Royally Bedded, Regally Wedded. Julia James

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      This was a complication they could do without.

      His gaze rested on her. A frown gathered between his brows. Had she really not realised who he was? It seemed incredible, and yet her shock had been genuine. His frown deepened. He had never before encountered anyone who did not know who he was.

      He dragged his mind away. It was irrelevant that his reaction to her evident complete ignorance of his identity had…had what? Irritated him? Piqued him? No, none of those, he asserted to himself. He was merely totally unaccustomed to not being recognised. He had been recognised wherever he went, all his life. Everyone always knew who he was.

      So being stared at as if he were the man in the moon had simply been a new experience for him. That was all.

      Dio, he dismissed impatiently. What did he care if the girl hadn’t realised who he was? It was, as he had said, irrelevant. She knew now. That was all that mattered. And once she’d accepted it—not that the look of glazed shock had left her face until she’d fallen asleep in the vehicle—it had at least had the thankful effect of making her co-operate finally. Silently, numbly, but docilely.

      She’d made sandwiches and drinks for herself and Ben, telling him while he ate that they were going on an adventure, and then heading upstairs to pack. Ben had shown no anxiety, only curiosity and excitement. Rico had done his best to give him an explanation he could understand.

      ‘I…’He had hesitated, then said it, a shaft of emotion going through him as he did so. ‘I am your uncle, Ben, and I have only just found out that you live here. So I am taking you on a little holiday. We’ll need to leave now, though, and drive in the night.’

      It had seemed to suffice.

      He had fallen asleep almost instantly, the car having only gone a few miles, and it had not taken a great deal longer for the aunt to fall asleep as well. Rico was glad. A car was not the place for the next conversation they must have.

      He glanced at her now, his face tightening in automatic male distaste at the plain-faced female, with her unflattering frizzy hair and even more unflattering nondescript clothes.

      She couldn’t be more different from Maria Mitchell. She possessed not a scrap of her sister’s looks. Maria had been one of those naturally eye-catching blondes, tall and slender, with wide-set blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. No wonder she’d become a model. The photos Falieri had dug up of her had shown exactly how she must have attracted Paolo.

      They would have made a golden couple.

      Pain bit at him, again. Dio, both of them wiped out, their young lives cut short in a crush of metal. But leaving behind a secret legacy.

      Rico’s eyes went back to his nephew, softening.

      We’ll take care of you now—don’t worry. You’re safe with us.

      Oblivious, Ben slept on.

      Lizzy stirred. Even as the first threads of consciousness returned, she reached automatically across the wide bed.

      It was all right. Ben was there. For a moment she let her hand rest on the warm, pyjama-covered back of her son, still fast asleep on the far side of the huge double bed. They were in some kind of private house, at which they’d arrived in the middle of the night—specially rented, and staffed by San Lucenzans flown in from the royal palace, or so she had been told by Captain Falieri. A safe house. Safe from prying journalists.

      Disbelief washed through her, as it had done over and over again since that moment when she’d stared at the man who had invaded her cottage and realised who he was.

      She was still in shock, she knew. She had to be. Because why else was she so calm? Partly it was for Ben’s sake. Above all he must not be upset, or distressed. For his sake she must treat this as normal.

      Impossible as that was.

      What’s going to happen?

      The question arrowed through her, bringing a churning anxiety to her stomach.

      Was the Prince still here? Or had he left her with Captain Falieri. She hoped he was gone. She was not comfortable with him.

      She shifted in her bed. Even had he not been royal, let alone infamous in the press—what did they call him? The Playboy Prince? Was that it?—she could never have been comfortable in his company. No man that good-looking could make her feel anything other than awkward and embarrassed.

      Just as, she knew with her usual searing honesty, a man like that could never be comfortable with her around. Men like that wanted to be surrounded by beautiful women—women like Maria. Females who were plain and unattractive, as she was, simply didn’t exist for them. Hadn’t she learnt that lesson early, knowing that for men she was simply invisible? How many times had male eyes slid automatically past her to seek out Maria?

      She jerked her mind away from such irrelevancies, back to what she did not want to think about. The paternity of her son.

      And his uncle. Prince Enrico Ceraldi.

      He won’t be here still, she guessed. He’ll have left—returned to his palace and his socialite chums. Why would he hang around? He probably only came to the cottage in person because he wanted to check out that Ben really did look like his brother.

      She opened her eyes, looking around her. The bedroom was large, and from what she could tell the house was some kind of small, Regency period country house. Presumably sufficiently remote for the press not to find Ben. How long would they need to stay here? she wondered anxiously. The sooner the story broke, the better—because then the fuss would die down and she and Ben could go home.

      She frowned. Would Ben be upset that this mysteriously arrived uncle had simply disappeared again? She would far rather he had not known who he was. Her frown etched deeper. Why had he told Ben? It seemed a pointless thing to do. The news story would just be a nine-day wonder, and, although she could understand why the Ceraldi family would want to tuck Ben out of sight while it was going on, there was no need to have told Ben anything.

      She’d have to tell Ben that even though Prince Enrico was his uncle, he lived abroad, and that was why he wouldn’t see him again.

      Even so, it seemed cruel to have told him in the first place. Ben had asked about his father sometimes, and all Lizzy had been able to do was say that it had been someone who had loved the mummy in whose tummy he had grown, but that that mummy had been too ill to say who his daddy was.

      For the hundredth time since the bombshell about Maria’s lover had fallen, Lizzy felt disbelief wash through her. And a terrible chill. With all the horror of having to rush out to France, to the hospital her mortally injured sister had been taken to, the news that the pile-up had claimed the life of the youngest prince of San Lucenzo had simply passed her by. She had made no connection—how could she have?

      And yet he had been Ben’s father. Maria had had an affair with Prince Paolo of San Lucenzo. And nobody had known. No one at all.

      It was extraordinary, unbelievable. But it was true.

      I have to accept it. I have to come to terms with it.

      She stared bleakly out over the room. Deliberately, she forced herself to think instead of feel.

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