The King's Convenient Bride / The Illegitimate Prince's Baby. Michelle Celmer
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and confident, but never cold, she had been told a million times from her royal-appointed etiquette coach.
But under the circumstances, it was all she could do to stay upright and conscious.
This was really happening. In two weeks she would marry this handsome, powerful man. In two weeks, she would be a queen.
Shaking with excitement and fear, from her toes all the way to the ends of her hair, she allowed him to lead her up the steps, chanting to herself: please don’t trip, please don’t trip.
Picking up on her abject terror, and in a serious break of royal tradition, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close to his side. Then he dipped his head and said in a low whisper, so only she could hear, “Relax. The worst is over.”
She was so grateful she nearly dissolved into tears right there on the steps. He felt so solid and sturdy and he radiated self-assurance. If there were only a way she could absorb a bit of that confidence for herself.
They reached the top step, where they would stop and she would formally greet the staff and country. But in another breech of ceremony, the king swept past the receiving lines and led her directly to the enormous, gilded double doors that, seemingly on their own, swung open to welcome her inside.
He led her through the cavernous foyer. Two royal attendants were close behind them, the soles of their shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. He stopped in front of a pair of ceiling-high, carved mahogany doors.
“Give us a minute,” he told the two attendants, which Hannah took to mean they were not to be disturbed. Then he ushered her inside and closed the door behind them.
She found herself surrounded on three sides by bookshelves that climbed high to kiss the outer rim of an ornately painted cathedral ceiling. She’d never seen so many books in one room. Not even in the university library back home. Furniture upholstered in a rich, deep red leather formed a sitting area in the center of the room. He led her to a chair and ordered, “Sit.”
Her legs were so shaky it was that or fall over, so she sat, and took what was probably her first full breath since the limo pulled up to the wrought iron gates.
“Shall I get the smelling salts?” he asked.
For an instant, she thought he might be angry, and she couldn’t really blame him, considering how seriously she had blown it, but, when she looked up, he wore the shadow of an amused grin.
She shook her head. “I think I’m okay now.”
He crossed the room to the wet bar, chose a decanter and poured a splash of amber liquid into a glass. She thought it was for him, but then he carried it over and pressed it into her hand. “Sip. Slowly.”
She sipped and it burned a path of liquid fire down her throat all the way to her belly, temporarily stealing the air from her lungs. When she could breath again, she wheezed, “I’m sorry.”
He crouched down beside her chair, leaning on the arm. “For what?”
“I really blew it out there.”
“How’s that?”
“I was supposed to greet the staff.”
He shrugged. “So, you’ll greet them later.”
“And we were supposed to turn and wave to the people outside the gates.”
Again with the shrug. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “But I don’t want people to think I’m a snob.”
“Are you?”
His question threw her. “Well…no. Of course not. But—”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“Isn’t it kind of important that the people of the country like me?”
“They will,” he assured her, as if he had no doubt.
“What about the press?” Reporters in the States were sometimes brutal, but she’d been warned the media in Europe could be downright vicious.
Phillip didn’t look the least bit concerned. “See this?” he asked, indicating his left jacket pocket. “This is where I keep the press. In other words, you have nothing to worry about.”
Oh, well, that was good to know. It seemed as though he had all his bases covered. And why wouldn’t he? He was the richest, most powerful man in the country.
She took another sip of her drink, felt the knots in her belly begin to unravel. “My coach insisted I was prepared for this. You can bet she’s going to hear from me.”
“You did fine. You will grow accustomed to it.”
She sure hoped so.
A moment of awkward silence followed and she racked her brain for something to say. Since turning sixteen, everything she had done, all that she had learned, had been in preparation for this day. Now that she was finally here, she was at a total loss.
It wasn’t helping that, technically, she was supposed to be marrying a prince. She should have had an indeterminate number of years as a princess, time to adjust to the lifestyle. But the queen’s death had unexpectedly moved plans forward.
Phillip, now as king, needed a queen to stand by his side. Even more important, he needed an heir. So, instead of a courtship, in which they would have six months to get to know one another before they took the plunge, they had two very short weeks before they said their I do’s.
Two weeks.
She downed the contents of her glass, the sting of the alcohol sucking the air from her lungs and making her eyes well up.
His expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity, he took the glass from her and set it on a nearby table. “Feeling better?”
She nodded, but it was pretty obvious from the crooked, wry smile he wore that he didn’t believe her. And it dawned on her, as she glanced around the quiet, empty room, that for the first time since this marriage had been arranged, she and Phillip were alone.
Totally alone.
In the past, to keep things proper and by the book, on the rare occasions they visited each other, there had always been a chaperone present. Though Hannah’s experience with the queen had been limited to a few obligatory and brief meetings, she’d heard the rumors. She’d heard that the queen was cold, heartless and ruthlessly demanding.
It was her way or the highway.
But the queen was gone now, and right here, in this empty room, there was no one to stop them from…whatever.
Suddenly she felt ultra aware of his presence. The clean, crisp scent of his aftershave. The weight of his gaze as he studied her. He was just so…there.
And so close.
It would take little more than a fraction of movement and she could touch his sleeve. With a lift of her hand she could brush her fingertip across his smooth cheek. And the idea of touching him made her legs feel all wobbly again.
“If you keep chewing your lip that way, there’ll be nothing left for me,” he teased, and something playfully wicked flashed behind his eyes.
Oh, boy.
In all of the years she’d studied in preparation for this marriage, she had learned about things like etiquette and social graces, bloodlines and royal custom, but no one ever taught her about this kind of stuff. Sure, it had been drilled in her head that she would be expected to produce at least one heir, preferably more, but all advice stopped outside the bedroom door.
And to say she was a novice was a gross understatement.
Though her high school girlfriends and college sorority sisters often questioned her sanity, she had made the