Page 10 of The Prince's Pregnant Secretary

A mining heiress, several dignitaries and an American pop star interrupted his journey. He forced himself to accept their well wishes, frustration seething beneath his normally calm exterior.

At last, he extracted himself and reached the main hallway outside the ballroom. Some partygoers were clustered off to the right. To the left was an empty hall, save for the lone guard heading off any inquisitive guests who might want to access the royal family’s private quarters.

“Cecil.”

“Your Highness,” the guard replied as he snapped to attention.

“Did Miss Stephenson come this way?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Less than five minutes ago.”

“How was she?”

Cecil paused for the briefest of moments. He was new to the guard, barely out of university. Judging by the indecision on his face, Clara had warned him not to say anything.

“Cecil, I’m asking you as your future king.”

“Yes, Your Highness. She looked ill. Said she was feeling faint.”

Alaric swore softly.

“Thank you, Cecil.”

He strode past the guard, turned right and headed for the elevator.

Until a glimpse of blond hair caught his eye. He stopped, keeping his face smooth even as his pulse started to pound at the sight of Clara sitting on a bench tucked into an alcove, her skin too pale, her chest rising and falling with her rapid breathing.

“Clara?”

Her eyes flew open, the blue even more vivid against the pallor of her skin.

“I just need to rest.”

“You need a hospital,” he ground out as he strode forward and knelt at her side.

“No, I don’t,” she retorted, her voice surprisingly strong. “And if you try to pick me up and carry me out to an ambulance, I will scream.”

Despite the worry coursing through his body, his lips twitched.

“What if I gave you an order as your future king?”

“I’m a British national. You’re my boss, not my king.”

Her face contorted and one hand flew to her mouth.

“I just need to lie down. I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach.”

“Nausea?” he repeated. Something flickered in the back of his mind, a notion he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Something I ate.”

Her gaze skittered to the side. His eyes narrowed. Before he could press her, she pushed off the bench and teetered. He stood and wrapped an arm around her slender waist.

“Go back to the reception,” she protested as she pushed at his arm.

“No. I’m making sure you get back to your apartment without passing out.”

Her lips parted to argue.

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