Waking Up In His Royal Bed

by Kim Lawrence

  ‘I hate them, but they were right, weren’t they?’

  Despite her misgivings the supercilious suits had been right: nothing had leaked about the divorce proceedings. Certainly not to the journalists and opportunistic paparazzi who had dogged her steps for the first few weeks, along with the security detail that she had decided not to confront Dante about. They were discreet, which was a plus—there were days that she’d forgotten they were there.

  The press pack had gradually lost interest when she hadn’t been seen doing anything even vaguely newsworthy; she never reacted to questions and had no social media presence. A nun had a more interesting life, someone had written, and there were only so many times they could report on the length of her legs.

  Beatrice had concluded being boring had its plus points.

  ‘Did they fly back with us?’

  He shook his head. ‘They?’

  ‘Seb, Roberto, Luis and the one with the really nicely trimmed beard. The security detail—my minders.’ Did he really think she wouldn’t notice just because she hadn’t kicked up a fuss?

  ‘You knew their names.’ He swore under his breath—so much for covert surveillance. ‘They stayed behind. Your sister could be a press target. You are safe with me.’

  Strangely, considering how objectionable she had initially found their presence, she felt oddly comforted by this information, and felt quite guilty about the fact.

  ‘Safe?’ She slung him an ironic look and, rubbing the bridge of her nose, pushed back in her seat, digging her head into the soft leather upholstery to ease the muscles of her aching neck before she turned her head in his direction.

  ‘You really think it will be that easy? I just reappear and it’s all happy families? Your family must be planning your next marriage. Won’t me being here throw a spanner in the works?’

  ‘Oh, I think they were doing that before you left.’

  She had been joking but, looking at his face, she wasn’t sure he was. Of course it made sense. He was going to be King one day and he needed a queen and why wait? It was all about continuity.

  Ignoring the sharp stab of something that could be jealousy, or loss, or hurt, she managed a flippant comeback to prove to herself as much as him that her heart was not broken.

  ‘So, any prospective candidates standing out yet?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re better placed than most to decide what would make my perfect bride.’

  ‘Are you flirting with me?’

  Before she could react to his wicked grin, she realised that while they had been speaking they had entered the palace proper. The cars in front of them and behind had peeled away at some point, and they were now drawing up between the two elaborate stone fountains that stood outside the porticoed entrance to the private apartments she had left eight months ago.

  She sat there, fighting a deep reluctance to get out of the car. Once she did it would all seem real, which up to that point it hadn’t. She felt as if stepping onto the gravel would be akin to ripping a scab off a healing wound, releasing the pleasure and pain of past memories.

  She took a deep breath and reminded herself this was the new, improved Beatrice. Sane Beatrice who did not lose her mind, or become malleable mush when breathing the same air as Dante.

  ‘I am a bit tired after the journey,’ she said, setting the scene for when she excused herself. A bit of aloneness was looking very tempting right now.

  ‘Ah…’

  She looked at him, bristling with suspicion. ‘Do you mind translating that “Ah” into something I won’t like?’

  ‘There is a reception tonight for the French ambassador and his wife. It was arranged some time ago and it was deemed to be diplomatically unwise to cancel. We have already postponed once. Mother had a headache—actually she was hung-over.’

  ‘Fine, don’t worry, I can amuse myself.’

  ‘Ah…’

  She regarded him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘The point is that should the ambassador become aware that you are here your non-attendance could be construed as an insult.’

  ‘You even sound like a diplomat.’

  ‘A bit harsh, Bea.’

  She fought off a grin. ‘Couldn’t you say I had a headache or something?’ She wasn’t at all sure she didn’t, she decided, rubbing her temples with her fingertips before she gave a resigned sigh. ‘All right, tell me the worst.’

  His expression tensed. ‘There is no question of you attending if you feel unwell. I will have the physician visit. In fact, this might be a good idea. You’ve had a long day and you shouldn’t overexert yourself. Stress isn’t good for the baby.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she promised, adopting a businesslike tone. ‘So, who will be at this dinner?’

  As he listed the guests she gave several eye-rolls, interspersed with theatrical sighs.

  ‘So basically, the snootiest, stuffiest—’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cope admirably,’ he cut back with an utter lack of sympathy that made her eyes narrow. ‘Just be yourself.’

  She opened her mouth and closed it, realising that this was almost like talking to the man she had fallen in love with, the one who didn’t give a damn about protocol. They had always shared the same sense of humour, and appreciation of irony.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine after a bottle of champagne,’ she said airily and watched the look of utter horror cross his face before adding with a sigh, ‘Joke…? You remember those?’ Nine months of sobriety was not going to be a big ask for her—her normal alcohol consumption mostly involved nursing a glass for the sake of being sociable.

  Not that she was making a statement. She had just never really liked the taste.

  ‘I remember everything, Beatrice.’

  The silence stretched as something in the atmosphere of the enclosed space changed. Impossible to put a name to, mainly because she didn’t dare to, but it made her pulse race and her throat dry as he leaned in.

  When he broke the silence all she was thinking about was his mouth and the way he tasted, the way he always tasted.

  ‘Let’s skip the dinner and go to bed!’

  The feelings fizzing up inside her were making her breathless. ‘You’re not serious.’

  He arched a brow and gave a wicked grin. ‘I don’t know, am I…?’

  His laughter followed her out of the car as she hurried to put some safe distance between them.

  She marched towards the door and past the men who stood either side, staring straight ahead. They wore bright gold-trimmed ceremonial uniforms, but the guns slung over their shoulders were not ceremonial but unfortunately very real.

  It wasn’t until she entered the echoing hallway with its row of glittering chandeliers suspended from a high vaulted carved ceiling that Beatrice took a deep breath, fighting against the tangle of jumbled memories that crowded her head.

  For a split second panic almost took control. She had no idea if she was standing, sitting or lying, then, as she exhaled and the panicked thud in her ears of her own heartbeat receded, she was able to reel herself back to something approaching control.

  The breath left her parted lips in a slow, measured, calming hiss before she turned, masking her emotions under a slightly shaky smile.

  Dante was standing a couple of feet away, his hands shoved in the pockets of his well-cut trousers. He had been watching her almost lose it. The enormity of what he was asking her to do hit him between the eyes like the proverbial blunt object.

  She was distracted from this uncomfortable possibility by the fact that he was standing right in front of a larger-than-life portrait of a previous King of San Macizo, though this painting captured him when he had been Crown Prince.

  She had noticed the striking similarity between the two men the first time she’d walked in, though she’d not then noted the far more modest portraits of his several wives hidd
en on a wall in a rarely used part of the building.

  Legend had it that the first, rather plain-looking wife, who had died in childbirth, had been his one true love, but then legends rarely had substance. Still, it was a pleasingly romantic tale and she had liked to think it true.

  The illusion that the figure staring down with hauteur etched on his carved features had actually stepped out of the frame lasted several blinks.

  The man standing watching her had all the hauteur along with the perfect symmetry of features his ancestor had possessed. Had his ancestor possessed the same earthy sensual quality that Dante had? If he had, the artist hadn’t captured it, though with those lips you had to wonder.

  She pulled her shoulders back, feeling some sympathy for the long-ago wives, wondering if they too had stopped trying to figure out why their responses to their prince bypassed logic or common sense. Like her, had they just come to accept and guard against it as much as possible?

  Dante watched as she made a visible effort to gather herself, but the expression on her face reminded him of a fighter who had taken too many punches, and maybe she had in the emotional sense.

  He was prepared for the guilt and he accepted it. He had anticipated it. What he had not anticipated was that seeing her here, in this setting, would actually make him more aware of the ache that he had lived with since her departure. An ache he had refused to acknowledge, an ache that indicated weakness he couldn’t own up to.

  His upbringing had developed a strong streak of self-sufficiency in Dante. He had been sent to boarding school at six, where the policy was to discourage contact between siblings, the theory being part of the institute’s ethos that was intended to develop a strength of character and independence.

  Which in Dante’s experience in practical terms translated as an ability to look after number one ahead of all others, and he had learnt the lesson. Well, the option had been enduring the misery of those who didn’t, and there had been more than a few who’d never understood that showing weakness exposed you to the bullies.

  Dante never had shown weakness; he had gone into the school system privileged and come out privileged and selfish as hell. The strategies developed at a tender age were coping mechanisms that had stood him in good stead. One kicked in now, stopping him acknowledging the emptiness.

  ‘I can make your excuses?’

  Her chin went up. ‘I can make my own,’ she began hotly and stopped, an expression of guilt spreading across her face as she saw through his offhand manner. ‘There is no need to be worried about the baby. I would never do anything that put him at risk.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Or her.’

  ‘Do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Sadness settled across her features. Their first pregnancy had not lasted long enough for it to be a question she had been asked. ‘Will the sex matter?’ she asked, pushing the sadness away. She knew it would never go away, and she knew it was all right to feel it, but she didn’t want it to overshadow the miracle that was happening to her body now.

  ‘Matter?’

  ‘I mean, can a female succeed to the throne?’

  Her eyes widened with shock as she saw his hand move towards her; she gave a little gasp as he placed his hand on her flat belly. ‘By the time it matters to this one’s future, she will.’

  His hand fell away, and she wanted to put it back. A dangerous shiver ran through her body as warning bells clanged in her ears.

  ‘You intend to change things.’

  ‘Baby steps.’

  This time the words did not injure; they made her smile.

  The lines around his eyes crinkled, totally disarming her fragile defences, which were jolted back into life when he angled his head towards the curving staircase with the elaborate wrought-iron balustrade that led to their private apartments that stretched along the first floor of this wing.

  ‘I actually think tonight is a good idea. I’m going to see your parents at some point. It might as well be now.’ Meeting them in company would hopefully limit their ability to make snide digs. After all, appearances were everything in this household. ‘What time…?’

  ‘An hour?’

  Dante stopped with his back to the glass-fronted lift and nodded towards the staircase. He knew that Beatrice was not keen on enclosed spaces and would walk up a heart-stopping number of steps to avoid a lift. ‘After you, you know the way.’

  ‘Which room?’ she began and stopped, her eyes flying wide as his meaning hit home. ‘I’m in our…your room?’ she blurted. It was only seconds before a flush began to work its way up her neck.

  Their room, but he would have long vacated it.

  He was probably trying one of those suitable candidates for size in another room?

  The images that accompanied the possibilities made her feel nauseous and then mad because she had been suffering and celibate and it only seemed fair that he should have been too. But then life here had never been fair or balanced; it worried her that she needed to remind herself.

  ‘I never got around to moving my things out.’

  The warning made her freeze. ‘You mean you’re still…!’ She would have laughed outright at the suggestion that he would have been personally involved in any moving if his comment hadn’t raised a number of issues. Mainly, was he assuming that they would be sharing the room? She could see how spending the night with him in the ski chalet might have led to this assumption.

  ‘Your things are still there.’

  The casual throwaway information added another layer of confusion. It could’ve been a housekeeping error, except such a thing did not exist inside the palace walls.

  There was literally an army of people that would have made it possible for her to wake up in the morning and not have to do a single thing for herself right up to the end of the day.

  There was always someone hovering, ready to relieve you of the burden of tying your own shoelace should you find that a bore, or too tiresome. It had been one of the royal things that she’d never got the hang of. She simply couldn’t ask someone to perform a task that she was more than capable of completing herself, and she couldn’t for the life of her see how it was demeaning to be seen making her own sandwich or washing out her own tights, but both had been activities that had been frowned on.

  She had expected Dante to laugh with her at the sheer absurdity of people having so much time on their hands that they thought sandwich-making was a sin worth passing up the chain of command when she told him about her sugar-coated reprimand—the sugar had made it so much less, not more, acceptable—but he had just looked at her with a frown indenting his forehead.

  ‘Can’t you just go with the flow for once? Is it really worth the argument?’

  It was the moment she had realised that they had stopped laughing at the same things. Actually Dante had stopped laughing altogether—that Dante had gone forever. Sometimes she wondered if he had ever really existed.

  There was sadness and regret in the shaded look she angled up at his lean face.

  ‘It’s your room. I’ll take one of the others.’

  ‘It was our room,’ he said without emphasis. ‘You might as well take it. I think you’ll find most of your things where you left them.’ Nobody had questioned his instructions to touch nothing, not even him, though now he might have to face the question that he had avoided because Beatrice was going to.

  He’d kept telling himself that he’d get around to it, that he didn’t like the idea of someone else touching Beatrice’s things, but somehow it was a task he’d kept putting off.

  He didn’t sleep there any more; he slept, the little he did, on a couch in his office. Not because he was avoiding anything. It was a matter of convenience.

  There was always a spare set of clothes in his office, and his running gear. He could shower there, he could shrug on a fresh shirt.
It worked because he didn’t keep office hours.

  He wasn’t avoiding anything. It wasn’t in any way symbolic; it wasn’t as if he were in denial. Bea had gone and it was better for her and better for him.

  She was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

  ‘But I wasn’t coming back.’ She had assumed her belongings would have been boxed as soon as she had gone. She had wondered more than once about asking for them to be sent on.

  He shrugged, appearing exasperated by her persistence as he dragged a hand through his dark hair and sighed, managing by the flicker of an eyebrow to make her feel she was making a big deal out of nothing at all.

  Maybe because you want it to be a big deal for him? Maybe you want it to hurt for him too? Before the horror of acknowledgement hit home, she pushed away the preposterous idea, conscious that she was guilty of overanalysing.

  ‘But you are back.’

  She couldn’t argue with that, but it meant sleeping in the same bed they had shared…as if this weren’t hard enough anyway. She’d stepped out of this life—stepping back in was going to present challenges regardless of where she slept.

  This time, when his hand curved around her cheek, she did let her cheek fall into it.

  ‘Look, I know this is hard for you but—’ He broke off, cursing as the opening of a door to their left made Beatrice jump away from him.

  Giggles entered the hallway a moment before two uniformed figures. One saw Dante and stopped so quickly that the smaller figure bumped into her.

  ‘Scusi, Highness…’ Eyes round with shock, her face pink with embarrassment, she dropped a curtsy and the woman behind her followed suit.

  Dante addressed them, speaking Italian, and they responded in the same language. Considering she had been boastful about her language ability earlier, Beatrice didn’t have a clue what was being said. Her brain wasn’t functioning through the jam of conflicting emotions in her head.

  She stood there with a fixed smile throughout the exchange and one thing was clear: if her arrival had not been officially announced, it had now.

  He gave a sardonic smile as the women vanished through the door they had entered and closed it behind them.