The Prince's Pregnant Mistress. Maisey Yates

knew that he was strong. Had been, utterly and completely all his life.

      Until her.

      It was truly ridiculous. But here they were. And she, somehow, felt like she was in a position to play hardball.

      The limo wound itself around the last curve, and, finally, the stately palace gates came into view. Wrought iron and scrolling, the family crest emblazoned upon them. They parted for the car as if by magic, and the limo rolled through a lane lined with hedges until they reached the magnificent courtyard in front of the palace.

      The ground was overlaid with brick. A giant fountain dominated the center. At its top was a golden statue and there were many others fashioned from marble all around, representing the great leaders of his country. His very bloodline carved into stone in front of this hallowed castle that had housed generations.

      He looked over at her and was satisfied to see that, finally, she had the decency to look impressed. She was staring up at the castle, at its turrets, with ivy climbing up the side and the blue-and-white flags of his country waving in the breeze from the very top of the shining palace.

      “This is my home,” he said, stating the obvious for dramatic effect. “And when you are my wife, it will be your home. When our child is born, it will be his home. Do you still think you should raise him in an apartment in Colorado with your roommate?”

      “I... I had no idea.”

      “It is not my fault you don’t pay attention to current affairs. Or perhaps it is my fault, for keeping my country financially sound and free of most of the conflicts that happen in the world. We have very few reasons to be in the news because the citizens are happy, the coffers are full and we have no national security crises or natural disasters to speak of.”

      “Is this Narnia?”

      “If it were, then a breath would turn all of the statues back to flesh. However, it is the real world. And they are only stone.”

      “That’s a shame,” she said. “Then all I would have to do is walk back to the wardrobe and I could be free of you.”

      She was mutinous. And he had never dealt with mutiny before. Like his father before him, he’d made Santa Firenze his life. Nothing had ever come before it. And as such, no one in his country had ever had cause for complaint.

      “You don’t actually want to be free of me,” he said. How could she? “You’re putting up a fight because you have an idea of what your life should be. I would argue that you are putting up a fight additionally because you have an idea of what consequences you should suffer for your sins.”

      “My sins?” she asked.

      “Yes,” he said, “your sins. You think you should be punished for this. Because you allowed yourself to get pregnant. And now you must pay penance. The sad, single mother, waiting tables, having been abandoned by her lover. It’s a very nice narrative, but it is not a situation you find yourself in. You have a man willing to step up and take responsibility. More than a man, you have a prince. Saying anything but an emphatic yes is a waste of your resources.”

      She looked up at the palace, her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly. He was struck in that moment by the fullness of her beauty. Just as he had been the first time he’d seen her. And now she was carrying his child. She would be his wife.

      Mine.

      He pushed that word to the back of his mind. This wasn’t about that. It was a necessity. What he must do. It had nothing to do with want. With that thing Bailey made him feel that was so perilously close to weakness.

      “Come,” he said, opening the door and extending his hand to her. “We must get you to your room.”

CHAPTER FOUR

      BAILEY TRIED NOT to stare too gauchely as she entered the palace, her heart thundering loudly. Loudly enough that she was pretty sure it was echoing off the marble walls of the massive antechamber they were standing in now. She had never seen anything like this in her life. It was like something out of a movie, except in a movie she had a feeling she would be heading toward some sort of fun montage where she would try on lots of dresses and upbeat pop music would play in the background while a sassy stylist told her how amazing she looked.

      Instead, she was standing there wearing nothing more than a sweatshirt and pants that had seen better days, feeling like something a very large, overly self-satisfied cat had dragged in.

      There were servants wandering around the palace, not making eye contact with Raphael, as though any unsolicited contact would be far too presumptuous on their part.

      They did not look at her, either. Not with any kind of curiosity. In fact, she seemed beneath their notice. As though she were merely a package he had brought in after a day of shopping.

      “It’s so quiet in here,” she said, her voice reverberating around them even though she was speaking softly.

      “There are so many people in the palace at all times, it would be difficult to think if everyone were carrying on a conversation, don’t you agree?”

      “So you have a...silence policy?”

      “There is no policy. But my father was one to train the servants to ensure they were rarely seen and rarely heard. I have done nothing to revise that code of conduct, as it suits me.” He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to feel like he was speaking too loudly. His voice echoed across the room, and he was not bothered by it in the least.

      “You are definitely an elevated personage,” she said, following him just slightly behind. “Aren’t you?”

      “This is my palace,” he said, making a broad, sweeping gesture. “Of course I am elevated.”

      “It’s just... I had the feeling royalty was a bit more modern nowadays. Prince Harry is out greeting soldiers and things.”

      “And getting caught with his trousers down at hotels in Las Vegas.”

      “We both know your trousers have been down, Raphael—it’s just that nobody was there to take pictures. Actually, I could have taken pictures. I should have. I sent you some scandalous shots and sadly, never got a nude pic from you. Think of the leverage that would provide me.”

      His eyes sharpened. “I see you’re finally considering the angle of using the press against me.”

      “I don’t want to. Not particularly. To what end? So that we’re both embarrassed? So that our child can look at the headlines in the future and see all the ugly things we said about each other? That isn’t what I want. We both know that even if I were able to disgrace you by giving sordid details of your secret affair with a waitress, I would be the one who was called a whore.”