Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling

by Jessica Gilmore

  And there was Bella. There was no love between the stepsisters, they weren’t friends, spent no time together. But it wasn’t Bella’s fault. She had tried, back when they were children, and still made the occasional effort now. And she’d been in regular contact over the last two weeks, discussing costumes and dresses and asking for Emilia’s opinion. Could Emilia really contemplate sleeping with the man her stepsister might marry? It seemed so sordid. In retrospect, all those cosy innocent picnics in the walled garden weren’t half as innocent as they’d seemed. She was certain her family would not see them that way.

  Twirling her glass, Emilia knew it was time to dissolve the spell and re-enter reality; she needed to find a way to tell him who she was. ‘Can we walk?’ she asked. ‘By the sea?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said easily and if he was disappointed she had turned down the offer of a nightcap, he hid it. But then Laurent had plenty of practice at hiding his feelings. She just didn’t want him to hide them with her.

  It was a short stroll to the beach. The picturesque curve was lit up by the moon and the hundreds of fairy lights entwined around the palm trees fringing the road. Emilia inhaled the sea air and tasted salt on her lips. They passed a family as they headed to the shore, the parents holding hands while a small boy raced ahead and an older one walked by their side, exchanging greetings with a smile.

  ‘Why has no one recognised you?’ she asked, a question that had been hovering on the tip of her tongue all evening. ‘You’re on the bank notes, there’s portraits of you everywhere and yet nobody has as much as done a double take.’

  ‘You didn’t recognise me when we first met,’ he pointed out and she tilted her chin haughtily.

  ‘I was new to the country and had yet to see a portrait or bank note. Besides, you looked most reprehensible. Who expects to see an Archduke in a dirty T-shirt and ripped jeans?’

  ‘Exactly. Who expects to see an Archduke in casual clothes, taking a stroll with a girl in public? I learned a long time ago that the only way to have a private life is to do it publicly. The bike, the boat, the villa—no one expects me to own them and so they just don’t see me. But if I was in my dress uniform with bodyguards then they’d know it was me. I like to hide in plain sight.’

  ‘Very clever.’

  ‘Very necessary. I don’t get much time away from the castle, from Parliament and my duties, but just one bike ride, one night in the villa, one walk around the streets in a month reminds me of why I do what I do.’

  ‘Did you ever question it? Ever think, Sod it, I don’t want to be an archduke and join the army and do a business degree. I want to ride my bike through Europe or be an artist. I want to marry whoever I want. Be whoever I want? Did you ever rebel?’

  Laurent was silent for so long Emilia feared she had overstepped. When he spoke at last his voice was quiet, pensive. ‘The night my father died he called me to him. He told me that people would think that being an Archduke was fun, that having the power we still have in Armaria gave us freedom. He told me that those people were wrong. That my inheritance was a great privilege and a great responsibility. That Armaria was my destiny and I needed to treat the country and my role with respect and honour. I have always tried to live up to his words, even when they seemed like an unbearable burden. Even when, yes, I wanted to take my bike and roar off into the distance, although not to be an artist. I’d soon have starved. But how could I when my father laid this charge on me? Gave Armaria into my keeping? I always knew my destiny and tried to embrace it, not resent it.’

  Emilia had promised herself no more touching but she couldn’t resist reaching out and taking his hand. His fingers closed around hers, reassuringly strong. ‘What would you be? If you weren’t an Archduke?’

  ‘No one has ever asked me that before.’ They walked a little longer while he thought. ‘I always liked buildings. Maybe an architect, although the lack of drawing ability might be a problem. Or an engineer of some kind. How about you? Always wanted to organise events?’

  Emilia was guiltily aware that she was supposed to be confessing who she really was but the evening was so warm, the sound of the sea lapping on the shore so beguiling, the conversation so easy, she put off the moment for a while longer. ‘I fell into it really. When I left home I obviously needed a job and got one at a hotel, just as a chambermaid; I wasn’t really qualified for anything. But the manager was really kind—and French. He liked it that I was half-French. So he trained me as a receptionist and then after another year I started to work in events at the hotel. A couple of years after that I went to work in conferences for a big corporate company and that’s where I met Harriet, Amber and Alex. The rest is history. But it suits me. It’s all-encompassing; when I plan an event I don’t have the time or energy to think about anything else. And it’s always a huge adrenaline ride. I’m at the centre of this whirlwind, you know? Everyone needs me and I control it all. It’s terrifying and wonderful all at once.’

  ‘Alex? One of your friends is male?’

  She couldn’t help smiling at the studied casualness in his voice. ‘Short for Alexandra.’

  ‘So who else is in your life? Any hopeful potential boyfriends sitting at home and checking their phones, wondering why you haven’t texted this evening?’

  She swallowed, looking down at their clasped hands. ‘No.’

  ‘Then English men are even more cold-blooded than their reputation,’ he said.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She could barely speak, thanks to the lump in her throat.

  ‘I’m not being kind; I’m being serious. What are they thinking?’

  ‘I work all the time. I don’t have time to date. And I haven’t really wanted to.’

  He stopped and she was forced to stop too. She still couldn’t look at him. ‘Ever? My every public move is followed by the world’s media and I still managed to have several semi-meaningful relationships.’

  ‘Did you love any of them?’ she managed to ask, her throat still thick with fear and memory.

  ‘No. I always knew that my marriage wasn’t about me, it was about my country. Becoming an Archduchess—it’s like you described running an event, standing in the middle of a whirlwind, trying to maintain control. It’s not for everyone. Love seemed like a luxury. What if I fell for someone who didn’t want to live such a life or couldn’t cope with it? I didn’t realise at the time, but I always kept something of myself back in those few relationships. And maybe that was a good thing. The girls I dated when I was younger found the public pressure far too much. If I’d loved them then imagine how hard that would be, knowing my country was the reason we couldn’t be.’

  ‘I fell in love once. At least, I thought it was love.’ Was that her voice, so scratchy and raw? And what was she saying? No one knew this story. Not even her friends.

  ‘But it wasn’t?’

  Emilia tried to loosen her hand from his grip but Laurent held on; instead she resumed walking and he kept pace beside her. ‘No. It was infatuation on my side.’

  ‘And on his?’

  She’d asked herself that question a million times. ‘Power, I think. It’s an old story. Young, friendless girl meets older sophisticated guy and falls head over heels. Guy makes her feel like the most special thing in the world one minute and the most useless person alive the next. Girl never knows which guy she’ll get, the romantic, loving one or the cold, critical one and she spends her life trying to please and appease him, desperate for his approval.’

  ‘Oh, Emilia...’

  She shook her head, not able to cope with sympathy. ‘My attraction was my vulnerability. I see that now. I was like a puppy dog, just desperate for attention, for love. Willing to put up with anything for the pretence of it.’

  ‘Did he hit you?’ His voice was so cold it made her shiver.

  ‘No. It never got that far. He moved on, thank goodness, bored of me and how pathetic I
was. Found someone else desperate for his attention. But he made sure I knew he’d just been using me first. Made sure I knew just how easy I was, how useless. The words cut so deep because they were true. I tried to change my whole self to please him but, whatever I did, it was never enough. I just couldn’t trust my own judgement after that. First my dad and then him. I put all my self-worth into their love and approval and when they withheld it I felt like nothing... It just seemed safer to be alone.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be alone.’ His grip tightened on hers. ‘You deserve so much more, Emilia.’

  It was all too much. The confidences shared, the kisses, the whole evening. Emilia had worked so hard to keep her heart, herself, safe and she could feel her armour cracking and peeling off, her defences loosening. But there were things Laurent still didn’t know and, whatever happened, only heartbreak awaited her. He was not free to love her and, even if he was, she wasn’t exactly an Archduchess type, a former teenage tearaway with only one sordid relationship to her name.

  All she knew was that she needed to feel something, do something. Breaking away from Laurent, she kicked off her trainers and waded into the warm sea waist-deep, her jeans instantly heavy and clinging.

  ‘Emilia? What are you doing? Are you all right? Emilia!’ Laurent called her name again but she kept going until the water reached her chest, soaking through to her bra, the sensation reminding her that she was still here. A survivor. She could survive this too, whatever this was. She turned at the sound of someone wading through water, only to step back as Laurent reached her.

  ‘What are you doing? You’re still dressed,’ she said foolishly and he looked at her incredulously before his mouth found hers in a kiss so deep and so full Emilia had no defences left, even if she had wanted them. She allowed him to pull her close to his cold, wet body, pressing even closer as if she could climb inside him, returning his kiss with a fierceness she didn’t know she possessed, her arms sliding around his neck to pull him harder against her, mouth open to him, wanting all he was giving and more. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her legs against his, and still she moved closer. She was dimly aware of a flash of light, of noise on the beach, but none of it mattered, only this kiss, this man, this moment.

  When Laurent pulled away she couldn’t help but mutter a moan of protest, her mind and body and lips aching for more contact. ‘You’re soaking,’ he said ruefully and she laughed.

  ‘Says you.’

  He looked down at his dripping body almost in surprise. ‘It’s a good thing I have clothes back at the villa. Come on...’

  Hand in hand, they waded out of the sea and weaved quickly through the promenading crowds enjoying the summer evening, slipping down side streets, Laurent pausing only to back her against a wall for another, fierce kiss.

  * * *

  Walking fast, they could have been back at the villa in less than fifteen minutes, but every few yards one or the other would stop to pull the other back into a desperate hot embrace. Laurent knew he should be cold in spite of the warm Mediterranean night, his clothes soaked through with sea water, but the spark between them didn’t allow anything but heat. He’d never felt anything like it, this want. He couldn’t fight it, not any longer. It was a sign that his life had to change. There was no way he could propose to anyone while feeling like this for another woman. And now his life had exploded into Technicolor he couldn’t walk willingly into a monochrome future. He’d find a way to take care of Armaria and live the life he realised he craved. There must be a solution...

  The villa gates swung open as he neared them, the door unlocked, not thanks to the sensor on his keys, wet through in his pocket, but his unseen bodyguards, and he cursed them as he shut the door firmly against the cameras and sightlines that invaded so many of his moments. But not this one. This was his alone. There were cameras in the house but not in his private suite, and he led Emilia up the stairs to the corner room with sea views and the large bed that dominated the high-ceilinged room.

  ‘You better get out of those clothes,’ he said, walking past her to the bathroom and grabbing a large towel. ‘Here.’

  Emilia leaned against the door and removed one boot and then the other, sliding her feet out of her socks with an almost balletic grace before shrugging her jacket off and unbuttoning her jeans. She made no move to take the towel he held out as she shimmied out of the tight, wet denim, pulling her shirt off in one fluid movement so she stood before him clad only in her still wet pink bra and pants.

  ‘Your turn,’ she said, her voice shaking despite the confident words, and Laurent knew he was undone.

  He kicked off his wet shoes and socks, peeling off sodden trousers and shirt, dropping the towel as he did so. Emilia was staring at him, eyes wide, her sweet mouth slightly open, the heave of her breasts in the flimsy silk her only sign of life. Laurent was beyond thought as he drew her close, his touch both gentle and possessive. He was drowning in her, in her scent and her long smooth limbs and her touch. He skimmed his hands over her back, round to the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip, then back to the softness of her breast and heard her gasp as he did so.

  ‘Laurent...’

  She wanted him, not the Archduke, not the ancient name, not the castle. She wanted him and that thought was more intoxicating than any moment in his rigid dutiful life had ever been.

  Their gazes snagged and held. ‘Do you want me?’ she whispered.

  ‘More than I have ever wanted anything in my life.’

  ‘That’s all I need to know.’ And, not taking her gaze away from his, she unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. ‘And I think we’ve done enough talking for one night, don’t you?’

  Her words and gaze were bold but the wariness hadn’t quite left her eyes—wariness and apprehension, maybe fear, as if she thought he might reject her. Reject her? It was laughable. She stood there, topless, her hair falling around her shoulders, emphasising the swell of her breasts. Laurent drank her in, unable to move. She was very slim, long-limbed, strong—a survivor, and he knew that her trust in him was a gift and not one she gave often or easily. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  ‘Tonight I feel beautiful. You make me feel beautiful,’ she whispered and with that admission any thought, any vestige of hesitation was gone. All Laurent could do was take her into his arms once again, her skin smooth and warm against his, inflaming nerves he had thought dormant, turning his body into an explosion of touchpoints and sensation everywhere their bodies met. Chest, stomach, thighs, hands, mouths—he’d never been so overwhelmed before, never so lost in someone else’s scent, their body, their whole being. As he scooped her up and carried her over to the bed Laurent vowed that this was just the beginning. That he would never hurt Emilia. They had met for a reason and he was never letting go. He’d find a way to make it work. He had to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EMILIA STRETCHED IN the mid-morning light and glanced at the watch she always wore, a slim gold Swiss watch that had belonged to her mother. Gracious! She had overslept, and her desk wasn’t a five-minute sprint down stairs and along corridors but several miles away...

  And with that realisation the memory of the rest of last night came flooding back. The motorbike, the tour of the city, the meal, the way she had opened up as never before, the way she had trusted as never before. And the way she had felt as never before...

  She wriggled, half in embarrassment, half in pleasure. Had she seduced Laurent or he her? Probably a little of both. She had never been so vocal, so demanding, so upfront about what—and who—she wanted before.

  Closing her eyes, she relived the night, the touch and sensation, the gasps and exhortations to not stop, not yet, the low-voiced murmurs and laughter. She straightened, pulling the sheet up with her as she did so. How had this happened? How had she, Emilia Clayton, sensible and measured and always, always careful, fallen into bed with a man she hardly knew? A man wh
o wasn’t free to be there with her?

  Maybe that was why. There was no future for them. She knew the ending before they started. How could she be hurt by him when he had never been hers? He was safe. Her heart should be safe.

  But she had seen the way his eyes darkened when he told her she was beautiful. She had felt his soul when he kissed her. She would stake everything she had that he felt more for her than a fleeing attraction. But what he felt didn’t matter. What she felt mattered less. Better to accept what was and move on. Let the night they had shared become a sweet memory. Their own Roman Holiday.

  Sitting up, she looked around at the tidy, sparsely furnished room, all whitewashed walls and polished wood. There was no sign of either Laurent or his clothes, no sign that two of them had shared the bed, shared their bodies, were responsible for the rumpled sheets. Emilia rolled over and tried to block out the creeping negativity shivering through her despite her good intentions to approach her future with positivity, despite the look she had seen in Laurent’s eyes, the way he had held her. Had she got it all horribly wrong? Misjudged everything? Trusted a man who was just after a night’s fun before marriage put an end to his freedom? Had the connection she felt been nothing but a carefully planned seduction? Every instinct screamed no, but she had been so very wrong before. How could she trust her flawed instincts? Better to go on evidence, and the empty room spoke volumes.

  She rolled back over, staring at the white-painted ceiling with its ornate plasterwork, and inhaled several deep calming breaths. Right, it wasn’t as if she had slept with Laurent in the hope of a happy ever after. It was a one-night stand, no matter what his motivations. All she could do was control her thoughts and actions, no one else’s. And right now her thoughts and actions needed to get her into the office, behind her desk and making sure every single detail for the ball was nailed down.