CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
H E STORMED FROM the palace with long strides that conveyed, to anyone who dared look at the prince, the strength of his emotions.
He hated this place.
He had hated it for a long time.
His childhood memories of the palace were all troubled. Thoughts of his grandfather tainted by that last awful week, when his mother had fought with her father constantly, and Sebastian, a boy of only four, had listened to their screaming matches without understanding the content, but perceiving, in that way children could, that it was very serious. Somehow, he’d known his life was about to change forever.
In America, he’d initially refused to think of his life here at all. Avoiding feelings he didn’t like, emotions that weakened him, like the dull ache of rejection. Of knowing that he was dispensable—his grandfather had easily cut him from his life without a backwards glance, as had his own father. When Sebastian’s mother had left him, Sebastian’s father had chosen to forget his son existed. At first, he’d missed his father and grandfather as one might a lost limb. He’d ached for them, for the time they’d used to spend together. But missing them had hurt too much. It had made him miserable and flooded his little body with a deep sense of worthlessness, so he did everything he could not to give those feelings power over him.
But bit by bit, with age, certain things had forced their way into his consciousness. The strangest things, like facsimiles of memories, really. Rather than being of anything important or specific, they were always transient—like the way the sun lit the marble floor of his childhood home, or the smell of the spruce trees that grew near the lawn, or the sound of the waves, crashing against the shore. He remembered the feeling of that too, his feet digging into the sand as wave after wave rolled over him; he’d laughed at the sensation. There were glimpses of his father and grandfather too, memories he hated, because they were good, warm and happy, which made a mockery of how they’d treated him afterwards.
He had been exiled, along with his mother, as a little boy. Punished for her sins, perhaps used as leverage to force her to relent. She hadn’t. And though he was now back, it didn’t undo the pain and hurt that his grandfather had caused. Sebastian had been permanently altered by the insecurity that came from rejection: it had made him careful and cynical, and determined never again to put himself in a position of such weakness and vulnerability. He had once loved with the happy abandon of a little boy, the innocence of a child who expected to always be loved in return. He would never make that mistake again. As a man, he had grown to crave control.
No wonder he found it galling to have been manipulated into marrying the woman his bastard of a grandfather had hand chosen.
Rosalind.
Beautiful, prim, untouchable, judgemental Rosalind.
His lips tightened in a firm line as he stepped out of the east corridor and approached his gleaming black bike, gravel crunching underfoot as he reached the thing.
It wasn’t like the prospect of a baby was his ideal development either. He’d married Rosalind out of sheer necessity. The old king had made it obvious that the only way he’d return Sebastian to the order of succession and revoke his mother’s exiled status was if Sebastian agreed to take the hand of a woman of the king’s choosing. And the king had chosen a woman who was clearly cut from the same cloth as himself.
At least, Sebastian thought with a frown, he’d thought as much until tonight.
Until tonight, his every interaction with his wife had shown her to be a ruthless, power-hungry person who put ambition above all else. Just like the king, who’d cared more about his wounded pride than his daughter’s happiness.
And Rosie had married a man she didn’t know, for the sake of power, money and influence. Look at how she’d lobbied to double her discretionary budget, so she could funnel the money into whichever project she deemed worthy.
At least Sebastian could say he’d acted out of love. He’d married at the king’s behest because it was the only way to get his mother home and to return himself to the order of succession. Personal power had been beside the point: he’d had enough of that in his life in America. This was about righting a wrong; about forcing the king to acknowledge that he’d erred.
Except, that hadn’t happened. There had been no apology, no explanation, no admitting he’d been wrong. No matter. They were back in Cavalonia and one day, Sebastian would be king; this would all be worth it.
What if Rosie didn’t agree to have his baby?
It was her choice; utterly and completely. He knew many women who’d chosen not to have children, many couples who’d opted out of procreating. Each person had their own views on this matter and were it not for the necessity of begetting a royal heir, Sebastian doubted he’d have wanted a child of his own either. But his was not a normal life. When he’d returned to Cavalonia, he’d been mindful of the freedoms he’d be giving up. His privacy was invaded constantly, his time was scheduled from dawn to dusk, but all of this he accepted, because it was his duty. So too was the fathering of children.
But what if she did agree?
His parents’ marriage had been miserable. Though he’d only been four when his mother had left, he had core memories of their arguments, and a pervasive sense of what it had been like to live in a desperately unhappy home. How could he, in good conscience, consider having a child under very similar circumstances?
He and Rosalind didn’t like one another. They were barely civil when in the same room. How could they share a child and conceal their dislike?
With the question hanging in his mind, he straddled the bike, unaware of the pair of bright blue eyes that were trained on him from a second-story window. He reached for the helmet, dropped it onto his head, but he didn’t start the bike yet. The helmet sliding into place felt almost like a weight—the weight of the entire world—and for a moment he let himself admit, just to himself, how much he didn’t want this. How much he wished he was free to choose.
The very faint hope Rosie had cherished that the prince had been mistaken faded abruptly the next morning.
‘You must have a child.’ The king’s voice was hoarse. Though his heart was back in rhythm, he was tired, just like the last time. She tried not to think about the surgery he’d had, which had been supposed to correct this biological programming error, nor about the fact it appeared to have failed. ‘I cannot risk what will happen if I’m gone.’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Rosie murmured.
‘Listen to me.’ An old hand, gnarled in the way the trees in the very middle of the forest became, pressed into hers. She stared at it, wondering why she hadn’t noticed how much he’d aged in recent years? He was not old, and yet his body seemed to be betraying him. ‘I do not trust him. He is too like his mother, and like the man who raised him. He is not like you or me. He does not live by a code of loyalty; he does not love this country. Not like we do.’
Rosie tried not to betray her thoughts on this. She hated her husband, but she wasn’t sure that the king’s charges were entirely fair. There was something about Sebastian that spoke of a deep loyalty—to his mother, if not the country.
‘If I were to die tomorrow, do you think your marriage would survive?’
Rosie’s eyes widened. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, which made Rosie feel both naive and foolish. While she knew theirs was not a long-term marriage, she had expected it to end on her terms, when she was ready. When she’d finished the work she’d started. Control of this was important to Rosie and she had fought hard for it in their marriage documents. She bristled now at the idea that she might be maneuvered out of Sebastian’s life when it suited him and not her.
‘He suffered this union only as a way to secure his inheritance—we both know that.’
They did both know that, but acknowledging the truth so baldly did little for Rosie’s ego. Was that why she’d ignored the prospect of being cast aside if the king were to pass away?
‘Without me here, he would divorce you, and go on to rule with no tempering force in his life. He would be completely unchallenged in all things. I cannot allow that to happen.’
Rosie’s heart tightened. The king was painting a bleak picture. ‘I do not believe he would necessarily be so callous.’
‘Don’t you?’ The king’s voice was heavy with cynicism. ‘You must have a child. Even he would not be able to cast you aside then.’ Rosie shook her head in instinctive rejection of the whole idea. ‘Better yet, have two. Three.’
She gasped. ‘Stop.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The king’s eyes swept shut. Rosie stared at him, her heart hurting at his visible decline. She loved him, but he was far from perfect, and this request was proof of that. But was he wrong?
When she’d agreed to this marriage, it had been for two reasons. Firstly, it had given her a chance to make the kind of difference she’d always dreamed of, to truly improve the lives of the most disadvantaged in the land, just as her mother had wanted to do. But secondly, she’d agreed because she loved her country. Because she was proud of where she came from and of who she was, and she would have done anything for Cavalonia’s future.
Even this?
Could she have a child with a man she disliked so intensely? Could she ensure that child would be loved and protected no matter what?
‘I need to think,’ she said, for the second time in twenty-four hours, but deep down, Rosalind knew that she’d already accepted the necessity of this. Not only accepted, but was allowing herself, despite the fears that had gripped her for a long time, to feel a hint of something like excitement.
As terrified as she was of the medical implications of being pregnant, if she allowed herself to think beyond that, and imagine holding a baby in her arms, of staring down at their sweet face and downy head, her heart threatened to burst with a love she’d never known possible. She could see the advantages of falling pregnant, but this went beyond duty.
A baby.
If she were lucky—and she didn’t dare allow herself to hope—she would have a daughter or son. Someone to love as she’d never loved before. As a child, she’d dreamed of what it would have been like, had her mother not been in a vegetative state. She imagined the games they might have played, the books they’d have read together. Sharing pots of tea and cuddling watching movies. How different her life might have been with someone to love so unconditionally, and now she allowed herself to imagine again. To hope. To pray.
But the hope did not last long.
Rosie had spent a lifetime knowing what had happened to her mother and why, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the same fate awaited her.
And yet, she had to do this. Weirdly, she wanted to do this. Now all that was left was to tell her husband...
It was strange, Rosie thought, as she was ushered into an oppressive wood-panelled study, that she hadn’t ever been to her husband’s home. Or perhaps it wasn’t strange, so much as telling. Theirs was a marriage with very clearly delineated territories. Hers included the palace, from which the king ruled. His was this smaller royal house in the centre of the city’s historic district. Ornate and impressive, it was nonetheless on a far less grand scale.
She wondered, as she glanced around the room, seeing very few traces of the occupant’s personality, what his home had been like in America. Somehow, she suspected it had been the opposite of this. He struck her as a man who would opt for sleek metal and glass over history and pomp.
Did he hate living here? Was he miserable? Or had his desire to become king overridden everything else?
‘Wife.’ His voice was low and throbbed with something that pulled strangely at her belly. She turned slowly, needing a moment to calm her fluttering nerves. For what she’d mentally accepted as necessary was still an enormous step to take—and to take with this man, of all people.
‘Why do you call me that?’
One side of his lips lifted in that cynical half smile she hated so much. ‘You are my wife.’
‘Yes. But I’m also Rosie,’ she pointed out. ‘You could call me by my name.’
‘Your name is Rosalind.’
‘No one calls me that.’
‘Why not?’
Her eyes widened. Was that the first question he’d ever asked her of a personal nature? Her stomach dropped to her toes. Caught off guard, she prevaricated. His dark eyes bore into hers, his expression showing a hint of impatience.
‘I guess because it’s a mouthful.’
‘Three syllables? How does that differ from Sebastian?’
She toyed with her fingers. ‘Are you always called Sebastian? Surely some people shorten it to Seb?’
‘Do I look like a man who would be called Seb?’
Despite herself, a smile lifted her lips. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, wife. What can I do for you?’
Her heart sped up dangerously; her fingers fidgeted more. ‘I’ve been thinking about our...matter.’
‘The matter of you falling pregnant?’ he prompted, with a brief darkening of his tone.
She nodded quickly, wishing this conversation could be over.
‘I’ve been thinking about it too.’ His American accent was a drawl, pouring over her spine in a way that was jarring and unwelcome. ‘Maybe it’s a bad idea.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You were the one who was convinced it was necessary.’
‘We don’t know one another,’ he pointed out. ‘And we don’t like one another. Bringing a child into an unhappy marriage is not something to be done lightly. Trust me, I speak from experience.’
She’d heard about his mother’s first marriage from the king. She knew that the princess had been unhappy with her husband, but also that she’d been young and, according to Renee, quite unreasonable in her expectations. The same could not be said for Rosie.
‘I’m so glad you brought that up. I’ve been thinking the same thing.’
‘Then your answer is “no”?’
‘No. That’s not what I’m saying. None of this is ideal, yet here we are—married—and with the king in failing health.’ Her voice broke a little. ‘The best thing for the country would be to provide a stable line of succession.’ She took a step towards him without realising it. ‘You were right—we have to do this.’
His eyes glittered when they met hers. Another step forward, though Rosie wasn’t sure whether that was her or Sebastian. They were toe to toe, just as they’d been in her study the night before.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘Yes.’
‘Last night you seemed pretty set against the idea.’
‘I was.’
‘And now you’re arguing the other side.’
‘I told you I needed to think it through.’
‘Which makes me, if I’m honest, a little apprehensive.’
‘Why? Because I’m giving you what you asked for?’
‘Because there must be some hidden benefit to you in this.’
‘Not hidden,’ she responded archly. ‘I intend for us to negotiate new terms before I conceive.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded once, lifting a hand to rub his chin. ‘Here it is. What would you like this time?’
‘There is a lot to consider,’ she said calmly. She had experience dealing with the more bombastic members of the king’s staff, many of whom had resented her quick ascension to the position of king’s advisor. She was used to ignoring belittling comments; even when issued from her husband, they failed to hurt. ‘Such as the mechanics of me falling pregnant, where we’ll live once we’ve had the baby, what expectations of privacy the child will have and what will happen to the child if either of us dies or becomes otherwise incapacitated. On top of that, I need to know we can work together, to co-parent without this...animosity...that surrounds us becoming a part of our baby’s life.’ She sucked in a breath. ‘I would also like some protections for the projects I’m undertaking. No matter what happens—if, for example, I were to die as a result of having this baby, or if you were to decide you could dispense with me once our baby was born, I would like to know that funding will continue for the charities I currently oversee.’
His expression was kept carefully immovable, but something swirled in the depths of his eyes, something that caused her belly to churn.
‘We would live here—definitely not at the palace. I hate that place. Royal children have a high guarantee of privacy, that’s a legal requirement, as I’m sure you’re aware. Your charities—I will need to see what you’re working on, but I can’t see a problem with that request.’
She expelled a slow, shaking breath.
He continued, ‘I would also like to avoid bringing a child into a marriage that is as flawed as ours. I don’t know a way around that, but I agree, we have to discuss it. Suffice it to say, the fact we’re in agreement as to the importance of finding a way to work together bodes well.’
She nodded slowly.
‘As for the mechanics, I presume you’re familiar with how one falls pregnant?’
Heat flushed her cheeks. ‘In the ordinary course of things, yes. But there are alternatives, such as IVF.’
‘IVF?’ he repeated, as though it hadn’t occurred to him.
‘We’re not a couple,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m not going to have sex with you just because we need a baby.’
‘Heaven forbid you should let a little fun be a part this.’
‘Fun?’ she repeated, then furrowed her brow. ‘I’m not having sex with someone like you.’
‘Someone like me?’ he repeated.
She was mesmerised by the freckles on his nose, or perhaps they were easier to look at than his dark black eyes, so deep she felt as though she might drown in their depths.
‘What exactly does that mean?’ He pressed a finger to her chin, just as he had the night before, but this time, she’d half been expecting it, and a thrill of relief caught her totally off guard. She should have hated his touch, not secretly revelled in it.
‘It means you’re not my type.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Let me guess. The men you usually sleep with are...academics.’
‘You went to an Ivy League college on a full scholarship,’ she pointed out. ‘What’s the difference?’
Up close, his mocking smile was even more infuriating. ‘By academic, I meant more of a pushover.’
‘You mean weak?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why do you think that’s who I’d be attracted to?’
‘Just a feeling I have.’
‘Based on...’
‘Based on you being someone who never has a hair out of place. I bet when you have sex it’s always a neat, passionless affair with a neat, passionless man.’
She refused to acknowledge the truth of his statement, nor how inferior it made her feel. She’d seen movies; she’d read books. She knew what sex was supposed to be like. The fact it had always been a pretty tame scenario for Rosie was something she’d refused to feel bad about. If anything, she liked that. Even in bed, she never lost control, she never risked succumbing to the madness of desire. When she answered, her voice emerged prim. ‘Have you spent much time imagining my sex life?’
‘From time to time.’
She drew in a sharp breath, heat flooding her veins no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. ‘Why?’
‘I like to amuse myself, imagining my prim, perfect wife “letting herself go”.’
‘Wow, you really are an incredible asshole.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s not a compliment.’
‘Nonetheless—’
‘And I bet sex for you is all animalistic and untamed,’ she interrupted, two red dots in her cheeks showing anger. ‘I bet you rip one another’s clothes off in your desperation to come together.’
‘That’s the best case, yeah.’
‘Well, not for me. I prefer things in my life to be more measured,’ she said with the appearance of a shudder. Her mind, though, was running away from her, populating an image of Sebastian tearing her blouse from her body, and in a terrifying contrast to what she should have felt at the very idea, her nipples tightened against the lace of her bra, silently inviting his notice, wanting his touch.
She took a step backwards, her whole body igniting with a strange, overcharged awareness. Of him . This was a disaster.
‘Why?’ He echoed her movements, so they were close again. She didn’t step away. He smelled of wood, like pine or cedar, heavy and oaked, just like his study.
‘Why?’ she repeated, no longer able to follow the conversation.
‘What would happen if I kissed you now?’
‘Why would you kiss me?’
‘Because I’m your husband?’
‘And? You’ve been my husband for five months and with the exception of our wedding day, we’ve never come close to kissing. Try again.’
He laughed. A short bark that made her skin flush with goosebumps.
‘And because I want to.’
Her heart slammed into her ribs. It was an answer she hadn’t expected. ‘You do?’
‘Sure.’
She bit down into her lower lip, eyes locked to his. ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
And damn it, Rosie couldn’t think of a single reason not to kiss him. A kiss was just a kiss. Not sex. Not a baby. It was just a kiss, a brushing of lips, just as it had been on their wedding day. Brief contact then over and done with. True, she’d been surprised by the spark that had spiralled through her even then, but she’d controlled her response to him, just as she would now. He had laid down the gauntlet, and Rosie wasn’t going to be the one to back away, if only because she wanted to prove to them both how much a non-issue physical desire was between them.
‘Fine,’ she said, with a tone of feigned nonchalance. ‘Let’s kiss. Whatever. Maybe then you’ll see that you’re not my type, and I’m not yours.’