Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets

“I need to know how to seduce my wife.

“Not just physically, but on every level emotionally, too. I never want to see loathing in her eyes when she looks at me, as my mother so often looked at my father. And I never wish to treat her with disdain the way my father treated my mother. I will not have a marriage like that.”

A vein pulsed at the side of Thierry’s brow and while his voice had remained level, Mila could see the strain in his eyes as he turned to face her again.

“I want you to teach me how to make my wife fall in love with me so deeply she will never look to another man for her fulfillment. Can you do this?”

Thierry stared into the glowing amber of his courtesan’s eyes and willed her to give him the answer he craved.

“You want me to teach you to seduce your fiancée’s mind and her senses, and then her body?”

“I do.”

Her eyes shone brightly as she smiled.

“Your demand is not quite what I expected but I will do what you ask.”

* * *

Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets is part of the Courtesan Brides duet: Her pleasure is at his command!

Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets

Yvonne Lindsay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A typical Piscean, USA TODAY bestselling author YVONNE LINDSAY has always preferred her imagination to the real world. Married to her blind-date hero and with two adult children, she spends her days crafting the stories of her heart, and in her spare time she can be found with her nose in a book reliving the power of love, or knitting socks and daydreaming. Contact her via her website, www.yvonnelindsay.com.

There are so many people who enrich my life but foremost are the members of my incredible family, so I dedicate this book to them.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

One

“Isn’t that you?”

Mila shoved an unruly lock of her long black hair off her face and looked up in irritation from the notes she’d been making.

“Is what me?” she asked her friend.

“On the TV, now!”

Mila turned her attention to the flat screen currently blaring the latest entertainment news trailers that so captivated her best friend and felt her stomach lurch. There, for all the world to see, were the unspeakably awful official photos taken at her betrothal to Prince Thierry of Sylvain seven years ago. Overweight, with braces still on her teeth and a haircut that had looked so cute on a Paris model and way less cute on an awkward eighteen-year-old princess—especially one who was desperately attempting to look more sophisticated and who had ended up, instead, looking like a sideshow clown. She shuddered.

“I know it doesn’t look completely like you, but that is you, isn’t it? Princess Mila Angelina of Erminia? Is that really your name?” Sally demanded, one finger pointing at the TV screen while her eyes pinned Mila with a demanding stare.

There was no point in arguing. Hiding a cringe, Mila merely inclined her head. She looked back down at her notes for a thesis she’d likely never be permitted to complete, but her concentration was gone. How would her friend react to this news?

“You’re going to marry a prince?”

Mila couldn’t be certain if Sally was outraged because Mila was actually engaged to a prince, or because she’d never thought to let her best friend in on the secret of her real identity. She sighed and put her pen down. As an uncelebrated princess from a tiny European kingdom, she’d flown under the radar in the United States since her arrival seven years ago, but now it was clearly time to face the music.

She’d known Sally since their freshman year at MIT and, while her friend had sometimes looked a little surprised that Mila—or Angel as she was known here in the States—had a chaperone, didn’t date and had a team of bodyguards whenever she went out, Sally had accepted Angel’s quirks without question. After all, Sally herself was heiress to an IT billionaire and lived with similar, if not quite as binding, constraints. The girls had naturally gravitated to one another.

It was time to be honest with her friend. Mila sighed again. “Yes, I am Mila Angelina of Erminia and, yes, I’m engaged to a prince.”

“And you’re a princess?”

“I’m a princess.”

Mila held her breath, waiting for her friend’s reaction. Would she be angry with her? Would it ruin the friendship she so treasured?

“I feel like I don’t even know you, but seriously, that’s so cool!” Sally gushed.

Mila rolled her eyes and laughed in relief. Of all the things she’d anticipated coming from Sally’s rather forthright mouth, that hadn’t been one of them.

“I always had a feeling there were things you weren’t telling me.” Sally dropped onto the couch beside Mila, scattering her papers to the floor. “So, what’s he like?”

“Who?”

It was Sally’s turn to roll her eyes this time. “The prince of course. C’mon, Angel, you can tell me. Your secret’s safe with me, although I am kind of pissed at you for not telling me about him, or who you really are, any time in, oh, the last seven years!”

Sally softened her words with a smile, but Mila could see that she was still hurt by the omission.

How did you explain to someone that even though you’d been engaged to a man for years, you barely even knew him? One formal meeting, where she’d been so painfully shy she hadn’t even been capable of making eye contact with the guy, followed by sporadic and equally formal letters exchanged by a diplomatic pouch, didn’t add up to much in the relationship stakes.

“I...I don’t really know what he’s like.” Mila took in a deep breath. “I have Googled him, though.”

Her friend laughed out loud. “You have no idea how crazy that just sounded. You’re living a real life fairy tale, y’know? European princess betrothed from childhood—well, okay, the age of eighteen at least—to a reclusive neighboring prince.” Sally sighed and clutched at her chest dramatically. “It’s so romantic—and all you can say is that you’ve Googled him?”

“Now who sounds crazy? I’m marrying him out of duty to my family and my country. Erminia and Sylvain have hovered on the brink of war for the last decade and a half. My marriage to Prince Thierry is supposed to end all that—unite our nations—if you can believe it could be that simple.”

“But don’t you want love?”

“Of course I want love.”

Her response hung in the air between them. Love. It was all Mila had ever wanted. But it was something she knew better than to expect. Groomed from birth as not much more than a political commodity to be utilized to her country’s greatest advantage, she’d realized love didn’t feature very strongly alongside duty. When it came to her engagement, her agreement to the union had never been sought. It had been presented to her as her responsibility—and she’d accepted it. What else could she do?

Meeting the prince back then had been terrifying. Six years older than her, well-educated, charismatically gorgeous and oozing confidence, he’d been everything she was not. And she hadn’t missed the hastily masked look of dismay on his face when they’d initially been introduced. Granted, she hadn’t looked her best, but it had still stung to realize she certainly wasn’t the bride he’d hoped for and it wasn’t as if he could simply tell everyone he’d changed his mind. He, too, was a pawn in their betrothal—a scheme hatched by their respective governments in an attempt to quell the animosity that continued to simmer between their nations.

Mila rubbed a finger between her eyebrows as if by doing so she could ease the nagging throb that had settled there.

“Of course I want love,” she repeated, more softly this time.

She felt Sally’s hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t joke.”

“It’s okay.” Mila reached up and squeezed her friend’s hand to reassure her.

“So, how come you came here to study? If peace was the aim, wouldn’t they have wanted you two to marry as soon as possible?”

Again Mila pictured the look on Prince Thierry’s face when he’d seen her. A look that had made her realize that if she was to be anything to him other than a representation of his duty, she needed to work hard to become his equal. She needed to complete her education and become a worthy companion. Thankfully, her brother, King Rocco of Erminia, had seen the same look on the prince’s face and, later that night, when she’d tearfully appealed to him with her plan to better herself, he’d agreed.

“The agreement was that we’d marry on my twenty-fifth birthday.”

“But that’s at the end of next month!”

“I know.”

“But you haven’t finished your doctorate.”

Mila thought of all the sacrifices she’d made in her life to date. Not completing her PhD would probably be the most painful. While her brother had insisted she at least include some courses in political science, the main focus of her studies had been environmental science—a subject that she’d learned was close to the prince’s heart. After years of study, it was close to hers now, too. Not being able to stand before him with her doctorate in hand, so to speak, was a painful thought to consider, but it was something she’d just have to get over. She certainly hadn’t planned on things taking this long, but being dyslexic had made her first few years at college harder than she’d anticipated and she’d had to retake a number of courses. As Mila formed her reply to her friend, Sally was suddenly distracted.

“Oh, he’s so hot!”

Mila snorted a laugh. “I know what he looks like. I’ve Googled him, remember.”

“No, look, he’s on TV, now. He’s in New York at that environmental summit Professor Winslow told us about weeks ago.”

Mila looked up so quickly she nearly gave herself whiplash. “Prince Thierry is here? In the US?”

She trained her gaze onto the TV screen and, sure enough, there he was. Older than she remembered him and, if it was humanly possible, even better looking. Her heart tumbled in her chest and she felt her throat constrict on a raft of emotions. Fear, attraction—longing.

“You didn’t know he was coming?”

Mila tore her eyes from the screen and fought to inject the right level of nonchalance into her voice. “No, I didn’t. But that’s okay.”

“Okay? You think that’s okay?” Sally’s voice grew shrill. “The guy travels how many thousand miles to the country where you’ve been living for years now and he can’t pick up a phone?”

“He’s obviously only in New York for a short while and I’m sure he’ll have a strict timetable set in place. I’m over here in Boston—he can’t exactly just drop in.” She shrugged. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. We’re getting married in a little over four weeks’ time.”

Her voice cracked on the words. Even though she played at being offhand, deep down it had come as a shock to see him on the TV. Would it have killed him to have let her know he was coming to America?

“Hmph. I can’t believe you’re not seeing each other while he’s here,” Sally continued, clearly not ready to let go of the topic yet. “Don’t you even want to see him?”

“He probably doesn’t have time,” Mila deflected.

She didn’t want to go into what she did or didn’t want when it came to Prince Thierry. Her feelings on the subject were too confusing, even for her. She’d tried to convince herself many times that love at first sight was the construction of moviemakers and romance novelists, but ever since the day of their betrothal, she had yearned for him with a longing that went deep into the very fabric of her being. Was that love? She didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she’d had any stellar examples during her childhood.

“Well, even if he hadn’t told me he was coming here, I’d certainly make time to see him if he was mine.”

Mila forced herself to laugh and to make the kind of comment Sally would expect her to make. “Well, he’s not yours, he’s mine—and I’m not sharing.”

As she expected, Sally joined in with her mirth. Mila kept her eyes glued to the screen for the duration of the segment about Prince Thierry—and tried to ignore the commentary about herself. The reporters were full of speculation as to her whereabouts, which had been kept strictly private for the past several years. Though she realized, if Sally had put two and two together as to who she was, what was to say others wouldn’t, also?

She clung to the hope that no one would think to connect the ugly duckling of her engagement photo with the woman she had become. No longer was she the timid young woman with a mouth too large for her face and chubby cheeks and thighs. Somewhere between nineteen and twenty she’d begun a miraculous late-blooming transformation. The thirty extra pounds of puppy fat had long since melted from her body—her features and her figure fining down to what she was now, still curvy but no longer overweight. And her hair, thank goodness, had grown long and straight and thick. The dreadful cropped cut and frizzy perm she’d insisted on in a vain attempt to look sophisticated before meeting the prince was now nothing more than a humiliating memory. And she’d finally developed the poise that had been sadly lacking when she was just a teenager.

Would her soon-to-be husband find her attractive now? She hated to think he’d be put off by her, especially given how incredibly drawn she was to him.

Sally had been one hundred percent right that Prince Thierry was hot. And all through the broadcast she saw evidence of that special brand of charisma that he unconsciously exuded. Mila watched the way people in the background stopped and stared at the prince—drawn to him as if he was a particularly strong magnet and they were nothing but metal filings inexorably pulled into his field. She knew how they felt. It was the same sensation that had struck her on the day of their betrothal—not to mention since, whenever she’d seen pictures of him or caught a news bulletin on television when she was home on vacation back in Erminia.

She’d return there in just a few weeks. It was time to retrieve the mantle of responsibility she’d so eagerly, even if only temporarily, shrugged off and reassume her position.

She should be looking forward to it. Not only because of the draw she felt toward the prince, but because of what the marriage would mean to both of their countries. The tentative peace between her native Erminia and Sylvain had been shattered many years ago when Prince Thierry’s mother had been caught, in flagrante delicto, with an Erminian diplomat. When both she and her lover had died in a fiery car crash fingers had pointed to both governments in accusation. Military posturing along the borders of their countries ever since had created its own brand of unrest within the populations. She’d understood that her eventual marriage to Prince Thierry would, hopefully, bring all that turmoil to an end—but she wanted something more than a convenient marriage. Was it too much to hope that she could make the prince love her, too?

Mila reached for the remote and muted the sound, ready to turn her attention back to her work, but Sally wasn’t finished on the subject yet.

“You should go to New York and meet him. Turn up at the door to his hotel suite and introduce yourself,” Sally urged.

Mila laughed, but the sound lacked any humor. “Even if I could get away from Boston unchaperoned, I wouldn’t get past his security, trust me. He’s the Crown Prince of Sylvain, the sole heir to the throne. He’s important.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “So are you. You’re his fiancée, for goodness’ sake. Surely he’d make time for you. And, as to Bernadette and the bruiser boys,” Sally said, referring to Mila’s chaperone and round-the-clock bodyguards, “I think I could come up with a way to dodge them—if you were willing to commit to this, that is.”

“I couldn’t. Besides, what if my brother found out?”

Sally didn’t know that Mila’s brother was also the reigning king of Erminia, but she was aware that Rocco had been her guardian since they lost their parents many years ago.

“What could he do? Ground you?” Sally snorted. “C’mon, you’re almost twenty-five years old and you’ve spent the last seven years in another country gaining valuable qualifications you’ll probably never be allowed to use. You have a lifetime of incredibly boring state dinners and stuff like that to look forward to. I think you’re entitled to a bit of fun, don’t you?”

“You make a good point,” Mila answered with a wry grin. As much as Sally’s words pricked at her, her friend was right. “What do you suggest?”

“It’s easy. Professor Winslow said that if we wanted he could get us tickets to the sustainability lecture stream during the summit. Why don’t we take him up on it? The summit starts tomorrow and there’s a lecture we could attend,” she said the latter word with her fingers in the air, mimicking quotation marks, “the next day.”

“Accommodation will be impossible to find at this short notice.”

“My family keeps a suite close to where they said the prince is staying. We could fly to New York by late afternoon tomorrow—Daddy will let me use his jet, I’m sure, especially if I tell him it’s for my studies. Then we check into the hotel and you could suddenly feel ill.” Sally hooked her fingers into mimed quotation marks again. “Bernie and the boys wouldn’t need to be with you if you were tucked up in bed with a migraine, would they? We’ll take a blond wig so you can look more like me. After a couple of hours, I’ll pretend I’m going out but instead I’ll go to your room and go to bed and pull the covers right up so if she checks on you she’ll think you’re out for the count. We’ll swap clothes and you, looking like me, can just slip out for the evening. What do you say?”

“They’ll never fall for it.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, though, would it? Otherwise when are you going to get a chance to see the prince again? At your wedding? C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

What was the worst that could happen? They’d get caught. And then what? More reminders of her station and her duty to her country. Growing up in Erminia constant lectures about her duty and reputation had been all she’d known, after all. But after living and attending college in the States for the past few years, Mila had enjoyed a taste—albeit a severely curtailed one—of the kind of freedom she hadn’t even known she craved.

She weighed the idea in her mind. Sally’s plan was so simple and uncomplicated it might just work. Bernadette was always crazy busy—even more so since she’d begun making plans for Mila’s return to Erminia. A side jaunt to New York would throw her schedule completely out—if she even agreed to allowing it. But Mila still had the email from the professor saying how valuable attending the lecture would be. Mila knew she could put some emotional pressure on the chaperone who’d become more like a mother-figure to her and convince her to let her go.

“What’s it going to be, Mila?” Sally prompted.

Mila reached her decision. “I’ll do it.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said the words even as they came from her mouth, but every cell in her body flooded with a sense of anticipation. She was going to meet Prince Thierry. Or, at least, try to meet him.

“Great,” Sally said, rubbing her hands together like the nefarious co-conspirator she was at heart. “Let’s make some plans. This is going to be fun!”

Two

Dead.

The king was dead. Long live the king.

Oblivious to the panoramic twilight view of New York City as it sparkled below him, Thierry paced in front of the windows of his hotel suite in a state of disbelief.

He was now the King of Sylvain and all its domains—automatically assuming the crown as soon as his father had breathed his last breath.

A flutter of rage beat at the periphery of his thoughts. Rage that his father had slipped away now, rather than after Thierry had returned to his homeland. But it was typical of the man to make things awkward for his son. After all, hadn’t he made a lifetime hobby of it? Even before this trip, knowing he was dying, his father had sent Thierry away. Perhaps he’d known all along that his only son would not be able to return before his demise. He’d never been a fan of emotional displays.

Not that Thierry would likely become emotional. The king had always been a distant person in Thierry’s life. Their interactions had been peppered with reminders of Thierry’s duty to his country and his people and reprimands for the slightest transgression whether real or imagined. Yet, through the frustration and rage that flickered inside him, Thierry felt a swell of grief. Perhaps more for the relationship he had never had with his father, he realized, than the difficult one they’d shared.

“Sire?”

The form of address struck him anew. Sire—not Your Royal Highness or sir.

His aide continued, “Is there anything—?”

“No.” Thierry cut off his aide before he could ask again what he could do.

Since the news had been delivered, his staff had closed around him—all too wary that they were now responsible for not the Crown Prince any longer, but the King of Sylvain. He could feel the walls closing in around him even as he paced. He had to get out. Get some air. Enjoy some space before the news hit worldwide headlines which, no doubt, it would within the next few hours.

Thierry turned to his aide. “I apologize for my rudeness. The news...even though we were expecting it...”

“Yes, sire, it has come as a shock to everyone. We all hoped he would rally again.”

Thierry nodded abruptly. “I’m going out.”

A look of horror passed across the man’s features. “But, sire!”

“Pasquale, I need tonight. Before it all changes,” Thierry said by way of explanation even though no explanation was necessary.

The reality of his new life was already crushing. He’d been trained for this from the cradle and yet it still felt as though he had suddenly become Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“You will take your security detail with you.”

Thierry nodded. That much, he knew, was non-negotiable, but he also knew they’d be discreet. Aside from the film crew that had caught him arriving at his hotel yesterday, his visit to the United States had largely gone untrumpeted. He was a comparatively small fry compared to the other heads of state from around the world who had converged on the city for the summit. That would all change by morning, of course, when news of his father’s death made headlines. He hoped, by then, to be airborne and on his way home.

Thierry strode to his bedroom and ripped the tie from his neck before it strangled him. His elderly valet, Nico, scurried forward.

“Nico, a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, please.”

“Certainly, sire.”

There it was again. That word. That one word that had created a gulf of distance between himself and his staff and, no doubt, the rest of the world with it. For the briefest moment, Thierry wished he could rage and snarl at the life he’d been dealt, but, as always, he capped the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He was nothing if not controlled.

A few moments later, after a brief shower, Thierry was dressed and waiting in his suite’s vestibule for his security detail—all ready to go.