Page 26 of Pregnant In The King's Palace

Nothing between them but the air they breathed and the searching, seeking slide of flesh within flesh. The velvet of the couch beneath them. The dim light and the way his gaze didn’t leave her face, fierce and glittering, and she wondered, with what little brain she had left, how she’d gone so long without this kind of connection.

Such a deliciously deep connection.

‘Hello again,’ she whispered against the curve of his neck, and prayed their indulgence wouldn’t cost them as much as it had last time. ‘Is this what you want from me?’

His answer was yes, and yes again as she set up a tiny rocking motion with her pelvis that had him groaning and laughing and setting his busy hands to her hips and clamping her to stillness.

‘Too soon.’ And this time his kisses were set to soothe. ‘Slow down. Long and slow, Angelique. I’ve waited so long. Let me learn you all over again.’

He stayed the night and most of the following morning.

And in this he was a man of his word.

He couldn’t get enough of her.

Valentine knew he was ignoring the terms of their loosely discussed agreement—especially when it came to keeping Angelique separate from the duties imposed on him by the monarchy, but it was such a little transgression to begin with. He’d stayed overnight at the manor, again, and had a morning appointment with a charity he personally supported. He’d told her about it over breakfast and she’d seemed so interested in what they did, and what he did to amplify their reach, that he asked her if she wanted to come with him.

Foolish, foolish man, because it had quickly turned into a public relations disaster, and, in hindsight, Valentine took full responsibility. He hadn’t briefed her properly, for starters. He hadn’t told the organisers he was bringing a guest.

He’d sprung the trip on her one morning as he played house with her, his stomach full of bacon and mushrooms and sourdough toast, and his mind still clouded by their activities of the previous night. He’d wanted to stay with her just that little bit longer, eke out a couple more hours spent soaking in her warmth, so he’d asked her to accompany him on a job.

She’d been dressed too casually, for starters. Flat shoes, neat trousers, a collared cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to sit just below her elbows. No jewellery to speak of, except for the watch she wore on an everyday basis. The charity they had visited tackled adult literacy. As an adult for whom Thallasian was not her first language, Angelique had been genuinely interested in the classes and the teaching materials provided.

Her enthusiasm for their work had been everything he could have asked for.

When one of the organisers had asked if she minded being filmed reading from one of the beginner texts, she hadn’t minded a bit and Valentine had nodded yes. She’d mangled the story, of course. Her spoken Thallasian was far in advance of her ability to read it. It was her fourth language behind her native Spanish, Liesendaachish and English.

The video had gone live on social media and the press had feasted on her ignorance.

Not only had the King’s whore been shabbily dressed, she’d pimped an expensive watch brand she was ambassador for—thus monetising her association with His Majesty the King of Thallasia—and she had the reading skills of the average Thallasian eight-year-old.

All the good work of the charity had been buried beneath an avalanche of criticism, unsubtle innuendo about what the King saw in his foreign mistress, and the prediction that she couldn’t possibly hold his interest for much longer.

All of it was his fault for deviating from the carefully curated script the palace had laid out for him.

Get your head out of the clouds and protect the woman, his sister had berated him, and rightly so.

Benedict—once upon a time the Crown Prince of scandalous headlines involving Angelique—had phoned to ask if Valentine had any other tips to impart when it came to ruining a woman’s reputation. Not a good move on Benedict’s part because it afforded Valentine the opportunity to vent about how little care Benedict and Carlos had had for Angelique’s reputation—using her to hide their relationship behind for years and years, letting them say those things about her, and Benedict had said pot, kettle, black, and hung up on him.

Only to call back an hour later to say that he and Carlos had decided to grant a glossy magazine an interview in which they intended to emphasise Angelique’s generosity and willingness to put her brother’s happiness first as he navigated not only coming out but being in a serious relationship with a royal family member.

Not that Angelique would likely care one way or another about the article, or any other articles written about her, Benedict had warned.

Angelique cared a great deal about what her tight circle of friends and family thought of her, and beyond that, people could say what they liked. She truly didn’t care, and it wasn’t a front, although it might have started out as a kind of defence.

And maybe that was a fine quality for a king’s mistress to have, but Benedict rather thought not, which meant Valentine, and Benedict, and others around her needed to lift their game and protect what she would not. This was what Benedict had phoned to say before they’d embarked on their blame game.

And this time, Valentine listened intently, and after work that day, when he joined her for dinner and Angelique barely spared the articles a glance, he asked her why she wasn’t more upset and settled back against the chair in the manor kitchen and listened.

‘I have my work.’ She swirled the burgundy wine around in her glass and took an appreciative sip before continuing. ‘I’ve spent all day on this beautiful estate, largely cut off from the rest of the country, and my horses care nothing for the words of people who live to find fault. I have a wonderful life here.’

‘The tabloids are calling you dim.’

‘Do you think I’m dim? I truly hope not.’ She shook her head as if to dismiss the notion. ‘Me and my family were blooded in this type of warfare years ago and know to ignore it. It doesn’t bother me. I expect no less from the press hounds of Thallasia. Do you truly expect them to love me? She studied him curiously. ‘Because if you do, you’re dreaming.’

‘It truly doesn’t bother you, this rubbish they print about you?’ he asked.

‘No. Does what they say about you bother you?’

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