A Bride For The Playboy Prince. Sandra Marton

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 the same woman. Beautiful paintings—in a specially lit section of the gallery.’

      He nodded. ‘Yes. Two of Kristjan Wheeler’s finest works. Conall Devlin acquired one of them for me.’

      ‘Yes, I knew he was an art dealer as well as a property tycoon,’ she said. ‘But what I was wondering was...’

      He set down his glass of red wine as her voice tailed off. ‘What?’ he questioned coolly.

      She wriggled her shoulders and her hazelnut curls shimmered. ‘Why Eleonora seemed so cagey when I asked about the paintings.’

      He shrugged. ‘Eleonora has always been the most loyal of all my aides.’

      ‘How lovely for you,’ she said politely. ‘But surely as your wife I am expected to know—’

      ‘Who she is? The woman in the paintings?’ he finished as he picked up his glass and swirled the burgundy liquid around the bowl-like shape of the glass. ‘She was an Englishwoman called Louisa De Lacy, who holidayed here during the early part of the last century. She was an unconventional woman—an adventuress was how she liked to style herself. A crack shot who smoked cheroots and wore dresses designed to shock.’

      ‘And is that relevant? She sounds fun.’

      ‘Very relevant. Mardovia was under the rule of one of my ancestors and he fell madly in love with her. The trouble was that Miss De Lacy wasn’t deemed suitable on any grounds, even if she’d wanted to be a princess, which she didn’t. Despite increasing opposition, he refused to give her up and eventually he was forced to renounce the throne and was exiled from Mardovia. After his abdication his younger brother took the crown—my great-great-grandfather—and that is how it came to be passed down to me.’

      ‘And was that a problem?’ she questioned curiously.

      He shrugged. ‘Not for me. Not even for my father—because we were born knowing we must rule—but for my great-great-grandfather, yes. He had never wanted to govern and was married to a woman who was painfully shy. The burden of the crown contributed to his early death, for which his wife never forgave Louisa De Lacy, and in the meantime...’

      ‘In the meantime, what?’ she whispered as his voice trailed off.

      ‘Unfortunately the exiled Prince was killed in a riding accident before he could marry Louisa, who by then had given birth to his child.’

      Her head jerked up. ‘You mean...’

      Luc’s temper suddenly shortened. Maybe it was because he was tired and frustrated. Because she was sitting there with that cascade of curls flowing down over her engorged breasts and he wanted to make love to her. He wanted to explore her luscious body with fingers which were on the verge of trembling with frustration, not to have to sit here recounting his family history. Because this was not the wedding night he had anticipated.

      ‘I mean that somewhere out there a child was born out of wedlock—a child of royal Mardovian blood who was never seen again—and they say that there is none so dangerous as a dispossessed prince.’ His voice grew hard. ‘And I was not prepared for history to repeat itself. Because I have no brothers, Lisa. No one else to pass on the reins to, should I fail to produce an heir. Succession is vital to me, and to my land.’

      ‘So that’s why you forced me to marry you,’ she breathed.

      He nodded. It was not the whole truth, but it was part of it—because he was slowly coming to realise that there were worse fates than having a woman like Lisa by his side. Duty, yes—he would not shirk from that—but couldn’t duty be clothed in pleasure?

      Wasn’t she aware that now he had her here, he had no intention of letting her or the child go? If she accepted that with a good grace then so much the better, but accept it she would. His will was stronger than hers and he would win because he always won.

      And then something else occurred to him—a fact which he had pushed to the back of his mind because the sheer logistics of getting her here had consumed all his thoughts. But it was something he needed to address sooner rather than later. He tensed as he realised that until they consummated the marriage, their union was not legal. His heart missed a beat. He realised that, but did she?

      He remembered her defiant words on the plane—a variation on what she’d said just now, when she’d announced she had no intention of sharing a bed with him. He didn’t doubt her resolve, not for a moment, for Lisa was a strong and proud woman. Yet women were capricious creatures who could have their minds changed for them. But only if you played them carefully. He had learnt his first lessons in female manipulation from the governesses who’d been employed to look after him after his mother’s death. Run after a woman and it gave her power. Act like you didn’t care and she would be yours for the taking.

      Duty clothed in pleasure.

      He had vowed to be a good husband as well as a good father, so surely one of his responsibilities was making sure his wife received an adequate share of sexual satisfaction? He looked at her green-gold eyes and as he detected the glint of sexual hunger she could not disguise, he smiled.

      His for the taking.