by Artemis Hunt
ROYAL DESIRE
(Volume 4 of ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’)
By Artemis Hunt
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Artemis Hunt
Cover art by Artemis Hunt
Published by Artemis Hunt at Smashwords
WORKS BY ARTEMIS HUNT
EROTIC ROMANCES
The ‘Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male’ series
A Virgin Enslaved
The ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’ series
Mysterious Desire
Forbidden Desire
Infamous Desire
Royal Desire
ROMANCES
The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick
Snow White and the Alien
EROTICA BY APHRODITE HUNT
The ‘Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire’ series
His Indecent Proposition
His Indecent Demands
His Indecent Desires
The ‘Initiation’ series
Open Your Legs for Me
Blindfolded and Spread-eagled
Thighs Wide Apart
Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy
The Final Initiation
The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories
The ‘Initiation 2’ series
Open Your Legs for my Family
Bend Over for my Family
Publicly Display Yourself for Me
Sex Slave at Sea
Paraded before the Billionaires
Sex Slave at the Auction
The ‘Initiation 3’ series
Sex Slave to the Dictator
‘The Royal Captive’ series
Prince Miro’s Capture
Prince Miro’s Submission
Prince Miro’s Enslavement
Prince Miro’s Punishment
Prince Miro’s Escape
Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation
The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3
The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6
The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series
I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac
Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me
Gang Banged by the Chain Gang
Tempting the Hot Navy SEAL
The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series
Her First Clit Ring
Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage
Her First Clit Ring 3: Desensitization
The ‘Undercover’ series
Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor
Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO
The ‘Alien’ series
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2
Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)
When He’s Inside You
My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)
Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://artemishunt.blogspot.com/ and http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates. I write as Artemis Hunt for erotic romances with a more romance feel and Aphrodite Hunt for pure erotica and erotic romances which are slightly kinkier. So please be aware of what you’re getting into, dear reader, when you read one of my stories. Thank you so much for your support.
ROYAL DESIRE
1
The day of the state funeral dawns uncharacteristically sunny. Soft white clouds scud in the sky, occasionally hiding the cheerful ball of yellow sun. The entire nation of Moldavia is either out in the streets or watching the proceedings on TV. The stores have all closed. Flags are flown at half-mast. The mood is somber as is fitting for the death of a King who has served the people for well over forty years.
My heart is leaden in my chest.
Although the old King had no fondness for me, he was a good man. I bore him no ill will. He was the father of the man I love, after all. He would not have been glad to hear of Alex’s proposal to me. Most likely he would have keeled over dead. So in essence, I’m secretly glad he won’t be around to be murdered by our announcement. I would have keeled over from a heart attack if I’m held responsible for the death of Alex’s father.
People line both sides of the street. They are unanimously dressed in black. Black hats, black veils, black gloves, black dresses. Many shades and hues of black. There’s misty black, charcoal black, blue black, raven black, shimmering black. Even in mourning, the Moldavians are a fashionable lot.
Some people are openly crying. The King must have been dearly loved. The royal hearse rolls slowly down the streets from the palace. It is laden with flowers. Even from where I stand, I can smell their cloying, sickly sweet scent.
The Queen, Alex and his sisters have chosen to walk behind the hearse. The procession is slow, plodding. As I am not yet part of the family, I walk behind the royal guests and dignitaries – twenty rows deep. Tatiana and her father are just behind the Moldavian royals. Yes, I’m well aware of the contrast between her status and mine.
Royals from all over Europe have flown in to attend the funeral. The news crews from every continent are out, filming the entire procession. No flash bulbs today. Photos are taken discreetly and digitally.
My consolation is to be placed beside Madame Fournier, who is elegant in a flowing black dress and a black turban wrapped around her head.
“You look very nice,” she says to me.
“Thank you.”
I am dressed in various shades of harmonious black. My head is crowned by a black hat. My face is shadowed in a lacy and netted veil.
“I heard about the proposal,” she says.
There has been no formal announcement. Alex and I both agreed that it would be crass to tell anyone outside immediate family.
“Who did you hear it from?”
“Jasper.”
Figures. Jasper walks behind us, probably listening to our every word. Although he has been kinder to me of late, I still hold him in suspicious regard. I bear no illusions that he would not hesitate to ship me on the next flight out of Moldavia if his Queen wishes it so. I raise my head. Since coming to Moldavia and being labeled Public Royal Enemy Number One, I have gained considerable backbone.
I think.
Anyway, I love Alex and I will do whatever it takes to weather tornadoes for him. And I can smell them hurling in like thunderbolts from the near distance. I’ve developed quite a nose for them since spending a month in Indonesia.
I find myself drifting back to that wonderful time Alex and I shared on the sunny beaches. Just the two of us . . . in the outskirts of the village. Making love on the sand. It was a simple, uncomplicated time. Oh, how I wish –
I shouldn’t wish. I can’t reverse time. Alex is King now. He has his duties, and as the woman he has asked to marry, I must do my duty to him.
Madame Fournier says, “How did the Queen take it?”
“I don’t know.” My black shoes are starting to hurt. “She has not spoken to me since the hospital.”
It’s true. I don’t blame her. The last three days have been very trying on the family. I’ve hardly seen Alex.
“I suggest not making your engagement public for at least six months,” she says meaningfully.
Yes. Everyone would hate me even more, just when I thought I had reversed a little of it. I’m sure the public doesn’t hate me so much any
more, especially since I’ve embraced their culture. Even the dress and shoes I’m wearing are Greta Havre, a Moldavian designer. I’m sure all this would not be lost on the tabloid press.
Still . . . six months! Six months to wait before we can proclaim our commitment to the world. A lot can happen in six months.
Our procession walks down the main street of Moldavia. Once we reach the end, a bevy of sleek black limos are waiting to take us back to the palace grounds, where the old King’s body will be interred.
The ‘burial’ takes place in the Imperial Crypt. The mausoleum is larger than a house. Its external walls are festooned with winged angels and cherubs and saints – all carved in black granite. The huge twin iron doors bear Latin inscriptions and two large crosses on either side. Only immediate family is allowed inside the crypt, and so the ceremony is conducted outside.
The royals and dignitaries all throng the open casket, which will be wheeled into the crypt. I am once again three rows deep. I am told that the old King’s body has been embalmed and he will be put together with his ancestors, who date back to the sixteenth century. One day, Alex will grow old and die, I’m morbidly aware, and he too will be interred here together with his father, who once disapproved of his choice of a wife.
The Archbishop of Moldavia is the highest cleric in the land. He prays in Latin, something I reckon most of the audience does not understand. He is a man of seventy, with shocking white hair and stern eyes as piercing as the sky. As he prays and blesses the casket with holy water, his gaze rakes over the audience.
Although I’m behind two bodies, I swear his eyes alight on me for a tad longer than usual. They blaze with derision. So, they seem to say. You are the one who has caused such grief.
And then the moment passes and his eyes flit away.
I swallow. Could it have been my imagination?
It is Alex’s turn to say something. In black, he is somber and serious and very handsome, as befitting a young new King. He speaks in French, something I will have to learn if I am to be his wife. I don’t understand most of what he’s saying, but I believe he is asking for forgiveness.
Forgive me, Father, for hurting you.
Forgive me for not being at your side when you were first taken ill.
Forgive me for failing to be the son you wanted.
Forgive me for constantly disappointing you.
Although I am not sure what Alex is saying (nor do I intend to ask him), my mind runs over with things he may be saying.
Forgive me for choosing to marry a woman so far beneath my station and bringing this family shame. Now that I am King, I will rectify this, Father. I will cast her aside and take Tatiana to be my one true bride.
OK, I’m still insecure and paranoid. I can’t help it. Look where I am. A chilly breeze whips up and sends leaves scuttling against the mausoleum. It’s much chillier than any wind present today by far. It’s as though the ghost of Alex’s father is omnipresent, guiding the proceedings and fueling my newfound fears.
Thankfully, it is over. The casket is wheeled inside the crypt and laid into a cubicle carved into one of the walls. I am not allowed inside, but I imagine the ghosts there whispering to the Alex as he vanishes into the mausoleum, bidding his father goodbye a final time.
With a final blessing, the iron doors clang shut, never to open again until the death of the next monarch. Queens are not allowed to be interred here. It is strictly for Moldavian Kings. When we die, Alex and I will not be buried together.
I’m being horribly morbid today. Blame it on the atmosphere.
We slowly walk towards the waiting limos. Alex has his arm around his weeping mother as he ushers her to the lead car. A pang stabs my chest. The Queen must have loved her husband so, so much.
“Elizabeth Turner?” a female voice calls me.
I turn.
Alex’s sister, Marie, walks towards me. She resembles her mother – all long dark hair and flashing eyes – but somehow she does not possess the same beauty, as though she is a faded version of a beloved painting rather than the real deal. She is less austere however, as one would expect of a student from Yale. I have never officially been introduced to her because she just flew back in yesterday.
“Hello?” I say cautiously. I have already been exposed to the toxic Claire, Alex’s youngest sister. I don’t expect Marie to be much better, especially when Claire tells her I’ve been rifling through her closet.
Marie holds out her hand and smiles warmly. Well, that’s a start.
“I’m Marie . . . ”
“I know. Alex has told me so much about you.”
She scrutinizes my dress. “Moldavian, huh? Good strategy.”
“It was Madame Fournier’s idea.”
“Yes. Good woman, that.”
Her eyes do not mirror her words, and I get the impression she’s not very fond of Madame Fournier. Then she smiles again. I don’t know if I’m correct to assume this, but she does not seem overly upset that her father is dead. Or perhaps true royals behave like this. Still, perhaps she copes with her grief differently.
She says, “I do hope we’ll be able to get to know each other better. My mother told me that Alex has asked you to marry him.”
I cringe inwardly, waiting for another barrage of ‘Leave my brother alone, you lowly gold-digger’. But she continues, “I think that’s a splendid idea.”
Huh? I must have heard wrongly.
“Beg pardon?” I say. My surprise must have shown on my face because Marie throws back her head and laughs.
Several people around us turn to look. They give us severe glances. It is a funeral after all.
“I suppose my mother and Claire have given you quite the royal treatment,” she says. “Well, I assure you not all royals are like that. I certainly am not.”
She links arms with me. I’m stunned.
She says, “You and I are going to get to know each other better. And I have a feeling we’re going to be very good friends. Shall we?”
She indicates a waiting limo whose driver holds the passenger door open. He bows to her.
Oh, she wants us to go together.
“OK,” I say, still bewildered. It’s like being asked to hang out by the prom queen, especially when you are the class dork.
As I get into the limo, I catch Madame Fournier’s dark look.
It clearly says, ‘Beware’.
2
In the next few weeks, I don’t get to see Alex much in the daytime. He has his father’s estate to sort out, affairs to settle. He still comes to my bed every night. But he is visibly tired from his increasingly long days, and most of the time, I let him sleep.
I watch him sleep in my bed in the palace guest room. His long dark hair is fanned upon the pillow and his naked chest rises and falls so peacefully. He has not moved into his father’s bedchambers.
“It’s not the right time,” he says. “Besides, I can’t turn my mother out of her own bed.”
Nothing ever seems to be the right time. It’s as though we are so afraid to let the world know we are out of the mourning period. Or maybe that’s the way things work around here, and I’m being an impatient American.
Not that I want to sleep in the King’s bedchamber. I’m perfectly happy having Alex here in my bed forever. I’d be perfectly happy having him anywhere, so long as we’re together.
Alex’s dreams are troubled. I know this because he mutters and cries in his sleep. We make love, but not as often as before. I attribute this to stress. Both of us are immensely stressed.
“When is your coronation?” I asked him earlier.
“Probably a year from now,” he replies in a wry tone.
A year? Is he kidding me?
“It is not deemed seemly in this period of mourning,” he explains. “But I am still King. I don’t need a crown to tell me that.”
“I know, but a year?” I marvel.
“Queen Elizabeth was also crowned a year after her father’s state funeral. We are no
longer in medieval times where the crowning of a King is essential to the seizure of power.”
I don’t know about that. I know Alex isn’t into power, but I have a bad feeling about this. The longer we wait to tell the world about our engagement and the longer it takes for Alex to be crowned, the more bad things can happen.
There’s got to be a law on it, like Murphy’s Law. If anything bad can happen in a year, it will happen on the eleventh month, or something like that.
I do, however, have a new BFF.
Maybe I should not be calling her a BFF because I’m not sure we’re going to be friends forever. (After all, look what happened to me and my roommate, Deanna). But I do sure enjoy her company because she’s closer to my age. I’m talking about Marie Vassar, of course. Unlike Claire and Tatiana, she has no queenly airs. In fact, she could have been just another American college student, even though she has technically finished her final term.
“I think it’s because I spent most of my teenage life in America,” she says. “Mother wanted me to have an American education from the start and Claire to be sent to Swiss finishing school. She wanted us to embrace separate education systems.”
Ah well. I privately think one is working out better than the other.
“What are you going to do after college?”
“Take over the family’s businesses, of course.” She laughs. “That’s my major. Economics. I’m going to make Moldavia the jewel in the EU. We already have the second highest GDP per capita in Europe. We need to be the first.”
Marie Vassar is certainly ambitious. She has great plans to make Moldavian economy soar more than ever before. We go for walks down the Riviera, where bathers soak themselves in the sun and splash in the silvery Mediterranean waves. Paparazzi follow us, but are kept at arm’s length by our bodyguards. I have since learned to ignore these distractions.
