Future King's Pregnant Mistress

by Penny Jordan

  She was sitting behind a desk talking with her assistant Jemma and the first thing Marco noticed was how much weight she had lost and how pale and fragile she looked. Because of him? It shocked him to discover that a part of him wanted to believe it was because she was missing him. Why? Why should he feel like this when, in the past, with other women, he had been only too pleased to see them move on to a new partner after he had broken up with them. But in the past he hadn’t continued to want those other women, had he?

  He pushed his thoughts to one side, watching Emilys eyes widen as she looked up and saw him the blood rushing to her face, turning it a deep pink. He saw her lips frame his name. She pushed back her chair to stand up and then he saw her sway and start to crumple, as though her body were no more than one of the swathes of fabric draped over the back of another chair nearby. That deep pink glow had receded from her cheeks, leaving her so pale that she looked almost bloodless.

  He reacted immediately and instinctively, pushing his way through the pieces of furniture, reaching her just in time to hear her saying huskily. ‘It’s all right. I'm not going to faint.’ before she did exactly that.

  Through the roaring blur of sick dizziness Emily could hear voices: Jemma’s sharp with anxiety. Marco’s harsher than she wanted it to be their words, moving giddily in and out of one another, weaving through the darkness she was trying to free herself from. Then she felt Marcos arms tightening around her holding her and she exhaled on a small sigh of relief, knowing she was safe and that she didn't have to battle on alone any more. Gratefully she let the darkness take her as she slid into a faint.

  ‘What the hells going on?' Marco asked Jemma abruptly. Any idiotic thought he might have entertained that there was something ego-boosting about Emily’s reaction to him had disappeared now banished by his realisation of just how fragile she was. In all the time they had been together he had never once known her faint, or even say that she thought she might be going to which made it all the more shocking that she had done so now.

  ‘I wish I knew.’ Jemma admitted. ‘What I do know is that she hasn't been eating properly. She says it’s because of that flu bug she had earlier in the year. She just can’t seem to throw it off. She isn't the only one of course. I read in a newspaper the other day that many people are still suffering from its after-effects. The health authorities say that the best cures are rest and sunshine to build up the immune system. Emily’s admitted as much herself, although I can’t see her taking a holiday. I'm so glad you're here. I've been really worried about her.'

  ‘Will you both please stop talking about me as though I don't exist? I'm all right...'

  The blackness was receding and with it her nausea. She was sitting on a chair—Marco must have put her there, and no doubt he was the one who had pushed her head down towards her knees as well. She turned her head slightly and saw that he was standing next to her. So close to her in fact, that she could easily have reached out and touched him. Weak tears stung her eyes, causing her to make a small anguished sound of protest.

  ‘Emily?' She could feel Marco's hand on her shoulder, her flesh responding to its familiar warmth, weirdly both soothed and excited by it. The hardness of his voice lacerated both her pride and her heart. This was not how she would have wanted them to meet for the first time after their split; she must seem so vulnerable and needy, virtually forcing Marco to step in and manage things. Fate wasn't being very kind to her at the moment, she reflected wearily.

  She held her breath as Marco crouched down beside her, struggling to lift her head and fight off the swimming sensation within it. She would have given a lot for him not to have seen her like this, not to have witnessed her humiliating loss of consciousness.

  ‘There's no need to fuss. I'm fine.' she repeated, sounding as steady as she could.

  ‘Don't listen to her. Marco. She isn't all right at all. She's hardly eating and when she does, she's sick.'

  'Jemma!' Emily warned sharply.

  ‘Jemma is hardly breaking the Official Secrets Act.' Marco defended her assistant dryly. ‘After all she hasn't told me anything I can't see for myself. And, besides, there's no reason why I shouldn't know, is there?'

  None, except her pride and her aching heart. Emily admitted inwardly. And of course, those wouldn't matter to Marco, ‘I don't know what you are doing here. Your Highness’, she addressed him deliberately underlining his title.

  He couldn't just walk away and leave her like this Marco decided. So what was he going to do? His return flight was already scheduled for later this evening. Emily wasn't his responsibility. She was an adult. There was no good cause for him to involve himself here. But another voice deep inside him told him it was too late for such arguments. He had already made his decision.

  ‘I came to see you because I've got a business proposition to put to you.' he told Emily levelly. He could see her eyes widening with confusion and disbelief. She was lifting her hand to her head, as though she couldn't take in what he was saying. Seeing her look so thin and unwell touched an unfamiliar chord inside him which he crushed down the instant he felt it.

  Emily's head was aching painfully. She was finding it hard enough to grasp that Marco was actually here, never mind anything else. Her thoughts were in complete disarray. She couldn't really comprehend what he was saying. It was difficult enough for her to focus simply on stopping her heart from spinning and shaking her body with the force of its frantic beats, without having to think logically and calmly as well. It had upset her far more than she wanted to admit that the sight of him should have affected her to such an extent that she had collapsed.

  Worryingly even now her senses were still clinging possessively to the memory of being held in his arms as he had caught her. Part of her the sensible part, she told herself firmly, wanted to put as much distance between them as she could, to protect herself from making it even more obvious just how intensely aware of him she was. Whilst the other part longed to be as intimately close to him as it was possible to be: body to body, skin to skin, mouth to mouth—heart to heart.

  ‘A business proposition?’ she repeated uncertainly. What exactly does that mean Marco? I'm an interior designer.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Marco agreed, and a very good one.’

  Marco was praising her? Flattering her? Why? she wondered suspiciously. It was totally out of character for him to behave like this.

  Since it could be a while before I formally take over from my grandfather, instead of moving into the palace and being cooped up in a suite of rooms there. Marco told her. ‘I’ve moved into a villa I inherited from my parents. It’s in the old part of the town and it’s badly in need of modernisation. I want a designer who knows what she's doing and. just as important, one who knows my taste.'

  ‘It took several seconds for the full meaning of what he was saying to sink in. But once it had. Emily could hardly conceal her disbelief.

  ‘Are you saying that you want to commission me to be that designer?’ she asked Marco faintly.

  ‘Yes why not?’ Marco confirmed.

  ‘Why not?: Emily stared at him as her heart lurched crazily into her ribs. ‘Marco, we were lovers, and now our relationship is over. You must see that I can’t just let you commission me as your designer as though everything that took place between us never happened.’

  ‘Of course not. Emily. You never let me explain properly to you why I didn't tell you about Niroli or my role there.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Emily could see Jemma discreetly edging out of the room to go into the stock room, closing the door after her to give them some privacy.

  Emily waited, feeling helpless and weak. She was her own worst enemy, she knew that. She shouldn't even be thinking of listening to him instead of sitting here desperate for every second she could spend with him.

  ‘As a boy I had a very difficult relationship with my grandfather. I suppose I was something of a black sheep in his eyes. I resented the way he treated my father, who was too gentle to stand up to him and I
swore that I would never let him control me the way he did my parents. I came to London determined to prove to him and to myself that I could be a success without the power of the Royal House of Niroli. It was for that reason that I came here and stayed incognito, and no other’

  'But when we met you had achieved that success Marco.’ Emily forced herself to remind him.

  ‘Yes but I had also grown used to the freedom of living and proving myself as plain Marco Fierezza. It seemed to me then that there was no need for me to live any other way—at least not for many years. My father was still alive and he would have succeeded my grandfather when the time came.’ Marco gave a small shrug. ‘I had no expectation of becoming king until I was much older.’

  ‘Maybe not. But you would surely have to marry appropriately and produce a son to whom you can pass on the crown.’ Emily couldn't help pointing out quietly.

  Marco inclined his head. ‘Yes at some stage. One of the archaic rules that surround the Royal House of Niroli is that the king cannot marry a woman who is divorced, or of ill repute. The challenge of finding such a paragon in today's world is such that I was more than happy to remain unmarried until necessity directed otherwise.’

  Emily had to blink fast to disperse her threatening tears. Marco obviously had no idea just how hurtful his casual words were. It could never have occurred to him to think of her as someone he might love and want to commit to permanently. She should hate him for showing her how indifferent he was to her. Emily told herself, but somehow she felt too sick at heart to do it.

  ‘Look.’ Marco told her crisply. ‘I don't have much time, and since you obviously need to eat. Why don't we discuss this over an early dinner?'

  Emily shuddered and shook her head in instant denial, her reaction making him frown. Shed always had a good appetite, having never needed to worry about what she ate. But now the fact that she had not been eating properly was plain to see in the sharp angles of her cheek-bones and her jaw.

  ‘Jemma's right. Emily, you aren't looking after yourself properly.' Marco announced firmly. You need a break. I don't have time to argue with you. I've made up my mind. You're coming back to Niroli with me.'

  Was this giddy, soaring feeling inside her really because she was so weak that she was glad that Marco had made up her mind for her? She was an independent woman, for heaven's sake, not some wilting Victorian heroine. She tried to wrench back some control of what was happening.

  ‘I can’t do that. Marco. For one thing, there's the business—‘

  ‘Of course you can Em. I can take care of things here.’ Jemma piped up from the threshold of the storeroom. With Niroli's back to her she mouthed to Emily. Go with him. You know you want to...Before announcing to both of them that time was getting on and she had to catch the post with some invoices.

  Emily and Marco were alone in the shop now and she wished violently that she were not so all-consumingly aware of him.

  ‘You can’t take me back with you. Marco. It wouldn't work. We were lovers—‘

  ‘And still could be. If that's what you want.' Marco interrupted softly.

  Emily didn't dare look at him in case he saw the hope and the longing in her eyes. She struggled between her own helpless awareness of how much she still wanted him and the practicalities of the situation, protesting unsteadily.

  ‘Marco, we can't. Even if I wanted to...to go back, it isn't possible.'

  ‘Why not if it's what both of us want?’

  What both of them wanted. Her heart lurched, joyously intoxicated by the pleasure of hearing the admission his words contained.

  ‘But what about the rules of the House of Niroli? Surely your grandfather wouldn't approve, or—‘

  ‘My grandfather doesn't rule my personal life.’ Marco responded with familiar arrogance.

  She had no idea how to handle this. She shook her head. ‘l don't know what to say.: she admitted. How long have I got?’

  ‘To share my bed?’ Marco cut her off smoothly. 'I doubt that my grandfather is really ready to step down, for all that he says he is. We could have the summer together and then reassess the situation.’

  Emily could feel her face burning.

  ‘That wasn't what I meant. When I said how long have I got. I meant how much time will you give me to think things through before I make up my mind about your business proposition?’ she told him primly. Nothing else.

  ‘No time. Because you aren't going to think about it. You are coming back with me. Emily—you don't have a choice about that. What you can choose, though, of course, is in what capacity. My flight leaves at eight, so we've just got time to go back to your house and collect your passport, and anything else you might need. And time for me to show you exactly what both of us will be missing if you don't.' he told her giving her a look that was so explicitly sexual that her whole body burned with longing.

  And then, as though he had said nothing remotely outrageous to her he continued smoothly. ‘I should warn you. The villa is going to tax even your creative eye. But I'm sure you'll enjoy the challenge.'

  He was handing her her handbag and her coat, and somehow or other she was being ushered out of the door, helpless to stop what was happening and not really caring that she couldn't.

  ‘How many bedrooms does the villa have?' she managed to ask Marco slightly breathlessly, once they were outside on the street.

  The look he gave her as he turned to her made her heart thud recklessly. ‘Five, but you will be sleeping in mine—with me.'

  ‘You're going to be Niroli's next king. Marco!' Emily felt bound to remind him. You can't live openly with me there as your mistress.'

  ‘No?' he challenged her softly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT SOME stage during the drive from Nirolis airport, into which they had flown by private jet she must have half fallen asleep. Emily realised as the motion of the car ceased and she heard Marcos voice saying through the darkness of the cars interior. ‘We’re here.’

  But not before she had seen the impressively straight road leading from the airport, with huge placards attached to lampposts bearing a photograph of Marco, a royal crown hovering several centimetres above his head and an ermine-edged cape around his shoulders. Underneath were Italian words, which she could just about translate as. ‘Welcome home. Your Highness’.

  It made her shiver slightly now to think about them and to remember how she had felt at seeing them, how very aware they had made her of the gulf between her and Marcos royal status.

  The emotional roller-coaster ride of the last few hours had taken its toll on her. Emily knew. It had drained her and left her feeling so exhausted that she barely had the energy to get out of the car, even though Marco opened the door for her and reached out his hand to support her. Just for a moment she hesitated and looked back into the car. Wishing she had not come? She pushed the thought aside and focused instead on the fact that the night air had that familiar scent of Mediterranean warmth that she remembered from her many holidays elsewhere in the region with Marco: a mingling of olfactory textures and tints, ripened by the days sunlight and then distilled by the soft darkness.

  Emily breathed it in slowly, trying to steady her own nerves. She was she realised, standing in the courtyard of what looked like a haphazard jumble of white stone walls, shuttered, arched windows and delicate iron balconies, illuminated by moonlight and lamplight from the surrounding buildings. The courtyard was shielded from the narrow street outside by a pair of heavy wooden doors, and as Emilys senses adjusted themselves to the darkness she could hear from somewhere the sound of water from a fountain falling into a basin.

  ‘It looks almost Moorish.’ she told Marco.

  ‘Yes it does, doesn't it?: Marco agreed with her. History does have it that the Moors were here at one time, and its here in the oldest part of the main town that you can see their architectural influence. Although there were also Nirolians who travelled as traders to and from Andalucia in Spain, as well.' He was guiding her towards an impr
essive doorway as he spoke. Emily hesitated, knowing it was too late now to change her mind about the wisdom of allowing him to bring her here and yet not totally able to overcome her uncertainty.

  ‘You said that you're living here, instead of at the palace?’ Yes. Are you disappointed? If so I am sure I can arrange for us to have a suite of rooms there—:

  ‘Us? No...' Emily stopped him hurriedly. ‘Marco..’ She stopped, and shivered slightly despite the warmth of the air. She was a fool to have allowed Marco to steamroller her into coming here so that he could have her back in his bed when she knew there was no real future for her with him. But why think of the future when she could have the present? an inner voice urged her.

  Every day she could have with Marco, every hour, were things so precious she should reach out and grab them with both hands. Emily squeezed her eyes tightly closed and then opened them again. She wasn't used to this unfamiliar recklessness she seemed to have developed, with its blinkered refusal to acknowledge any-thing other than her determination to be with him. She did love him so much. Emily accepted, but it would be far better for her if she did not.