The Pregnant Princess. Anne Marie Winston
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her table. The man whose set, unsmiling face didn’t offer anything remotely resembling the welcome she’d prayed he would extend.
He was huge. That was the first thing that registered now that she’d gotten over the surprise of seeing him so unexpectedly. Oh, she’d remembered he was big, but the man striding toward her, wearing a white T-shirt, faded jeans cinched by a snug leather belt with a heavy silver buckle and dust-covered work boots was simply enormous. But as she focused on his face, she knew he was indeed the man to whom she’d given her heart—and so much more—five months ago.
His hair was raven-black, gleaming in the discreet lighting of the dining room. It had been ruthlessly groomed the night they’d met, but by the time the evening had ended, it had been every bit as rumpled and disheveled as it was right now. Shadows emphasized the hollows beneath high, slanted cheekbones, and his firm lips, lips she remembered curved in a sensual smile, were as full and sensual as ever, though they were pressed into a grim line at the moment.
“How did you find me?”
Whatever she’d expected, that wasn’t part of any greeting she could imagine. “Your card,” she said, raising her hands helplessly. “The one you left for me.”
“I didn’t leave you any card.”
“Oh, yes, don’t you remember? It was on the chaise when I—” She halted in sudden acute embarrassment.
Then the meaning of his denial struck her. He hadn’t meant to leave his card behind. Hadn’t intended that she ever know who he was. The idea was crushing, and for a long moment she couldn’t even force herself to form words. Finally, lifting her chin, she put on the most regal expression she possessed, the expression her entire family used to cover emotion from prying eyes and paparazzi. “Apparently I was wrong to assume you intended me to look you up if I was in the States,” she said in a cool, smooth voice. “I apologize.”
“I told my father years ago I wouldn’t marry any of you.”
Her face reflected her bewilderment. This conversation was making no sense. “What?” She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“About an arranged marriage. To one of the princesses.” He crossed his arms and scowled at her. “To you.” He stabbed a finger in her direction. The move made his muscular arms bulge and the shirt strained at its seams across his chest. He still stood over her, and if he wanted to intimidate her, he was doing a darn good job.
But she wasn’t going to let him cow her. Never mind that her hopeful heart was breaking into a thousand little pieces. Thank heavens she hadn’t had a chance to share any of her foolish dreams with him. “I didn’t come here to marry you,” she said in a slow, measured tone that barely squeezed past the lump in her throat.
His expression darkened even more, if that was possible. Slowly, he uncrossed his arms and leaned forward across the table, planting his big palms flat on the surface. He was invading her space and she forced herself not to scoot backwards, away from him.
“I am not amused by your little act,” he said through his teeth. “If you came here hoping to take me back to Wynborough like some kind of damned trophy, you can think again, Princess.”
It was so far from the passionate greeting that she’d imagined all these months, like a stupid fool, that she had to fight the tears that welled up. What was wrong with him? She hadn’t done anything to make him so angry.
“I didn’t come here to take you anywhere,” she said, swallowing hard to keep the sobs at bay. “I am here on another matter entirely—although I did wish to talk to you.”
There was a tense silence. The man who’d been her lover didn’t move a muscle for a long second. She felt a tear escape and trickle down her cheek, but she didn’t even raise a hand to brush it away. “Who are you, anyway?” she asked in a shaky voice.
He smiled. A wide baring of perfect white teeth that somehow was more of a threat than a pleasantry. Reaching across the table, he picked up her small, fisted hand and bowed low over it. “Raphael Michelangelo Edward Andrew Thorton, Prince of Thortonburg and heir to the Grand Duke of Thortonburg at your service, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “As if you didn’t know. Expect me for dinner in your suite tomorrow evening at seven.”
Before she could pull away, he pressed an overly courteous kiss to the back of her hand, his gaze holding hers. Despite the animosity and antagonism that radiated from his big body, a vivid, detailed image of the intimacy with which those finely chiseled lips had traveled over her body leaped into her head. Her cheeks grew hot and she mentally cursed her fair complexion, because in his eyes flared awareness—he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Then his lips compressed into a thin line as he straightened abruptly. “And be ready to answer my questions this time, Princess.”
Elizabeth paced the suite nervously as the clock struck seven the following evening. The Prince of Thortonburg! She still couldn’t believe it.
As children, she and her sisters had made fun of the stern Grand Duke. She could still remember Serena swaggering across the playroom, doing a deadly accurate imitation of the man, boasting about his eldest son’s educational achievements in England and America, that had had Katherine and her in stitches. Even Alexandra, whose over-developed sense of responsibility and position as the eldest had often made her seem stuffy to the younger girls, had laughed until the tears ran.
When the girls grew old enough to be presented at court and began to attend the balls and royal functions of the kingdom, they’d speculated about the invisible Thortonburg heir. Though he wasn’t that much older than Alexandra, none of her sisters had ever seen him. He’d been away at Eton and Oxford for years, then to the States to Harvard, she’d heard, and not long after that there had been rumors of a quarrel between the Grand Duke and his elder son. If it weren’t for Roland, the personable younger son of the Grand Duke, who vouched for his brother’s existence, she would have thought Raphael was a hoax. When he hadn’t even shown up for Roland’s twenty-first birthday party, it had only fueled the fires of her sisters’ curiosity.
Well, he existed, all right. She rested a hand on the slight swell of her belly, hidden beneath the loose, floating gauze of the dress she’d chosen to wear this evening. She could guarantee that he existed.
The worries of the present receded beneath a wave of memories that could still make her blush. She remembered the first time she’d seen him. He’d been wearing severe black evening dress, which had made him look impossibly tall and broad-shouldered compared to every other man in the room, as indeed he was. His only concession to the masquerade ball had been a small black silk mask that concealed the upper half of his face.
She’d been standing across the ballroom, dressed in the costume of a medieval princess, when their eyes had met. Within minutes, he’d cut a decisive path through the crowd to reach her side.
“Good evening, fair lady. Might I have the pleasure of your company in this dance?”
Up close, he was so much larger than she that he could have been intimidating. But as she allowed him to take her gloved hand, his eyes glowed a warm blue through the slits in the mask, and she had felt the oddest sense of security surround her. He drew her into a very correct ballroom position for the waltz that followed, and silently they danced. He didn’t even ask her name. Enjoying the game, she preserved the pretense of two strangers, but as the evening progressed, he gently urged her closer to him until she could feel his big hand splayed across her back, his long fingers nearly caressing the upper swell of her bottom, the strength of his muscled thighs pressing against her through the light gown she wore.
They’d danced like that for hours, until every nerve in her body quivered with desire. Her fingers had explored the heavy muscles of his arms and shoulders, slid up into his hair, and she felt his big body shudder against hers.
He brushed a kiss over her ear. “Let’s get out of here.”
A jolt of need surged through her. Had she ever felt like this before? The answer was so clear—none