The Billionaire Prince’s Pregnant Fiancée by Leslie North

8

“Ah, dear… I don’t mean to be a bother,” Clara’s mother, Rhonda, said apologetically, “but you should always dust before you vacuum.”

Erik paused in the act of getting out the vacuum cleaner. “Oh! I’m sorry,” he said quickly, looking around for something to dust with. They’d arrived in London just that afternoon, via private jet, the quickest he could arrange. He’d also booked them in a nice hotel, the closest to her parents as he could arrange. Clara had been stunned by it, but she’d also been focused on her mother’s illness, so she was preoccupied and fidgety.

There was also the little matter that Erik had not met her parents yet. He still hadn’t met her father, something that was a bit worrisome. But meeting her mother had been a bittersweet experience. She was warm, open, accepting. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of his own mother, a fact that caused a sharp pang in his chest.

Clara had run to the shops to get groceries for the week, so her father wouldn’t have to try to grab things in between jobs. She then planned on cleaning the flat. Her mother had tried to protest, but it was obvious that she ordinarily kept the tiny living area neat as a pin, and the accumulation of dishes in the sink had started to wear on her. He insisted that she simply sit while he took care of things to the best of his ability. Doing dishes had not been too much of a challenge, although Clara had done the washing and he’d done the drying. Now, with Clara out, he was trying to straighten out the main living area. He’d tackled the easy things, simple tidying up of old newspapers and collecting dirty teacups or used water glasses and putting them by the sink. From there, he planned on moving on to something more substantive.

So vacuuming it was. Or so he thought. He hadn’t realized there might be a specific order to housekeeping.

“You’re not used to cleaning, are you?” Rhonda said with a chuckle from her place on the couch. “Of course you aren’t. What am I saying? You’re a prince, then?”

She said it so simply, like observing he was right-handed. He found himself grinning. “Guilty as charged.”

“And you’re marrying my Clara.” She sounded gently baffled. “You have to understand, prince or not, you’re a lucky man. Clara is special, always has been.”

“I knew that from the moment I met her,” Erik said, and meant it. He took a dust cloth from the closet where Rhonda directed him and started dusting tables and bookcases.

“I knew when she was just a child,” her mother said, gesturing at some photos. He looked closer, dusting the frame as he did. Clara, her blonde hair in pig tails, smiling broadly as she waved an Arsenal pennant. Another where she was holding up some kind of trophy. “Did you know, she won that for debate? Year nine. She was twelve years old, and already brilliant.”

“I can believe that,” Erik said. Younger Clara looked proud and thrilled, triumphant. He wondered, absently, if their child would also have that lightning-bright smile.

“It was a heartbreak after she got into Oxford,” Rhonda said with a long sigh. “A tremendous accomplishment, naturally, and I told her up and down that we couldn’t be prouder that she’d gotten in.”

Erik startled. “I hadn’t realized that was where she’d been accepted. What happened? From what I understand, it’s one of the most affordable degrees in the world, especially considering its reputation.”

“I was struggling terribly with a series of flare-ups and wasn’t able to work for quite some time, so after her first year, she dropped out and moved back in to help us with our bills,” Rhonda admitted. “There was no way we could have managed without her, Oxford doesn’t allow for undergraduate part-time or remote classes, and she refused to even consider loans. She helped keep the roof over our head for years. Now I’m mostly better, and she’s getting back on track, but she’s determined to save up an emergency fund for us and for herself before going back to school in case this ever happens again.” Rhonda’s eyes glowed with both pride and sadness.

Erik felt like a complete and utter heel. He swallowed hard.

“She still wants to go back. She works way, way too hard, trying to save up,” Rhonda said. “To be honest, I think she could get any number of jobs with her resume and connections, or even some low-level publicity things. She’s volunteered and worked part-time at enough campaigns and political parties to know. But she wants to get the full degree, from someplace special, and get an excellent job that truly makes a difference. Not just push papers and write releases for pressers.”

Erik swallowed hard. “She’s very determined.”

“As she should be,” Rhonda said with a firm nod. “She’s wonderful, and intelligent, and has a big heart. I just wish she wouldn’t work as hard as she does.”

Erik let out a low laugh. “I saw her, working as a waitress,” he said. “And I’ve seen how hard she’s working to transition to… well, to becoming a princess. I’ve never seen anyone work harder.”

“Clara, a princess.” She shook her head, letting out a small laugh of astonishment. “So it’s a lot of work, then? Being a princess, I mean,” Rhonda asked with a note of concern. “I’ll be honest, I have no idea what it means to be a royal. I suppose I thought it was just wearing nice clothes and such, and maybe having fancy dinners, and wandering around some big castle.”

“Well, there is a good deal of wandering about,” Erik said, pleased when Rhonda laughed. “But as a prince there are other, ah, statecraft sort of things. Judges to be appointed, calling referendums, dismissing ministers if need be. There are the ceremonial things, too. My family tends to be very hands-on, and takes the care and ruling of our kingdom seriously.”

“Oh, that will be grand for Clara,” Rhonda said, pressing her hands together. “She wants to help people, too. It’s why she studied politics, why she wants to get her degree from a university. The ability to make a difference has always been right up her street. She just hasn’t felt like she’s done much of that, you know? As a waitress, I mean. Although she’s made such a difference for us.”

“She’ll certainly have a seat at the table,” Erik said, even as he thought about his own lack of participation in Fervia’s governmental processes. He wondered how much of a position his father meant for Clara to play. “And I’m sure she’ll have responsibilities that will let her look at a country’s issues first-hand,” he hedged.

“But you need to make sure she takes a rest, as well,” Rhonda said. “I love her dearly, but for all her cleverness, she’s more likely to run herself ragged and not listen. What she needs is someone who will help distract her, slow her down. Get her to rest, for pity’s sake.”

Erik chuckled, certainly able to see that.

“Especially with the baby on the way.” Rhonda’s eyes were pleading. “You need to make sure she takes care of herself.”

“I will take care of her,” Erik promised. “I’ll pamper her, with all the resources at my disposal. Which aren’t insignificant.”

He wondered if that last bit was boasting, but Rhonda’s response was one of amusement. “Good luck with that, lad,” she said, shaking her head. “If you think luxury’s going to turn my Clara’s head, then you don’t know our girl at all. That’s not how we raised her.”

He frowned, then busied himself, vacuuming the somewhat worn carpets, straightening the bedroom, and cleaning the loo as best he could. He suddenly had much more sympathy and appreciation for the castle’s maids. He messaged the head of housekeeping a note to offer them a bonus, not related to the holidays, simply for doing a good job.

Clara came back in, a rolling cart full of groceries, her expression slightly harried. “I’m back, Mum!” she called. “Enough food for you and Da to make it through for a few days, at least. I was going to start cooking…”

“Now, now, it’s getting late, and you’ve flown in and then run all over getting us things,” Rhonda said, a combination of amused and firm. “Especially in your condition! Your father and I can surely survive on a pizza for one night.”

“All right. But I’ll make something tomorrow that you can have leftovers from,” Clara relented. “I’ve got the ingredients for cottage pie, and that soup you like.”

“That’s grand. But you didn’t have to go to such trouble!”

“Nonsense. What trouble?” Clara said, her tone easy.

Erik helped her unload the groceries. Suddenly, Clara swore under her breath. “What is it?” he asked.

“I forgot toothpaste. Da asked for it,” she explained. “Mum, I just need to run out again for a minute…”

“No rush, darling,” her mother said quickly.

“Why don’t I go with you?” Erik offered. “I’d like to see where you grew up, and your neighborhood.”

Clara looked surprised. Then she looked around the flat. “Did you do all this cleaning?” She sounded shocked.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “As best I could, anyway. And with supervision, of course.” He gestured to Rhonda.

Rhonda laughed merrily. “He’s a dab hand with the vacuum, but he probably doesn’t want to see a dust rag again any time soon.”

He felt his cheeks heat. Clara let out a small, dazed laugh.

“It’s just going to run errands, and the neighborhood’s not all that glamorous,” she said hesitantly, “but if you want to go, you’re welcome.”

Erik felt—relief? Cheerfulness?—when Clara accepted his offer. With a little wave goodbye to Rhonda and the assurance that they’d be back to drop off the toothpaste, they headed out the door.

She was right: the neighborhood wasn’t one of the more glamorous boroughs of London, although there were signs of gentrification in café on the corner, and hints of art galleries and underground clubs establishing themselves past boarded-up shops covered with handbills and graffiti. They passed a mobile phone store, a tobacconist, a Pound Stretcher, a chemist’s. He felt the urge to hold her hand, and almost squelched it until he remembered they were engaged. With his heart in his throat, he reached out, taking her palm, lacing their fingers together as she stared at him, obviously startled.

“Um… the Tesco is just this way,” she said with a shy little laugh, as they kept walking a ways, navigating the crowd that bustled around them.

“This area is nice,” he said, wanting to reassure her somehow.

“Yes, well, it’s Canary Wharf,” she said. “All the big financial places are opening up ‘round here now.”

He glanced around at the buildings that were obviously new, tall, and imposing. The shops reflected the change in economic level. He narrowed his eyes as he recognized the awnings of a small restaurant, the outdoor eating area, the wrought-iron tables and chairs. The café had aged over the years, but there was something strangely familiar about it.

“I think I know that café,” he mused. “Which is odd. But I remember coming here with a tutor, years ago. I remember having tea and watching all the people milling around, and…” He stopped abruptly.

“C’mon, you can’t leave me hanging,” she teased. “What happened?”

“I was thinking that I wished that my life was as easy as the people around me,” he said, feeling a little stupid. “I remember thinking that instead of dealing with my issues, I could just be like a waiter or a cook or something. Have a little life, with simple problems, and how much better that would be.”

She didn’t glare at him, to her credit. “You were a teenager, then?”

He chuckled. “Yes. And a dramatic one, at that.”

She tilted her head, studying him like a bird. “This would’ve been when you were, what, sixteen or so?”

He did some quick calculations, going back in his memory. “Yes,” he said, surprised. “How’d you know?”

“Because this is the café where my Mum’s worked for years. It was after school and I was helping Mum out with whatever I could in here when you came in,” she marveled, her eyes bright with humor. “I remember seeing an older boy with gold-blond hair, who looked like a million pounds sterling, sitting there with some grown-up and looking utterly bored. I knew you weren’t from around here, that much was obvious. Your clothes were too nice, and your accent was too posh, and you were just so obviously cut out for bigger things. And I remember wishing that I could be like you: from someplace else, with all the opportunities in the world, without a single care.”

He laughed. “Oh, my God. You saw me!” he said. “As a teenager. What are the odds?”

“I know. I feel like we ought to buy a lottery ticket,” she joked.

He squeezed her hand. “I know I feel lucky I met you again,” he said. “For a number of reasons.”

“Flatterer.” She batted her eyes at him, then laughed again.

He released her hand, only to put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. “Would I be pushing my luck if I asked you out for a date?”

Granted, it was part of a larger plan. He was serious when he’d spoken with Rhonda: he wanted to spoil Clara. He’d already secured their hotel room. And while he respected her decision to stay platonic while they were still figuring things out, and he respected her need to stay independent, and he especially admired her dedication to her family, he wanted to show her that he cared about her, too. That he’d be a good husband, and hopefully a good father.

He wanted her to need him, to like him.

To love him, even.

He swallowed. That felt scary to admit, but he knew that while this child and this marriage were important to Fervia, he was enough of a romantic at heart to want more than simply a marriage of political convenience.

She smiled, and he felt his chest expand.

“I would love to go on a date with you,” she said, then tempered her response, “if you can manage to keep it to under twenty-five pounds.”

He choked. “Twenty-five pounds?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d signed a restaurant bill that wasn’t under three or four hundred!

Then he saw the challenge in her eyes.

“You can’t throw money at everything to make it better,” she said quietly. “I want our child to learn that, too. If you—we—are royal, then that means we have privilege. I want our child to know that means we’re lucky, not entitled, and that people survive out here every day without it. I want them to learn that wealth and status aren’t what’s required for happiness.”

He took a deep breath, considering her statement.

“All right,” he replied. “Because I want to make you happy.”

She softened, smiling.

“You’re trying things I know you’d never do,” she said, in a quiet voice, her eyes bright. “That’s a good start.”