Page 157 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

But had he really expected to in the first month? Sure, it happened for some people, and he might have deluded himself into thinking it would happen for them also, but some solid researching he’d done overnight had convinced him that several months of trying was far more usual. Anything up to a year was considered standard. He refused to live and die by each month’s attempt.

Besides...

The trying was fun.

If he was honest, he’d say he was itching to take her back to the island, rather than stay here in the city, but whatever. Wherever. Sex with Rosalind was its own kind of perfection; it didn’t matter where they were. Suddenly, he was counting down the days to the right dates in her cycle to make this happen.

It wasn’t just the sex he missed though, he admitted uneasily, his step faltering a little as he frowned deeply. Out of nowhere, unwelcome memories slashed through him. The way she would smile at him, the feeling of her hand brushing against his finger, her bravery in wanting to defend the cottage with a pepper grinder, her goodness and kindness. Realisations that burned inside his gut like acid, because he didn’t want to feel any of that for his wife. For anyone. He had carefully charted a course for his life, and it didn’t include the kind of sentiment that might predispose him to more rejection and disappointment. Those lessons had been etched into his soul as a boy, and he’d never forgotten them. Every day that his biological father shunned him had crystallised his determination to remain totally alone in life. Losing Mark had underscored the wisdom of that decision.

But he wasn’t stupid enough to pretend Rosalind hadn’t cracked through his carefully erected walls, just a little. He clung to the fact that it was temporary, that things would settle down again once they’d conceived. They had to—it was what they both wanted. A calm, easy marriage. No feelings, no risk.

But didn’t Rosalind deserve more? Wasn’t that part of the problem? He knew her now. He knew her in a way he hadn’t when he’d first agreed to this, and he knew that while he was happy to wall off his emotions, she shouldn’t have to. She was the kind of woman who should have so much more than this. She should have everything.

As he walked into the east wing of the palace, he glanced around, but he was so deep in his thoughts that at first he didn’t see Rosalind step out from the shadows. And when he did see her, it was like being punched hard in the gut.

She was beautiful, and he knew that. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her, of course, even when he’d been seething with rage at her apparent devotion to the king. He’d noticed her flaxen hair and the way it was braided in a crown around her head, her delicate, graceful movements, her huge blue eyes and full, pale pink lips. She was beautiful no matter where she was and what she wore, but tonight, she looked like the kind of princess young children went to bed dreaming of. Her dress was a pale pink with a fitted bodice and a full skirt that had a fine sparkle to it. At her throat, she wore a diamond choker, and over her gloved hand, her wedding ring sparkled like an omen.

She must have been wearing heels because she was taller than when barefoot, and she walked towards him with so much poise and cool control that his admiration for her quickly morphed into something else. Something darker.

What would she do if he pulled her against him here and kissed her until the lipstick smudged and her nipples grew taut? What would she do if he pushed his hand into her hair and pulled it from that sleek golden bun, so it was loose over her shoulders? If he lifted up the many layers of her dress until he found the elastic of her underwear and slid his finger inside her sex?

‘Your Highness,’ she murmured when she was close enough.

He wouldn’t do any of those things though. He wasn’t an animal, and they had a state event to attend. But that didn’t change the fact that he wanted to unsettle her.

And so he leaned close, his voice gruff, and murmured in her ear, his lips brushing her lobe a little, ‘You look good enough to eat, and believe me, I’d like to do just that.’

He heard and felt her gasp. A dark smile curved his lips.

‘Sebastian.’ Her voice trembled a little, a warning in her tone. But there was also a plea. Because she wanted him just as much as he wanted her?

‘Would you like that, wife? Would you like me to pull you into one of these rooms and taste you, just like on the island? Would you like me to taste you and suck you until you are falling apart at the seams?’

‘Sebastian,’ she said again, but it was frenzied, need in every syllable.

‘Say the word and I will do it,’ he promised, running a finger over her hip. ‘Even better if we could find something for these,’ he moved his finger to her wrist, and pulled it behind her back a little. ‘I like the thought of you tied up and totally at my command, mine to pleasure over and over again...’

She trembled and he pulled back, his eyes glittering dark when they met hers. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were parted. There she was! The woman he’d seen on the island, the woman who was flesh and blood and all for him.

‘I can’t—’

‘Yes, you can,’ he responded gruffly. ‘Any time you want to, you can.’

Her eyes were wide, her features stricken. ‘Stop it,’ she said, but kept her body close to his, her lips parted. ‘This isn’t fair.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ and then she did pull away from him, glaring at him with barely concealed anger. And he was glad! Anger was so much better than grief, and so much better than coldness. Anger was an emotion he could work with. Anger, with them, always turned into something else, anyway.

But they were ushered into the ball, and both assumed a mask, the same mask they’d worn on multiple occasions, when they’d been forced to spend an evening together. To almost anyone looking at them, they seemed serene and content. A perfect young royal couple. But inside, Rosie was fuming.

Whenever she glanced at Sebastian, she felt her anger surge—as well as other feelings—but anger was a refuge and so she clung to it. How dare he blow hot and cold with her like that? How dare he act as though the week of silence hadn’t happened?

Irritation stretched and built until she found herself wanting to slap him, then and there, in the middle of the ball. And what would he say if she did?

She thought of the way he’d carried her on the island over one shoulder, so easily, and she imagined him doing so now. Picking her up in front of all the ministers, the king, the entire delegation. Her lips quirked but not with humour, so much as resignation, because when she imagined such a scenario, it was with anticipation more than anything else.

She wanted to push him to that.

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