Page 15 of Twins For His Majesty (Royally Tempted #1)

L EAVE IT TO Octavio to get the last word in.

Sweet dreams, indeed. Not only had she not slept remotely well, she’d also been tortured all night.

By dreams and memories, by thoughts of their future, by the bed in which she tried to sleep, by the lingering fragrance of him, by the weird temptation to go padding out into the lounge area and watch him sleep.

It was all so unsettling, so destabilising, so she awoke in a terrible mood with every intention of giving him a piece of her mind.

Only to find the apartment empty.

He’d left a note on the marble kitchen benchtop.

P—

I had a meeting.

I’ll see you at the photoshoot. Try to smile.

O

She screwed the note up and threw it onto the floor before remembering his strange remark the night before about the necessity of fooling everyone into believing this was real.

He’d implied his rule was at stake, and whatever she might think of him personally, she didn’t want to cause him any problems there.

She retrieved the note, tore it into a dozen pieces, then dropped them into the bin.

Phoebe had managed to eat a piece of dry toast and drink a cup of weak tea when a knock sounded at the door to the apartment and one of the staff members she vaguely remembered from the day before stepped inside.

‘Madam, the stylist is here.’

‘Stylist?’ Phoebe gawked, aware that she looked absolutely awful. Her hair was straggly and her face was pale and wan. Her eyes were sunken, courtesy of a lack of sleep, and she was dressed in an oversized tee-shirt that she liked to sleep in.

‘Her name is Marie Domingo. May I send her in?’

‘I—’ But what could she say? The photoshoot loomed large, and Phoebe was nowhere near prepared for that. It was actually kind of thoughtful of Octavio to have arranged this. ‘Yes, okay. Why not?’

A moment later, an elegant woman strode into the room—tall and slim with jet-black hair and darker eyes. ‘Madam.’ She dipped her head. ‘I’m honoured to have been asked to work with you.’

Phoebe grimaced. ‘Well, don’t count your chickens. I need a lot of work.’

‘Nonsense.’ Marie waved a heavily bangled hand through the air. ‘You are beautiful, just unprepared. This will be easy to deal with.’ Phoebe went to stand but Marie shook her head. ‘Stay, stay, finish up. It will take us a while to set up, anyway.’

Us? Phoebe thought, bewildered.

‘Us’ turned out to be a team of about six people.

Hairstylists, manicurists and two people whom Phoebe gathered were required to carry various outfits around for Phoebe to inspect, to take her measurements, squeeze her feet into shoes and ferry whatever food or drink anyone required.

It was a whirlwind three hours, in which Phoebe was outfitted, had her face made up, her hair washed, trimmed and styled, her nails painted, and when all of that was done, she spent thirty minutes with Marie looking at bridal dresses.

‘A Castilonian designer is preferable, but it’s a matter of finding who can arrange a gown within a week. It cannot be off-the-rack, it must be sensational, as befits this fairy-tale romance. Are you happy to leave it with me?’

Phoebe stared at her, totally shocked into silence. ‘I…yes, of course.’

‘Excellent.’ Marie consulted her elegant gold wristwatch. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time.’

‘That’s fine. It’s not like I have anything else scheduled.’

‘Actually—’ Marie tapped the side of her phone efficiently ‘—someone from protocol has been waiting to meet with you. We’ll leave you to it.’

‘Someone from protocol’ happened to be an incredibly intimidating man in his sixties who seemed to carry an encyclopaedic knowledge of Castilona, the royal family, the rituals, histories, priorities and requirements.

He spent an hour going through what he deemed to be the most vital—mainly surrounding her etiquette whilst engaging in public duties.

‘This is only a photoshoot,’ he said with a wave of his hand.

‘There’ll only be a few people in attendance, so it’s a good opportunity to practise. ’

By then, Phoebe was feeling woozy with everything she would have to convey. Her walk, her expressions, how to hold her hands and position her feet and legs—it was all so much to hold in her mind, she felt like she might explode.

It was a relief when the time for the photoshoot finally approached and a staff member could lead her from the apartment, through the palace, out of a side door and down a wide set of stone steps that led to an elegant courtyard overgrown with vines.

Dressed in a loose silk blouse with puffy sleeves, and a pair of slim trousers, her belly was barely noticeable, though her breasts felt enormous.

She looked around and saw a photographer was already set up, surrounded by a few assistants who were busy managing the set up and checking lighting levels.

Phoebe stared at them, her heart in her throat.

She was so engrossed in their activity that she missed the moment Octavio strode out from an entrance to their left, fixing one of his cuff-links in place.

She missed the way his eyes landed on her and stayed there, heavy on her frame, as if he couldn’t possibly look away.

She missed the way admiration softened his features a moment, parting his lips, and she missed the way he fought to regain his equilibrium.

She saw only cynicism on his features when he approached her and she realised he was there.

Phoebe shivered at the expression.

‘Ready?’ he asked, one brow lifted.

‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘It’s a photoshoot, not a form of torture.’

‘It’s what the photoshoot represents.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The beginning of the lie.’

‘I thought you’d be more than comfortable with lying by now? After all, six weeks of keeping your pregnancy from me should have made you practised in deceit.’

She wanted to shove him.

Before she could respond, he reached into his pocket. ‘Here, put this on.’

She glanced down at his hand expecting—strangely enough—something like a microphone.

Instead, he held a small black velvet box.

Phoebe made no attempt to take it, so a moment later, Octavio impatiently opened the box and turned it around for her to see.

Inside was a beautiful ring, a large solitaire diamond in the middle of a circlet of black diamonds.

‘It’s…so lovely,’ she said honestly, and frustratingly, tears sparkled on her lashes. ‘God, I’m going to ruin my make-up.’

He was quiet, his lips pushed together. She reached for the ring, her fingers shaking a little.

‘I don’t trust myself not to drop it,’ she murmured.

With a sound of something like impatience, Octavio removed the ring and took hold of her hand. The moment their flesh connected she felt it—the same thousand little sparks from their first meeting flew through her arm and exploded into a cacophony of fireworks inside her body.

‘It was my mother’s, and my grandmother’s before her.’

‘Oh.’ Her heart twisted. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but somehow it did. Just imagining herself wearing something that was so personally significant felt wrong, given what they meant to each other. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s obviously very special to you—’

‘And my wife, therefore, should have it.’

‘But I’m not really—’

‘From now on, for all intents and purposes, you are.’ He compressed his lips, glanced across at the photographers then back to Phoebe.

He drew her closer, close enough that only she could hear his raspy whisper.

‘Stop acting like a deer in headlights and remember that in a week’s time, you’ll be Queen. ’

The stylist Marie had also said something about getting a dress in a week but it hadn’t quite penetrated the fog of Phoebe’s brain. Now she blinked up at Octavio, eyes wide with surprise. ‘A week ?’

‘The sooner the better,’ he agreed.

‘A week.’ Phoebe struggled to draw in breath.

She pressed a hand to her belly, heart pounding.

She could do this. She had to do this. She’d agreed, for the sake of their baby, and Octavio’s role as King required a certain amount of play-acting.

If he wanted her to go out there and sell herself as the doting, loved up Queen-to-be, so be it.

He was right—the time for ‘deer in the headlights’ was over. ‘All right. I’m ready.’

His surprise was obvious, his eyes scanning her face as if looking for vestiges of doubt, but there were none. Phoebe had been terrified a moment ago but now, she was ready. She could do this—she had to.

When he’d first seen Phoebe, he’d been mesmerised by her grace.

He remembered thinking that she moved as if she were in a ballet.

It turned out, she acted like it, too. He was almost rendered speechless by the way she captivated the photographers, charming them with her casual yet intelligent conversation, moving with fluid grace and beauty, smiling in a way that seemed to channel every star in the heavens.

‘We’ll always share the stars, my darling.’

He pushed his mother’s voice from his mind, not wanting to think about her then. Not wanting to wonder if she’d have approved of the way he’d manoeuvred this marriage or not—because he suspected she wouldn’t have.

‘Your Majesty, we thought we’d try a photograph of the pair of you standing by the trees here. The pink of the oleander will pick up Miss James’s complexion so nicely.’

He glanced across at his bride-to-be and saw what they were saying—her cheeks were sweetly pink, her lips, too. ‘Fine.’ He sounded gruff and impatient—now who needed help playing a part?

As if to remind him, Phoebe reached down and took his hand. But what might have appeared to be a normal thing for a couple to do was actually a tight squeeze from his fiancée, to prompt him into behaving.

Something twisted in his gut. Frustration. Annoyance. Need.