Royally Unexpected 2: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection (Surprise Baby Stories)

by Lilian Monroe

  “You’re too kind,” I say, resisting the urge to fidget. I clamp my hands together and pray that the pills will take effect soon. Maybe I should have taken an extra one tonight—I know that Cara will be at dinner. I’ll be on edge until it’s over.

  Princess Dahlia smiles. “The tour begins shortly after you’re due to leave in a month’s time. Damon and I were hoping that you’d stay on for a few weeks, a month or two, tops. We have events and workshops planned to promote mental health resources in the Kingdom.”

  Dahlia stands up, and I do the same. She extends her hand toward me and I lean down to kiss her fingertips.

  “I hope you’ll consider it,” she smiles. “I understand you’ve only just reunited with your family, but sometimes distance is a good thing.”

  Her eyes are sharp, and I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  Cara.

  Is it that obvious how much it cuts me up? Is it so painfully clear to the whole world that she tore my heart out of my chest, smiling politely as she did it?

  Of course it is. I’ve never been good at hiding how I feel.

  I give Princess Dahlia a tight-lipped smile and incline my head. “I’ll think about it.”

  “We’d be honored to have you.”

  She leaves, and I’m left alone again.

  My thoughts bounce around my head, and I have a hard time keeping up with them. I head to my pill bottle and take two more before finding my joint case and taking out a spliff. Sitting by the window, I light up and take a puff.

  I need to take the edge off.

  It’s more than an edge. My entire body is made up of jagged edges. I crave numbness, if only to forget that I’ll have to spend yet another evening in the presence of the woman who broke my heart.

  Closing my eyes, I let my thoughts drift to last night.

  To Ivy.

  The scent of her skin. The feeling of her body on top of mine. The look in her eye when her gaze passed over my bare chest.

  Maybe staying in Farcliff wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Dahlia’s right, and a bit of distance from my own family would do me good. I can always go back to Argyle after the mental health tour and deal with my issues with Cara then.

  The fidgeting in my body is slowing down. My thoughts aren’t so fragmented, and my movements start to feel smoother. The tightness in my face eases, and finally, finally, I can take a full breath.

  As I exhale another puff of smoke through the window, I see a limousine pull up. My date exits the car, extending a hand toward a waiting valet.

  She’s not the one I’m looking at, though.

  Behind her, Ivy steps out. I grin when I see what she’s wearing—jeans and a white t-shirt. To her credit, her pants aren’t ripped. They’re black jeans, at least. She doesn’t follow her sister up the steps. Instead, she heads off with one of the valets toward the servants’ entrance.

  Yes, maybe staying in Farcliff isn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  I finish tying my tie and gulp the rest of my wine down. It sloshes in my stomach as I race through the door. My steps are loose, and I feel almost unsteady. I float down the hallways toward the servants’ areas, avoiding any of the formal reception rooms.

  I’m drawn to Poison like a moth to a flame. Isn’t that the theme of my entire life? I crave any type of poison, whether it be a pill, or a potion, or a painful heartbreak. I let it swirl in my veins until I feel numb and alive at the same time.

  Ivy isn’t any different. Her eyes enchant me, and her body puts me under a spell that I never want to be rid of. She has a certain brand of poison that’s irresistible to me, and I intend to drink her up until I’ve had my fill.

  7

  Ivy

  This morning, Margot decided that she needed a babysitter for tonight’s event—so, here I am. She’s been on edge lately. I’ve heard whispers of anxiety disorder, but Margot zips her lips if I ever try to bring it up. Deep down, though, I know she needs me.

  There’s something worrying her, I just don’t know what. Maybe the fame and celebrity are finally getting to her. Maybe this relationship with Prince Luca is putting her over the edge.

  And as much as I’m jealous of her, I love my sister with all my heart. With Mama gone, and Dad run off to enjoy ‘retirement’ in the Caribbean, we only have each other.

  If she needs a babysitter at the castle, I’ll come along.

  I follow the red-waistcoat-wearing valet through narrow corridors until I get to the underbelly of the castle.

  I can feel the weight of the building on top of my head. I’ve never been in a building this big, or this ornate, or this important. I inhale the scent of stone and steel, and let the valet lead me to a big room adjoining the kitchens. It looks like the staff’s dining room.

  “You can wait here,” he says with a bow, his eyebrow arching as his eyes pass over my body.

  Maybe I should have worn something fancier, but black jeans usually see me through any event. It’s not like I go anywhere formal.

  I follow my nose over to the kitchens, where a hundred delicious smells make me groan in pleasure. I lean against a wall beside the entrance, watching the hive of activity before me.

  A smile tugs at my lips as I watch the chefs work.

  This is my happy place. This is where I feel alive—in a kitchen, surrounded by smells and sounds and noises of food being created.

  A sous-chef chops an onion while looking over his shoulder and shouting something at another chef. How he’s not cutting his fingers off is beyond me. The kitchen is buzzing. My eyes drift over to a door on the side wall. Through it, I can see ovens and mixers, and I already know that’s where I want to be.

  I slide along the wall, still unnoticed, and peek through the window. I watch one of the pastry chefs pipe delicate roses onto a towering cake before wiping sweat off his brow. My breath catches in my throat, and I lean against the glass to watch.

  “Thought I might find you here.”

  I jump at the sound of Prince Luca’s voice. He’s wearing that same smirk he had on yesterday. My stomach clenches, and butterflies explode through my abdomen. Their wings tickle the edges of my stomach as a blush spreads up my neck.

  “Your Highness,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” The Prince’s voice drops, and his hand drifts to my lower back. Fire teases my insides, licking my thighs with delicious heat as his touch spreads warmth through my body.

  A crash followed by a shriek makes us both turn our heads toward the dessert room. One of the pastry chefs is holding his head while another runs over. I can sense the panic rolling through the door in waves.

  Pushing the swinging door open, I step through.

  I don’t know why. I have no right to be there. I’m sure they would have kicked me out immediately if not for Prince Luca’s presence. The pastry chef’s faces turn from shock, to outrage, to polite resignation as they both bow at the Prince.

  At our feet, the three-tiered cake—and all its delicately piped roses—lays smashed on the floor. Buttercream icing is smeared from one end of the room to the other.

  The young pastry chef holding the piping bag looks at the older man and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, George, I don’t know what happened.”

  “Mon dieu,” the older man says, slipping his chef’s hat off and raking his fingers through his hair. “That was our pièce de résistance. We have only small bites to serve now.” The old man’s face crumples, and he shakes his head. “My first time serving dessert somewhere other than Westhill Palace, and I won’t have anything to show for it.”

  His eyes dart up to Prince Luca, and the old man’s cheeks turn bright red. I can feel the shame and embarrassment radiating from him.

  Putting my hands on Prince Luca’s shoulders, I spin him around. “Nice to see you. Bye!” I say to his back as I push him out the door. It swings back toward him and smacks the Prince on the bum. He stumbles forward, whipping around to stare at me through the door’s window. Hi
s eyes are wide with shock, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now.

  The young pastry chef’s jaw is on the floor, and the old man is looking at me with an arched eyebrow. I don’t have time to explain my weird relationship to Prince Luca to them, though, because there’s a dessert disaster at my feet. If there’s one thing I know how to do properly, it’s how to fix a baking mishap.

  “Okay,” I start. “We can’t serve this. What else have we got?”

  “We?” the young chef asks, crossing his arms.

  George, the old one, must see something in me though, because he nods his head and turns to the stainless steel tables behind him.

  “Tree raspberry cheesecakes which were meant for tomorrow—Queen Elle’s favorites—and two small chocolate cakes which were to be the miniature versions of this one. We have small bites of homemade chocolates and some macarons.” I can tell by his accent that he’s French, but I don’t have time to think about anything other than the desserts in front of me.

  The old man takes an apron off a hook on the wall and tosses it at my chest. I catch it, slipping it over my head.

  George points to the young pastry chef. “Ben, clean up this mess.” He gestures to the floor.

  My eyes drift up to the doorway, where Prince Luca is looking at me with a curious grin on his face. He inclines his head and walks away.

  I shake my head to clear the thoughts away. I can’t think of him right now, or the way he makes my body ignite. Tightening the apron strings, I put my hands on my hips.

  “We don’t have enough for one big dessert, so how about we do individual ones?”

  George quirks an eyebrow.

  I nod to the cheesecakes. “Individual raspberry cheesecakes and chocolate cake bites inside a tempered chocolate dome, served with warm raspberry sauce. The sauce will tie the two desserts together. Do you have good quality chocolate?”

  “Of course,” George smiles.

  “Good. Let’s get tempering. We can make a praline topping for the cheesecake squares and garnish the whole with the macarons. The whole thing on the individual plates, served to each guest.”

  The old man puts his hands on my shoulders and stares into my eyes. “Genius, mademoiselle. What’s your name?”

  “Ivy,” I answer.

  “Well, Ivy, you’re a hero.”

  “Don’t know if I’d go that far, but I may have saved the dessert for tonight.”

  The next hour is a flurry of activity. The three of us work like crazy to create chocolate domes, placing small bites of desserts inside them. I make a raspberry sauce under George’s watchful gaze, who grunts in approval as he tastes it. Right as a butler comes to tell us that the guests are ready for dessert, I find some gold leaf in one of the cupboards. With a bit of dazzle on top of the chocolate domes, and a delicate decanter of raspberry sauce, the dessert looks decadent, refined, and—if I do say so myself—perfect.

  The waiters whisk the plates away, and I lean back against the countertop, letting out a heavy sigh. I grab a piece of broken chocolate dome—one of the extras—and pop it into my mouth. It snaps delicately between my teeth and then melts on my tongue. I groan, nodding.

  “That’s good.” I try to smile, but I’m exhausted.

  George comes to stand in front of me and extends his hand. “Thank you, Miss Ivy.”

  I smile. “My pleasure. I’ve never worked in a commercial kitchen before. That was incredible.”

  The old chef stares at me, crossing his arms. He taps his lips with his fingertip, tilting his head to the side. “I’ll be here for the next month, before we head back to Westhill Palace with Prince Gabriel. Would you like to come train with me until then? You’re talented, and I could use your energy and creativity in here.”

  My eyes widen, and I stare around the dessert room. This is my dream. It’s more than my dream! I’d wanted to own my own small bakery, maybe somewhere in Grimdale. I had modest ideas.

  But to bake for royalty? To learn from one of the world’s top pastry chefs?

  Unreal.

  My face breaks into a smile. “Yes! Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  George nods. “Good. Now get to work, we have a lot of cleaning to do.” His eyes flash and a hint of a smile flits across his lips. I glance at Ben, the other apprentice, who grins at me.

  “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he laughs.

  I smile in response, because I don’t want to say the thought that passes through my mind—that even if working here is hell, it can’t possibly be worse than being my sister’s personal assistant.

  This is my chance to do something for myself. To do something I love. I won’t be watching my sister blossom, constantly feeling like I’m less than her.

  Maybe, working here, I’ll finally feel like who I am is enough.

  8

  Luca

  Dinner goes by in a haze of alcohol and tedious conversation. Margot sits beside me, and even the jealous glances that Cara sends my way do nothing to entertain me.

  Only when dessert arrives do I feel any sort of joy sparking in my spirit. The veil of numbness that I’ve worn all evening shivers slightly, and I see Ivy’s touch in the dish that’s served.

  A few comments are made on the dessert, but no one seems to appreciate the genius on the plate. I saw the cake smash against the ground. I saw the disaster in the kitchen.

  To then have it turned into something delicate, delicious, and refined… That takes a master’s touch.

  Ivy’s touch.

  When I taste her creation, I feel like I’m tasting her. I moan into my plate, imagining her red lips.

  I need her.

  Or, maybe, I just need a distraction from the woman who decided to marry my brother instead of me.

  Being at this table is suffocating. I feel like I’m about to explode, and all I can do is sit here and endure it. My gaze drifts to Cara, even though I know it’ll hurt to look at her.

  Her beauty. Her smile. Her perfect fucking body that no longer belongs to me.

  Maybe it never did.

  “…and we’re so glad to see Luca recovered so well,” Cara smiles, swinging her eyes to me. They hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut, her smile a knife that twists in my back.

  Dahlia clears her throat. “We were hoping that Prince Luca would stay in Farcliff for a while longer. He’s an inspiration to us all.”

  All eyes turn to me. Margot slides her hand over my thigh, and I resist the urge to leave the room.

  Cara’s eyes are the dial that cranks up the agony in my spine. Every time she looks at me, my nervous system screams, and pain shatters through my body. Deep, throbbing pain starts to well up in my marrow, and I need to swallow another pill or three.

  I stare at the raspberry sauce on my plate, dragging a spoon through the thick, sweet liquid.

  “He’s a miracle,” Cara responds, her words peppering my chest with poisoned knives.

  Miracle.

  It would have been a miracle for her to wait for me. For her to stay true to her word. She wouldn’t have run off with my brother. She’d have been by my side until I was better.

  But no.

  She chose the brother that was whole. The one who could walk. The one who could make her a Queen.

  I shift in my seat, and my body screams.

  The pills have already worn off.

  It’s Cara’s fault. If she’d stop looking at me with her big, brown, magnetic eyes, my body wouldn’t be a bubbling cauldron of suffering. If she’d stop slapping me with that honeyed voice, I’d be able to breathe properly.

  “So, are you staying?” Theo asks, arching an eyebrow.

  The vindictive part of me wants to say no. The cruel part of me wants to tell him I’ll be right beside him until Cara comes back to me.

  To my surprise, though, those aren’t the words that come out of my mouth. “Yes,” I say, bringing my spoon up to my lips to taste sweet, tangy raspberry sauce. “I’m staying.”

>   When dinner finishes, I can finally slip away. I feel Margot’s eyes on my back, and Cara’s gaze in my soul. I don’t look back.

  Letting my feet carry me down to the kitchens, I ignore the castle staff as they bow to me. I make my way to the pastry room, only to be disappointed when Ivy isn’t there.

  Stalking through the hallways, I know I can’t go back to the formal living room where the two royal families are sitting around, dousing each other in empty compliments.

  One good thing about being sent off to Singapore for five years? There were no royal events that seem to have the sole purpose of boring me to death.

  Instead of rejoining the dinner party, I head outside and light up a joint. I shake a painkiller from the pill bottle in my breast pocket and swallow it down before taking a puff.

  Exhaling, I loosen my tie.

  My body immediately relaxes, and the shots of pain that have plagued me all evening start to subside. Heading through the topiary garden, I make my way to the pool at the back of the estate.

  The doctor was very clear last night—I can’t get the wound on my head wet. But my body is screaming for some water.

  When I was in Singapore, being in the water was a big part of my physiotherapy. I’ve always been a swimmer, but having a spinal cord injury only made me love the water more. It’s what got me moving again. It’s what built up the muscles in my atrophied legs enough so that I could walk.

  So, when I reach the edge of the pool, I strip down to my underwear and slide into the cool water. My joint is still hanging on the edge of my lips, and I blow out some smoke around it.

  The cold water hugs my body tight, and I ease deeper into the water. Staring up at the starry sky, I let myself drift to the middle of the pool. One by one, my muscles relax. The burning pain in my nervous system eases as the cold water laps my body.

  “You know you’re supposed to wait an hour to go swimming after you eat, right?”

  I lift my head to see Ivy at the edge of the pool, grinning. She crouches down, running her fingers in the water before shivering at the coldness.