Page 11 of Pregnant With His Majesty's Heir

There would be no divorce, no separation if he and Ilsa couldn’t make their relationship work. It would work because they’dmakeit work. It was expected, necessary.

Lucien drew in a slow breath, inhaling the pungent scent of lilies massed beside the altar. A shiver rolled up his spine to curl around his neck.

The over-rich perfume reminded him of the double funeral here two months ago. Justin’s coffin and Uncle Joseph’s had rested where Lucien stood now. There’d been hothouse lilies then too, arrangements of foliage and flowers. Green and white for the royal house of Vallort.

‘Your Majesty?’

He blinked and realised the archbishop was waiting for him. Beside him Ilsa wore a hint of a frown.

‘I’m sorry. Would you mind repeating that?’

‘I said, at that point you’ll be able to kiss your bride.’

Lucien nodded. ‘Good. I see. And then?’

The clergyman hurried on to describe the rest of the procedure. Leaving Lucien to ponder how doing what he knew to be right, because it was his duty, could feel so wrong.

He tried to imagine kissing the woman beside him and couldn’t. As for taking her to bed...

His lungs clamped.

No matter how beautiful his fiancée, and how necessary this marriage, when he thought of being naked with a woman it was a woman with fiery hair and fascinating brown eyes.

Lucien was no fool. He knew these were natural reservations about a cold-blooded marriage of convenience. Until now his love-life had been anything but cold-blooded.

As for the way his thoughts kept returning to Aurélie, it was probably because she’d been there when he needed someone. When his world turned inside out and he’d felt helpless in the vortex of loss.

At last the archbishop finished and it was time to walk down the aisle. Once they reached the cathedral’s massive doors the rehearsal would be over.

He couldn’t wait. With a brief smile for his bride-to-be he hooked her hand over his arm and led her away, telling himself his qualms about marriage would settle.

In the shadows something caught his eye. Felix, his private secretary, stood there, face unreadable.

Yet his stance, his very stillness, communicated a warning. Lucien had weathered the challenges of the past two months fairly well but he always felt he barely juggled the multitude of royal demands. Now he sensed a problem, his nape tingling in presentiment.

They reached the front of the cathedral and Felix approached. The archbishop had followed them and Ilsa turned to him, listening to him reminisce about the last royal wedding held here.

‘Felix.’ Lucien beckoned. ‘What is it?’

‘Something you need to know about immediately.’ Felix’s voice dropped and Lucien saw his gaze flicker to their companions. ‘You have a visitor. I thought it best not to leave her in the palace’s public rooms. The fewer who know about her the better.’

‘There’s a woman to see me?’ He caught Ilsa’s curious glance and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t see the problem.’

Felix had been Uncle Joseph’s secretary. Lucien had never seen him flustered or unable to deal with a problem.

‘I couldn’t leave her alone in an office with so many confidential records, but I didn’t want to bring anyone in to stay with her in case they learned too much about her.’ Felix cleared his throat. ‘The young woman refuses to state her business. She says it’s strictly for your ears only.’

Lucien raised his brows. Growing up in the country’s ruling family he knew they attracted their share of cranks and fantasists.

‘Surely you can deal with her.’

Felix shook his head. ‘You need to see her.’ He drew a slow breath and leaned closer. ‘If I’m not mistaken her health is...fragile. I brought her through the private passage and she’s waiting in the anteroom.’

‘She’shere?’

Lucien shot a look towards a dark corner of the building. There was a small chamber, usually locked, and beyond that a private passage the royal family used to cross between the cathedral and the palace next door. As he looked the carved wooden door cracked open and he glimpsed a figure wearing dark trousers and a vibrant red top.

‘Her name is—’

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