His Forbidden Pregnant Princess. Maisey Yates

up a Tinder profile in order to find yourself a husband.”

      “Why not?” she asked, her tone defiant. “Perhaps I want nothing more than to meet a very exciting IT guy who might swipe me right off my feet.” He said nothing and she continued to stare at him. “Swipe. Swipe right. It’s a dating app thing.”

      “That isn’t funny in the least. As I said, you are part of this family.” Perhaps if he repeated it enough, if he drilled it into both of them that they were family, his body would eventually begin to take it on board. “And as such, your standards of marriage must be the same as mine.”

      “Why aren’t you looking for a wife yourself?” she asked.

      “I will,” Luca said. “In due time. But my father asked that I make your safety, your match, a priority.”

      He would marry, as duty required. But it would not be because of passion. And certainly not because of love. Duty was what drove him. The preservation of reputation, of the crown. If that crumbled, his whole life was nothing.

      He would choose a suitable woman.

      Sophia was far from suitable.

      “What about the production of an heir?” Sophia lifted a brow. “Isn’t that important?”

      “Yes. But I am a man, and as such, I do not have the same issues with a biological clock your gender does.”

      “Right,” she huffed. “Because men can continue to produce children up until the end of their days.”

      “Perhaps not without the aid of a blue pill, but certainly it is possible.”

      For a moment she only blinked up at him, a faint pink tinge coloring her cheeks. Then Sophia’s lip curled. “I find this conversation distasteful.”

      “You brought up the production of heirs, not me.”

      She scowled, clearly having to take his point, and not liking it at all. “Well, let me look through the dossiers, then,” she said, lifting her nose and peering at him down the slender ridge, perfecting that sort of lofty look that was nothing if not a put-on coming from Sophia.

      Though, possibly not when directed at him.

      “Erik Nilsson. Swedish nobility?”

      “Yes,” Luca responded. “He’s very wealthy.”

      “How?”

      “Family money, mostly. Though some of it is in sheep.”

      “His money is in sheep?” Sophia asked, her expression completely bland. “Well, that is interesting. And one would never want for sweaters.”

      “Indeed not,” he said, a vicious turn of jealousy savaging his gut. Which was sadistic at best. To be jealous of a man whose fortune was tied up in sheep and who had the dubious honor of being a minor noble in some small village that wasn’t part of the current century.

      A man he had not expected his stepsister to show the slightest interest in. And yet, here she was.

      “So he will have access to...wool. And such,” Sophia said. “And...he’s quite handsome. If you like tall and blond.”

      “Do you?” he asked.

      “Very much,” she said with a strange injection of conviction. “He’s on the table.” She set the folder aside. “Let us get on with the next candidate, shall we?”

      “Here you are,” he said, lifting up the next folder and holding it out toward her. “Ilya Kuznetsov.”

      She arched a brow. “Russian?”

      He raised one in response. “Very.”

      Sophia wrinkled her nose. “Is his fortune in vodka and caviar?”

      “I hate to disappoint you but it’s in tech. So, quite close to that IT guy you were professing to have a burning desire for.”

      “I didn’t say I had a burning desire for anyone,” she pointed out, her delicate fingers tracing the edge of the file.

      He couldn’t help but imagine those same fingers stroking him.

      If he believed in curses, he would believe he was under one.

      “I don’t know anything about computers,” she continued, setting the folder off to the opposite side of the first one. “I prefer sheep.”

      She was infuriating. And baffling. “Not something you hear every day. Now, to the next one.”

      She set aside the next two. An Italian business mogul and a Greek tycoon. Neither one meeting up to some strange specification that she blathered on about in vague terms. Then she rejected an Argentine polo player, who was also nobility of some kind, on the basis of the fact that a quick Google search revealed him to be an inveterate womanizer.

      “You’re not much better,” she said mournfully, looking up from her phone.

      “Then it is a good thing that I am not in the files for consideration.”

      Something quite like shock flashed through her eyes, and her mouth dropped open. Color flooded her cheeks, irritation, anger.

      “As if that would ever happen. As if I would consider you.” She sniffed very loudly.

      “As my sister, you could not,” he bit out.

      “Stepsister,” she said, looking up at him from beneath her dark lashes.

      His gut twisted, his body hardening for a moment before he gathered his control. The moment seemed to last an eternity. Stolen, removed from time. Nothing but those eyes boring holes through him, as though she could see right into him. As though she could see his every debauched thought.

      Every dark, terrible thing in him.

      But no, there was no way she could.

      Or she would run and hide like a frightened mouse.

      “In terms of legality, in terms of my father’s will, you’re my sister,” he said. “Now, the next one.”

      She went through the folders until she had selected five, though she maintained that the Swedish candidate was top of her list.

      It did not escape his notice that she had selected all men with lighter features. Diametrically opposed to his own rather dark appearance.

      He should rejoice in that.

      He found he did not.

      “Then these are the invitations that will be sent out,” he said. “And I will be reserving dances with each of the gentlemen.”

      “Dances?” She blinked. “Are we in a Regency romance novel? Am I going to have a card to keep track?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. You can keep track of it in an app.”

      She barked out a laugh. “This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

      “Perhaps,” he said, “but if you can think of a better way to bring together the most eligible men in the world, I’m all ears.”

      “And what happens if I don’t like any of them?”

      “You’re very excited about the sweaters.”

      “What if I don’t like any of them?” she reiterated.

      “I imagine something will work out.”

      “I’m serious,” she said, her blue eyes blazing with emotion. “I’m not marrying a man I don’t like because you have some strange time frame you need to fulfill.”

      “Then we will keep looking.”

      “No,” she said. “I promise that I will be fair, and I will give this a chance. But if it doesn’t work, give me six months to make my own choice. If I can’t find somebody that is suitable to