Bound by the Prince's Baby

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘How convenient.’ Not.

  Amber bit her lip as she considered her options. Feigning illness would make her even more conspicuous than she already was—and, she had to face it, bridesmaid at a royal wedding televised for a global audience of millions was already a pretty conspicuous position to be in. She had thought long and hard about trying to wiggle out of the job, knowing that if she was ever going to be recognised, a room full of European royals was the time and place. But in the end she had reasoned that there were only a handful of people who had known her back then.

  It was just her luck that one of those people was standing unsmilingly next to the groom, clad in a gilt-covered dress uniform that on anyone less austerely handsome would look gaudy.

  She’d changed beyond all recognition, she consoled herself. Like her favourite fictional redhead, her hair had darkened from carrot to auburn and she was no longer a thin, gawky teenager. She’d grown, literally and metaphorically, during her first year of freedom, and was several inches taller and two dress sizes curvier than she had been in New York. Last time Tristano had seen her she’d been wearing a kilt and blouse, her hair in plaits, make-up free, and she’d tipped a tray of olives over him. There was no way he’d recognise that awkward teenager in the buffed and polished designer-clad bridesmaid. She was completely safe.

  Besides, what was the worst that could happen if Tristano did recognise her? It wasn’t as if they had ever actually been engaged; he had probably forgotten about that particular debacle years ago, nor could she be compelled to return to the life of a royal. It was just that she loved the anonymity of her life; not even her three close friends and business partners knew of her discarded title or those long lonely years in New York. She’d put life as an exiled royal behind her the day she’d left her grandmother’s apartment and had no intention of ever reclaiming it.

  The sound of the organ recalled her to her surroundings and Amber lifted her chin and squared her shoulders as the two flower girls began their sedate walk down the aisle, scattering white rose petals as they went. Alex went next, as tall and elegant as ever in the ice-blue and silver dress all three bridesmaids wore, the silk falling in perfect folds to the ancient stone floor. The choir’s voices swelled, filling the medieval cathedral as Harriet, with a wink at Amber, followed Alex. Amber quickly looked back at Emilia, ethereal in white lace, her face obscured by her veil, her hand tucked in her father’s arm. ‘Love you,’ Amber mouthed. And then it was her turn.

  For the first time she could remember she was grateful for the hours and hours of deportment lessons she’d suffered in her teens as she slowly followed Harriet down the aisle, managing to block out the curious, appraising stares. Amber didn’t look to the left or the right as she progressed, not until she finally reached the very front when she couldn’t stop her gaze sliding right. Laurent was staring behind her, his face lit up with joy and reverence. Amber swallowed quickly, a lump forming in her throat at the sheer raw emotion the usually reserved Archduke showed so openly, only for her heart to lurch in her chest as she looked past him and met the clear grey-eyed gaze of the Crown Prince of Elsornia. A gaze directed at her, heat flickering in its depths. Had he recognised her after all?

  But it wasn’t recognition she saw dancing there.

  It was desire.

  * * *

  Tris wasn’t a huge fan of weddings, and he had never been attracted to redheads, so why couldn’t he stop staring at the flame-haired bridesmaid as she processed with poise and ease down the aisle? Like the two bridesmaids who’d preceded her, she wore blue silk shot through with silver, the blue so faint it was like the reflection of ice, but the colour looked warmer on her creamy skin, set off by a mass of glorious hair set with crystals. She looked like the thaw, warm and welcoming and ever so slightly dangerous. Not that there was anything welcoming in her expression as she met his gaze squarely before turning away. But Tris could see the rosy glow spreading over her neck and shoulders and knew that she wasn’t quite as impervious to his interest as she made out. Intriguing.

  Or not. He didn’t have the time or freedom to dally with bridesmaids, however enticing they were. What he needed was a wife and an heir within the next five years or he’d forfeit the throne, thanks to the crazy old-fashioned laws that still prevailed in his crazy old-fashioned country. With his reckless cousin next in line after him, failure was not an option.

  The music swelled to a crescendo and as it ended Tris turned his mind back to the matter at hand. He didn’t have to do much, apart from making a speech suitable for broadcasting; after all, the first rule of royal friendships was that you never spoke about royal friendships. Laurent’s secrets, tame as they were, were safe with him.

  The Armarian Archbishop stepped forward and the wedding ceremony began, following time-hallowed tradition with its well-worn words, repeated by millions of voices yet made unique with each new utterance. Tris couldn’t help but get caught up in the spell-like moment as Laurent and Emilia made their vows, promising each other fidelity and honour, love and respect and he was aware of a momentary but sharp envy. Laurent was marrying for love. How many men or women in their position were so lucky? How many got to choose this one part of their destiny?

  Not Tris. He had betrothed himself to a girl he barely knew, not for the famed Belravian fortune but because she had been available, suitable and bred for the role. No wonder she had run away at the very idea. Sometimes he envied her; other times he wondered how she could forsake her duty while he was bound to his. Princes and princesses weren’t supposed to follow their hearts—although Laurent was following his right now and he had never looked happier, or more at peace.

  The wedding progressed with all due pomp, tempered by the sincerity and love blazing out of the happy couple’s faces as they repeated their vows. One lengthy sermon, several solemn choral songs and a demure yet smouldering kiss later, the bells rang out as the couple headed back down the aisle hand in hand, to the claps and cheers of the congregation. Tris courteously gave his arm to Laurent’s mother, regal in dark blue and diamonds, but as he escorted her back up the aisle his gaze was drawn to the undulating step of the red-headed bridesmaid, the way the ice-blue silk displayed the curve of her hips, the straight line of her back.

  ‘Her name is Amber,’ Laurent’s mother informed him drily. ‘She works with Emilia, as do the other two bridesmaids.’ She paused, eyebrows slightly arched. ‘I believe she is currently single.’

  ‘The best man and the bridesmaid?’ Tris smiled. ‘A bit of a cliché, is it not?’

  ‘A cliché isn’t always a bad thing; sometimes it’s just that things are meant to be.’

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a matchmaker, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I’m not planning on making a habit of it. But you’re thirty, Tristano. Thirty and single. Noticing a pretty girl at a wedding is allowed, even for a Crown Prince.’

  ‘But I’m not single. Technically, I am betrothed.’

  ‘Technically is the right word; after all, you’re betrothed to a woman you haven’t seen for eight years. It’s time you gave up on Princess Vasilisa. You deserve a bride who wants to be by your side.’

  ‘We can’t all be as lucky as Laurent.’ Tristano slowed as they reached the end of the aisle. Photographers awaited them outside the cathedral and he automatically straightened even more, ensuring his expression was cool and bland. ‘This situation is of my own making. I shouldn’t have agreed to my uncle’s suggestion of a betrothal, nor should I have accepted the Belravian Dowager Queen’s assurances that she knew where her granddaughter was and that the marriage would go ahead as planned. I wasted too many years thinking Vasilisa was completing her education abroad, and by the time her grandmother confessed the truth the trail was cold. By Elsornian law I am engaged and cannot marry anyone else, and by that same law I must be married with an heir by thirty-five. If my cousin was a different man then it wouldn’t matter so very mu
ch.’

  Laurent’s mother nodded. ‘And, of course, Nikolai is both married and the father of a son. I do find it ridiculous in this day and age that an Elsornian Crown Prince cannot become King until he is thirty-five and must have fathered an heir to do so.’

  ‘Agreed. The requirement that he must have led troops into battle and sacked a border town have become ceremonial only, thank goodness. I don’t see my neighbouring countries taking kindly to a sacking. This law is the last remnant of our medieval customs. I plan to overturn it, and to overturn the primogeniture rule as well. But I can only do it with the agreement of my heir, and Nikolai will never agree.’

  ‘What about Parliament? Can they not help?’

  ‘They are reluctant to take the lead. I have lawyers trying to find a way to encourage them, but so far nothing. But this is not the occasion to discuss my troubles; it’s a happy day.’

  ‘It is. And so forget matters of state and missing brides and enjoy yourself, Tristano. Flirt with the pretty redhead, enjoy your youth, for one day at least.’

  Tristano escorted the Dowager Queen out of the cathedral, posing momentarily for the horde of photographers thronging the square outside the magnificent Gothic building before handing Laurent’s mother into a waiting horse-drawn carriage. She would travel alone in the ceremonial procession through the streets, Tristano was to join the three bridesmaids and two flower girls in a larger carriage. An hour with nothing to do but wave to the excited crowds and make small talk with Emilia’s friends. Maybe the Dowager Queen was right, maybe today he should forget his cares and responsibilities and enjoy himself. And if enjoying himself meant exploring this unexpected attraction further then what harm would it do? A little bit of flirting hurt nobody.

  Luck was with him as he approached the larger carriage. The tallest bridesmaid, Alex, sat on one side with the flower girls, the other two bridesmaids on the bench opposite, Tris’s seat between them. The coach driver shook the reins as Tris sat down and the carriage jolted into movement, taking its place in the procession.

  ‘This is so cool,’ the littlest flower girl breathed as the carriage rolled out of the square. People were crowded onto both sides of the street, waving flags and holding pictures of Laurent and Emilia, cheering loudly as the carriages passed slowly.

  ‘Wave back,’ Amber encouraged them and, at first shyly but then with increasing confidence, the girls did so.

  The noise of the crowds and the echo of the horses’ hooves made small talk difficult and the occupants of the carriage were busy responding to the enthusiastic crowd, but Tris was preternaturally aware of every shift Amber made. She sat tall and straight, rigid, her face averted from him as if she didn’t want to be seen by him, to engage with him. Tris was aware of a ridiculously oversized sense of disappointment. He didn’t know this woman, had no idea of her likes or dislikes, her views, whether she had a sense of humour or not, preferred dogs or cats, savoury or sweet. Her studied indifference to him should be meaningless. And yet he had felt a sense of connection the moment he had first seen her, as if at some deep level he did know her. Clearly that sense was one-sided.

  By the end of the hour even the flower girls, Saffron and Scarlett, were exhausted. ‘My cheeks ache from smiling and I don’t think I can wave any more,’ the older one said as the carriage came to a stop. ‘And I didn’t know carriages were so bumpy!’

  ‘You did really well,’ Tris told her and was rewarded with a beaming smile.

  The carriages pulled up back outside the cathedral, where cars waited to whisk them away to the palace just a few kilometres outside Armaria’s quaint medieval capital city. Here a formal banquet awaited the five hundred wedding guests, to be followed by a much more informal and intimate party for close friends and family only. Tris exited the carriage first, aware that hundreds of cameras were trained directly on him. Now Laurent was married, Tristano was one of the few unmarried European royals left, and the only male in his early thirties. Come Monday he’d be on the front page of every gossip magazine and tabloid, a bull’s-eye stamped on his face. Up to now he’d been so busy in Elsornia he’d managed to stay out of the papers, magazines and gossip sites. Being Laurent’s best man meant he would be thrust straight into the spotlight, whether he liked it or not.

  Ignoring the photographers’ call for him to look at them, Tris handed each bridesmaid down in turn, swinging Saffron and Scarlett onto the floor before extending his hand to first Alex, then Harriet and finally Amber. She paused before taking it, her eyes averted before, with a visible breath, she tilted her head, looked him straight in the eyes and took his hand with a cool, firm grip.

  Tris was unprepared for the zing that shot up his arm as she touched him, unprepared for the way his breath caught in his throat, his pulse speeded up. As soon as Amber was on steady ground, he let go of her hand. By the flush creeping up her face, he knew she had felt the connection between them too.

  But it didn’t matter. Laurent’s mother could give him all the advice she liked but it changed nothing. He was not free to react to any woman, no matter who she was. He couldn’t walk away from who he was, not even for an evening, his duty so ingrained in him that he bled Elsornia.

  Tris watched Amber join her friends and head towards the nearest car and made no move to join them. It was safest alone. It always had been. He’d just never felt so alone before.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘HE HASN’T TAKEN his eyes off you all night.’ Harriet nudged Amber and not too subtly nodded towards where Tristano sat, his long fingers toying with the stem of his glass in a way which made Amber’s stomach clench in spite of herself. She had no idea whether the involuntary reaction was from fear that he somehow had recognised her or because of a desire she barely recognised, one that had ignited the second Tristano had taken her hand to help her from the carriage. Which was ridiculous. It was a light touch, a cursory helping hand, one that had been extended to all of them.

  But Harriet was right. Amber had been aware of Tristano’s hooded gaze fixed on her all afternoon and into the evening. It was like a caress, dark and dangerous, a wisp of velvet awareness across her bare skin.

  ‘I think he just has a naturally intense, brooding thing going on,’ she said with an attempt at a laugh. ‘All he needs is a pair of breeches and he would be a dead ringer for Darcy at his most snooty stage.’

  ‘And does that make you Elizabeth Bennet?’ Harriet asked with a sly smile and Amber shook her head.

  ‘I have no intention of civilising any man. I want the finished article, thank you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, the civilising can be fun.’ Harriet looked over at her fiancé, Deangelo, as he leaned against a wall, deep in conversation with Finn, Alex’s boyfriend, and Amber groaned.

  ‘I don’t want the lurid details, thank you.’

  At that moment they were interrupted by a spotlight shining on the dancefloor and an announcement that the bride and groom were about to take to the floor for their first dance. The band struck up a tune, and Laurent led Emilia out onto the floor. She’d changed into a simple long cream dress, her hair loose and Amber thought, with a lump in her throat, that she’d never looked so beautiful. More beautiful or more distant. This was it. Emilia was married, Harriet would be following her down the aisle in the summer and Alex was spending more time at Finn’s country estate than she was at the Chelsea home they had all shared until this week. Her life had seemed so settled and perfect, and now it was all changing. Her friends were moving on and she just wasn’t ready.

  Taking a sip of the tart refreshing champagne, Amber propped her chin on her hand as she watched the pair waltz to a soft romantic tune, no showy choreography or carefully rehearsed moves, just two people holding each other, lost in each other. Slowly her wistfulness faded, replaced with happiness for her friend and she applauded enthusiastically as the dance ended and the band struck up a much jauntier tune. Other couples began to spil
l onto the dancefloor and Deangelo stalked over and extended a hand to Harriet, enfolding her in his arms as he led her onto the dancefloor, while Finn whirled Alex out to join them. Taking another sip of her champagne, Amber tried not to look like she minded being the bridesmaid wallflower.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’

  Amber jumped at the sound of the deep, faintly accented tones. She knew what—who—she’d see before she looked up. She took another gulp of the champagne before turning her head. Tristano stood beside her, one hand outstretched in invitation—or command.

  ‘You don’t have to ask me, you know. It’s not a real rule that the best man has to dance with the bridesmaid.’

  ‘I’m not asking you because it’s my duty. I’m asking you because you are the most beautiful woman in the room and I really, really want to dance with you.’

  ‘Oh...’ Amber swallowed ‘I...’ She should say no. It was too dangerous to spend any time with Tristano. Besides, she had no interest in dancing with the Crown Prince of Elsornia. Even if she wasn’t afraid of being recognised, she didn’t actually like him. Sometimes she still heard his voice in her nightmares, sentencing her to a marriage she hadn’t consented to, a life in a castle she didn’t want to live in.

  Only tonight he didn’t look pompous or arrogant. He’d changed out of his glossy dress uniform into a perfectly cut dark grey suit, stubble coating his cheeks, his hair no longer neatly combed back but falling over his eyes. But it wasn’t his slightly more relaxed appearance that made her pause; it was the heat in his eyes. Want. Desire. For her. Just as she had once dreamed.

  ‘No one has ever called me beautiful before,’ she said a little shyly as she took his hand and allowed him to pull her out of her chair.

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  Amber tilted her chin, reminding herself that she was no longer a schoolgirl, desperate to be noticed. ‘It’s true. Of course, sometimes I get called hot. Often fit. Nice sometimes. Occasionally gorgeous. But never beautiful.’