Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage

‘I thought the king wanted to see his grandson,’ he said abruptly, his eyes on the sun-filled view outside. ‘That’s why I brought you here.’

Phoebe frowned, an uneasy confusion filling her. Even though Leo was still, his gaze on the palace courtyard, she sensed an anger in him … a restless darkness that she remembered from six years ago. ‘Has something changed?’ When Leo remained silent, gazing outside, she continued more forcefully, ‘What does he want, Leo? Why did he separate us?’

‘Because he’s more interested in Christian than you,’ Leo replied flatly.

Phoebe paced the floor again, rubbing her arms. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I’d be an idiot not to. But …’ All the unspoken fears—fears she couldn’t afford to confess—clamoured up her throat, clawing their way out. Was the king going to seek custody, remove her from Christian’s life completely? Her mother was right, she never should have come, she should have hired that dippy lawyer friend, something, anything—

‘Phoebe.’ Phoebe skidded to a halt, for suddenly Leo was there, his hands warm and steady on her shoulders, his eyes meeting, melting into hers. ‘I’m not going to let anything happen, I promise.’

‘How can you stop it? What’s he planning, Leo?’ She felt a hiccupy sob rise from her throat and she swallowed it back.

‘I didn’t realise …’ Leo stopped, his lips pressed together, his face turning hard again.

‘Realise what? Leo, what are you not telling me? What is the king planning?’ Her voice rose with each question until it neared a shriek. ‘Please,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Please be honest with me.’

Leo glanced down at her, and a surprising tenderness softened his features. ‘I will,’ he told her. He raised one hand to brush her cheek with his knuckles, and it took all of Phoebe’s strength to resist leaning into that caress. She wanted to lean into it, into him, to let someone share the burden of her fear and anxiety. She longed to trust Leo—he was the only one she could—and yet she was afraid that trusting him might be the biggest mistake of all. ‘I will tell you,’ he continued, ‘but not now. You’ve only been in the country for little more than an hour, and I’m sure you want to see Christian.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Upstairs in the nursery, with my old governess. He’s fine.’

Phoebe nodded. She still felt shaky and far too afraid, but Leo’s words, his presence, his hand still cupping her cheek made her less so. Perhaps they shouldn’t, but they did and she was even glad.

Leo smiled, his fingers drifting down her cheek to cup her chin. ‘Tomorrow,’ he told her, and bent his head so his lips brushed hers in the softest whisper of a kiss. He stepped back, his eyes widening slightly, and Phoebe wondered if he felt as dazed as she did. It had been the slightest kiss, their lips barely touching, and yet …! It had lit a fire of yearning in her body, that latent little spark igniting suddenly into a raging blaze.

‘Leo …’ she said, and heard the longing in her voice.

Leo touched her lips with his finger as if he was sealing the memory of his touch. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ She couldn’t wait that long.

‘You need rest.’ Leo smiled, and Phoebe found herself fixated on his mouth, his lips so full, sculpted, perfect. Her own lips parted in memory and desire. ‘I’ll have someone see you to the nursery.’

‘All right …’ She knew she needed to process everything that had happened—including Leo’s kiss—even though already she longed to see him again. Touch him again. Yet exhaustion was crashing over her in a numbing wave, and she knew Leo was right. She needed to see Christian, to restore some balance, some sanity to their lives. Still, as Leo turned away, clearly distracted, a prickle of unease rippled along her skin. What was he thinking, feeling and, more importantly—more frighteningly—what was he not saying?

The door clicked shut behind him and, alone in the salon, Leo swore aloud. His plan was working all too well. Phoebe trusted him, had responded to him—mio Dio, that kiss! He’d barely touched her, yet it hadn’t mattered. That simple touch had set off an unstoppable response in both of them. He’d felt it before, all those years ago, and he certainly felt it now. His whole body ached with memory and desire, a longing to deepen that almost-kiss and join his body to hers …

No. Not yet. There was still more work to be done.

Guilt roiled within him, as bitter as bile. He was using Phoebe, using her with cold-hearted calculation. And if she discovered it …

He couldn’t think that way. Couldn’t afford to. The king’s nefarious plans justified his own. This was the way it had to be; the only way it could be.

Numbly, Phoebe followed one of the royal servants to the top floor of the palace, where the nursery suite was located. She was met at the door by a pink-cheeked matron in a staid blue uniform.

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ the nurse said, smiling with easy good humour.

‘Where’s my son?’ Phoebe asked tersely, and Frances stepped aside to let her enter.

‘He’s right here, never you worry.’

‘Mommy!’ Christian stood up from his place on a colourful rug on the floor, bits of Lego scattered around him. ‘Where have you been?’

Phoebe let out a shaky laugh of relief as she bent to scoop him into her arms. Christian squirmed, but she couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to his head. ‘I was talking to Leo,’ she murmured, kissing him again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course I am.’ Christian wriggled away, returning to his Lego. ‘I met the king.’

Phoebe sat back on her heels, her heart beating fast once more. ‘Did you?’ she asked lightly. ‘Was he nice?’

‘He was OK,’ Christian said with a shrug, then glanced up. ‘Why didn’t you come with me?’ His eyes widened, and Phoebe saw the fear lurking behind his boyish bravado.

‘I wanted to,’ she said carefully, ‘but the king wanted some special time with you.’

Christian considered this as he placed another piece of Lego on the tower he was building. ‘Oh,’ he said, and just when Phoebe was about to let her breath out in relief of a confrontation avoided, he looked up with his clear, candid gaze. ‘Why?’

‘Time for elevenses!’ Frances swept in with a tray of jam and bread as well as glasses of milk. ‘You must be hungry, young man. Come and have a bite to eat.’ Dutifully Christian sat at the table for his snack, and Phoebe rose, turning to Frances, who busied herself tidying up the toys.

‘Thank you for taking care of him.’

‘He’s a lovely young man,’ Frances replied. ‘It was no trouble.’

‘You’ve worked for the royal family for a long time,’ Phoebe said slowly.

Frances nodded. ‘Thirty-five years, since Leo was born. I took care of him as well as Anders.’ Her expression sobered. ‘Such a waste, that one. A loss.’

It was, sadly, a succinct and accurate summary of Anders’s life. ‘Yes,’ Phoebe agreed quietly.

‘You know, of course,’ Frances continued with a nod and Phoebe started at her plain speaking. ‘He couldn’t keep his hand to anything.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he could.’ Phoebe reached down to place a dog-eared book in the toy basket. ‘You must have known them quite well, then? Anders … and Leo?’

Frances glanced up quickly, her expression shrewd before she shrugged and nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

Curiosity bit at Phoebe, made her want to ask questions. To know more, and even to understand. ‘What were they like … together? Were they friends?’

Frances gave a short, derisive laugh. ‘Friends? Those two? Not even for a moment.’

The abruptness and certainty of her answer made Phoebe ask, ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because Anders was frightfully spoiled from the moment he was born. I did the best I could, but his parents doted on him dreadfully. He could do no wrong, and if he did …’ she shrugged ‘ … Leo was blamed.’

‘Leo …?’ Phoebe glanced quickly at Christian, but he was absorbed in a game he was playing quietly with himself at the table, his face smeared with jam. ‘What do you mean?’

Frances sighed. ‘It’s not my place to say, but I can only imagine how difficult your position here must be, and the more information you have …’ She stopped and shrugged again. ‘Nicholas and Havard were brothers. It starts with them, you see. Nicholas hated Havard … he was jealous of him, of course. Everyone loved Havard. He was the younger brother, but I’m sure everyone wished he were the heir instead of Nicholas. He was handsome, charming, kind to everyone, while Nicholas was sour and spiteful. He couldn’t help it, really. He was sickly as a child, pale and thin, while Havard was bursting with health. Or so I’ve been told … he was a husband and father by the time I met him. But it seemed that Nicholas had reason to be jealous, and that jealousy poisoned him.’ Frances put the basket back on the shelf and brushed off her hands. ‘Nicholas married first, a Danish woman, Johanna. She retired to Monaco when Anders abdicated, and died two years ago. But back then it seemed as if they might make a good match, until no children came. For ten years.’ She shook her head. ‘Ten long years. Meanwhile Havard married Ana, an Italian heiress, and had Leo practically nine months later. Nicholas was even more eaten up with jealousy. Everyone could see it, even me. I had been hired by then, to take care of Leo.’

‘But Leo had no chance to be king,’ Phoebe said. ‘As the son of the younger son.’

‘Well, that would be the case, if Nicholas didn’t have any heirs. And Havard probably began to think his son might be king—he actually might be king—if Nicholas remained childless. There were rumours and whispers, as there always are, and no doubt they enraged Nicholas.’