A Bride For The Playboy Prince: The perfect royal romance to celebrate Harry and Meghan’s wedding. Sandra Marton

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at the vast bed covered with a richly embroidered throw. She didn’t hear the door open or close, only realising she was no longer alone when she heard a soft sound behind her—like someone drawing in an unsteady breath—and when she turned round she saw Luc standing there.

      Instantly, her mouth dried with lust and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. His hair was so black and his eyes so blue. How was it possible to want a man who had essentially trapped her here, like a prisoner? He looked so strong and powerful as he came into the bedroom that her heart began to pound in a way she wished it wouldn’t, and as her breasts began to ache distractingly she said the first thing which came into her head.

      ‘I told you I wasn’t going to share a bed with you.’

      He shrugged as he pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a gilt chair. ‘It’s a big bed.’

      She swallowed, acutely aware of the ripple of muscle beneath his fine silk shirt. ‘That’s not the point.’

      ‘No?’ He tugged off his tie and tossed it on top of the jacket. ‘What’s the problem? You think I won’t be able to refrain from touching you—or is it the other way round? Worried that you won’t be able to keep your hands off me, chérie? Mmm...? Is that it? From the hungry look in your eyes, I’m guessing you’d like me to come right over there and get you naked.’

      ‘In your dreams!’ she spat back. ‘Because even if you force me to share your bed, I shan’t have sex with you, Luc, so you’d better get...get...’ Her words died away as he began to undo his shirt and his glorious golden torso was laid bare, button by button. ‘What...what do you think you’re doing?’

      ‘I’m undressing. What does it look like? I want to take a shower before dinner, just like you.’

      ‘But you can’t—’

      ‘Can’t what, Lisa?’ The shirt had fluttered to the ground and his blue eyes gleamed as he kicked off his shoes and socks. She was rendered completely speechless by the sight of all that honed and bronzed torso before his fingers strayed suggestively to his belt. ‘Does the sight of my naked body bother you?’

      She told herself to look away. To look somewhere—anywhere—except at the magnificent physique which was slowly being revealed. But the trouble was that she couldn’t. She was like a starving dog confronted by a large, meaty bone, which was actually the worst kind of comparison to make in the circumstances. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him. He was magnificent, she thought as he stepped out of his trousers and she was confronted with the rock-hard reality of his powerful, hair-roughened thighs. His hips were narrow and there was an unmistakably hard ridge pushing insistently against his navy blue silk boxers—and, oh, how she longed to see the complete reveal. But she didn’t dare. With a flush of embarrassment mixed with a potent sense of desire, she somehow found the courage to turn her back on him before walking over to the bed.

      Heaving herself down onto the soft mattress—her progress made slightly laborious by her swollen belly—she shut her eyes tightly but she was unable to block out the sound of Luc’s mocking laughter as he headed towards the bathroom.

      ‘Don’t worry, you’re quite safe from me, chérie,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve never found shower caps a particular turn-on.’

      To Lisa’s horror she realised that her curls were still squashed beneath the unflattering plastic cap, and as she heard the bathroom door close behind him she wrenched it free, shaking out her hair and lying back down on the bed again. For a while she stared up at the ceiling—at the lavish chandelier which dripped like diamonds—wishing it could be different.

      But how?

      Luc had married her out of duty and brought her to a place where the woman she’d usurped was infinitely more loved. How could she possibly make that right?

      She must have slept, because she awoke to the smell of mint and, disorientated, opened her eyes to see Luc putting a steaming cup of tea on the table beside the bed. He had brought her tea?

      ‘Feeling better?’ he said.

      His kindness disarmed her and she struggled to sit up, trying to ignore the ache of her breasts and the fact that he was fully dressed while she was still wearing the bathrobe which had become looser while she slept. She pulled the belt a tiny bit tighter but that only emphasised the ballooning shape of her baby bump and she silently cursed herself for caring what she looked like. At least the sight of her was unlikely to fill him with an uncontrollable lust, she reflected. It wasn’t just the shower cap which wasn’t a turn-on, it was everything about her...

      She cleared her throat. ‘Much better, thanks,’ she lied. ‘What time is dinner?’

      Luc walked over to the window and watched as she began to sip at her tea. With her face all flushed and her hair mussed, she looked strangely vulnerable—as if she was too sleepy to have remembered to wear her familiar mask of defiance. Right then it would have been so easy to take her into his arms and kiss away some of the unmistakable tension which made her body look so brittle. But she’d made her desires clear—or, rather, the lack of them. She didn’t want intimacy and, although right now he sensed she might be open to persuasion, it wouldn’t work in his favour if he put her in a position which afterwards she regretted. And she was pregnant, he reminded himself. She was carrying his baby and therefore she deserved his consideration and protection.

      ‘Dinner is whenever you want it to be.’

      She put the cup back down on the saucer, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘Will it be served in that huge room with all the golden plates?’

      ‘You mean the formal banqueting room which we use for state functions? I don’t tend to eat most meals in there,’ he added drily. ‘There are smaller and less intimidating rooms we can use.’ He paused. ‘Or I could always have them bring you something here, on a tray.’

      ‘Seriously? You mean like a TV dinner?’ Her green-gold eyes widened. ‘Won’t people think it odd if we don’t go down?’

      ‘I am the Prince and you are my wife and we can do whatever we damned well like,’ he said arrogantly. ‘What would you like to eat?’

      ‘I know it probably sounds stupid, but I’d love...well, what I’d like more than anything is an egg sandwich.’ She looked up at him from between her lashes. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

      He gave a short laugh. When she looked at him like that, he felt as if anything were possible. But how ironic that the only woman in a position to ask for anything should have demanded something so fundamentally humble. ‘I think that can be arranged.’

      A uniformed servant answered his summons, soon reappearing with the sandwich she’d wanted—most of which she devoured with an uninhibited hunger which Luc found curiously sensual. Or maybe it was the fact that she was ignoring him which had stirred his senses—because he wasn’t used to that either.

      After she’d finished and put her napkin down, she looked up at him, her face suddenly serious.

      ‘Eleonora showed me the gallery today,’ she said.

      ‘Good. I wanted you to see as much of the palace as possible.’

      She traced a figure of eight on the linen tablecloth with the tip of her finger before looking up.

      ‘I noticed two paintings of

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