Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

by Nina Milne

  And he understood why—she would have been terrified of the comments from her stepmother or sisters...she would have hoarded her talent and hugged it tight.

  ‘Then maybe now is the time. Don’t let them win—all those mean-spirited people who put you down. You’ve already proved your success to them.’

  She shook her head. ‘Only through modelling—that’s dumb genetic luck, plus being in the right place at the right time. Fashion design requires a whole lot more than that.’

  ‘I understand that you’re scared—and I know it won’t be easy—but if fashion design is your dream then you should go for it. Don’t let them hold you back from your potential. Don’t let what they did affect your life.’

  ‘Why not? You are.’

  He hadn’t seen that one coming. ‘Meaning...?’

  ‘I think you’re scared too.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of bonding with Amil.’

  The words hit him, causing his breath to catch. She moved across the rug closer to him, contrition written all over her beautiful face.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that in a tit-for-tat way, or as an accusation. It’s just I see how you look at him, with such love, but then I see how you hold back from being alone with him. You won’t even hold him and I don’t understand why.’

  There was silence, and Frederick knew he needed to tell her. He couldn’t bear her to believe he didn’t want to hold his son.

  ‘Because of dumb genetic luck.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘When I was eighteen I went to see my mum. I hoped that there had been some mistake—that my father had lied to me, that she hadn’t really abandoned me and that there was some reason that would explain it all away. It turned out there was—she explained that she quite simply lacked the parenting gene.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her hands clenched into fists and her eyes positively blazed. ‘Is that what you’re scared of? That you lack the parenting gene?’

  His gaze went involuntarily to his son, who lay asleep on the blanket, his bottom in the air, his impossibly long lashes sweeping his cheeks.

  He couldn’t answer—didn’t need to. Even he could hear the affirmation in his silence.

  ‘You don’t.’ Sunita leaned across, brushing his forearm in the lightest of touches. ‘I can see how much you love Amil. You are not your mother or your father. You are you, and you are a great father—please believe that. Trust yourself. I promise I trust you.’ She inhaled an audible breath. ‘And I’ll prove it to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Panic began to unfurl as she rose to her feet.

  ‘He’s all yours. I’ll see you back at the palace much later. Obviously call if there is an emergency—otherwise the boat will return for you in a few hours.’

  Before he could react she started walking across the sand. He looked at his sleeping son. Obviously he couldn’t leave Amil in order to chase after Sunita, which meant...which meant he was stuck here.

  His brain struggled to work as he watched Sunita disappear over the rocks. If he called after her he would wake Amil, and that was a bad plan. He stilled, barely daring to breathe as he watched the rise and fall of his son’s chest. Maybe Amil would sleep for the next few hours...

  As if he should be so lucky.

  With impeccable timing Amil rolled over and opened his eyes just as the sound of the boat chug-chug-chugging away reached his ears. He looked round for his mother, failed to see her, and sat up and gazed at his father. Panicked hazel eyes met panicked hazel eyes and Amil began to wail.

  Instinct took over—his need to offer comfort prompted automatic movement and he picked Amil up. He held the warm, sleepy bundle close to his heart and felt something deep inside him start to thaw. The panic was still present, but as Amil snuggled into him, as one chubby hand grabbed a lock of his hair and as the wails started to subside, so did the panic.

  To be replaced by a sensation of peace, of unconditional love and an utter determination to keep this precious human being safe from all harm—to be there for him no matter what it took.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SUNITA GLANCED AT her watch and then back at the sketchbooks spread out on the table. Thoughts chased each other round her brain—about Frederick and Amil; she hoped with all her heart that right now father and son had started the bonding process that would last a lifetime.

  Her gaze landed back on the design sketches and she wondered whether Frederick had been right—that fear of rejection and self-doubt stood in her way. Just as they did in his. Could she pursue a dream? Or was it foolish for a woman with no qualifications to put her head above the parapet and invite censure? Or, worse, ridicule.

  Another glance at her watch and she closed the books, piled them up and moved them onto a shelf. Instead she pulled out a folder—design ideas for the state rooms, where they would move after the wedding.

  The door opened and she looked up as Frederick came in, Amil in his arms. There was sand in their hair and identical smiles on their faces. Keep it cool...don’t overreact. But in truth her heart swelled to see them, both looking so proud and happy and downright cute.

  ‘Did you have fun?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Fabulous. Tea is ready.’

  ‘I thought maybe today I could feed him. Do his bath. Put him to bed.’

  Any second now she would weep—Frederick looked as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

  ‘Great idea. In which case, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a couple of errands to do. I’ll be back for his bedtime.’

  Frederick didn’t need an observer—especially when Amil lobbed spaghetti Bolognese at him, as he no doubt would. And perhaps she could do something a little courageous as well. She needed to speak with Therese, the snooty seamstress, about her wedding dress.

  Lycander tradition apparently had it that the royal seamstress had total input on the design of the dress, but surely the bride had a say as well. So maybe she would show Therese one of her designs.

  Grabbing the relevant sketchbook, she blew Amil a kiss and allowed a cautious optimism to emerge as she made her way through the cavernous corridors to the Royal Sewing Room.

  A knock on the door resulted in the emergence of one of Therese’s assistants. ‘Hi, Hannah, I wonder if Therese is around to discuss my dress.’

  ‘She’s popped out, but I know where the folder is. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you having a look.’ Hannah walked over to a filing cabinet. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  With that she scurried to an adjoining door and disappeared.

  Sunita opened the folder and stared down at the picture—it was...was... Well, on the positive side it was classic—the designer a household name. On the negative side it was dull and unflattering. There didn’t seem to be anything else in the folder, which seemed odd.

  She headed to the door through which Hannah had disappeared, to see if there was another file, then paused as she heard the sound of conversation. She recognised Hannah’s voice, and that of another assistant—Angela—and then the mention of her own name.

  Of course she should have backed off there and then, taken heed of the old adage about eavesdroppers never hearing any good of themselves. But she didn’t. Instead, breath held, she tiptoed forward.

  ‘Do you think she knows?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘Knows what?’ said Angela.

  ‘That that’s the dress Therese had designed for Lady Kaitlin—she was dead sure Lady K would marry Frederick. Everyone was, and everyone is gutted she didn’t. Even that engagement ring—it was the one they had in mind for Kaitlin. Lady Kaitlin would have been a proper princess—everyone knows that. And she would have looked amazing in that dress—because it’s regal and classic and not showy.
As for Sunita—Frederick is only marrying her for the boy, which is dead good of him. He’s a true prince. But Sunita can’t ever be a true princess—she’ll never fit in.’

  Sunita closed her eyes as the flow of words washed over her in an onslaught of truth. Because that was what they were—words of truth. Otherwise known as facts. Facts that she seemed to have forgotten in the past weeks, somehow. She didn’t know how she’d started to look at her marriage through rose-tinted glasses. How she had started to believe the fairy tale.

  Fact: the sole reason for this marriage was Amil. Fact: Frederick’s ideal bride would have been Lady Kaitlin or a woman of her ilk. Fact: fairy tales did not exist.

  This must be what her mother had done—convinced herself that a handsome, charming English holidaymaker was her Prince, who would take her off into the sunset and a happy-ever-after. Perhaps that was what her father had done too—convinced himself that he could right past wrongs, that his family would welcome in his bastard child and everyone would live happily ever after.

  Carefully she moved away from the door, leaving the folder on the desk, then picked up her sketchbook, and made her way out of the office, back along the marble floors, past the tapestry-laden walls, the heirlooms and antiquities collected over centuries, and back to her apartments.

  She took a deep breath and composed her expression—this was a special day for Frederick and Amil and she would not spoil it.

  Nor would she whinge and whine—there was no blame to be cast anywhere except at herself. Somehow she’d lost sight of the facts, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Entering the room, she halted on the threshold. Frederick sat on an armchair, Amil on his lap, looking down at a book of farm animals with intense concentration as Frederick read the simple sentences, and made all the noises with a gusto that caused Amil to chuckle with delight.

  The book finished, Amil looked up and beamed at her and her heart constricted. Amil was the most important factor.

  ‘Hey, guys. Looks like I’m back just in time.’ Hard as she tried, she got it wrong—her voice was over-bright and a touch shaky, and Frederick’s hazel eyes scanned her face in question.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Walking over, she picked Amil up, hid her face under the pretext of a hug. ‘How did tea and bath go?’

  ‘Well, I have spaghetti down my shirt and bubbles in my hair, but we had fun, didn’t we?’

  ‘Abaadaaaaada!’ Amil smiled and then yawned.

  ‘I’ll put him to bed.’ Frederick rose and took Amil into his arms. Amil grizzled, but Frederick held on. ‘Daddy’s putting you to bed tonight, little fella. It’ll be fine.’

  And it was.

  Fifteen minutes later Frederick emerged from Amil’s bedroom, a smile on his face, headed to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of red wine.

  Once they both had a glass in hand, he raised his. ‘Thank you for today. You were right—I was afraid. Afraid I couldn’t be a good parent...afraid I’d hurt him the way my parents hurt me. I thought doing nothing would be better than getting it wrong. Now I really hope that I can be a better parent than mine were, and can create a real bond with my son.’

  The words made her happy—truly happy—and she wanted to step forward, to get close and tell him that, show him that happiness. But she didn’t. Because close was dangerous—close had landed her in this scenario where she had distorted the facts with perilous consequence.

  Perhaps it had been that magical physical intimacy in Goa, or maybe it had been a mistake to confide in him, to share her background and her fears and dreams. Whatever. No point in dwelling on the mistakes. Now it was vital not to repeat them.

  So instead she stepped backwards and raised her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that. I’m so very pleased for you and Amil.’

  And she was. But to her own horror, mixed into that pleasure was a thread of misery that she recognised as selfish. Because his love for Amil had never been in doubt—it had simply needed a shift in the dynamic of their relationship. A shift that had highlighted exactly what Sunita was—a by-product, a hanger-on, exactly as she been in her father’s family. There only by default, by an accident of birth.

  Well, she was damned if she would sit around here for the rest of her life being a by-product.

  ‘Earth to Sunita?’

  His voice pulled her out of her thoughts and she manufactured a smile, floundered for a topic of conversation. Her gaze fell on a folder—her plans for the state apartments.

  ‘Would you mind having a look at this? I wanted your opinion before I went ahead.’

  She picked up the file, opened it and pulled out the pictures, gazed down at them and winced. Every detail that she’d pored over so carefully screamed happy families—she’d done some of the sketches in 3D and, so help her, she’d actually imagined the three of them skipping around the place in some family perfect scene.

  For their bedroom she’d chosen a colour scheme that mixed aquamarine blue with splashes of red. The double bed was a luxurious invitation that might as well have bliss written all over it.

  She had to face it—her vision had included steamy nights with Frederick and lazy Sunday mornings with a brood of kids bouncing up and down. What had happened to her? This was a room designed with love.

  This was a disaster. Love. She’d fallen in love.

  Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  Frederick frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  Reaching out, he plucked the pictures from her hand and she forced herself not to clutch onto them. Think. Before he looked at the pictures and figured it out. Think. Because even if he didn’t work it out she couldn’t share a room with him—that would take intimacy to insane levels, and Frederick was no fool. He’d realise that she had done the unthinkable and fallen for him.

  As he scanned the pictures desperation came to her aid. ‘I wondered which bedroom you wanted.’

  His head snapped up and his eyebrows rose. He placed the papers on the table. ‘I assumed from these pictures that we would be sharing a room.’

  Picking up her wine glass, she met his gaze. ‘As I understood it, royal tradition dictates separate bedrooms and I assumed you’d prefer that.’ Or at least she should have assumed that. ‘However, obviously there will be some occasions when we do share—hence the design. If you want that bedroom I’ll design the second one as mine. But if you don’t then I’ll take that one and we can discuss how you want yours to be.’

  Stop, already. He’d got the gist of it and now she sounded defensive. Worse, despite herself, there was a hint of a question in the nuances of her tone, and a strand of hope twisted her heart. Hope that he’d take this opportunity to persuade her to share a room.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He sipped his wine, studied her expression, and she fought to keep her face neutral.

  ‘I think this is some sort of trick question.’

  ‘No trick. It’s a simple need to know so I can complete the design. Also, as you know, I’ll be giving an interview once the renovations are done, so it depends what you think the people of Lycander would prefer to see. We can pretend we share a room, if you think that would go down better, or...’

  Shut up, Sunita.

  Just because full-scale panic was escalating inside her, it didn’t mean verbal overload had to implode. But she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘And then there is Amil to think about. I’m not sure that he should grow up thinking this sort of marriage is right.’

  ‘Whoa! What is that supposed to mean? “This sort of marriage”? You say it like there’s something wrong with it.’

  ‘There is something wrong with it.’

  It was almost as if her vocal cords had taken on a life of their own.

  ‘Is this the sort of marriage you want Amil to have? An
alliance? Presumably brokered by us? A suitable connection? Perhaps he will be lucky enough to get his own Lady Kaitlin. Hell.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Perhaps we should get dibs on her first-born daughter.’

  ‘Stop.’ His frown deepened as he surveyed her expression. ‘What is going on here? We agreed how our marriage would work—we agreed what we both wanted.’

  ‘No, we didn’t. I didn’t want to get married at all. You did.’

  ‘And you agreed.’

  ‘Because there was no other choice.’ She closed her eyes. ‘There still isn’t. But when Amil gets married I don’t want it to be like this.’

  For her son she wanted the fairy tale—she wanted Amil to love someone and be loved in return and live happily ever after. The End.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with this.’ His voice was urgent now, taut with frustration and more than a hint of anger. ‘Amil will see two parents who respect each other, who are faithful to each other, who are polite to each other. There will be no uncertainty, no banged doors and no voices raised in constant anger. He’ll have two parents who are there for him—I think he’ll take that. God knows, I would have. And so would you.’

  Touché. He was right. The problem was this wasn’t about Amil. It was about her. She wanted the fairy tale. Her whole being cried out at the idea of a marriage of civility. Her very soul recoiled from the thought of spending the rest of her life tied to a man she loved who would never see her as more than the mother of his children—a woman he’d married through necessity not choice.

  But she’d made a deal and she’d honour it. For Amil’s sake. She wouldn’t wrest Amil from his father, wouldn’t take away his birthright. But neither would she stick around and moon in lovelorn stupidity. The only way forward was to kill love before it blossomed—uproot the plant now, before it sank its roots into her heart.

  So she dug deep, conjured up a smile and said, ‘You’re right. I just had a mad moment.’ She gave a glance at her watch. ‘Anyway, don’t you need to go? I thought you had a meeting about the casino bill?’