Page 51 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

Where was the earthy goddess he’d danced with at the ball six months ago? Where, even, was the ‘perfect princess’? He’d not paid much attention to the goings on in Halrovia in the past months. He’d been too immersed in the launch of Girard’s latest signature Grand Cru and the early stages of training for his climb on Everest.

Then his parents’ edict had come, and his focus had turned to finding a suitable wife. He’d even engaged a professional matchmaker, until he’d realised only thoughts of one woman entered his head when contemplating marriage: Anastacia Montroy. Once that idea had struck, it wouldn’t let go. No one else would do. How could a princess be anything other than suitable?

The King motioned to a lounge area in the cavernous study. ‘Please, let’s take a seat.’

As they moved towards the seating area, the Queen gave her daughter a quelling look. The atmosphere in the room was an uncomfortable one. Aston accepted it was likely that monarchs rarely had commoners entirely relaxed in their presence, however there was an undercurrent here he couldn’t place.

It was at odds with the King’s reaction when Aston had seeded the idea of his interest in their daughter, with his expectations low as a commoner but his hopes high because of their family connection. From first mention to final agreement, it had fallen into place with laughable ease. When they’d said yes, it had been a personal triumph, the first step in reclaiming his family’s legacy and fulfilling the promise to his brother. He’d been told Ana was satisfied with the arrangement, and he hadn’t much thought about it till now, because this was a business deal like any other.

What had changed? If only he could get the princess alone to ask her. Aston was sure any reluctance she might have could be easily overcome. He wouldn’t allow anything to impede the marriage he’d negotiated.

They all took their places, the Queen in one grand brocade chair, the King in another. He took the sofa, supposing it was natural for her parents to seat the soon-to-be betrothed couple together. With another meaningful glance from her father, Anastacia took a seat with him, but not close as one might expect if this was to be a happy or desired union. She lowered herself elegantly onto the cushions, pressing herself into a corner, crossing her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap.

‘We should discuss dates for a wedding,’ the King said.

‘It’s modern times, so we don’t propose a long engagement,’ the Queen added.

That got Anastacia’s attention. Her head jerked up and she stared at her parents as though she didn’t recognise them. When he’d been forced to consider marriage, he hadn’t thought of a long engagement either. Whilst his parents weren’t old, his mother’s insouciant attitude to her high cholesterol and her love of good food, wine and the occasional sneaked cigarette with friends, much to her doctor’s dismay, made an earlier wedding of greater import than ever before.

Yet, even though this was a state he didn’t want, he found his thoughts speeding straight to the wedding. Anastacia in her bridal whites, a veil over her face, walking down the aisle towards him. Given his views on love and marriage, he wasn’t sure why the vision running through his head was so enticing, rather than leaving him cold. Pictures of a wedding night burst vivid in his head: Anastacia spread out on the bed, skin naked and exposed to him alone. Would he be the first man who’d ever seen her, who’d ever made love to her?

A burn lit inside him, something hot and demanding. His consciousness was assailed by a night and three dances when they’d moved seamlessly in each other’s arms.

I believe the goddess of spring and fertility and the god of wine and ecstasy would move together extremely well...

If nothing else, they could have that together.

His fantasies from the night of the Spring Ball had been one thing. Now reality overcame him in a rush. He had to shut the thoughts down because there was no way he could politely adjust himself in his seat. The fact that he was sitting in this study, with his soon to be parents-in-law who were a king and queen, should have been enough to quell any errant desire. Yet he felt like a teenager again, with inconvenient erections springing up any time he’d thought about a girl, rather than a seasoned businessman of thirty-two. If the situation weren’t so laughable, he might find it embarrassing.

He glanced over at Anastacia to ground himself in the reality of what he was being compelled to do, but she wasn’t looking at him. She seemed intent on staring at her hands clasped in her lap, not relaxed in the chair, her back straight and stiff. As if she’d noticed him watching her, she unclasped her hands and reached one up to adjust her fringe.

‘I thought...’ Finally, Anastacia spoke. Not to him, but to her parents. They didn’t seem to listen.

‘As you would know, Mr Lane, our youngest daughter Priscilla is marrying the Crown Prince of Isolobello in eight months.’

Aston didn’t know. He had no interest in the personal machinations of the royal family. His thoughts were on business, keeping his name in the will and climbing Everest. Anything else was peripheral. ‘It wouldn’t do for the weddings to clash, so we thought earlier rather than later.’

He glanced at Anastacia again. Any meagre colour in her cheeks drained away.

‘Moth—Your Majesty—you know how long it takes to make a wedding dress.’

This was not going as he’d expected. What had happened between the night of the ball, when Anastacia been all flirtation, to now? He’d been passenger enough in this scenario, allowing their exalted majesties to direct the negotiations because he hadn’t wanted the deal to sour. Now it was time to make a stand for the woman he didn’t love, but would defend as his future wife.

‘You’d look beautiful in whatever you chose to wear. Designers will fight to dress you for your wedding. No matter how soon the date, they’ll achieve miracles for you.’

The faintest hint of colour bled back into her cheeks. The corners of her pouting pink mouth flicked into an almost-smile, before returning to a neutral line.

‘Halrovia’s designers are dressing royalty for our youngest daughter’s wedding, Mr Lane. They have no time to spare, even for miracles.’

At her mother’s words, Anastacia seemed to shrink further into herself. This was a woman who had swept across a ballroom, leaving people falling over themselves in her wake. A goddess.Ma déesse...his goddess. Becoming less didn’t suit her. A pilot light of anger flicked to life in his gut.

‘Then Her Highness can name a French designer and I’ll ensure they have time for miracles.’

A silence fell over the room before the King clapped his hands. ‘Excellent, then a dress will be no impediment. What date suits you for the wedding, Mr Lane? We can co-ordinate our diaries.’

With a quick wedding and honeymoon, he could ensure his inheritance was secure and make the climbing season for Everest in eighteen months’ time. His dream to conquer the highest summit and the training it required would be back on the agenda and hopefully soon to be on track. His parents would be unable to object, since he’d done what they’d asked. Even better, he’d be marrying a princess, one who’d been trained for a political type of marriage. There’d be no uncomfortable expectations such as love to complicate everything. He could live his life and she could live hers, because that’s how she’d been raised. No complicated emotions to mess up everything. His focus would be uninterrupted.

Perfect. What his parents didn’t understand was that he wasn’t only living life for himself, but for Michel. For a promise between brothers that he wouldn’t break.

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