The Prince's Nine-Month Scandal

by Caitlin Crews

But that kind of overachieving behavior, while perfect for her eventual career as the type A assistant to the most picky and overbearing man alive, had not exactly helped Natalie make any friends. She’d always been the new kid in whatever school she’d ended up in. Then, while she wasn’t the new kid at college, she was so used to her usual routine of studying constantly that she hadn’t known how to stop it. She and her freshman-year roommate had gotten along well enough and they’d even had lunch a few times over the next few years, all very pleasant, but it hadn’t ever bloomed into the sort of friendships Natalie knew other women had. She’d had a boyfriend her junior year, which had been more exciting in theory than in fact. And then she’d started working for Mr. Casilieris after graduation and there hadn’t been time for anything but him, ever again.

  All of this had been perfectly fine with her yesterday. She’d been proud of her achievements and the fact no one had helped her in equal measure. Well. She’d wanted to quit her job, but surely that was a reasonable response to five years of Achilles Casilieris. And today, sitting on the cushioned bench at the foot of a princess’s bed with a medieval castle looming all around her like an accusation, it was clear to Natalie that really, she could have used someone to call.

  Anyone except the person she knew she had to call, that was.

  But Natalie hadn’t dealt with a terrifying man like Achilles Casilieris for years by being a coward, no matter how tempting it was to become one now. She blew out a breath, then dialed her own mobile number. She knew that the flight she should have been on right now, en route to New York City, hadn’t landed yet. She even knew that all the calls she’d set up would likely have ended—but she wasn’t surprised when Valentina didn’t answer. Mr. Casilieris was likely tearing strips out of the princess’s hide, because no matter how she’d handled the situation, it wouldn’t have been to his satisfaction. She was a bit surprised that Valentina hadn’t confessed all and that the Casilieris plane wasn’t landing in Murin right now to discharge her—and so Achilles Casilieris could fire Natalie in person for deceiving him.

  Really, it hadn’t been nice of Natalie to let Valentina take her place. She’d known what the other woman was walking into. God help the poor princess if she failed to provide Mr. Casilieris with what he wanted three seconds before he knew he wanted it. When she’d started, Achilles Casilieris had been famous for cycling through assistants in a matter of hours, sometimes, depending on the foulness of his mood. Everyone was an idiot, as he was all too happy to make clear, especially the people he paid to assist him. Everyone fell short of his impossibly high standards. If he thought Natalie had lost her ability to do her job the way he liked it done, he’d fire her without a second thought. She’d never been in any doubt about that.

  Which meant that really, she should have been a little more concerned about the job Valentina was almost certainly botching up right this very minute, somewhere high above the Atlantic Ocean.

  But she found she couldn’t work up the usual worry over that eventuality. If he fired her, he fired her. It saved her having to quit, didn’t it? And when she tried to stress out about losing the position she’d worked so hard to keep all these years, all she could think of instead was the fact he hadn’t known Valentina wasn’t her in that bathroom. That despite spending more time with Natalie than with his last ten mistresses combined, he’d failed to recognize her. And meanwhile, Rodolfo had looked at her. As if he wanted to climb inside of her. As if he could never, ever get enough. And that mouth of his was sculpted and wicked, knowing and hot...

  She heard her own voice asking for a message and a phone number on the other end of the line, but she didn’t leave a voice mail at the beep. What would she say? Where would she start? Would she jump right into the kissing and claims that she’d sleep her way around Europe in payback for any extramarital adventures Prince Rodolfo might have? She could hardly believe she’d done either of those things, much less think of how best to tell someone else that she had. Particularly when the someone else was the woman who was expected to marry the man in question.

  The fact was, she had no idea what Valentina expected from her arranged marriage. A dry tone in a bathroom to a stranger when discussing her fiancé wasn’t exactly a peek into the woman’s thoughts on what happily-ever-after looked like for her. Maybe she’d been fine with the expected cheating, like half of Europe seemed to be. Maybe she hadn’t cared either way. Natalie had no way to tell.

  But it didn’t matter what Valentina’s position on any of this was. It didn’t make Natalie any happier with herself that she was hoping, somewhere in there, that Valentina might give her blessing. Or her forgiveness, anyway. And it wasn’t as if she could blame the Prince, either. Prince Rodolfo thought she was Valentina. His behavior was completely acceptable. He’d had every reason to believe he was with his betrothed.

  Natalie was the one who’d let another woman’s fiancé kiss her. So thoroughly her breasts still ached and her lips felt vulnerable and she felt a fist of pure need clench tight between her legs at the memory. Natalie was the one who’d kissed him back.

  There was no prettying that up. That was who she was.

  Natalie put the phone aside, then jumped when it beeped at her. She snatched it back up, hoping it was Valentina so she could at least unburden her conscience—another indication that she was not really the good person she’d always imagined herself to be, she was well aware—but it was a reminder from the princess’s calendar, telling her she had a dinner with the king in a few hours.

  She wanted to curl back up on that chaise and cry for a while. Perhaps a week or so. She wanted to look around for the computer she was sure the princess must have secreted away somewhere and see if she could track her actual life as it occurred across the planet. She wanted to rewind to London and her decision to do this insane thing in the first place and then think better of pulling such a stunt.

  But she swallowed hard as she looked down at that reminder on the mobile screen. The king.

  All those things she didn’t want to think about flooded her then.

  If Erica had shortened her name... If all that moving around had been less wanderer’s soul and more on the run... If there was really, truly only one reasonable explanation as to how a royal princess and a glorified secretary could pass for each other and it had nothing to do with that tired old saying that everyone had a twin somewhere...

  If all of those things were true, then the King of Murin—with whom she was about to have a meal—wasn’t simply the monarch of this tiny little island kingdom, well-known for his vast personal wealth, many rumors of secret affairs with the world’s most glamorous women and the glittering, celebrity-studded life he lived as the head of a tiny, wealthy country renowned for its yacht-friendly harbors and friendly taxes.

  He was also very likely her father.

  And that was the lure, it turned out, that Natalie couldn’t resist.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A LITTLE OVER a week later, Natalie thought she might actually be getting the hang of this princess thing. Or settling into her role well enough that she no longer had to mystify the palace staff with odd requests that they lead her to places she should have been able to find on her own.

  She’d survived that first dinner with the king, who might or might not have been her father. The truth was, she couldn’t tell. If she’d been expecting a mystical, magical sort of reunion, complete with swelling emotions and dazed recognition on both sides, she’d been bitterly disappointed. She’d been led to what was clearly her seat at one end of a long, polished table in what looked like an excruciatingly formal dining room to her but was more likely the king’s private, casual eating area given that it was located in his private wing of the palace. She’d stood there for a moment, not knowing what she was supposed to do next. Sit? Wait? Prepare to curtsy?

  The doors had been tossed open and a man had strode in with great pomp and circumstance. Even if she hadn’t recognized him from the pictures she’d studied online and
the portraits littering the castle, Natalie would have known who he was. King Geoffrey of Murin didn’t exude the sort of leashed, simmering power Rodolfo did, she couldn’t help thinking. He wasn’t as magnificently built, for one thing. He was a tall, elegantly slender man who would have looked a bit like an accountant if the suit he wore hadn’t so obviously been a bespoke masterpiece and if he hadn’t moved with a sort of bone-deep imperiousness that shouted out his identity with each step. It was as if he expected marble floors to form themselves beneath his foot in anticipation that he might place it there. And they did.

  “Hello,” she’d said when he approached the head of the table, with perhaps a little too much meaning in those two syllables. She’d swallowed. Hard.

  And the king had paused. Natalie had tensed, her stomach twisting in on itself. This is it, she’d thought. This is the moment you’ll not only be exposed as not being Valentina, but recognized as his long-lost daughter—

  “Are you well?” That was it. That was all he’d asked, with a vaguely quizzical look aimed her way.

  “Ah, yes.” She cleared her throat, though it didn’t need clearing. It was her head that had felt dizzy. “Quite well. Thank you. And you?”

  “I hope this is not an example of the sort of witty repartee you practice upon Prince Rodolfo,” was what Geoffrey had said. He’d nodded at her, which Natalie had taken as her cue to sit, and then he’d settled himself in his own chair. Only then did he lift a royal eyebrow and summon the hovering servants to attend them.

  “Not at all,” Natalie had managed to reply. And then some demon had taken her over, and she didn’t stop there. “A future king looks for many things in a prospective bride, I imagine, from her bloodlines to whether or not she is reasonably photogenic in all the necessary pictures. But certainly not wit. That sort of thing is better saved for the peasants, who require more entertainment to make it through their dreary lives.”

  “Very droll, I am sure.” The king’s eyes were the same as hers. The same shape, the same unusual green. And showed the same banked temper she’d felt in her own too many times to count. A kind of panicked flush had rolled over her, making her want to get up and run from the room even as her legs felt too numb to hold her upright. “I trust you know better than to make such an undignified display of inappropriate humor in front of the prince? He may be deep in a regrettable phase with all those stunts he pulls, but I assure you, at the end of the day he is no different from any other man in his position. Whatever issues he may have with his father now, he will sooner or later ascend the throne of Tissely. And when he does, he will not want a comedienne at his side, Valentina. He will require a queen.”

  Natalie was used to Achilles Casilieris’s version of slap downs. They were quicker. Louder. He blazed into a fury and then he was done. This was entirely different. This was less a slap down and more a deliberate pressing down, putting Natalie firmly and ruthlessly in her place.

  She’d found she didn’t much care for the experience. Or the place Valentina was apparently expected to occupy.

  “But you have no queen,” she’d blurted out. Then instantly regretted it when Geoffrey had gazed at her in amazement over his first course. “Sir.”

  “I do not appreciate this sort of acting out at my table, Valentina,” he’d told her, with a certain quiet yet ringing tone. “You know what is expected of you. You were promised to the Tisselians when I still believed I might have more children, or you would take the throne of Murin yourself. But we are Murinese and we do not back out of our promises. If you are finding your engagement problematic, I suggest you either find a way to solve it to your satisfaction or come to a place of peace with its realities. Those are your only choices.”

  “Was that your choice?” she’d asked.

  Maybe her voice had sounded different then. Maybe she’d slipped and let a little emotion in. Natalie hadn’t known. What she’d been entirely too clear on was that this man should have recognized her. At the very least, he should have known she wasn’t the daughter he was used to seeing at his table. And surely the king knew that he’d had twins. He should have had some kind of inkling that it was possible he’d run into his other daughter someday.

  And yet if King Geoffrey of Murin noticed that his daughter was any different than usual, he kept it to himself. In the same way that if he was racked nightly by guilt because he’d clearly misplaced a twin daughter some twenty-seven years ago, it did not mar his royal visage in any way.

  “We must all make choices,” he’d said coolly. “And when we are of the Royal House of Murin, each and every one of those choices must benefit the kingdom. You know this full well and always have. I suggest you resign yourself to your fate, and more gracefully.”

  And it was the only answer he’d given.

  He’d shifted the conversation then, taking charge in what Natalie assumed was his usual way. And he’d talked about nothing much, in more than one language, which would have made Natalie terrified that she’d give herself away, but he hadn’t seemed to want much in the way of answers. In Italian, French, or English.

  Clearly, the princess’s role was to sit quietly and listen as the king expounded on whatever topic he liked. And not to ask questions. No wonder she’d wanted a break.

  I have a confession to make, Natalie had texted Valentina later that first night. She’d been back in the princess’s absurdly comfortable and elegant bedroom, completely unable to sleep as her conscience was keeping her wide awake.

  Confession is good for the soul, I’m reliably informed, Valentina had replied after a moment or two. Natalie had tried to imagine where she might be. In the small room in Mr. Casilieris’s vast New York penthouse she thought of as hers? Trying to catch up on work in the office suite on the lower floor? I’ve never had the pleasure of a life that required a confession. But you can tell me anything.

  Natalie had to order herself to stop thinking about her real life, and to start paying attention to Valentina’s life, which she was messing up left and right.

  Rodolfo kissed me. There. Three quick words, then the send button, and she was no longer keeping a terrible secret to herself.

  That time, the pause had seemed to take years.

  That sounds a bit more like a confession Rodolfo ought to be making. Though I suppose he wouldn’t know one was necessary, would he?

  In the spirit of total honesty, Natalie had typed resolutely, because there was nothing to be gained by lying at that point and besides, she clearly couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t share all of this with Valentina no matter the consequences, I kissed him back.

  She’d been sitting up against the headboard then, staring at the phone in her hand with her knees pulled up beneath her chin. She’d expected anger, at the very least. A denunciation or two. And she’d had no idea what that would even look like, coming from a royal princess—would guards burst through the bedroom doors and haul her away? Would Valentina declare her an imposter and have her carried off in chains? Anything seemed possible. Likely, even, given how grievously Natalie had slipped up.

  If she’d been a nail-biter, Natalie would have gnawed hers right off. Instead, she tried to make herself breathe.

  Someone should, I suppose, Valentina had texted back, after another pause that seemed to last forever and then some. I’ve certainly never touched him.

  Natalie had blinked at that. And had then hated herself, because the thing that wound around inside of her was not shame. It was far warmer and far more dangerous.

  I never will again, she’d vowed. And she’d wanted to mean it with every fiber of her being. I swear.

  You can do as you like with Rodolfo, Valentina had replied, and Natalie could almost hear the other woman’s airy tone through the typed words. You have my blessing. Really. A hundred Eastern European models can’t be wrong!

  But it wasn’t Valentina’s blessing that she’d wanted, Natalie realized. Because that was a little too close to outright permission and she’d hardly been able t
o control herself as it was. What she wanted was outrage. Fury and consequences. Something—anything—to keep her from acting like a right tart.

  And instead it was a little more than a week later and Rodolfo was outplaying her at the game she was very much afraid she’d put into motion that first day in her new role as the princess. By accident—or at least, without thinking about the consequences—but that hardly mattered now.

  Worse, he was doing it masterfully, by not involving her at all. Why risk what might come out of her mouth when he could do an end run around her and go straight to King Geoffrey instead? On some level, Natalie admired the brilliance of the move. It made Rodolfo look like less of a libertine in the king’s eyes and far more of the sort of political ally for Murin he would one day become as the King of Tissely.

  She needed to stop underestimating her prince. Before she got into the kind of trouble a text couldn’t solve.

  “Prince Rodolfo thinks the two of you ought to build more of an accessible public profile ahead of the wedding,” the king said as they’d sat at their third dinner of the week, as was apparently protocol.

  It had taken Natalie a moment to realize Geoffrey was actually waiting for her response. She’d swallowed the bite of tender Murinese lamb she’d put in her mouth and smiled automatically, playing back what he’d said—because she’d gotten in the terrible habit of nodding along without really listening. She preferred to study the King’s features and ask herself why, if he was her father, she didn’t feel it. And he didn’t either, clearly. Surely she should know him on a deep, cellular level. Or something. Wasn’t blood supposed to reveal itself like that? And if it didn’t, surely that meant that she and Valentina only happened to resemble each other by chance.

  In every detail. Down to resembling Geoffrey, too. So much so that the King himself couldn’t tell the difference when they switched.

  Natalie knew on a level she didn’t care to explore that it was unlikely to be chance. That it couldn’t be chance.