The Billionaire Prince’s Pregnant Fiancée by Leslie North

6

Three weeks after she accepted Erik’s proposal—such as it was—Clara looked ready to explode. Actually, she looked ready to throw someone out a window, then tell the entire royal family to go to hell. And then explode.

“Remember, Clara,” the royal etiquette coach intoned, hovering over Clara as she sat at the dining table, a spread of food in front of her, the table set as if for a state dinner. “Elbows in. Not open enough that one could drive a lorry through. And posture! I could easily identify a royal by her posture alone.”

“Do we have to have these meetings in the morning?” Clara said. Erik got the feeling her voice would’ve been sharper if she wasn’t quite so peaky. She was still wrestling with morning sickness, and it showed in her paleness and her absolute revulsion at certain kinds of food. Which they’d discovered when the etiquette coach had tried to walk her through “how to eat turbot” the week before.

He sighed. Unfortunately, he didn’t know about her morning sickness firsthand. Not that he wanted to be present, per se… but he hated the idea of her suffering alone. That said, considering he’d pitched this marriage as “please help me save my country and preserve the line of succession,” he’d felt like a bit of a cad if he’d tried to instantly shuffle her into his bed, as well. She seemed a bit shy, too, and he was doing everything he could to reassure her.

“We have crazy chemistry,” she’d said, her cheeks going rosy in that way that drove him mad. “But… we should probably see if we get along when we’re not… you know. Don’t you think?”

Intellectually, he’d agreed, and emotionally, he wanted to do whatever it took to help her feel secure and happy. He wanted it because he cared about her, and also because their wedding and child were what he’d promised to his father—possibly the single most important contribution he’d ever give to Fervia in his position as prince. He wasn’t going to screw this up.

The etiquette coach was a drill sergeant in a Chanel suit. “I know that it’s odd to have what ought to be supper in the morning,” she said, her voice stern. “But really, it’s not that early, dear. Beyond that, your schedule doesn’t seem to allow anything else.”

Which was true. In the past three weeks, Clara had been fitted for an entirely new, “appropriate” wardrobe—which she’d balked at, considering she was “just going to get bigger anyway”—and daily meetings with the press secretary, a slew of royal publicists, and the Minister of Communications. Any free time beyond that went toward tying up loose ends with her old life back in London—packing up her tiny flat, giving notice to her jobs, and a million other pesky details that the staff tried to help with as much as possible.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” the etiquette coach pressed, “and his Majesty was quite specific: your training takes precedence.”

“I know how to eat,” Clara said sullenly.

“Not like a royal, you don’t,” the etiquette coach replied firmly, her grey eyes like steel. “Elbows in! Pressed to your sides! Now, knife in the right hand, fork in the left. We are hardly barbarians like those Americans, now, are we?”

Clara picked up the various utensils, her own jade green eyes mutinous, her normally full lips pulled into a tight line.

“Now, you’ll be cutting into the venison—no! No. There can be no scraping of cutlery across the plate. Did you forget already?”

Clara’s eyes flashed, and for a second, Erik was afraid Clara was going to stab the etiquette coach with the steak knife.

“Now, small piece, and you’ll take a bite… no, no, no. Tines down! Always tines down!”

“How the hell am I supposed to…”

“This isn’t that difficult!” the etiquette coach said. “And what did we say about coarse language?”

“We,” Clara said, and Erik recognized the dangerous turn of her voice, “said we’ll talk however we damned well please, and anybody who said otherwise could go—”

“Whoa!” Erik interrupted quickly, putting his hands on her shoulders, encouraging her to put down the cutlery she was clutching in a death grip. “Come now, you’ve been working so hard this week. Why don’t we take a little walk, what do you say?”

She put the fork and knife down with a clatter, grumbling under her breath.

“Tines down,” the coach said, seemingly oblivious to just how close she was to being murdered. “To signify you’re finished eating, your fork should be placed tines down, with the knife edge turned inward, and the silverware positioned between four and six on the plate.”

“Oh, bite me,” Clara muttered, and Erik quickly shepherded her out of the dining hall, back towards his private tower. “Did you have to sit through all that crap?”

He laughed. “Growing up? Absolutely. My father and mother insisted. I could name every single utensil for a full eleven course meal before I turned into a teenager.”

She goggled. “Eleven courses? I mean, I know, like, appetizer, main course, dessert. And sometimes The Botanical or the weddings would serve stuff that was fancier. But eleven?”

“You know… appetizer, soup, fish, entrée, some kind of remove, sorbet, roast, salad, cold dish, sweets,” he rattled off easily, “and, of course, dessert.”

She shook her head, staring at him. “Good grief. If I ate that much, I’d probably be sick.” She rubbed her stomach. He eyed her, seeing that she still didn’t really have a baby bump, and was surprised that he felt a small stab of disappointment. “Now especially.”

“How are you holding up?” he asked, rubbing her shoulders gently. “I’ve worried, but I didn’t want to push.”

She sent him a wan smile. “It’s been a lot,” she admitted. “And I miss my family. But I have to think it will all be worth it. Especially for the baby.”

He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple. He had to think that all of this would be worth it, as well, for the exact same reason. “Tell you what,” he said slowly, thinking hard of how he could help the situation. “What say we do something fun, hmm? Something just the two of us.”

She let out a little broken laugh. “No offense, but please don’t tell me you’re after a quick tumble,” she said. “Because you are ridiculously hot, but I am exhausted and ready to toss up dry crackers, much less the stupid rare venison and poached salmon that awful woman tried to have me eat.”

“No, no,” he quickly reassured her, even though his body grumbled in response. “What do you have this afternoon?”

“Strategy meeting with the Minister of Communications,” she ticked off on her fingertips, “then a meeting with the publicity team, practicing my paparazzi poses and reporter responses. Something about a meeting with the royal jeweler, to talk about engagement and wedding ring designs—you’ll probably be there, too, I imagine? And tonight, we’re supposed to have dinner with your father, and Aliana and Pelle.”

“After all that,” he said, “I’ve got an idea, one that might be a little more relaxing. Take your mind off things. What do you say?”

“If it doesn’t involve food or fake smiles, then I am all for it,” she said, groaning lightly. “I suppose I ought to get going to the minister’s office. In the meantime.”

She turned to him, seemingly without thinking, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

“See you later,” she said, then walked down the hallway with purpose.

He stood there, thrown temporarily off balance. She’d just kissed him, not seductive, not leading. Just affectionate.

And I really liked it.

He cleared his throat, shook his head. Focused. He knew just what he wanted to do to help her feel better. It would just take a little coordination.

* * *

After he and Clara had dinner with his family, she turned to him. “It has been a brutally long day,” she said with a weary sigh.

He winced. “Do you still want to do something fun?” he asked carefully. “Or are you too tired?”

“I would love to do something fun,” she said with feeling, and his tension eased. “I have been fairly stressed. I genuinely thought I’d punch that etiquette coach through a mural. By all means, entertain me.”

“All right then. Follow me.”

He led her to a private bar in his tower, one he’d often used for small parties with his friends and fellow princes, Ben and Nic. He’d made sure the karaoke set up was out. On the dark wood bar, a wide selection of virgin cocktails were set up.

She burst out laughing. “Those are some fruity drinks,” she said, gesturing to the variety. “It’s like a rainbow. With umbrellas, even!” She picked one up, making an encouraging noise as she sipped. “Did you make them all?”

“No. The castle’s bartender did.”

“You guys have your own bartender?” she said, then shook her head, chuckling. “Of course you do. The Royal Mixologist. I might have known.”

“Well, you can’t drink alcohol, so I thought this might be a nice change of pace,” he said.

“It’s lovely,” she said, and he felt his chest warm at her smile of gratitude. “But what are we here to do?”

He tugged her over to the karaoke machine, then grinned.

Her eyes widened. “You want me to sing?”

“C’mon,” he wheedled. “It’ll be fun.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You love it, don’t you?”

“What, singing?”

“Music.”

He let out a little huff of laughter. “Wouldn’t have gotten my degree in music if I didn’t,” he tried to joke, even though he felt a pang. His parents had been… well, disappointed wasn’t quite the word. But they certainly weren’t impressed when he’d decided to pursue music at uni. He shook off the thought. “Here, now. Make yourself comfy, and I’ll warm us up.”

He settled her into a plush couch, and chose a song—an ABBA song, “Take a Chance on Me.” It was upbeat and peppy, old school disco, just this side of ridiculous. She beamed at him, and he went full wedding singer, wiggling his hips, dancing on his knees, winking as he played up the lyrics. She crowed with laughter, clapping her hands at the end. Pleasantly out of breath, he handed her the microphone, laughing himself as she tried to protest.

“Come now,” he said. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Her eyes were mischievous. She flipped through the song catalogue, then stood on the stage, her expression challenging him. He sat on the couch, eager to hear her, to see her loosen up and have fun.

Apparently, she was not into disco, since she belted out “London Calling” by the Clash like she was Joe Strummer himself. She strutted, she hollered, she gesticulated.

She was, in a word, terrible.

That said, she was enthusiastically terrible. Erik found himself grinning ear to ear, utterly enchanted by her. When she stepped down, mopping at the slight sheen of sweat on her brow, he handed her another fruity mocktail.

“That was…”

“Wretched?” she answered, taking a big gulp of something pineapple-gold and sweet-smelling. “I should have warned you, I suppose. But what’s the fun in that?”

He barked out a laugh.

They then tried a duet, “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease, complete with goofy acting and over-the-top singing. She then followed up with “Toxic” by Britney Spears, which had him both amused and, strangely, a bit turned on since, despite her inability to sing, Clara could move quite gracefully—and quite suggestively, he discovered.

Of course, he’d promised. They were taking things slow. Platonic. Until she was reassured.

Keep your head in the game, Devlin, he chastised himself.

He applauded, then got up and pulled out his own ace: a slow, emotion-packed love ballad. And not just any ballad. A classic.

He started “Something” by the Beatles. He’d sung it countless times, for fun, for weddings… hell, for royal events and friends’ parties and just for the sheer admiration of it. But he’d never sung it like this: where he meant it, where he felt something. It spoke of longing, and love, and uncertainty. And promise.

And when it was done, they simply stared at each other for a long moment. And emotion arced between them, not the white-hot sexual chemistry that they’d had since the moment they first laid eyes on each other. This was something softer, something sweeter.

Something infinitely more dangerous.

She was the one who broke the silence, clearing her throat. “Well, I’m for bed,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’m exhausted, and that… that demon etiquette woman will insist on returning.”

He laughed, surprised to find his own voice a bit rattled. “Let me at least walk you to your door,” he said, offering her his arm. Smiling, she took it, and he accompanied her upstairs, to the door of her private guest suite.

“Thank you, Erik,” she said quietly, her eyes gleaming. “For tonight. For taking care of me.”

“It was genuinely my pleasure,” he answered, tucking her hair behind her ear, brushing the bluebird tattoo that he was so intrigued by. “And I’ll take care of you for as long as you let me.”

She let out a tiny sigh. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

She went into the room and shut the door.

He stood in the hallway, his brain battling against his body. He wanted nothing more than to raise his arm, knock on her door, and ask her to either come up to his bed, or allow him into hers. Not just for sex—although God knows, that would be glorious. But just so he could hold her. So he could wrap her up and warm her with his body, so he could brush kisses on her shoulders, so he could love her until morning.

But it was too soon. When she was ready, she’d let him know. Until then, there was nothing to do but retreat to his empty apartments.