He couldn’t bring himself to wish Marisa’s pregnancy away. He was too selfish for that.
He wanted his child.
He wanted Marisa.
His hand tightened on her hip and he smiled grimly when she snuggled closer, as if this was where she wanted to be.
Who was he kidding? He’d seduced her, taking advantage of her vulnerability after the stress of the party. He’d used his superior sexual experience to make her open up to him, physically and emotionally.
And he’d continued to push his way into her life, inveigling her to become part of his.
A better man...
No, he’d never be a better man. He was hard, bent on winning at all costs.
His one concession would be that from now on, knowing what he did of Marisa’s story, he’d treat her gently, give her space and time to adjust to her new life with him.
He’d learn what he needed to protect her and keep her with him till she wanted to stay by choice.
Even if it meant keeping his distance till she did.
CHAPTER TEN
‘BUT YOU CAN’T have considered, Your Highness!’
Marisa leaned back in her cushioned seat and raised one eyebrow, knowing her silence would be like a red rag to a bull. She seethed at the superior attitude taken by the Bengarian ambassador. He was her uncle’s crony, and no doubt Cyrill’s belief that he could command and she’d obey had rubbed off.
‘Think of the publicity,’ he urged. ‘Think of the gossip. You have to be there for the King’s coronation.’
‘I don’t recall anything about that in the constitution.’ She should know; she’d been force-fed the document as a child, reminded again and again of her royal obligations and all the ways she didn’t measure up.
Languidly she crossed one leg over the other. The ambassador’s gaze dropped to her bright sandals, then up past her linen trousers to the gauzy top in tropical shades of lime-green and vivid yellow that she’d picked up just last week in the markets.
No wonder he pursed his lips and frowned. She looked good, she reminded herself. In fact, she looked blooming. Obviously the early stages of pregnancy agreed with her now the sickness had passed. But, though she was dressed with casual chic, she’d refused to don the staid, formal clothes expected of a Bengarian princess.
She wasn’t in Bengaria and had no intention of returning.
‘If I may say, princess...’ he paused long enough for her to feel bile rise at that unctuous tone ‘...you have an obligation not only to your country but to your uncle, who sacrificed so much for you. Remember that he raised you.’
‘And I’m the woman I am today because of him.’ Let him chew on that for a while. When the ambassador simply frowned, she added, ‘We’ve never been close. He’ll hardly miss me in the throng.’
No doubt Cyrill would be surrounded by sycophants, people who had feathered their nests from the royal coffers.
‘If I may say, Your Highness, that’s a very...’ He read her expression and paused. ‘Unhelpful attitude.’
If he expected that to convince her, he had a lot to learn.
‘I wasn’t aware anyone expected me to be helpful.’ She leaned forward a fraction. ‘In fact, I seem to recall being advised months ago that it would be to the country’s benefit if I left as quickly and quietly as possible.’
He had the grace to blush.
‘Now.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for your visit. As always, it’s a delight to be brought up to date with the news from Bengaria. But I’m afraid I’ve another appointment.’
‘But you can’t just—’ She watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that scrawny throat. She’d feel sorry for him if she didn’t know him for one of Cyrill’s yes-men who’d made Stefan’s life and her own a nightmare obstacle course of deliberate disruption and sabotage. ‘I mean.’ He fiddled with his tie as if it were too tight. ‘The baby.’
‘Baby?’ Marisa surveyed him with a glacial stare that would have done Cyrill himself proud.
‘Your baby.’
Marisa said nothing. She had no intention of discussing her pregnancy with her uncle’s envoy.
‘King Cyrill had hoped... That is to say, he’s already making arrangements...’
Arrangements to do what? Adopt out her child? Force her to have an abortion? Marisa’s flesh crawled.
In the innermost recesses of her heart lurked a fear she might not have what it took to be a good mother. That she might let her child down. But despite her doubts Marisa would face down the King of Bengaria and the whole of his parliament before she let him lay a hand on her child.
‘As ever, I’m fascinated by my uncle’s plans.’ She forced the words beyond the knot of fear in her constricting throat. ‘Do tell.’
The ambassador shifted and cleared his throat.
Finally he spoke. ‘The King has graciously decided to negotiate a royal match that will give your child legitimacy and save your reputation. He’s been in discussion with the Prince of—’
Marisa flung up a hand and the ambassador lapsed into silence. Her stomach heaved as his words penetrated like arrows. This time it took almost a minute before she could speak.
‘With someone who is willing to overlook the little matter of another man’s child,’ she murmured. ‘In return for my uncle’s help in shoring up his social position.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Or is it his wealth? No, don’t tell me, I really don’t want to know.’
Cyrill must be desperate to contain any possible damage to the royal family’s reputation. Or, just as likely, to have some positive media to counteract the negativity his harsh rule was attracting. There was nothing like a royal wedding and a royal baby to turn the tide of public opinion.
But not her baby!
Marisa would do anything to ensure her child wasn’t a royal pawn. It would grow up as far from palace machinations as possible.
She was determined her child would have what she hadn’t: love and a nurturing environment. She’d even begun to wonder if perhaps marriage to Damaso might provide that. He didn’t love her but she had no doubt he cared for their baby.
Marisa drew a slow breath and dredged the depths of her strength. She felt ridiculously shaky but determined not to show it.
‘You can thank my uncle for his concern but I’ll be making my own arrangements from now on. Good day.’
Without a second glance, she turned and swept out of the room, the ambassador’s protests a vague background babble over the sound of her rough breathing and the blood pulsing in her ears. If she didn’t get to the bathroom soon...
‘Madam, are you all right?’
It was Ernesto, Damaso’s butler-come-bodyguard, assigned to accompany her whenever she went out. For the first time, she was truly thankful for his enormous height and sheer bulk.
‘Please make sure the ambassador is escorted from the apartment.’ She swallowed convulsively, feeling her insides churn uncomfortably, and pressed her hand to her mouth.
Ernesto hesitated only a split second, concern in his shrewd, dark eyes, then swung away.
‘And make sure he doesn’t return,’ Marisa gasped.
‘You’ll never see him again, madam.’ The bass rumble was ridiculously reassuring as she stumbled to the bathroom.
* * *
When she emerged Ernesto appeared with a laden tray.
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’
‘If you’ve been unwell you need to replace your fluids. The mint tea will make you feel better.’