Page 117 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

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, shewantedto 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.’

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