The Spaniard's Pregnant Bride. Maisey Yates
he said, “that’s where you’re wrong. I need the baby.”
“If you need him for some kind of ritual sacrifice then you’re definitely out of luck.”
“No, thank you. My life has quite enough death in it without adding any more, thank you. That was very poor humor.”
She looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me now. You don’t mean it.”
“Why do you need the baby?”
“Because. For as humbly as I present myself, I am in fact an aristocrat. A duke.”
“I did know. Your arrogance announces it before you walk into a room.”
“Then you must surely understand that I require an heir. A legitimate heir. My child cannot be born a bastard, Allegra. Neither can I afford to miss this opportunity.”
“Our...baby is an opportunity?”
“Certainly it is an opportunity for my bloodline. I am a widower, and thanks to those circumstances I have failed to produce an heir. As I am now in my thirties, it becomes yet more and more important. Of course, my own father produced his heir quite by accident. But in spite of the fact that my mother was nothing more than a washed-up model, he still did the right thing by her, by me and by the dukedom dependent upon the bloodline continuing. I can do no less. Don’t you agree?”
“What exactly are you proposing?”
“Exactly that. I am proposing.”
“What?” Her heart was thundering so hard, her blood pouring through her ears. She felt like she was underwater. Could hardly breathe, could scarcely hear anything.
“Allegra Valenti, you are having my baby. And you will be my wife.”
CRISTIAN STARED AT the recalcitrant woman sitting across from him on his private plane. He could not remember a woman ever looking quite so angry when in the presence of such luxury. At least, as far back as he could remember. It had been quite some time since he’d had a woman on his plane in that sense of the word.
Quite some time since he’d had a lover.
Not that Allegra was his lover. She absolutely was not. A quick screw against the wall didn’t make her anything. It simply made him weak.
Three years of celibacy. It was to be expected, he supposed. And yet, he had not imagined that he would be punished quite so spectacularly for his loss of control. He felt as though he had been punished enough.
Clearly, there was a particularly capricious deity somewhere that disagreed.
And such a punishment was Allegra Valenti.
She was looking particularly pretty and sulky, nearly curling in on herself as she leaned against the window, as though she would rather be thrown through it and hurled down to the earth than spend one more moment in his presence.
“Have you anything to say, Allegra?”
“Why? I believe I shouted it all at you in the apartment. And again when we got into the car. I could shout the same things at you, but I fear it would be repetitive.”
“Oh, please do. I never tire of your excuses. All of which are incredibly selfish.”
“It isn’t selfish to think perhaps it isn’t the best idea for two people who can’t stand the sight of each other to get married.”
“Why not? Plenty of people do it. You only have to survive it until death separates us.”
“How easy is it to get a hold of arsenic in Spain?”
“Such a delight, Allegra. How is it that you and I never acted on our feelings for each other before?”
“You mean the arsenic feelings?”
He laughed. “I meant our attraction, mi tesoro.”
“We don’t have an attraction, Cristian,” she said, sounding very much like a disgusted teenager. “In fact, the two of us had to be completely disguised before anything like heat flared between us at all. I would say that we don’t have to worry about anything.”
Referencing that night sent a kick of heat through him. He had done nothing but dream about it ever since it had happened. The fact that it was Allegra Valenti he had lost his mind with twisted it into a nightmare. But it was a nightmare that was no less erotic than it had been before.
He hadn’t been with a woman since Sylvia’s death. Had not even been tempted. And then, he had descended the stairs of the ballroom to see a wild, purple creature, barely wrapped in that sensuous dress, her curves golden and generous. Her dark hair curling luxuriously around temptingly exposed shoulders.
He had known only one thing in that moment. Want. He had wanted her with a deep, feral desire that had transcended anything else. It had transcended reason. It had transcended decency. He had wanted nothing to spoil the moment. And so, when he had approached her, he had prevented her from speaking. He had not said a single word to her. He had not wanted to lose whatever spell had been cast over them.
He should have known that it was witchcraft. And that he would burn for it.
One indulgence in a lifetime of obedience and he had destroyed everything.
“I fear you are wrong on that score,” he said, schooling his tone into a bored, steady rhythm. “Chemistry like this is undeniable.”
She waved a hand. “Look at me. Denying it.”
“Your denial is empty as you carry my child in your womb.”
“Only because I didn’t know it was you that I was...with that night at the ball,” she shot back.
“So you say.”
“A marriage between us will not work,” she said, her words brittle.
“Oh, I have no doubt that it won’t. But you will marry me before the child is born, and you will stay married to me for what appears to be a suitable amount of time. Afterward, divorce me. As quickly and painlessly as you would like.”
“There will never be anything painless about a divorce where my parents are concerned.”
“I imagine not. They are very Catholic, are they not?”
She frowned. “I shall be married to you until the end of time in their eyes.”
“And yet, I find that my need for an heir transcends my concerns for your sense of family.”
“There is nothing simple about this, that’s my point. Anyway, you’re acting as though I can just take a couple of years out of my life to molder away in some Spanish castle.”
“It’s more of a villa.”
“And you’re only a duke. I was supposed to marry a prince.”
“It was not the prince who had you up against a wall, Allegra. I doubt you’re regretful of the fact that you can no longer marry Prince Raphael.”
“That’s almost like admitting you’re wrong, isn’t it?” she asked, her tone baiting. “Seeing as you essentially arranged our engagement.”
“I was not wrong about it being advantageous. Chemistry, on the other hand, is harder to predict. You clearly have no great passion with him.”
Her cheeks colored. “What makes you think that?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You didn’t think for one moment the child could be his. Otherwise, you would not have broken off your engagement. What other conclusion can I draw but one which suggests you are not actively sleeping with him?”
She