Royal Love

by Cristiane Serruya

  Siobhan had lived a tumultuous young life with constant change, broken relationships, and plenty of insecurity until she moved in with the Talbots at fourteen.

  When Jaxon’s parents died, one quickly following the other in the space of a single week, he had invited her to continue living with him, and even offered the servant’s quarters in the back garden for her to have more privacy, which she’d readily accepted with glee. After some refurbishment, it turned into a one-bedroom apartment, with just enough space for a bed, an armchair with a side table, and a special desk with multiple mini-drawers; where she kept her materials, and crafted her jewels.

  Now, at the ripe age of twenty-two, the sheer hurt of that unapologetic rejection by her grandmother had still kept Siobhan from seeking contact with her birth relations again. She had blocked out the memories of the early years of her life. Not wanting to think about it, she cleared her mind of such thoughts. There’s no point in dwelling on these recollections.

  Still though, as she hummed a song under her breath while she got ready for work, there was a sense of loss that had settled in her chest.

  In a small village in Lektenstaten

  When she chased the dragon, she had no dreams. Or nightmares.

  In the hazy twilight of opium, the pain in her body ebbed, and the one in her mind quieted, she could no longer see the faces of her dead parents, or hear the screams of her wounded relatives and friends.

  Chasing the dragon was an appropriate phrase to describe the habit—and her life.

  With a weary exhalation, she stared at the chipped paint across the ceiling of the loft.

  In the past, the smoke had quelled the rage in her heart, but now her need for revenge overpowered even opium’s sweet pull.

  She rose in stages from her sweat-dampened bed, then crossed to the bathroom for a shower.

  In the mirror, she studied her naked body. Three bullet wound scars riddled her tanned chest; a constant reminder of the attempt on her life.

  Though decades had passed, she could remember perfectly the order in which she’d taken each bullet from the Lektenstaten soldiers.

  But revenge was close at hand.

  And then, after the enemy was driven out, Lektenstaten would be restored to its former traditions and glory and placed in the hands of those to whom the land really belonged.

  Hot water rinsed the sickly-sweet sweat from her body, slowly bringing her back to life. Alertness brought with it a deep twinge of dark desire, sweeping through her body, making her weary muscles quake. Not much longer now.

  Once clean and dressed, her reflection betrayed no hint of the darkness writhing within her. With a sharp nod of satisfaction, she abandoned the illusion of safety for the streets.

  There, hanging twenty feet tall on the bank before her, was the dragon. It wriggled and flapped at her threateningly, as if the very cloth of the flag knew her mind.

  She bared her teeth at the symbol of Lektenstaten royalty, her entire existence reduced to a single thought: You’re mine.

  2

  London, Mayfair

  Lektenstaten Embassy

  5:00 p.m.

  Angus was not surprised to see his aunt, Princess Aileen, his father’s sister, and his only direct cousin, Princess Fiona, were also present when he entered his mother’s private apartments in the Lektenstaten embassy. Nor was he surprised to see they were all dressed in long gowns and styled hair, since his mother had always insisted—ordered, really—they all wear formal attire to dinner.

  What surprised him, was the fact there was none of his mother’s usual entourage, and that didn’t bode well for him.

  “I felt it was time to talk to you,” Catriona murmured, with a meaningful look at her only son after drinks were served by a prim waiter.

  Angus rose a black brow. “About what, exactly?”

  “You’ve been a widower for a year now,” Aileen answered.

  So, they did remember. “Is there a point to that obvious statement?” Angus enquired dryly.

  “You’ve spent enough time in mourning to satisfy social conventions. It’s time to think of remarrying,” his mother informed him.

  Incredulously, Angus studied the woman who had sent him to an English boarding school at the age of five and remained impervious to his tear-stained letters begging to be allowed to come home. “I don’t agree.”

  Fiona, his much younger cousin, chimed in, “It’s not as if we are asking you to replace Innes, Angus. But—”

  “But you must put the family’s unbroken line of inheritance first,” Catriona declared with ridiculous gravity. “There is presently no heir to the title or the estate but your cousin, who hasn’t found a prospective bridegroom yet.”

  He noticed Fiona flinch and look down at her tomato juice. “Mother—”

  “You are thirty-six-years old,” Catriona continued on her theme, with the stubborn insensitivity of a woman determined to have her say. “When Innes died, we all learned how fragile and fickle life can be. What if something similar were to happen to you? You must remarry and father an heir, my son.”

  He had no need of such reminders. All his life he had been made aware daily of the many responsibilities he would have when he grew up. He was raised in the same antiquated traditions as his ancestors were — to put duty, honor, and family first. He had never known an hour of freedom from the weighty burden of expectations that accompanied his privileged social status and great wealth.

  For Christ’s sake! “I’m aware of those facts, but I’m not ready to take another wife,” he retorted crisply.

  “I thought it would be helpful if we drew up a list of potential brides to help you,” Catriona contended, with a wide smile that struck her angry son as bordering on manic.

  Angus flattened his mouth into a line that would have encouraged a less determined opponent to drop the subject.

  His aunt Aileen, however, would not be silenced. She put forward a candidate from a family as rich and royal as their own.

  Angus dealt her a look of scorn.

  His mother quickly added a name of her own and explained, “She’s a young widow, related to the Queen, and she already has a son.”

  Ah, a proven fertility record. An expression of unhidden distaste crossed Angus’s classic dark features—talks of fertility records reminded him of livestock breeding. Yet, he knew exactly why that point was being made.

  When Aileen suggested the very young—barely a woman, and a virgin, according to her—daughter of a personal friend as being perfect bride material, Angus almost laughed out loud.

  “We’ll hold a party and invite some suitable women,” Catriona announced. “But not the teenager, Aileen. I really don’t think so young a woman would be appropriate. Your bride needs to be mature, well-versed in etiquette, educated and socially accomplished, as well as being from a suitable background.”

  “I will not attend any such party,” Angus declared without hesitation. “I have no intention of remarrying at this point in time.”

  Fiona gave him an apologetic look and tried to soften the idea, which had been discussed at length already. “But at least if you go to the party you might meet someone you like, and you could even fall in love.”

  “Thankfully, Angus has no nonsense of that variety in his head,” Catriona countered in a deflating tone of ice. “Marriage is a matter of business.”

  She sounds as if she is living in the last century. “That’s enough, Mother.” Angus decreed, implacable outrage at their comments igniting steadily beneath his cool façade. “There will be no party.”

  He could hardly believe that his own relations could be so crass—or rather, crazy.

  But then the extreme formality and reserve his mother had always insisted on had driven wedges of polite behavior between them all, as if they were strangers, their lives were ruled by last century’s rules, and bearing an heir for their country was more important than being happy human beings. In the worst-case scenario, if he died without an heir, and if th
e crown passed to another family, his own family and their descendants would still be billionaires. Must they have power as well?

  “We are only thinking of you and what is best for Lektenstaten,” Catriona murmured sweetly.

  “I know what is best for me, ma’am, and this is a personal matter where I’ll allow no interfering— yours or anyone else’s.” He stood up, his face rigidly controlled to conceal his disgust at his own family, and stared steadily back at the women. “When and if I remarry, I will choose my own wife as it seems people do in this century. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Princesses, Mother, I must attend a wedding.”

  He had done his duty by his country once and unfortunately, his marriage bore no fruits, but not for lack of trying.

  When he did remarry—because there was no if, in his case—he would do as his father had done.

  When King Augustus Maximus Braxton-Lenox married for the second time, his first act after what had been the shortest honeymoon on earth, was to take his eighteen-year old bride to a clinic and impregnate her with an artificial treatment. Hell yeah, because who would’ve stomached planting a life in such a cold woman the natural way?

  As he was well aware, not only from experience, but also by watching his parents, marriage could be a most challenging situation, even for those who might think they are very well matched as a couple.

  Now, all he wanted was a bit of freedom.

  London, Kensington

  6:35 p.m.

  Siobhan tied a frilled apron on over the narrow black skirt and white blouse that was her costume for the fancy wedding and quickly made her way to Allen’s side, where the bride’s mother, Amelia Forsythe—of some place or other, Siobhan couldn’t recall—an enervated and emaciated blonde dressed in a gray-pink dress, was rapping out imperious instructions in a shrill voice.

  “Siobhan, Mrs. Forsythe is telling me there will be a lord here tonight—”

  “Angus Augustus Braxton-Lenox,” the bride’s mother interposed haughtily, pronouncing the name in a mix of French and German accents and a hallowed tone most people reserved for royalty. “Our most important guest and my husband’s cousin on fifth degree. Make sure you wait on him hand and foot. Ensure his glass is never empty. I’ll point him out when he arrives.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am.” Siobhan nodded acquiescence and as soon as the woman turned her back, sped back to the kitchen where she was preparing a tray of sandwiches to take to the bridal room.

  “What was all that about?” Penelope Taylor, her fellow waitress, asked.

  Parroting the woman’s shrill voice and haughty manners, Siobhan told her about the important guest, ending with, “A peer, Allen said he was a lord, but I didn’t quite get the title.”

  “Another fat old snob with lots of money, I bet,” her friend opined.

  “I only hope he doesn’t forget to leave a fat tip,” Siobhan joked, as she arranged another tiny sandwich on a tray and left the kitchen heading to the second floor of the residence, where the bride, Abigail Forsythe was having a private ‘before-the-wedding’ party.

  Stunning, in a sophisticated sheath of white satin, Abigail was surrounded by six of her best friends and was already opening a third bottle of French champagne.

  Siobhan watched while Mrs. Forsythe fussed over her daughter, twitching her train into place and adjusting her tiara.

  Unappreciative of the proud parental attention she was receiving, Abigail uttered a sharp complaint about the color of the napkins—so last year and not what she had ordered.

  Allen surged forward to apologize and explain those were for internal use only, while Siobhan wondered why people made so much ado about nothing. If she still had a loving mother, she would never complain about anything.

  Siobhan was summoned to the mezzanine a few minutes after the exchange, to have the ‘oh-so-important-guest’ singled out. Amelia pointed near the vicinity of her husband and whispered, “There, on my husband’s left, the man in the black tuxedo.”

  All the men are in black tuxedos, Mrs. Forsythe. Siobhan located a solitaire old man sitting to the left of Amelia’s husband. “The one beside the potted plant?”

  With a huff, Amelia framed Siobhan’s head between her hands and directed it to where her husband was. “Are you blind, girl? There, the tall man talking to my husband.”

  There was a tall, dark man, with long chestnut hair, nearly as long as hers, engaged in conversation with the bride’s father. “Ah, yes, I see him.” Not really. But his height and hair are unmistakable. I must have misunderstood. He’s probably some athlete. Or TV star. No lord would have that hair or attitude.

  “Good. As soon as the ceremony is over, see his every desire is tended to with due haste.”

  With that, she left Siobhan, squinting in her near-sightedness, trying to get a better look at the dark male’s face, and ran inside the bride’s rooms, shrilly exclaiming in what she seemed to think was a hushed whisper, “The wedding must start! Now.”

  At a discreet order from Allen’s walkie-talkie, the orchestra signaled the beginning of the ceremony, and Mr. Forsythe directed the tall man to the front row, making it impossible for her to distinguish his features.

  It was just as well though because, soon Siobhan was distracted by the flurry of activity: women rushing down, giggling and whispering, to take their places at the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Forsythe making his way upstairs, and Allen needing her to help arrange the bridesmaids and groomsmen in the correct order.

  Had it not been for the fact that Heinrich Forsythe was one of Lektenstaten’s most important businessmen—and a very distant cousin, something Forsythe never let anyone forget—Angus would have sent one of his good-for-nothing relatives to represent him. But his conscience wouldn’t have left him alone if he hadn’t shown up, especially since he had told his secretary to accept the invitation. I more than see to my obligations, Mother.

  Despite the two aspirins he had taken in his limousine on the way to the wedding, the headache, which had installed itself in Angus’s skull after leaving his mother’s house, was now disputing with the orchestra.

  To his relief, the ceremony was short, and before long, with a smile plastered on his face, he was making his way out of the venue, behind the married couple, ahead of everyone else, courtesy of his lofty status.

  A receptionist directed the newlyweds to a room while another showed him into a vast reception hall where there was a few tables, a space for dancing, and a live band already playing.

  Before the woman could direct him to his place, Amelia’s shrill voice hit his ears, “Your Majesty!” Angus almost groaned, but instead turned and smiled, greeting and congratulating the old woman. And calculated how long until he could make his goodbyes.

  “There, Siobhan, go offer the lord a drink before Mrs. Forsythe eats my liver,” Allen urged, as soon as the guests were all inside the reception room.

  Siobhan squinted and easily located the tall man at the bridal table. He already had a tall glass in his hand—whisky probably—from which he was drinking steadily as if he was very thirsty. So, she grabbed another bottle of whisky, ice, glass, and, as an afterthought, a crystal pitcher of water, and put it on the first tray she found.

  The closer she got, the taller the man seemed to get. Her curious gaze rested on him, taking in every detail of his stylish, sophisticated appearance, while he smiled down at a blushing woman who was being introduced to him.

  His tuxedo had the classic tailoring and sheen of the most expensive design, highest quality, and by what she could see, he was blessed with the sleek, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, and long-limbed muscular physique of a classical god his clothes couldn’t hide. The only thing setting him off as a rebel was his hair.

  She wasn’t ready for when her eyes focused. The man was so breathtakingly good-looking—downright dazzling, from the crown of his unfashionably long chestnut hair, to the flawless planes of his classically bronzed features—her heart jumped in her chest.

  “My lord?” S
iobhan attempted to gain his attention, while at the same time, extended the tray she was carrying.

  When he gazed down at her she discovered he had wonderfully thick, sooty eyelashes and eyes the color of hot gold. She felt as dizzy as if she were suddenly falling from a great height.

  For a moment it crossed his mind his thirst might be more wisely quenched with water than alcohol, but what happened next turned his thoughts in a different direction. He gazed from the tray to the server.

  Her curling lashes lifted, her green eyes looking directly into his.

  He felt the jolt of connection like an electric shock traveling through his lean, powerful frame to set off a chain reaction in his groin.

  Angus took a step forward, focusing on her mesmerizing face, and thus didn’t see he walked right into the path of an oncoming, oblivious child.

  It was then a beautiful disaster struck.

  The child ran into the lower half of Angus’s backside at the same time Siobhan extended the tray to him.

  She pulled the tray back as she observed the collision and Angus began stumbling forward. But, she was too quick, causing the crystal water pitcher to topple over toward him, bounce off his crotch, and then shatter on the tiles.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Siobhan immediately apologized, placing the tray out of the way of any foot traffic. She grabbed a cloth napkin from the table to minimize the damage she had inadvertently done, and began wiping at the wet spot on the front of his pants; clearly not even thinking about the region in which she was dabbing and rubbing.

  Angus, who was already mentally aroused at the sight of her, felt himself becoming engorged as the lovely young lady began to rub his manhood with an embroidered white napkin.