The Queen's Baby Scandal. Maisey Yates
she let the beat determine the shift of her hips, the arch in her spine. And for one, wonderful moment she felt like she was simply part of the crowd. Exhilarating. Freeing.
And then she felt the crowd move. But it was more than that. There was a change in the air. In everything around her.
And she knew already what it meant.
The king was on the dance floor.
She turned, and she nearly ran into a broad chest, her face coming just to his collarbone.
He was wearing a black jacket, black shirt with the top two buttons undone, exposing a wedge of skin and dark hair, tantalizing and forbidden—in her estimation—as no dignitary she had ever encountered would approach her without his tie done up tight.
She looked up, and her heart nearly stopped. And then when a smile tipped his lips upward, it accelerated again.
Photographs had not prepared her.
She’d first seen him in a gossip magazine a year ago when Astrid had brought in a copy of a particularly vile rag that had featured a scandal about Astrid’s brother—who had not spent life on his best behavior in the slightest.
But it wasn’t Gunnar and his naked exploits with a French model that had held Astrid’s attention. First of all, it was a terribly common thing. Even for Gunnar. It wasn’t even interesting.
But second of all…
Oh, there had been Mauro. A dissolute, salacious, scandalous playboy in a tux, with one woman clinging to each arm as he walked through one of his clubs.
Her heart had stopped. The world had stopped.
That was just a photograph.
In person…
He was beautiful, but not in the way the word was typically used. He was far too masculine a thing for simple beauty. Hard and angular like a rock, his jaw square and sculpted, his lips perfectly shaped and firm looking. His dark eyes were like chips of obsidian, the lights on the dance floor swallowed up in those fathomless depths.
He said nothing, and she wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway. But he extended his hand, and she took his, the spark of fire that ignited at that point of contact spreading over her body like a ripple in the water. Sharp and shocking at its core, rolling over her wider and broader as it expanded.
He caught her and held her against his body.
She had danced with men before, but they had not held her like this. So close that her breasts were crushed to hard, muscular midsections, a large commanding hand low on her back.
And then his lips touched her ear, his whisper husky. “I’ve never seen you before.”
She moved back, tipping her chin upward so that she could see him, so that she could look him full in the face. Except, she could hardly sustain it. She looked down.
And he captured her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze again. If she hadn’t been wearing those heels she would have been so incredibly dwarfed by him there would have been no responding. But he lowered his head, and she leaned in.
“Because I’ve never been here before.”
“It’s always nice to see an unfamiliar face,” he said, this time brushing her hair back from her face as he whispered.
“Dance with me,” she said, not bothering to whisper this time.
The way that the rather predatory grin slid over his mouth told her that he understood.
That she wanted to do more than dance.
His eyes burned into hers as he gripped her hips, dragging her toward him as they moved in time with the music. She felt his touch everywhere, not just where he had his hands, but all the points in between, down deep, in the most intimate parts of her. She had danced with men before, but it had never been like this. Of course, the perfectly polished aristocrats who had always attended the balls she’d been at had never been anything like this.
There was an element of danger to this man. And she found herself drawn to it.
In fact, she found she wanted to fling herself against it. Against him. She had always been asked to be strong, but she had also been sheltered in many ways. Her take on the world was theoretical. And now, she was being tasked with ruling an entire country, while still suffering from that same fate.
Power, but with chains around it.
She wanted to test herself. To test those bonds.
It was what she was here to do.
“Maybe you could show me your club.”
His grip tightened on her, and he looked at her for a long moment, before taking her hand and leading her from the dance floor. He held on to her as he took her down the stairs, away from the pulsing music. But they didn’t go back to the entry, where people had crowded in. Instead, he moved her down a slim corridor with black flooring that had gold light shooting through the spaces in the tile. He pushed open a door that simply looked like another obsidian panel. “You will want a coat,” he said, not taking one for himself, but offering her a snow-white one from a rack by the door.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the coat from him and putting it on.
She quite wondered if covering her body might put her out of this advantage, but he was the one leading her, so she supposed she had better follow instruction.
Another thing she had never been very good at. But unlike waiting, it was something she had been asked to do quite a bit.
Something she now wished to avoid.
The room he led her into was made entirely of ice, the walls carved in intricate designs, crystalline, nearly see-through. By a deep navy blue couch was a wall that allowed a mirror view, however rippling and obscured, of revelers next door.
“You are quite bold,” he said. “Asking me to show you my club.”
“And yet, you seem to be showing me.”
“I don’t know that you realize just how rare it is for me to take a woman up on such an offer.”
“And here I thought you took women up on such offers on a nightly basis. I’ve read about you.”
His lips twisted upward in a cynical impersonation of a smile. “Of course you have.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Should I pretend I don’t know who you are? Should I pretend that this is simply a chance encounter, and I came to your club with no prior knowledge of who you were?”
He affected a casual shrug. “Many women would.”
“Perhaps those women have the luxury of time. I don’t.”
“You don’t have a bomb strapped to your chest, do you?”
She swallowed hard, letting the edges of her coat fall open, revealing the only thing she had against her chest, that emerald, which immediately felt cold in the icy room. “You’re welcome to look for yourself.”
His gaze flickered over her body, and it didn’t stay cool. “I see. Someone waiting for you at home, then?”
That was close enough to the truth. “Yes,” she said.
“Can I have your name?”
“Alice,” she said.
“Alice,” he repeated. “From?”
She knew her English was quite good, but that it would also be colored by an accent. His was too, though different from hers. She liked the way it sounded. She wanted to hear his voice speak his native tongue. And hers. What sort of accent would it give to her own language? And what sorts of words might he say…?
“England,” she said. “Not originally. But for most of my life.”
“What brings