Page 17 of Twins For His Majesty (Royally Tempted #1)

H ER DRESS WAS PERFECT . She looked like an angel—and the cut of the fabric almost disguised her pregnancy.

At her throat she wore the locket he’d sent with Xiomara, and on her face she had a perfect smile pinned.

He knew it was just for show but no one else would, because Phoebe was a damned good actress.

She looked serenely beautiful. She looked regal.

He couldn’t look away—he told himself he was also acting a part, but in that moment he wasn’t acting.

He was existing. He stared at her because he wanted to.

She had been preceded by a collection of bridesmaids, none of them known to Phoebe, all of them from the aristocracy.

When Xiomara approached the front of the church, she winked at Octavio and he relaxed a little.

The ceremony itself seemed to go on for ever.

There was so much to get through, so much custom and tradition, and Octavio was conscious of Phoebe beside him and how long she was standing, how much he wished he could put an arm around her waist for support.

She wasn’t heavily pregnant, and she was fit and young, but he still wanted her to be comfortable.

Finally, it ended, and they were invited to kiss one another.

Octavio’s pulse ratcheted up about a thousand degrees. He glanced at Phoebe and saw the same feeling in her face that was bombarding him. Worry.

Because when had they ever kissed and it had not overtaken them?

He leaned down, breathing her in, her fragrance so sweet and familiar that he almost groaned.

He wanted her so much it was like a fire raging out of control.

If he kissed her, he feared he wouldn’t be able to stop.

And so instead of giving in to temptation and drawing her against his body, tilting her head back so he had full rein of her mouth, he simply pressed his lips to hers for several seconds, allowing the cameras to snap the moment.

She stiffened against him, as if she too was fighting something more, so he knew he’d made the right decision to keep this PG.

Rapturous applause broke out and he pulled away, feeling as though he deserved a medal.

‘Are you tired?’

Phoebe heard the question and tried not to think there was any concern for her in his tone.

He was asking because of the pregnancy. ‘Yes,’ she answered honestly, smothering a yawn.

Were queens allowed to yawn? She was glad she’d changed from her bridal gown and tiara into a simple cream suit—it would be much quicker and easier to strip out of, making it faster to get into bed. She was exhausted.

‘Then we should go.’

‘Oh, it’s fine.’ She shook her head once. ‘The party’s still going.’

‘It will continue without us. It’s after midnight. It’s time.’

‘After midnight? Already?’

‘I’m glad to hear you’ve been enjoying yourself.’

She wouldn’t exactly say that. The whole night, Phoebe had been in demand.

Every dignitary, member of the aristocracy and anyone in between had wanted to speak with her.

Her head was swimming with the sheer volume of conversation she’d entered into.

From time to time, Xiomara had come to her rescue, and those had been high points of the night for Phoebe.

Around Xiomara, she felt strangely relaxed.

Around Octavio, it was the opposite. She braced now as he put his hand in the small of her back and guided her towards a set of double doors across the ballroom.

Phoebe was still getting her bearings in the palace. She didn’t think she’d used this access before. Sure enough, it brought them onto a small, terraced area, and beyond it, a car was waiting.

‘What’s this?’

‘Our ride.’

She arched a brow. ‘Ride? We live right here. I’m not too tired to walk the few hundred metres to your room.’

‘We’re not staying in the palace tonight.’

She blinked across at him. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s our honeymoon.’

‘Octavio,’ she said, and her voice trembled a little, ‘we don’t need a honeymoon.’

He looked at her and the air between them seemed to pulse and hum, to swirl around her with a force that was mesmerising and magnetic.

He moved closer and her breath caught in her throat, trapped there by an invisible force.

‘It’s the way it should be,’ he said, his eyes scanning hers, probing them, as if looking for the answer to a question he hadn’t posed.

‘You mean it’s what people will expect?’

His lips quirked in the hint of a frown. ‘That, too. Let’s go.’

They drove for so long that Phoebe became drowsy and her head fell onto Octavio’s shoulder, but she was too tired to sit up again. At one point, half asleep, she murmured to him, ‘Thank you for my necklace.’

She was barely conscious of his stiffening beneath her, and he was quiet for so long she thought he might not say anything. Then, he responded, ‘It’s tradition for Castilonian grooms to gift their brides something on the morning of their wedding. I thought you’d like it.’

Tradition. It probably wasn’t even his idea.

Octavio was hardly the kind of man to come up with such a thoughtful gift idea and do the legwork of finding a photo of Phoebe’s mother, having it printed and set into the locket.

And though it was still beautiful, the necklace lost some of its charm for Phoebe then.

She’d loved it because of what it was, but also because he’d thought to give it to her.

There was an odd heaviness on her chest that made her want to blot everything out.

She fell asleep and at some point woke up with Octavio’s arms cradling her against his chest as he carried her from the car.

She tried to wake up, to say something else, but she was exhausted in that way pregnancy led to, and it had been a huge day to boot.

She surrendered to a wave of sleepiness, and the next thing she knew, she was waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom, staring right out at the beach.

She sat bolt upright, trying to make sense of where she was and with whom, and it all came rushing back to her. The wedding. The locket. The party. The dress. The people. The fact she was now married.

And a queen.

Octavio’s wife.

Her heart raced as she looked down at her hand for confirmation and saw two bands there—the stunning engagement ring and a simpler platinum band with several small diamonds set into it.

She reached for her throat and felt the locket, opened it and saw her mother’s face and frowned, a maelstrom of feelings rolling through her.

She was alone in this room; she presumed Octavio was somewhere in this place though. It was, after all, their honeymoon.

She grimaced at the idea, because theirs was so far from a normal relationship, but she stood up, realising she was still in the pantsuit she’d been wearing last night. He hadn’t even undressed her. Because he hadn’t wanted to? Or because he hadn’t felt that he had a right?

Whatever.

She was relieved, she told herself, moving from the bedroom and out into a corridor that was light and airy, the walls rendered white, the doorways carved and arched.

She scanned the rooms and found him, not in the kitchen, where she’d been heading for her one and only coffee of the day, but rather on the balcony, shirt off, body ridiculously honed and tanned, staring out to sea.

Her mouth went dry.

Her insides squirmed.

And though she made no noise, somehow he must have detected her presence because he turned and looked right at her, so their eyes clashed and her whole body responded with a pulsing, aching need.

She glanced away quickly, her cheeks hot, the ground beneath her seeming trembly. She felt scared.

Scared to be here, alone with him. Scared of what it would mean for her and her ability to resist him. She’d spent a full week longing for him and managing to be strong, but how realistic was it to stick to that?

Would she really spend her whole life ignoring this desire?

Would he?

Did she want to?

Her legs moved of their own volition, across the floor towards the sliding doors and out onto the balcony.

The air here was sweet, tinged with the fragrance of the Mediterranean Sea and the greenery that bounded it.

There were white and pink Oleander trees forming a border and a heap of lavender scrambled beneath it, growing quite wild.

Though not native to the Mediterranean, at some point a heap of palms had been planted around the beach and they gave the impression of being stranded on a tropical island rather than somewhere in Castilona.

‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice a little raspy from disuse.

‘It’s a private beach, not far from Costa de las Estrellas,’ he said. ‘Do you know it?’

‘I’ve never heard of it, but I love the sound of the name.’

‘Coast of the Stars,’ he said with a nod, but there was something in his eyes that gave her pause.

‘It’s a coastal town; an old fishermans’ village, but over the years it’s become synonymous with good food and wine and some of the best beaches in the world.

As a result, it’s an exclusive tourist destination.

My family has had a holiday home here for a long time. This is our beach.’

‘Our beach? You mean it’s really private?’

He pointed down the sand in one direction and then the other. She noticed that the Oleander trees had been planted to follow the line of the coast, shielding the beach from view. On each side of the house, there was only vegetation.

‘Completely private.’

She let out a low breath. ‘So we’re alone?’

‘A housekeeper is available if we want one, but generally when I come here, it’s because I am seeking my own counsel.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘I used to, before the coronation.’

She returned her attention to the beach. It was a warm day and the thought of swimming tugged at her.

‘I grew up near the beach,’ she found herself admitting. ‘In the summer, you’d be hard-pressed to get me out of the water. I loved to surf.’

‘That’s something we have in common.’