His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT IS THIS?” The disdain in Sophia’s tone when Luca presented her with a thick stack of files the following week was—in his estimation—a bit on the dramatic side.

“It is the list of possible husbands to invite to the upcoming ball. I feel strongly that an excess of five is just being spoiled for choice. Plus, you will not have time to dance with that many people. So I suggest you look it over, and find a way to pare them down.”

“This is...” She looked up at him, her dark eyes furious. “These are dossiers of...men. Photos and personal profiles...”

“How else would you know if you’re compatible?”

“Maybe meeting them and going out for dinner?” Sophia asked.

She crossed her arms, the motion pushing her rather abundant décolletage up over the neckline of the rather simple V-neck top she was wearing.

They really needed to get ahold of that new stylist and quickly. She was, as ever, a temptation to Luca, and to his sense of duty. But soon it would be over. Soon he would have his problematic stepsister married off, and then she would be safely out of his reach.

He could have found a woman to slake his lust on, and over the years he had done just that. After all, whatever was broken in him...Sophia should not have to suffer for it.

But during those time periods he had not been forced to cohabitate with Sophia. Always, when he had spent too much time with her, he had to detox, essentially. Find a slim blonde to remind himself that there were other sorts of women he found hot. Other women he might find desirable.

And then, when it was really bad, he gave up entirely on playing the opposite game and found himself a curvaceous brunette to pour his fantasies into. The end of that road was a morass of self-loathing and recrimination, but on many levels he was happy to end up there. He was comforted by it.

But this... Sharing space with her. As he had done since his father had died. No other woman would do. He couldn’t find it in him to feel even a hint of desire for anyone else. And that was unacceptable. As all things to do with Sophia invariably were.

“You are not going on dinner dates,” Luca said. “You are a princess. You are part of the royal family. And you are not setting up a Tinder profile in order to find yourself a husband.”

“Why not?” she asked, her tone defiant. “Perhaps I want nothing more than to meet a very exciting IT guy who might swipe me right off my feet.” He said nothing and she continued to stare at him. “Swipe. Swipe right. It’s a dating app thing.”

“That isn’t funny in the least. As I said, you are part of this family.” Perhaps if he repeated it enough, if he drilled it into both of them that they were family, his body would eventually begin to take it on board. “And as such, your standards of marriage must be the same as mine.”

“Why aren’t you looking for a wife yourself?” she asked.

“I will,” Luca said. “In due time. But my father asked that I make your safety, your match, a priority.”

He would marry, as duty required. But it would not be because of passion. And certainly not because of love. Duty was what drove him. The preservation of reputation, of the crown. If that crumbled, his whole life was nothing.

He would choose a suitable woman.

Sophia was far from suitable.

“What about the production of an heir?” Sophia lifted a brow. “Isn’t that important?”

“Yes. But I am a man, and as such, I do not have the same issues with a biological clock your gender does.”

“Right,” she huffed. “Because men can continue to produce children up until the end of their days.”

“Perhaps not without the aid of a blue pill, but certainly it is possible.”

For a moment she only blinked up at him, a faint pink tinge coloring her cheeks. Then Sophia’s lip curled. “I find this conversation distasteful.”

“You brought up the production of heirs, not me.”

She scowled, clearly having to take his point, and not liking it at all. “Well, let me look through the dossiers, then,” she said, lifting her nose and peering at him down the slender ridge, perfecting that sort of lofty look that was nothing if not a put-on coming from Sophia.

Though, possibly not when directed at him.

“Erik Nilsson. Swedish nobility?”

“Yes,” Luca responded. “He’s very wealthy.”

“How?”

“Family money, mostly. Though some of it is in sheep.”

“His money is in sheep?” Sophia asked, her expression completely bland. “Well, that is interesting. And one would never want for sweaters.”

“Indeed not,” he said, a vicious turn of jealousy savaging his gut. Which was sadistic at best. To be jealous of a man whose fortune was tied up in sheep and who had the dubious honor of being a minor noble in some small village that wasn’t part of the current century.

A man he had not expected his stepsister to show the slightest interest in. And yet, here she was.

“So he will have access to...wool. And such,” Sophia said. “And...he’s quite handsome. If you like tall and blond.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“Very much,” she said with a strange injection of conviction. “He’s on the table.” She set the folder aside. “Let us get on with the next candidate, shall we?”

“Here you are,” he said, lifting up the next folder and holding it out toward her. “Ilya Kuznetsov.”

She arched a brow. “Russian?”

He raised one in response. “Very.”

Sophia wrinkled her nose. “Is his fortune in vodka and caviar?”

“I hate to disappoint you but it’s in tech. So, quite close to that IT guy you were professing to have a burning desire for.”

“I didn’t say I had a burning desire for anyone,” she pointed out, her delicate fingers tracing the edge of the file.

He couldn’t help but imagine those same fingers stroking him.

If he believed in curses, he would believe he was under one.

“I don’t know anything about computers,” she continued, setting the folder off to the opposite side of the first one. “I prefer sheep.”

She was infuriating. And baffling. “Not something you hear every day. Now, to the next one.”

She set aside the next two. An Italian business mogul and a Greek tycoon. Neither one meeting up to some strange specification that she blathered on about in vague terms. Then she rejected an Argentine polo player, who was also nobility of some kind, on the basis of the fact that a quick Google search revealed him to be an inveterate womanizer.

“You’re not much better,” she said mournfully, looking up from her phone.

“Then it is a good thing that I am not in the files for consideration.”

Something quite like shock flashed through her eyes, and her mouth dropped open. Color flooded her cheeks, irritation, anger.

“As if that would ever happen. As if I would consider you.” She sniffed very loudly.

“As my sister, you could not,” he bit out.

“Stepsister,” she said, looking up at him from beneath her dark lashes.

His gut twisted, his body hardening for a moment before he gathered his control. The moment seemed to last an eternity. Stolen, removed from time. Nothing but those eyes boring holes through him, as though she could see right into him. As though she could see his every debauched thought.

Every dark, terrible thing in him.

But no, there was no way she could.

Or she would run and hide like a frightened mouse.

“In terms of legality, in terms of my father’s will, you’re my sister,” he said. “Now, the next one.”

She went through the folders until she had selected five, though she maintained that the Swedish candidate was top of her list.

It did not escape his notice that she had selected all men with lighter features. Diametrically opposed to his own rather dark appearance.

He should rejoice in that.

He found he did not.

“Then these are the invitations that will be sent out,” he said. “And I will be reserving dances with each of the gentlemen.”

“Dances?” She blinked. “Are we in a Regency romance novel? Am I going to have a card to keep track?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can keep track of it in an app.”

She barked out a laugh. “This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but if you can think of a better way to bring together the most eligible men in the world, I’m all ears.”

“And what happens if I don’t like any of them?”

“You’re very excited about the sweaters.”

“What if I don’t like any of them?” she reiterated.

“I imagine something will work out.”

“I’m serious,” she said, her blue eyes blazing with emotion. “I’m not marrying a man I don’t like because you have some strange time frame you need to fulfill.”

“Then we will keep looking.”

“No,” she said. “I promise that I will be fair, and I will give this a chance. But if it doesn’t work, give me six months to make my own choice. If I can’t find somebody that is suitable to me, and suitable to you, then I will let you choose.”

“That was not part of the original bargain.”

Six months more of her might just kill him.

“I don’t care,” Sophia said. “This isn’t the Dark Ages, and you can’t make me do what I don’t want to. And you know it.”

“Then you have a bargain. But you will have to put in serious effort. I am not wasting my time and resources.”

“Well I’m not marrying a man just to suit you, Luca. I want to care for the man I marry. I want to like him, if I can’t love him. I want to be able to talk to him. I want him to make me laugh.”

Luca braced himself. Braced himself for her to start talking about passion. About wanting a man who would set her body on fire.

She didn’t.

She had stopped at a man who made her laugh, and had not said she wanted a man who would make her come. He shouldn’t think such thoughts. Shouldn’t want to find out why that didn’t seem to occur to her.

Why attraction didn’t come into her lists of demands to be met.

It made him want to teach her. Didn’t she understand? That physical desire mattered?

And if she didn’t understand...

Some Swedish sheep farmer would be the one to teach her.

Luca gritted his teeth. “But do you need to want him, sorellina?”

He should not have asked the question. He shouldn’t entertain these thoughts, and he certainly shouldn’t give voice to them.

Cursed.

If he weren’t a logical man, he would swear it.

“Want him?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Yes,” he bit out. “Want him. His hands on your body. His mouth on yours. Does it matter to you whether or not you want him inside you?”

He hadn’t realized it, but he’d moved closer to her with each sentence. And now he was so near her he could smell her. That delicate, citrus scent that always rose above the more cloying floral or vanilla perfumes the women around the palace typically favored. A scent he was always assured he could pick out, regardless of who else was around. Always Sophia, rising above the rest.

“I... I...” Her cheeks blushed crimson, and then she stood, her nose colliding with his cheek before she wobbled backward. “I’ve only ever wanted one man like that.” The words seemed to be stuck in her throat. “I never will again. I’m sure. And I refuse to discuss it. Least of all with you.”

And then she turned and ran from the room.

CHAPTER THREE

SINCE MAKING A fool out of herself in front of Luca days earlier, Sophia had done her best to avoid him. It wasn’t that difficult. Luca was always busy with affairs of state, and it was actually for the best. The problem was that every time she heard heavy, authoritative footsteps on the marble floors of the palace, her heart caught, and held its position as if it was waiting, waiting to bow down to its king.

She did not want Luca to be the king of her heart. Being King of San Gennaro was quite enough power for one man. But her heart didn’t listen. It beat for Luca, it stopped for Luca, tripped over itself for Luca.

It was starting to feel like she was running an obstacle course every time she made any movement in the palace. One wherein Luca was the obstacle that she was trying desperately to avoid.

But she wanted to see him, too. That was the real conundrum. The fact that she wanted to both avoid him and be with him all the time. Foolish, because he wasn’t even nice to her. He never had been. But still, he captivated her in ways that went beyond sanity.

And today there would be no more avoiding him as he had engaged the services of a new stylist to help her prepare for the ball. The ball wherein she was supposed to choose a husband.

Luca and those dossiers had enraged her. She had picked every man who was completely opposite to him, to spite herself, mostly.

She highly doubted that she would marry any of these men. But one thing she knew for certain was that she would not marry a man who was simply a pale carbon copy of her stepbrother. She would not choose a man who was tall, dark and handsome, who had that kind of authority about him that Luca possessed. Because it would simply be an effort at giving her body a consolation prize. And that was far too tragic, even for her.

She shouldn’t be tragic, she mused as she wandered down the labyrinthine hall toward the salon where she was meeting the new stylist. She had been a commoner, and she had been raised up to become the princess of a country. She had been adopted by a king. A man who had loved her, and had loved her mother. Who had shown them both the kind of life that neither of them had ever dreamed possible.

But Luca. Always Luca.

It was as though her heart was intent on not being happy. As though it wanted to be tragic. In the same way that it had determined that Luca would be its owner.

In a palace, a life of luxury, and with that came a fervent, painful love for the one man she could never have.

And, he didn’t like her.

Star-crossed lovers they were not. Because Luca could hardly stand to share the same space as she did. He thought she was silly, that much was apparent from their exchange yesterday. They were from completely different worlds. The man couldn’t understand why she found it off-putting to be looking through file folders filled with profiles of men she had never met, trying to work out which one of them she could see herself marrying.

Although she supposed it wasn’t entirely different from online dating.

No. She refused to pretend that any of this was reasonable. It wasn’t.

She wondered if she would ever find someone who just wanted her. These men, who had agreed to come to the palace, would never have done so if she wasn’t a princess.

It was the only reason her biological father had ever spoken to her. After he’d seen her mother in the media, marrying King Magnus.

King Magnus had loved her. But...he had only strived to love her because of her mother.

And Luca...

Well, nothing seemed to make Luca like her at all. Not status, or herself.

He was consistent, at least.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the sight of him. That was another problem with Luca. Too much exposure to him and her poor heart couldn’t recover between moments. Not enough, and it always flung itself against her breastbone as though it were trying to escape. Trying to go to him. To be with him.

Her heart was foolish. And the rest of her body was worse.

She gathered herself up, drew in the deepest breath possible, hoping that the burning in her lungs would offset the rest of her physical response. That it might drown out the erratic tripping of her pulse.

Then, she pushed the door open.

And all the breath left her body in a rush.

There was no preparing for him. No matter how familiar she was with his face, with that imposing, muscular physique of his, it was like a shock to her system every time. Those dark eyes, eyes that she sometimes thought might see straight through her, but they couldn’t. Because if they did, then he would know. He would know that she was not indifferent to him. He would know that her feelings toward him were in no way familial.

He would be disgusted by her.

It took her a while to notice that there was a woman standing next to him. The new stylist, presumably. It took her a while, because as far as she was concerned when Luca was in the room it was difficult to tell if anyone else was there at all.

“You must be Princess Sophia,” the woman said. “I’m Elizabeth.”

“Nice to meet you.” Belatedly, she decided that she should try and curtsy or something, so she grabbed the edge of her sundress and bent forward slightly. She looked up and saw that Luca was watching her with a disapproving expression on his handsome face.

If she bowed down and called him King of the Universe he would disapprove. He was impossible.

“She needs something suitable for an upcoming event,” Luca said. “She must look the best she ever has.”

“I am confident that I can accomplish such. It is simply a matter of knowing what sort of energy Sophia should be projecting. All these colors that she’s wearing now are far too drab. And from what I have seen in pictures and publications over the years, her overall color palette doesn’t suit her. I have plans.”

Suddenly, Sophia felt very much like she was being stared down by a hungry spider. And she was a fly caught in the web.

“Just leave it to me,” she said, shooing at Luca.

“I must approve the selection,” he said. Obviously not taking kindly at all to being shown the door in his own palace.

“You will approve,” Elizabeth said, her tone stubborn. “You will see soon.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent styling and plucking and scrubbing.

Sophia felt as though she had been exfoliated over every part of her body. This woman did not try to have her hair completely straightened, but rather, styled it into soft waves, which seemed to frame her face better, and also—so she said—would not revert halfway over the course of the evening. Which was the problem that Sophia usually had with her hairstyles. Her hair wasn’t curly, but it was not board-straight, either, and it could not hold such a severe style for hours on end. It became unruly when she got all sweaty. And she supposed it was not a good thing to sweat when you were a princess, but she did.

Then there was the matter of the gown she chose. None of the navy blue, black or mossy-green colors that her mother’s stylist favored. No, this gown was a brilliant fuchsia, strapless with a sweetheart neckline that did nothing at all to cover her breasts. It draped down from there, skimming her waist, her full hips. Rather than making her look large like some of the high-necked gowns that had been chosen for her before, or blocky like the ones that hit her in strange places at the waist, she actually looked...curvy and feminine.

Typically, she didn’t show this much skin, but she had to admit it was much more flattering when you could see that she had cleavage, rather than a misshapen mono breast.

Her lipstick matched the dress, and her eye makeup was simple, just black winged liner. Her cheeks were a very bright pink, much brighter than she would have normally done, but all of it created a very sophisticated effect. And for the first time she thought maybe she looked like she belonged. Like maybe she was a princess. Not a girl being shoved into a mold she resolutely could not fit into, but one who’d had a mold created just for her.

“He will approve of this,” Elizabeth said.

“You know he is my stepbrother,” Sophia pointed out. “He doesn’t need to approve of it in that way.”

The very idea made her face hot. And that she wanted him to...that she wanted him to want her was the worst humiliation of all.

“I know,” the woman said, giving her a look that was far too incisive. “But you wouldn’t mind if he did.”

Sophia sputtered. “I... He can’t.”

“That has nothing to do with what you feel. Or what you want.”

Sophia felt like she had been opened up and examined. Like her skin had been peeled away, revealing her deepest and most desperate secrets. She hated it. But she didn’t have time to marinate in it because suddenly, the door was opening, and Luca had returned. Obviously, Elizabeth had texted him to say that Sophia was ready. But she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to face him, not with the woman next to her knowing full well how Sophia felt about Luca. Because now she felt like it was written across her skin, across her forehead, so that it could clearly be read by the man himself.

Her earlier confidence melted away, and her skin began to heat as Luca stopped, his dark eyes assessing her slowly.

Her body tingled, her breasts feeling heavy, her nipples going tight as though his fingertips were grazing her skin. As if he was doing more than simply looking.

“It will do,” he said, his tone as hard as his features.

Her throat felt prickly, and she swallowed hard, feeling foolish, her heart fluttering like a caged bird trying to escape. How could she feel so much when he looked at her, while he felt nothing for her at all? While he clearly saw her as an annoyance.

He didn’t look impressed; he didn’t look awed or surprised with what she had felt was a total transformation.

“I am glad that I reach at least the bottom of your very lofty standards, Your Majesty,” she said stiffly. “I can only hope that a certain Swedish noble has a slightly more enthusiastic response.”

“I said that it will do,” he reiterated. “And it will. What more do you want from me, sorellina?”

“I spent the entire day receiving a makeover. I would have thought it would garner a response. But it seems as if I am destined to remain little more than wallpaper. It is okay. Some women are never going to be beautiful.”