depressed and dependent. I was close to taking a whole bottle just to end this.”

  She dropped her arm and twisted to stare at him from between matted lashes.

  “I shouldn’t have told you that. You’ll declare me unfit and take our baby away. Oh, God...”

  She rolled around the pillow again, dragging the blanket with her and pulling it over her head.

  “Trella.” He was no mental health expert, but he knew a tailspin when he heard one. He settled on the mattress behind her, propped on an elbow, letting his body heat penetrate the blanket as he gave rubs of reassurance against her shoulder and arm. He wanted to fold right around her, absorb whatever had such a terrible grip on her.

  “Let’s take this one thing at a time. Hmm? The baby is well. Your doctor said so, yes? Do you know the sex?”

  It took a minute, but her breathing settled to something more natural.

  “I’ve been afraid to ask, thinking it would make me more attached. I’m so scared I’m going to lose it.” She shifted, pushing away the blanket to reveal her face, then peeled the blanket all the way back, piling it on him as she exposed her bump. She smoothed her shirt over the roundness. “It’s moving. Do you want to feel?”

  He stalled, reality hitting him like a train. He let her draw his hand across the tense swell of her midsection. He had thought it would feel like an inflated beach ball, but she was warm and there was give within the firmness. A shape. Something that felt no bigger than his knuckle pressed outward, moving across the palm of his hand.

  He almost jerked back, yet he was too fascinated and kept his hand in place, waiting to feel it again. “Does that hurt?”

  “It reassures me. Hola, bebé. Cómo estás?”

  Another tiny kick struck his hand, prompting a soft noise of amusement deep in her throat. She turned her head to look at him. Her eyelids were red and swollen, but her smile was so filled with joy and wonder, she took his breath away.

  The moment snaked out like a rope to encircle and draw them together, binding them, inexorable and eternal.

  He sucked in a breath, drawing back as he tried to pull himself free of what threatened to carry him into deep waters like a deadly riptide.

  “How are we even here? How—Why me, bella?”

  “Why did I sleep with you? I didn’t plan to sleep with anyone.” She curled around her pillow, rubbing her face against it, drying tears. “I only wanted to practice being in public. I was so proud for having the courage to talk to a man, then to be alone with one. You made me feel normal. Safe. I needed that. I was using you. I admit that. But sleeping with you?” She craned her neck to look at him, her expression helpless. Anxious. “I couldn’t help myself. You said we were volatile. That...”

  He knew what he had said. It had been true. He’d never experienced anything like what he’d felt with her that night. Despite his best efforts, the memory haunted him. He wasn’t a dependent person, but he was disturbingly gratified to be this close to her again. The animal inside him had finally stopped pacing with restless frustration.

  He was loath to admit any of that, though. Her power to still affect him unnerved him. “It was my last night before I got engaged. We were both attributing significance for our own reasons.”

  The light in her eyes dimmed with hurt. She withdrew, turning away again.

  He closed his fist in the tangle of blanket across their hips, lungs turning to lead.

  “Either way, it gave me hope that I could be normal. Maybe fall in love and get married, someday. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be normal. Now I never will be, because I’m carrying a royal baby and I was so happy to be pregnant, but I knew this was a disaster. You have your life and I’ve never had any life at all. I deserve a chance to be single and free. Free of this!”

  Her tension returned in a contraction of her muscles that drew her in like a shrinking bloom, fists coming up to her clenched eyes.

  “I told Gili I would run Maison des Jumeaux. When we were little, she was able to count on me. I want to be that person people can rely on, but I’m always going to be this pathetic—”

  “Trella. You have to stop escalating.”

  “Do you think I can control it?” Her hands went into her hair, clenching handfuls. “I try. I really try, but the fear grips me. Now we have to get married and you don’t want some crazy burden of a wife. You’ll hate me. I’m so scared of what will happen.”

  “Stop.” He couldn’t stand it. He pressed his body heat around her, held her in sheltering arms and willed her back to calm. “Hatred is a wasted emotion. It closes all pathways to resolving a conflict. Our situation is difficult, but hating each other won’t make it easier.”

  Her trembling continued, but he felt the moment his words penetrated. Her hands loosened in her hair.

  “That sounds very wise,” she said on a sniff. “Do they teach you that in monarchy school?”

  “Divorce class. My mother was a great believer in practical demonstrations.”

  She unfolded a few increments more. “When we were in Paris, you said your mother was sent away by your grandmother because she wanted a divorce?”

  He eased his embrace, regretting his loose lips. He had learned out of necessity to be comfortable with his own thoughts, never needing confidantes, but keeping her mind engaged seemed to forestall her emotional downtrends, so he answered.

  “She made a commitment then didn’t accept her lot. Unhappy wives move into the dowager wing. They don’t reject royal life altogether. My mother tried separation, but my father and grandmother pressured her to have another baby. Since their marriage was over, she refused. She was granted a divorce on the grounds that she left Elazar. She had family in Germany so she moved there.”

  “Exiled, you said. But you still saw her? How old were you?” She tried to twist enough to see him.

  He used the weight of his arm to keep them spooned. Her hair tickled his lips while the scent of her went straight to the back of his brain, finding where she had imprinted herself in Paris and settling like a puzzle piece matched to its empty space.

  He shook off the notion. “I was eight. At boarding school. My life wasn’t affected much. We exchanged a few letters, but what was there to say?”

  “You didn’t see her at all?” She tried harder to twist, rolling onto her back and forcing him to meet her gaze. “Do you see her now?”

  “We send Christmas cards.” He shrugged off the jabs of rejection that still came alive when he revisited the memory. “Chosen by our personal assistants. We’re not sentimental people.”

  Her expression grew appalled. “What about your father? You said you were young when he abdicated?”

  “Renounced,” he corrected, regretting this. It was becoming too intimate. Too uncomfortable.

  �
�Do you see him?”

  “It was best we didn’t communicate.” This communication ended here, he conveyed by drawing back.

  “But—” She groaned and rolled to face him fully. He could see a fresh wave of emotion taking its grip on her. Her hand closed on the front of his shirt, catching at a few chest hairs, making him wince. “Now I’m worried you’ll drop out of our child’s life like that. Swear to me you won’t.”

  He covered her hand, loosening her fist and holding her slender fingers. He had to consciously overcome an urge to draw her hand to his mouth and kiss her bruised knuckles, even as he acknowledged she was far more likely to disappear than he was. Royal life was not easy, especially when shoved to the fringes as his mother had been. He didn’t blame his mother for extricating herself, and wouldn’t censure Trella when she did it, especially if the stress of life in the public eye put her in paroxysms like this.

  “Duty may have skipped a generation, but it is firmly drilled into me. I will never forsake my obligation to our child.”

  “Obligation.” Her brow furrowed. “What about love?”

  He dried her cheek with his thumb. “Love is a problem not a solution.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It’s an observation. My mother loved my father, which is why she couldn’t bear his cheating. My father loved the woman who cost him his kingdom. Duty is more reliable.”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t have to argue with you, bella. Time reveals all. Now, let’s stop talking about things that upset you. What did your sister say about counting oranges? Tell me why she said that.”

  * * *

  Xavier hadn’t had his backside handed to him on one of the palace’s sixteenth-century gold platters since his teen years. He refused to allow it today.

  He had had plenty of time in the night, lying awake making decisions between comforting Trella through crying spells and nightmares, until she fell deeply asleep in the early hours.

  He rose to put his plans into action and by the time the Queen summoned him, he was able to preempt a shredding of his character by proving what he had told Trella—he adhered to duty above all else.

  “She has agreed to that?”

  “She will.”

  “And you?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  The Queen cocked a skeptical brow. “You spent last night with her. That implies...preoccupation.”

  “You think we were having sex? No.” Despite having few secrets from his grandmother, her intrusive remark grated. “She was upset.”

  “Gunter said she’s fragile.” Her mouth pursed with disdain. Ruling required strength of every kind, especially emotional.

  He frowned, annoyed that Gunter’s report had preceded his own, especially because it was off the mark. Trella was besieged. It was different.

  “She held off telling me because her pregnancy is high-risk.”

  “So, it would seem, is she.”

  An urge to defend her stayed lodged in his throat. She was a threat—one he was mitigating to the best of his ability.

  “When would you like to meet her?” he asked instead.

  “Perhaps after the baby is born?”

  He hadn’t slept. That’s why the snub struck him as unconscionably rude.

  Before he could react, Mario entered. “Deepest apologies, your Majesty, but Ms. Sauveterre’s brother insists on seeing her. We’ve stalled him as long as possible.”

  “He’s here?” Xavier’s heart lurched with protectiveness and a jolt of alarm. Trella was catching up on much-needed sleep. More importantly, “We both spoke to him yesterday. She told him she was staying for the foreseeable future.”

  She couldn’t leave.

  “I believe it’s the race-car driver. She has agreed to receive him. I thought you would wish to—”

  “I would.” Xavier strode from the room. When he heard raised voices as he approached the apartment they now shared, his aggression increased. With a snap of his fingers, security personnel fell into step behind him. He pushed into what had once been his mother’s parlor.

  Trella was red-faced as she confronted a man who looked like Henri but emanated a hot-tempered demeanor that was in complete contrast to his brother’s air of aloof control. “No, you shut up—” Ramon was saying to his sister.

  “Leave quietly or I’ll have you removed.” Xavier would do it himself. He was in that kind of mood.

  Ramon snorted as he gave Xavier a measuring once-over, hands on his hips, looking willing for the fight Xavier promised.

  “Don’t.” Trella threw herself against her brother’s side, looping her arms tight around his waist. “I was saying things he didn’t want to hear.”

  Despite the animosity that had been flaring between them seconds before, Ramon curled a shielding arm around his sister, even as he frowned at her, concern evident beneath his glare of impatience.

  Trella looked as rough as the night she’d had. When Xavier had left her, she’d been subdued and exhausted, falling back asleep within seconds after he’d woken her to tell her he was leaving. She still had dark circles under red eyes and hadn’t changed out of the silk pajamas he’d given her to wear to bed. In fact, she’d raided his closet for a thick cardigan to belt over them.

  Xavier snapped out of searching her expression to realize she was bickering with her brother, refusing to go with him.

  “All those times you showed up when I called makes it possible for me to work through this. I know you will come if I ask. That means everything. But until I ask, you have to butt out.”

  With a resigned scowl, Ramon dropped his arm from around her. “Bueno.”

  “And be nicer to Iz—”

  “No. Butting out goes both ways. And you will introduce me to your host.”

  * * *

  “Did you call me a virgin?” Xavier asked Trella in an ominous tone as they entered his suite hours later. “You switched between French and Spanish so often, I might have heard wrong.”

  She tried not to snicker. “I told you it was a bad habit. Ramon and I are the worst because we get heated and grab the first word that comes in any language.”

  Ramon had joined them for a meal that might have been pleasant if so many questions hadn’t been hanging over her like a guillotine blade. If he’d caught her alone again, he would have skewered her with all of them, she was sure, but he’d behaved. They had played verbal tennis as they always did, sticking to neutral topics like films and current events.

  Sparring with her brother always helped restore her confidence. Where Gili was her security blanket and Henri was her rock, Ramon was her worthy adversary, keeping her sharp and forcing her to hold her own. She was tired and stifling yawns, but her lingering melancholy had lightened. As she looked into the cloudy crystal ball that was her future, she was thinking, I can do this.

  Especially because, like her, Xavier seemed to be experiencing the same threads of attraction they’d felt when they had made this baby. A selection from her closet in Paris had arrived earlier and she now wore a dark blue skirt and a white maternity top. It draped her breasts in such a flattering way, she’d caught Xavier eyeing her chest more than once while they ate, making her tingle and giving her hope.

  She turned her back on him and lifted her hair, silently requesting he release the tiny clasp at the top of her spine, realizing she hadn’t properly answered his question. “And yes, I did. Ramon asked me how you did with looking after me through my attack. I said pretty well, for a virgin.”

  “Lovely. I hope the dining staff enjoyed that.” His breath warmed the back of her neck along with the light brush of his fingertips, making her shiver.

  “I said worse. I called Ramon a—”

  “I heard that one. Very clearly,” he cut in dryly, mot
ioning her to lead the way to her side of the apartment. “Because of his engagement to ‘Izzy.’”

  “Isidora, yes. She’s a dear friend. Her father handled our media for years. Aside from Gili, she was my only friend for a long time.”

  Her heart dipped and rolled when he turned, locking them into her bedroom. Despite her rough night, sleeping with him had been more than comforting. She had liked the brushes of contact and the inherent intimacy, the way his strong arms had made her feel so safe. It had given her that bonding feeling she had felt in Paris, one that was incredibly bolstering.

  His efforts to comfort also gave her hope for their marriage. All her flaws had been laid bare, yet he had stayed with her. She was deeply gratified. Touched.

  Now all she had to explain was that, as much as she might like to, she couldn’t make love. Practically blushing at the mere thought, because she was so deeply tempted, she moved to take up her brush and began working it through her hair, trying to act casual as nerves accosted her.

  He moved to lean on the footboard of the bed, appearing in the mirror behind her. The way he watched as she stroked her hair made her feel as though she was enticing him. The crackle of tension on the air was exciting, giving her that sense of power in her sexuality he’d instilled the first time. Oh, she wished their timing wasn’t so far off.

  His expression tightened before he jerked his gaze away, clearing his throat. “If she’s such a good friend, why don’t you approve of her?”

  “Who? Oh. Um.” She blushed at having her mind fixated on intimate acts while he was clearly not. “I approve of Isidora completely, but Ramon is sleeping with her.”

  “Stickler for waiting until after the wedding, are you?” He dropped a pointed gaze to her middle.

  “Ha-ha.” She tapped the brush against her thigh then set it aside. “No, their engagement is a publicity stunt. Earlier this year, Isidora took over her father’s position at Sauveterre International.” Trella took off her earrings and bracelet. “You’ll notice Ramon’s very public proposal coincides with the first photos of my pregnancy showing up online. He does that all the time, takes the spotlight off the rest of us. Izzy is so loyal she went along with it, but she had a terrific crush on Ramon when we were young. He never returned it and shouldn’t sleep with her if he has no intention of marrying her. She’s going to get hurt. That makes me mad.”