Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride

“So do we enter into a contract, my king?”

“You still think you have a choice, don’t you?” he said, cocking one brow at her. “Are you always this optimistic?”

“I always have a choice,” she replied.

She sensed rather than heard him as he came and stood behind her. Was it her imagination or did she feel the heat of his breath against her naked skin? A shimmer of awareness crept over her body.

“Then you are indeed fortunate,” he said close to the shell of her ear.

His voice held a whisper of a thousand words left unsaid. Ottavia closed her eyes and concentrated on remaining still. On simply absorbing his nearness and trying to separate out the individual reactions her body clamored with.

“A king does not have many choices,” he said, exposing a surprising insight into his mind.

***

Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride is part of the Courtesan Brides duet: Her pleasure is at his command!

Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride
Yvonne Lindsay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A typical Piscean, USA TODAY bestselling author YVONNE LINDSAY has always preferred her imagination to the real world. Married to her blind-date hero and with two adult children, she spends her days crafting the stories of her heart and in her spare time she can be found with her nose in a book reliving the power of love, or knitting socks and daydreaming. Contact her via her website, www.yvonnelindsay.com.

To my Writers in the Wild buddies,

and to Soraya Lane, with grateful thanks

for all your support and, at times

(yes, I’m looking at you, Soraya!),

goading and bullying, all of which get

me to “The End” with a happy sigh.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

One

He was here.

She knew it by the way the energy inside the tranquil island castle shifted and switched up a gear. Ottavia smoothed her gown over her curves for the fifteenth time that afternoon and told herself again that she wasn’t nervous. Not really. In her profession as a courtesan, she was accustomed to dealing with powerful men. Dealing with a king couldn’t truly be that different...could it?

The exquisite French Charles X ormolu clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick quietly, marking the seconds as they dragged by. But thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. The ornate wooden doors leading into the high-ceilinged room swung open. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. A frisson of nerves shimmered down her spine. But, instead of the royal visage she’d expected to see, one of the king’s advisers—Sonja Novak—stood there instead.

The woman was, as usual, impeccably dressed in a Chanel suit and her iron gray hair was swept into an impossibly neat chignon. Her classically beautiful features were schooled into a bland expression that, as far as Ottavia could tell, was about as close as the senior member of King Rocco’s staff ever came to a smile.

“His Majesty will see you now.”

“I will see him here,” Ottavia replied as firmly as she could.

She should have known it would earn a particularly scathing look.

“Ms. Romolo, the King of Erminia summons you into his presence. Not the other way around.”

“Then His Majesty will be disappointed, won’t he?”

Dredging every last vestige of courage, Ottavia turned her back on the woman and directed her gaze out the window. She counted slowly, regulating her breathing and slowing her rapid heartbeat with each number—one, two, three... She was at seven before she heard the huff of outrage, closely followed by the brisk click of heels on the parquet floor. Then, blessed silence.

Ottavia allowed a small, triumphant smile to curve her lips. He would come to her. She knew it as certainly as she knew the carefully composed face that greeted her in the mirror each morning. She’d seen the expression in his eyes at their first meeting and recognized it immediately. Granted, she hadn’t been looking her best. Who did when they’d been held captive for several days without so much as a change of clothing? But, even dressed in the same traveling outfit she’d worn for almost a week, her face without makeup, she’d seen that look. He wanted her. And she had years of experience manipulating that want in the men she encountered.

Besides, he owed her. Not only had his sister kidnapped Ottavia, Princess Mila had had the cheek to steal Ottavia’s clothing and borrow her identity, pretending to actually be Ottavia as she took on the engagement with the courtesan’s current client. In the meantime, Ottavia had been held captive for several days until she’d been able to escape. Granted, she’d been held captive in a luxury suite in one of Erminia’s best hotels, but that didn’t excuse anyone from their part in what had happened. Then, when she’d rushed to the king to warn him what his sister was up to—in an attempt to muzzle her and keep her from speaking to the press, he’d also ordered her to be held captive. Not that it had helped. The story had gotten out anyway, even though Ottavia had done nothing to spread it. But the scandal had blown over eventually. And her clothing had finally been returned to her two weeks ago. So now only one obstacle remained—dealing with the king.

Ottavia rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen some of the tension that gripped her body but it was no use. It rankled to be at someone else’s mercy. She was a woman used to being in charge of her own life, one who made her own decisions. Helplessness did not sit comfortably on her softly rounded shoulders at all.

Ottavia was so engrossed in her thoughts, so bent on stoking the fire of indignation that burned angrily inside her, that she almost didn’t hear the doors behind her open again. She turned, instantly aware of the palpable presence of power that now filled the room. Despite her hard-won composure, she couldn’t help the visceral reaction that rocketed through her body at the sight of her king standing before her.

Taller than her by at least six inches, she was forced to look up into his unusual sherry-colored eyes. His body was still, but those eyes—they were alive. Not for the first time, she was reminded of a sleek jungle cat stalking its prey, waiting to pounce. The idea should have terrified her—instead, it sent an unexpected shimmer of heat rippling through her body.

But he wasn’t immune either, she noted with satisfaction. She saw the way his gaze was pulled to the column of her throat above the high neckline of her dress, then lower to where her beaded nipples made their presence known through the fine silk of her gown. Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles and she drew in a deep breath, one that made her breasts swell and rise gently.

Ottavia swooped into a graceful curtsy and bowed her head—she was more aware than most that you caught far more flies with honey—and remained beneath her king, waiting for his command to rise.

“Your deference is too little too late, Ms. Romolo,” he intoned, and his deep voice hummed through her body. “Rise.”

As she did so she looked up at him from beneath her long lashes, noted the firm set to his lips, the tiny lines that bracketed his mouth and the tension in his jaw. He was displeased. It was a risk she’d thought worth taking. Ottavia rose to her full height, squared her shoulders and held her tongue.

* * *

The woman stood in front of the window and he had to admire her strategy. Silhouetted by the filtered late afternoon light—every lush curve and gentle swell of her body limned with a golden glow—she was an eye-catching sight. But she had tangled with the wrong person if she thought positioning would give her any psychological leverage. He hadn’t ruled Erminia for the past fifteen years without learning an almost inhuman level of self-control. His duty to his country demanded no less.

Rocco stepped closer to her until there was a scant foot between them. To the courtesan’s credit, she didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash even though he knew damn well he was an intimidating presence—he’d spent his life working on making people believe it. And, no matter how angered or amused he might have been by her audacity in attempting to invoice him for her time spent as his captive, he certainly had no plans to show it.

He thrust a sheet of paper toward her.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled.

“I believe even you must be familiar with the term invoice?” she said.

Her voice was low-pitched and perfectly modulated, rolling over him like a velvet touch, heightening his awareness of her on a physical level that took him by surprise. Was this how she plied her trade? he wondered. Seducing a man with her voice before using the other wiles she doubtlessly wielded with expertise? His lips curled in defiance. She would soon learn he was no simple mark easily swayed by a beautiful woman.

“You are my prisoner.” He rent the invoice in two and let the pieces drop to the floor at his feet. “You have no right to bill me for your time here. As my captive, you have no rights at all.”

She raised one perfectly plucked arch of an eyebrow in response.

“I beg to differ, Your Majesty. The way I see it, your family owes me a great deal.”

He had to admire her gall. There weren’t many who dared challenge him.

“We do? Enlighten me,” he demanded.

“There is the matter of my not being able to fulfill my contract because first your sister, and subsequently you, have kept me against my will. Like most of your subjects, I have financial responsibilities. I find myself unable to meet them when I am not paid for my time.”

Rocco let his gaze drift over the woman. It certainly was no hardship to do so. Her neck was long and graceful, tapering gently to sweetly feminine shoulders exposed by the cutaway sleeve line of the deceptively simple gown she wore. The ruby hue of the fitted dress complemented the softly tanned glow of her skin. Was she this color all over, he wondered, or did her skin pale in those enticing hidden areas?

She did not seem to appreciate having her words ignored. “You have treated me unfairly and you continue to do so,” she said. “Release me.”

There was passion beneath her words and a spark of fire in her eyes making them burn bright. He found he quite enjoyed needling a reaction out of her.

“Release you?” He watched her carefully as he paused and considered her request, and saw the flash of hope that sprang into her gaze. “I think not. I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Not finished?” she all but spluttered. “You never even started.”

“Ah yes, and there is the problem, Ms. Romolo. You have invoiced me for your time here. I imagine that has been calculated at your usual rate?”

She inclined her head with consummate grace and elegance.

“Then you would agree, wouldn’t you,” he continued smoothly, “that I am owed a discount for lack of services rendered.”

He stepped back and watched the unguarded flurry of emotion that caught her enchanting features. She composed herself quickly and drew in a shaky breath.

“Does Your Majesty wish to avail himself of my services?” she asked.

If she had asked him five minutes ago, he would have given her an emphatic no in response. This woman had caused him no end of trouble. If she had not accepted a contract to serve as temporary courtesan to King Thierry of Sylvain, both Rocco’s kingdom and Thierry’s could have been spared an endless amount of trouble.

Thierry had been, for several years prior, betrothed to Rocco’s sister, Mila, in an arranged marriage. Discovering her betrothed’s plans to avail himself of a courtesan had driven Mila to the reckless step of trading places with Ms. Romolo, so she could ensure her husband-to-be would take no lover other than herself. Her plan had worked—at first. But when he’d discovered her deception, Thierry had been incensed—and when the news had, somehow, leaked to the press, making them into a media spectacle, Thierry had called off the engagement entirely. It had taken a disastrous event to reunite Mila and Thierry...but finally they had reconciled and wed, and were now blissfully happy. It had all worked out in the end.

That didn’t make him any happier with Ottavia Romolo, though, without whom all of this could have been avoided. So no, he had never truly considered availing himself of any of her considerable charms. He’d been too busy wishing that she’d take herself to another country entirely and let them deal with the chaos she brought in her wake.

But now, with his senses tingling and his mind intrigued, he found himself considering a far more affirmative response.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered.

“Nor have I offered,” she countered.

Oh, she was good—valiantly holding on to her pride and dignity even while the threads of control of this situation escaped those long slender fingers. Heat burned low in his groin at the challenge she presented—and the temptation. His response to her both irritated and stimulated him. Much like the woman herself.

“You are mistaken if you think you have a choice, Ms. Romolo.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I always have a choice. I am glad you have destroyed my initial invoice,” she continued with a smile.

Rocco was surprised. Of all the things she could have said, he hadn’t expected that.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said. “But why?”

“Because, Sire, my price has gone up.”

Two

Silence stretched between them. Ottavia boldly stared straight into her king’s eyes, hoping that her anxiety would not show—that he wouldn’t sense that beneath the fall of the luxurious fabric of her gown her legs had turned to jelly.

His brows pulled together in a straight line, his sherry-colored eyes glowed like polished amber. Not the bright color so often associated with the fossilized gemstone, but a deeper hue. One that spoke of layers of complexity that she instinctively knew were synonymous with the powerful man standing before her. And he was powerful. As easily as he’d ordered her held here in this beautiful small palace—isolated on a stunning island in the middle of a lake—he could have her cast into a windowless prison for the rest of her days.

She realized she was holding her breath when tiny dark spots began to dance before her eyes. She allowed herself a shallow breath, then another but, as if she was mesmerized by his stare, her gaze remained locked with his. The spots receded slowly but her clearing vision did nothing to calm the wild hammering of her heart or the fear that plucked at her soul. Had she gone too far? She’d always fought to maintain the upper hand in all her relationships and every one had served its purpose in helping her achieve her final goal. While charm was usually her weapon of choice she had a feeling that King Rocco would run roughshod over such a tactic. He was not a man known for playing nice.

It galled her that he had so much power over her. Hadn’t she sworn that no man would ever make her decisions for her or control her life again? And yet, in this, she was effectively helpless. Work to your strengths, she reminded herself, and allowed her stance to soften. She allowed her lips to part, just slightly, and moistened them with the tip of her tongue. He’d noticed, she realized with a flare of satisfaction. His eyes had flickered to her mouth; his nostrils had flared ever so slightly on an indrawn breath.

She’d cast her bait, but had she hooked him?

“You had better be worth it,” he growled.

His voice was deep and slightly rough. As if he was fighting his own internal battle. Ottavia allowed herself a smile, lowering her eyelids slightly.

“So do we enter into a contract, my king?”

She lingered over the last two words, using every skill at her disposal to make them sound like a caress—a promise. She knew she’d failed when he threw his head back on a hearty laugh that transformed the seriousness of his face into something far more appealing. Something that pulled at her with a magnetic strength she’d never experienced before. Eventually he calmed.

“You still think you can control how this turns out, don’t you?” he said, cocking one brow at her. “Are you always this optimistic?”

“I am always in control of myself and my choices,” she replied.

Even as she said the words she knew they hadn’t always been true. Certainly not when she’d been fourteen and her mother’s latest lover had begun to show an unhealthy interest in her burgeoning figure. Even less when her mother had discovered that interest and Ottavia had overheard her mother haggling with her lover over how much he would be prepared to pay to have her.

She fought back a shudder. Those days were behind her. She’d taken control of her life that day. Made a conscious choice and resolved to never be at anyone’s mercy ever again.

Ottavia forced her thoughts into the present and recalculated her strategy. Perhaps King Rocco needed a little more enticement. She took a step back before turning and slowly walking closer to the windows that overlooked the gardens and the lake. If she hadn’t been so acutely attuned to the man she’d turned her back on she wouldn’t have heard the sharp intake of breath as he noticed the long sweep of her back, laid bare by the open cut of her gown. It was as if she could feel the heat of his gaze follow the line of her spine until it dipped into the deep V of fabric that covered the swell of her buttocks.

She sensed rather than heard him approach behind her. Was it her imagination or did she feel the heat of his breath against her naked skin?

“Then you are indeed fortunate,” he said close to the shell of her ear.

His voice held a whisper of a thousand words left unsaid. Ottavia closed her eyes and concentrated on remaining still. On simply absorbing his nearness without analyzing the individual reactions clamoring throughout her body.

“Fortunate?” she asked, her voice surprisingly husky.

“A king does not have many choices,” he said to her surprise.

“I would have thought that you had it all, Sire.”

The air behind her shifted—the heat that had smoldered against her suddenly gone—and she knew he’d stepped away. Because with those few words he’d said too much, perhaps? Slowly, she turned around. He stood on the other side of the room, his hands loosely clasped behind him as he stared at a portrait of his late father on the wall.

“I have a proposal for you, Ms. Romolo,” he said without looking at her. “It would behoove you to agree.”

“Just like that? Without knowing the terms?” she asked. “Without negotiating? I think not.”

“Do you negotiate everything?”

“I am a businesswoman.”

He spun to face her. “Is that what you call your...trade? A business?”

“What else would you call it?” she challenged.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. Ottavia fought the urge to bristle. He was testing her. That much was obvious. If she was to get what she believed she was owed by him, she needed to hold on to every last thread of self-control that she possessed.

“Come here, Ms. Romolo.” He crooked a finger at her.

She would do as he’d commanded, but only because she wanted to, she told herself as she glided forward with all the elegance and poise she’d learned in the past fifteen years.

“Sire?” She bowed her head as she drew before him.

A low chuckle escaped him and she felt her own lips twitch in response.

“Subservience does not suit you.” With the point of one finger he tipped her chin up so she looked him in the eye again.

Her lips parted on a gasp as she recognized the sudden flare of hunger in his gaze. A gasp that he captured as he lowered his mouth to hers and took her lips in a kiss that stole every rational thought from her mind. Caught by surprise, she gave herself over to his touch, to his taste. To the plundering of his tongue as it delved into the moist recesses of her mouth. A sound, a growl from deep in his throat as she touched her tongue to his, sent unaccustomed desire unfurling through her body. Her blood heated, her insides clenched on a spear of need that completely took her breath away.

And then, just like that, it was over. She teetered slightly on her heels before gathering sufficient wits to steady herself. A swell of anger bubbled at the back of her mind. Outrage swiftly quelled the yearning that hummed through her veins as she realized he thought he had the right to simply take from her without permission. Disappointment followed hard on the heels of her anger. Here was another man who saw her as something to be used at his whim, and discarded.

She had to regain the upper hand once more, so she swallowed her indignation and smiled at the man standing opposite her.

“Sampling the merchandise?” she asked tartly.

* * *

Against his better judgment Rocco calmly smiled in response. No easy feat when a large percentage of his blood supply had headed due south in response to that kiss. He was beginning to see why the courtesan was in such high demand. She was addictive. Only one kiss and he wanted more. It had been so long since he’d indulged in something purely for his own pleasure. The needs of his country came first, always. But the country could hardly be harmed by him taking this opportunity to sate his desires. Maybe some good, satisfying, no-strings sex would help him clear his mind.

“You say your fee has gone up,” he started. “Perhaps you undervalued yourself to begin with?”

He could see his remark had startled her when she made no comment. Rocco pressed his advantage.

“I will avail myself of your services and in return I will pay that paltry invoice you sent to me—and then some.” He hesitated and tilted his head. Looking at her as if assessing a fine piece of art before continuing. “Name your price,” he snapped.

Ottavia named a sum that was astronomical compared to the invoice she’d sent him.

“You place a very high value upon your services, Ms. Romolo,” he said, torn between exasperation and amusement. She thought she could scare him away with her demands? Well, she had another think coming.

“To the contrary. I place a very high value on myself,” she replied.

But he’d caught the faint tremor in her voice. She knew she’d overstepped the mark with her ridiculous price.

“I will pay it.”

He watched as she reached one hand to play with a tendril of hair. Round and round her index finger she wound it, the almost childish gesture looking unaccountably adorable on such a sophisticated, elegant woman. She stopped suddenly, letting her hand drop to her side as if she’d just realized what she was doing and straightened her shoulders—a businesswoman once more. And yet, for that brief moment she’d been playing unconsciously with her hair, he had the feeling he’d seen the real woman behind the courtesan’s facade. Like everything else about her, it captivated him.

“Do we have an agreement?” he pressed.

“We have not discussed a term of length.”

“For that sum I should expect our contract to be open-ended,” he said, his exasperation clear.

“I’m sure you realize that would be counterproductive to my business,” she replied with a slight smile.

Once again, unexpected mirth mixed with irritation. She looked like a sensual goddess—one who promised no end of hedonistic delight—and yet she had a mind and acuity as sharp as any negotiator he’d ever come across. She was, in fact, unlike any woman he’d ever met before. It was as if she didn’t really care whether he wanted her or not—as if she’d be equally happy to walk away—and he found the concept captivating. Challenging.

There was nothing he liked better than a challenge.

“A month, then,” he said.

Even as he said it, he realized that spending a month with her, as appealing as it sounded, might be unrealistic. He couldn’t stay hidden in this retreat for too long—he had duties elsewhere requiring his attention...such as his hunt for a bride. But with his sister’s recent, and very happy, marriage to his country’s primary antagonist, surely he could allow himself a bit of a break, if he stayed in contact with the capitol city through email and phone.

“A month,” she repeated. “Very well. If you would allow me access to my cell phone and my computer, I will draw up the appropriate documentation and provide your people with my account details—” she cast a disdainful glance at the torn-up invoice on the floor “—again.”

“You do that,” he replied. “And I will see you, in my private chambers for a late dinner, at nine thirty this evening.”

He headed for the doors and paused before opening them. “And, Ms. Romolo?”

“Sire?”

“Don’t bother dressing for the occasion.”

Satisfied he’d managed to gain the upper hand and have the last word with the exasperating creature, Rocco let himself out the receiving room and headed down the corridor. Sonja Novak materialized by his side as he strode toward his office.

“Shall I arrange for the woman’s departure?” she asked as she fell in step with him.

“No.”

“No?”

“She will be staying here. With me. For the next month, or until I tire of her—whichever comes first.”

Somehow, he thought it would not be the latter.

“B-but—” Sonja started to protest.

Rocco halted in his tracks and fought back the urge to sigh heavily. Was there a woman left in Erminia who listened to him anymore? It seemed that everywhere he went women contradicted him. First his sister, then the courtesan and now his most trusted adviser. “I am still King of Erminia, am I not?”

“Of course you are.”

“Then I believe I am entitled to decide who will stay here as my guest. I know you have been at my right hand since my father died, and at his before that. But do not forget your position.”

She inclined her head. “I apologize, of course.”

“And yet I sense that you continue to think I’m making a mistake.”

“Keeping a courtesan is probably not the best decision when you’re trying to woo a bride.”

This time Rocco did sigh. “I am aware of that.” And once his bride was chosen, he fully intended to dedicate himself solely to her, with no outside affairs. But with that future awaiting him—a lifetime of uncertain happiness with a bride bound to him by duty rather than love—could he really be blamed for taking this chance to indulge himself while he was still free? “Now, is there anything else that urgently requires my attention?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Sonja admitted.

“By the way. Ms. Romolo is no longer my prisoner. Please ensure her electronic devices are returned to her and that she has access to the internet.”

“Is that wise?”

He gave her a look that spoke volumes as to his frustration that she should continue to question his authority. In response, Sonja bowed her iron gray head again and murmured her acquiescence.

“Thank you,” Rocco replied through clenched teeth and continued to his suite of rooms on an upper floor in the castle.

He strode through to his bedroom. The formal suit he’d worn for traveling home from Sylvain today felt like little more than a straitjacket. He ripped his red silk tie, woven with the Erminian heraldic coat of arms of a rearing white stallion, from beneath the starched white collar of his shirt and let it drop onto a chaise by the window. No doubt his valet—who he’d left in the palace in the capitol, preferring to see to his own needs here at the lake—would have had a fit if he could see the lack of respect Rocco had for his clothing. But, as each layer fell from his body, he felt a little more free, a little less like a king.

Naked, he grabbed a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt from his bureau and yanked them on together with socks and a well-worn pair of running shoes. If he didn’t get some exercise soon, he’d go mad, or at the very least, lose the temper he was famous for keeping such a tight rein on.

Today had been frustrating but he’d handled it—as he always did. But the next few hours were for him and him alone—well, as alone as one could be with a security detail shadowing your every step. Rocco pounded down the back stairs of the castle, ignoring the team as they trailed him, and set out on the castle driveway pumping his legs as hard as he could.

Ten kilometers later he was wrung through with sweat but only just beginning to breathe hard. He cut back his pace to a more leisurely jog and let his thoughts fill with the joy that had been incandescent on his sister’s face at her marriage to King Thierry just a day ago.

Rocco could still barely believe it had all gone ahead, especially after Thierry had called off the wedding. Without the unification of their countries, war along their border had seemed imminent—fed, no doubt, by the subversive movement that wanted Rocco removed from his throne and their pretender crowned in his place.

It was only months before that Rocco had even learned of this supposed pretender, who claimed to be an illegitimate child of Rocco’s father, the late king. The pretender’s name and identity was a closely held secret, but his movement had gained an uncomfortable number of followers, agitating for change even if it came at the cost of open war.

Erminia had tread a very fine line to avoid hostilities—especially with Andrej Novak, his head of the military and Sonja’s son, strongly advising they substantially increase the presence of their armed forces on the border. The situation had worsened after the scandal had broken of Mila’s actions, kidnapping Ms. Romolo and taking her place. And when Mila had flown to Sylvain personally to meet with Thierry and plead for another chance, only to be turned away, Rocco had expected armed conflict to begin within a matter of days. But then Mila was kidnapped while returning home to Erminia, and everything changed.