Waking Up In His Royal Bed

by Kim Lawrence

  Dante dropped the hand that lay curved around her cheek and, rising to his feet, stepped back. The ferocious surge of protectiveness he was experiencing as he watched her was less easy to step away from.

  ‘Nothing will happen.’

  ‘You can’t say that,’ she choked back, looking at him through glistening blue eyes. ‘Because it does, for some people, over and over and—’ Her voice cracked as she swallowed and felt a big fat tear trickle down her face as she felt his hand slide to the back of her head. ‘I really don’t think I could bear that,’ she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest.

  Helplessness and a fierce wave of protectiveness arched through him as he pressed a kiss to the top of her silky head and stroked her hair as she wept out her fear.

  The sobs that shook her subsided but she allowed herself a few moments of lying there, taking comfort from the solidity of his chest, the strength of his arms, finally heaving a deep sigh as she pulled free.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with a loud sniff.

  Dante felt something nameless twist hard inside him as he rose from the kneeling position he had fallen to beside the sofa. ‘You are welcome.’

  ‘I must look terrible.’

  ‘Horrific. That’s better,’ he approved as she gave a watery smile. ‘And soon you will get fat and you won’t be able to see your feet.’

  Will you still love me?

  The words stayed in her head because he didn’t love her now.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY EMERGED FROM the low-lying fog that had blanketed the area around the private airport into the spirit-lifting blue above. Beatrice’s spirits didn’t lift; the nervous tension making her shoulders ache didn’t dissipate as she undid her seat belt and leaned back in the seat that bore an imprint of the Velazquez crown on the leather headrest. It had more of a welcoming embrace than any she had received from the Velazquez family, but then they were not really a tactile family.

  She was under no illusions that any welcome she had in the future would be because of the baby. She didn’t care about that, but the equally inescapable fact was that Dante only wanted her here because of the baby. She avoided the temptation to read anything else into his determination to rekindle their marriage.

  The pilot’s disembodied voice spoke, adding to his words of welcome the less welcome fact that there was the possibility of some turbulence ahead. Tell me about it, Beatrice thought, looking around and seeing that someone had already whisked away the fur-lined parka coat she had worn for the journey to the airport. She wouldn’t need it, or the layers she had on underneath, at the other end. San Macizo enjoyed an all-year-round temperate climate.

  She continued to exchange her boots for the flats she had pushed into her bag as Dante translated the pilot’s Italian words.

  She smiled and nodded absently, even though she hadn’t needed him to translate. She had continued the lessons she had begun without much optimism during her brief sojourn in San Macizo where Italian, introduced to the country by the royal family centuries before, was the official language. Though she had never encountered a native who didn’t speak English and French fluently, like Dante, who was also fluent in Arabic and Spanish.

  Free of her layers, she adjusted the cuffs on her white shirt and watched as Dante unfastened his own seat belt and the buttons on his dark grey suit jacket and waited, wondering if it was worth getting the paperback out of her bag. She doubted she’d be able to concentrate—her nerves were too wound up.

  No massive surprise there. What she had committed to was about as sane as deliberately opening a half-healed wound, and, as it turned out, just as painful. Up to the point of being welcomed onto the private jet she had not allowed herself to think about what lay ahead. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  After a few moments, a small frown appeared between her brows. Dante hadn’t got up to seek a quiet, private office space to work in; he hadn’t even reached for the laptop that lay on the seat next to him, let alone buried himself in it.

  She found this break in familiar routine slightly unnerving. She searched her memory and could not remember a time, at least not since he had stepped into the role his brother had walked away from, that Dante hadn’t immersed himself into work at every opportunity.

  She had teased him at first about his ability to totally shut out distractions until she had realised that she was one of those distractions, then it had seemed less amusing.

  Dante still showed no sign of moving away, and doing so herself would seem a bit obvious, so she exhaled a resigned sigh and reached for her book. Even if she could not lose herself in the world of fiction she would have somewhere to look that wasn’t directly at her husband. Husband… She could remember saying that word out loud and smiling—it seemed a long time ago.

  These days she felt impatient with her younger self for being so naive; while she had been walking on air she doubted that, despite what was written on a piece of paper, Dante had ever felt he was her husband, not really. But he was the father of her child.

  She desperately wanted this baby. It was that utter certainty that was getting her through; the life growing inside her was light at the end of the tunnel.

  She couldn’t assume that Dante would feel the same way. She had to see things the way they were and not the way she wanted them to be.

  Attracted to the wrong man and refusing to see the things that she didn’t want to. Now, where have I seen that before? An image of her mother’s face floated into her mind.

  Beatrice found the idea of history repeating itself through the generations deeply depressing and she intended to break that cycle. It was just a pity she hadn’t displayed the insight earlier, instead of spending her short marriage living in a fantasy world of her own making.

  Just thinking about it, she could taste the self-disgust in her mouth. The irony was, of course, that when she had finally opened her eyes to the reality of her marriage it had been impossible not to be struck by the fact she had been guilty of the same weakness that she had struggled to forgive in her own mother.

  But though she couldn’t avoid the glaring comparison with her own mother, she had never extended it to include Dante, who was nothing like her ex-stepfather, who had been a manipulative, cruel bully with a sadistic streak.

  Dante was not the man she had wanted him to be. She had created a fiction; that did not make him a bad person. He was absolutely straightforward, strong, complex, impatient, arrogant and had zero tolerance for incompetence, but his only real sin had only ever been not to be in love with her.

  But that didn’t mean she had the right to rob their child of a father’s love, nor rob their child of his heritage. But she was equally determined not to allow that heritage to emotionally damage the baby.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She jumped as the sound of Dante’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘What? Yes. Why…?’

  One sardonic brow hitched, he nodded towards the book on her lap. ‘It’s upside down.’

  She felt the guilty flush climb up her neck as she turned it around and then closed it. ‘I never liked flying much.’

  ‘There are no barriers, medically speaking, for you to fly at this stage.’ He caught her surprised look. ‘I have been reading up a little.’

  ‘This is staying between us for now…right?’

  ‘I have made some enquiries concerning obstetricians. Discreet enquiries. I understand that early monitoring is important.’

  She thought about that and nodded. ‘So, what have you told your parents?’

  ‘I have told them we are back together.’

  ‘That must have gone down well!’

  ‘They need not concern you. If it makes you feel any more relaxed about it, I stopped trying to please them a long time ago, about when I realised it was never going to happen.’

  He rem
embered the exact moment. He had been watching the flames of an open fire lick the Christmas card he had made them. The Christmas card they hadn’t even bothered to open.

  By the time it had collapsed into a pile of ashes he had decided that if they considered him the wild one, the unreliable one, the one who always caused them a headache, he might as well enjoy himself and do what people expected him to.

  ‘Ah, I almost forgot. My grandfather sends his best wishes and says he hopes you can give him a decent game.’

  Still wondering about his previous comments, she allowed herself a smile. ‘At least I have one friend in the palace.’

  Something flicked across his face that she struggled to interpret. ‘You have a husband…’

  Her glance fell. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ she said, thinking that it was a pity he couldn’t say the same about her. The moment the palace doors had closed behind them she had been delegated out, the only use he’d had for her recreational.

  ‘That was a big sigh… It is a steep learning curve, for me too.’

  Surprised by the unexpected admission, she stared at him.

  ‘Sadly, there are no intensive courses on being a Crown Prince. I had some valuable advice. My parents advised I delegate, which, as you might have noticed, is their management style. Grandfather, whose advice was actually quite helpful, said that I should trust no one and don’t believe a word you’re told.’

  As he had hoped, his comment drew a laugh from Beatrice. The sound made him smile too, then his smile faded as he realised how much he had missed that sound.

  ‘And now you have found your own style?’

  ‘I like to think I have steered a personal course somewhere in between idle disregard for anything but my own comfort and paranoia, but the jury is out.’

  As their smiling glances met and clung, she was aware of the perceptible shift in the atmosphere.

  She pulled in a tense breath and looked away.

  ‘Is something wrong? You can tell me.’

  The unexpected addition brought her glance sweeping upwards. ‘You just seem…?’

  She paused, pulling in a long steadying breath, and wondered if the day would come when she could look at him and feel only aesthetic appreciation rather than an ache of need. You’d have thought that after a while boredom would have kicked in, but she could have happily stared at him forever.

  ‘Seem?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just that you’re—’

  ‘I’m what?’ he prompted with slightly less patience.

  ‘It’s that you’re still…’ Her hands moved in a descriptive sweep that made the collection of silver bracelets she wore on her left wrist jangle. ‘You’re here.’

  His dark brows knitted; he looked genuinely mystified. ‘Where else would I be?’

  A small laugh burst from her lips. Had Dante really never realised that from the moment the news had been delivered that his brother had decided to renounce his claim to the throne, Dante had tuned her out, more than distance, much more than an understandable preoccupation with the role that had been thrust upon him?

  She had felt at best surplus to requirements, at worst, an embarrassment.

  ‘Busy with more important things?’ she flung out and bit her lip as her unthinking retort was laden with an inch-thick layer of bitterness.

  She lifted a hank of slippery, shiny hair that was crawling down the collar of her crisp white shirt, then catching the direction of his gaze made her glance towards the folded cashmere sweater she had discarded as she gritted her teeth and fought the ludicrous impulse to fasten another button, or pull her sweater back on. Instead she smoothed the non-existent creases in the tailored pale cream trousers and fussed with the buckle on the narrow red leather belt that held them up, just to give her hands something to do.

  Her lips twisted as she noticed that Dante seemed to be having a similar problem. His long fingers flexed and clenched as if he was fighting an instinct to reach for his laptop after her comment.

  She vented an internal sigh. Ah, well, this looked like it was going to be a nice relaxing journey—always supposing you were the sort of person who found nail-biting tension and sitting on the edge of your seat while looking for an escape route relaxing!

  She adopted a carefully neutral expression as she lifted her chin and crossed her feet neatly at the ankle. The soft leather flats she had changed into proved you could look fashionable and be comfortable. Well, at least from the ankle down—being comfortable elsewhere was hard when she remained so acutely conscious of the restrained power Dante exuded. Always a challenge to cope with, but overpowering in any enclosed space, and right now her feelings were too raw and close to the surface to make her feel confident about disguising her vulnerability.

  ‘I’m fine, feel free to…’ She made an all-encompassing motion with her hand before she gave an elaborate yawn. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  She and Maya had talked into the small hours, and after her sister had gone to bed she had lain fully dressed on her bed staring at the ceiling, dreading the morning. She had finally fallen asleep half an hour before her phone alarm sounded, and had felt like death warmed up.

  ‘Nor the night before,’ she continued unthinkingly, then tacked on, ‘That wasn’t a dig.’

  ‘I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  The quiver of her stomach could have been connected with the lurch as they hit a pocket of turbulence, but she knew it wasn’t.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Fine. I always liked roller coasters.’ She breathed through a wave of nausea and missed what he said next. ‘Sorry…?’ she pushed out, her hand pressed to her throat.

  ‘I said…’ He paused, his heavy-lidded glance lingering on the dark smudges beneath her glorious eyes.

  Dante didn’t know where he stood on the nature, nurture debate, whether he’d inherited the trait from his parents or simply learnt by example didn’t seem the point, but whatever the truth he had always possessed the ability to step back and observe events and people from an objective perspective.

  Except with Beatrice.

  ‘You do look tired.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured drily, translating the comment that he’d framed more like an accusation as, You do look awful.

  ‘Maya and I were trying to decide what to do now that I’m, well…not there.’

  ‘Setting up a business is challenging.’ And he suspected that most of the work fell on Beatrice’s shoulders. He had nothing against Maya, but she didn’t seem that dynamic, and as far as he could tell she had a habit of not finishing things. From what Beatrice had let slip he had decided Maya was one of those people who were wildly enthusiastic, then lost enthusiasm when the project needed hard work.

  Not the sort of person you’d choose to enter a partnership with.

  ‘Is your sister intending to go it alone now?’

  Beatrice felt a resurgence of her guilt. She was letting Maya down once more and her sister was being so damned nice about it, but they both agreed that she couldn’t put her plans on hold again. ‘She says she’d be happier to go for a less ambitious format.’

  ‘You think she’s lying.’

  ‘Of course she is.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘I was actually going to suggest that… I have some contacts—would she be open, do you think, to the idea of experts coming in to offer advice? And I know someone who might be interested in investing.’

  ‘Someone, as in…you?’

  ‘Someone anonymous,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘That is very generous of you.’

  ‘It is in my best interests that you not spend your pregnancy worrying.’

  ‘Well, I’ll speak to her, but she can be a bit touchy. She has come up against a lot of prejudice, a lot of people who can’t s
ee past a young pretty face.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet against either of you once you put your mind to something.’

  Bea reacted with a glowing smile to the unexpected compliment; she couldn’t help it, even though she knew his good opinion shouldn’t matter. ‘We like a challenge.’

  He watched her smile fade.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to be a good mother.’ Her eyes flickered wide in dismay. Standing in front of a TV camera and confessing she was afraid she wasn’t up to it would have been only slightly less embarrassing than revealing her insecurities this way.

  ‘Then you will be.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  Before Dante could respond to her equally mortifying appeal for reassurance—her tongue seemed to have developed a will of its own—an attendant appeared.

  Dante watched as the male attendant predictably went red and started stuttering when he spoke to Beatrice. He looked as if he was going to faint when she smiled encouragement.

  Dante spoke sharply and the guy made an obvious effort to pull himself together, though his glance did keep straying to Beatrice.

  While the young man waited, he turned to Beatrice. ‘I ordered coffee and sandwiches, do you want some?’

  Beatrice’s smile held a hint of teasing triumph that he didn’t understand until she turned to the young man and asked for tea and biscuits in halting but pretty good Italian.

  Dante waited until the young man had vanished. ‘So, when did that happen?’

  She shrugged, and tried not to look complacent. ‘I had a grounding. Even a not very good student can pick up quite a bit in ten months, so I carried on after I left. There are a lot of really great online courses available and some night classes at our local college. A second language is a useful skill.’

  ‘That’s a change of tune.’

  ‘I’m doing the lessons now out of choice, not—’