A Bride For The Playboy Prince. Sandra Marton

him in there. Only I am permitted access.’ Last of all they came to a long gallery lined with beautiful paintings, and Lisa was filled with a reluctant awe as she looked around, because this could rival some of the smaller art galleries she sometimes visited in London.

      There were portraits of princes who were clearly Luc’s ancestors, for they bore the same startling sapphire eyes and raven tumble of hair. There were a couple of early French Impressionists and a sombre picture of tiny matchstick men, which Lisa recognised as a Lowry. But the paintings which captured her attention were a pair hanging together in their own small section of the gallery. Luminously beautiful, both pictures depicted the same person—a woman with bobbed blonde hair. In one, she was wearing a nineteen-twenties flapper outfit with a silver headband gleaming in her pale hair, and Lisa couldn’t work out if she was in fancy-dress costume or not. In the other she was flushed and smiling in a riding jacket—the tip of her crop just visible.

      ‘Who is this?’ Lisa questioned suddenly.

      Eleonora’s voice was cool. ‘This is the Englishwoman who married one of your husband’s ancestors.’

      It was a curious reply to make but the coral lips were now clamped firmly closed and Lisa realised that the aide had no intention of saying any more. She sensed the guided tour was over, yet it had thrown up more questions than answers. Suddenly, the enormity of her situation hit her—the realisation of how alien this new world was—and for the first time since their private jet had touched down, a wave of exhaustion washed over her.

      ‘I think I’d like to go to my room now,’ she said.

      ‘Of course. If you would like to follow me, I will show you a shortcut.’

      Alone at last in the vast marital apartment, Lisa pulled off her clothes and stood beneath the luxury shower in one of the two dazzling bathrooms. Bundling her thick curls into the plastic cap she took with her everywhere, she let the powerful jets of water splash over her sticky skin and wash away some of the day’s tension. Afterwards she wrapped herself in a fluffy white robe which was hanging on the bathroom door and began to explore the suite of rooms. She found an airy study, a small dining room—and floor-to-ceiling windows in the main reception room, which overlooked a garden of breathtaking beauty.

      For a moment Lisa stared out at the emerald lawns and the sparkling surface of a distant lake—reflecting that it was worlds away from her home in England. Inside this vaulted room, the scent of freshly cut flowers wafted through the air and antique furniture stood on faded and exquisite silken rugs. Peeping into one of the dressing rooms, she saw that all her clothes had been neatly hung up in one of the wardrobes.

      The bedroom was her last port of call and she hovered uncertainly on the threshold before going in, complicated feelings of dread and hunger washing over her as she stared 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,