Page 1 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
King’s Emergency Wife
Lucy King
CHAPTER ONE
THE TINY YETprosperous kingdom of Montemare shared a border with northeast Italy, Slovenia and Croatia. Home to half a million inhabitants, its forest-covered hills in the north sloped and curved around the Gulf of Ficanza, the glittering capital city built on the coast facing west. To the south lay the region of vineyards, the nation’s largest port and countless Roman ruins.
On a promontory, just outside the capital, stood the two-hundred-year-old castellated palace, and in its first-floor, exquisitely panelled private dining room the current King sat alone at the table, frowning at the empty chair that thirty seconds ago had been occupied by the last candidate on his list of suitable brides-to-be.
The country’s constitution required the monarch to marry before the age of thirty-five or else abdicate in favour of someone who had, or would. At thirty-four and a half, Ivo Maximiliano had been aware for a while now that time was running out. But up until a couple of months ago he’d given it precious little thought. He’d spent the last three years devoted to building on his father’s unimpeachable four-decade legacy and quashing the small but ever-undulating tide of republicanism.
With the regular sixteen-hour days that the job required, he’d had neither the time nor the headspace to waste on what he considered to be a simple, easy-to-arrange, box-ticking exercise. There’d been cross-continent trade deals to secure. International treaties to approve. Not to mention the development and implementation of domestic policies designed to increase the prosperity of his subjects so that they could see first hand the benefit of an absolute monarchy.
Therefore, finding a wife had been right at the bottom of his long list of priorities. Especially since he didn’t even want one. Besides, his thirty-fifth birthday had always felt comfortably some distance in the future.
But it wasn’t. Somehow, it had crept alarmingly close. And, as his mother and various courtiers kept reminding him, he had to address the situation as a matter of urgency.
No longer could he ignore the pressing reality of his situation. He would not allow the crown to pass to his feckless, much younger second cousin, who’d made it his life’s mission to careen around Europe, lining the pockets of the continent’s most exclusive casinos, trashing every nightclub that naively allowed him access and leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. He’d worked too hard to capitalise on his father’s success and make it his own.
Not while he drew breath would all that unravel.
Under no conceivable circumstance would he stand back and watch the monarchy that had survived for five hundred years topple and fall, as had very nearly happened under his grandfather’s reckless stewardship.
So, to be able to continue his work, to ensure stability and secure the line of succession and to end the incessant speculation about how he was going to proceed, he would marry. In six weeks’ time.
Operation Trapdoor—the code name given to the plans for the royal nuptials—had been in place since the day he’d turned eighteen. With one quick phone call, the palace machine would kick into action. The only missing piece of the puzzle had been the identity of the bride. To that end, he’d had his advisors draw up a list of eligible candidates and invite them to lunch for inspection, one a day for the last fortnight.
Ivo had not anticipated a problem with this. Yes, the time frame was tight, but he was the ruler of a rich and powerful nation. Being also intelligent, healthy and—so he’d been told—devastatingly handsome, he was highly eligible himself. In all honesty, he’d assumed he’d have his pick of the crop.
Yet to his astonishment, he’d been repeatedly turned down. Day after day, his dining companions had risen from the table at the end of a five-course gastronomic extravaganza and politely told him, thank you, but no. This afternoon’s contender hadn’t even waited until dessert.
‘You don’t want a living, breathing woman,’ Princess Amalia had remarked in response to the requirements he’d laid out once the remnants of a chateaubriand had been cleared away. ‘You want a robot.’
Amalia was wrong, Ivo reflected as he sat there in bafflement, unaccountably stung by the accusation. What he needed, he’d come to accept—grudgingly—was a partner. Someone with whom to share the burden of rule. Someone to provide him with support and bear his heirs. And quite frankly, he couldn’t understand why finding one was proving so hard. It wasn’t as if he were demanding the moon. The requisite skill set was entirely reasonable. His bride-to-be and the future Queen of Montemare had to be a woman who understood duty and the value of hard work. She would recognise the responsibilities of such a role and be well able to withstand the pressure of public scrutiny. She would be dependable, discreet and super cool in a crisis. Attractive enough that the wedding night and further efforts to produce children were just about tolerable.
Love wouldn’t come into the equation, of course, as he’d had to clarify on Tuesday, when the Marchioness of Maasstadt had asked what she would receive in return for ‘such a sacrifice’—unbelievably, her actual words. Nothing would distract him from the brutally tough business of running a country. His grandfather had married for love, and within six months the Council of Ministers had had to step in to see off a military coup, which, in his newly wedded bliss, the King had failed to notice brewing.
The repercussions of that had lasted years. The forced abdication had rocked the nation and the resulting regency had been so tumultuous that the country had become an international disgrace. The subsequent stress placed on his father, who’d had to step into the position far too young, at the age of eighteen, had been immense, and there was no doubt in Ivo’s mind that it had contributed to his premature death, which had left him—his son and heir—grief-stricken, rudderless and angry.
Ivo couldn’t imagine indulging in such monumental selfishness. His blood ran cold at the thought of such appalling weakness. Only once had he felt something approximating it himself. He’d been twenty-four and a mere crown prince at the time, but nevertheless he should have known better than to become so entranced by a Portuguese countess that he’d very nearly proposed. If he hadn’t caught her wrapped round someone else at a party on Lake Como, he might have been stuck with her deceit and disloyalty for life.
Never again, he’d sworn then and ever since.
Nevereveragain.
Every decision he’d taken from that moment on had been made with his head, with duty his top priority, and not just because his father had drilled into him how important that was. Convinced that it was safer to remain emotionally alone than risk another assault on his heart, he’d realised that the relationship to emulate was not his grandparents’ but his parents’.Theirmarriage had been a diplomatic arrangement in which love had played no part. It had been solid and stable, free from volatile emotion and untainted by drama. His mother had been tireless in her support of her husband, and Ivo couldn’t recall them ever sharing a cross word. It was the ideal framework for rule, the definitive blueprint for success, and he’d always vowed that when the time came, his union would be no different.
So he would not fall at the first hurdle, he thought, as he rose abruptly from the table and stalked back to his study. He would not be thwarted in his endeavour to find a wife. There was still time. No need for alarm just yet. He’d instruct his advisors to widen the net and conduct the interviews not just over lunch but at breakfast and dinner too. He’d have his Communications Secretary orchestrate an emergency marketing blitz to highlight the attractions of the country and extol his own virtues so that no one at any point would be making ‘a sacrifice’.
Filled with fresh resolve and absolutely refusing to countenance failure, Ivo sat down at his desk and pressed a button on the console in front of him to summon her. Three minutes later there was a light knock on the door. Armed with her customary notebook and pen, Sofia Romero entered the room and tapped her way across the polished oak floor before taking her usual seat on the opposite side of the desk.
This was the sort of woman he was after, he thought, as he watched her arrange her legs and adjust her jacket in the neatly efficient way she had. Unflappable. Loyal. As hard-working and as driven by duty as he was. Sofia wasn’t prone to drama. She’d never toss aside her napkin and flounce out of a room. She was cool-headed and dependable, and she understood the need to preserve the monarchy because it was her job. She’d be the ideal candidate.
So perhaps he ought to add her to the list.
There was nothing in the constitution to prevent him from marrying whoever he chose. He liked and respected her. Sleeping with her would be no chore. With her blond hair, above average height and willowy figure she was reasonably attractive, he supposed, not that he’d ever given it any consideration before. She’d been working at the palace for what, six years now, directly for him for just over one, and he’d never seen any evidence of a boyfriend, which suggested she was as uninterested in love and romance as he was and aligned nicely with his view of a purely expedient marriage.
In fact, she could take the number one spot. And really, why bother with anyone else? Why expend time and effort on interviews and a marketing blitz when what he needed was right here under his nose?
