Page 15 of The Prince's Pregnant Secretary

“Things have changed.”

A frown flickered across her face before she walked into the room and moved to her usual spot in the chair in front of his desk. She sat with the grace and aplomb of a queen.

Which was good, Alaric reflected as he followed her. Because he intended her to make her one.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you.”

He sat in his chair, his eyes inadvertently drifting down to her belly.

“You’re five weeks along?”

Something flashed in her eyes.

“Yes.”

“And there is no other possibility?”

He kept his voice neutral, irritated at the relief that relaxed his muscles at the brief shake of her head.

“I’m assuming you could make a case against the birth control company.”

A delicate pink stained her cheek.

“I... I was taking a sleep aid at the time. I didn’t realize it could reduce the efficacy of the pill.” She glanced down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Alaric. Truly.”

When she looked back up, he nodded his acceptance of her explanation. Had it been any one of his former lovers, he would have suspected sabotage. But Clara hadn’t tried to seduce him, hadn’t tried to ingratiate herself in any way prior to their lovemaking. She was honest and forthright. More qualities that made her right for what he had in mind.

“So...eight months.”

“Yes.”

“A summer child.”

“Yes.”

“Will you marry me?”

One corner of her lips quirked. “No.”

Admiration warred with irritation. Why did he have to break his celibacy streak with the one woman who would resist marrying a future king? His jaw tightened as his resolve strengthened. He hadn’t pushed Celestine to the altar for a multitude of reasons, including his own guilt that he had essentially purchased a bride.

But this was different. The future of his child was at stake. He would go to hell and back to ensure that his son or daughter would be born with his name, his protection and the legacy of the Linnaean throne instead of the years of shame he’d suffered or the struggles Briony had grown up with.

His fingers curled into fists. Briony had claimed that her childhood was pleasant, at least until her mother had remarried, but money and security had been scarce. They’d fought for every little pleasure. Briony had struggled for months to pay for her mother’s medical bills, working herself to the bone. Another result of Daxon’s carelessness. He’d seduced Briony’s mother, a college student studying abroad, without a care for the potential consequences.

The thought of Clara working long hours while living in some tiny ramshackle house while he resided in luxury in the royal palace made him sick to his stomach. He would not allow Clara or his child to go through a similar torture.

And it wasn’t just his child’s future at stake, either. It was Linnaea’s future. He finally had the opportunity to chart a new course for the country, one that included a legitimate heir and a wife who would represent the country far better than her predecessor. More than once he’d wondered how Celestine would raise any children they had together. Part of him had hoped that she would continue her self-absorbed existence and leave their children to him. But that wouldn’t have been ideal for their children, as he well knew, to have one parent who loved and guided them while the other barely acknowledged their presence. Once Briony had joined the royal household, he’d even toyed with the idea of not having children, of asking his sister and her husband to carry on the throne.

A frown creased his brow as he regarded Clara with a hooded gaze. She had always been an advocate for Linnaea. Perhaps she didn’t understand the ramifications of what was at stake. It was no longer her decision to make, or his.

The urge to assume the mantle of Prince Alaric Van Ambrose loomed. But judging by the tense set of Clara’s slender shoulders and her perch on the edge of the chair, going in guns blazing would only make her dig her heels in more. Better to start slow and make his case.

“Tell me about your first husband.”

There. A blink, followed by the slightest tensing of her hands on the armrests. Whatever had happened between the Clemonts and Clara had left a mark. Judging by the tension now rolling off her slender frame, it had not been an entirely pleasant experience. He’d done quite a bit of reading on the late Miles Clemont, son of oil tycoon Stanley and former model Temperance Clemont, last night. Partly out of curiosity as to what kind of man would entice Clara Stephenson to wear his ring, but also research to arm himself for the unexpected battle she’d presented him with. She’d alluded to unhappiness in the marriage. Yet neither he nor his security firm that performed meticulous background checks had uncovered anything that would suggest what had occurred to give Clara such a negative view of matrimony.

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