The Pregnant Princess. Anne Marie Winston

lifted her face to his, studying his thick-lashed eyes through the mask, the clean line of his jaw and the slight curve of chiseled lips. His gaze held hers, demanding her answer, and, as suddenly as that, she knew this was the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. She’d lifted herself on tiptoe and brazenly brushed her lips over his, then reached back and unlinked his hands from behind her back.

      “Just let me visit the powder room,” she said. “I’ll meet you on the terrace.”

      But as she turned away, he caught her by the wrist and lifted a big hand to her face, caressing the soft flesh along her cheek with one long finger. “Don’t be long,” he said in a deep voice that sent shivers of excitement racing through her, and her body contracted in an uncontrollable sexual response.

      Turning her head, she kissed his finger as she slipped away. “I won’t be,” she promised.

      And she wasn’t. It took her mere moments to locate Serena, flirting cheerfully and shamelessly with a crowd of young men, and she unapologetically drew her aside. “Cover for me tonight. I met someone.”

      “Who?” Serena’s green eyes went wide with anticipation.

      But Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Just cover for me, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      Since they’d been children, the two of them had shared a longing for freedom from the ever-present bodyguards who shadowed their every move. Alexandra, immersed in correctness, and dear, quiet Katherine never seemed to mind the oppressive atmosphere, but she had longed for freedom, as had Serena. It had been a great game to elude the guards, and often, one of them would murmur, “Cover for me,” just before committing some daring vanishing act, invariably sending the guards into frantic scurrying which the hidden sister watched with glee.

      It wasn’t particularly difficult to shake her observers. The royal bodyguards took their work seriously, but they were no match for a young woman who’d had years of practice in evading them.

      Slipping out a side door into the garden, she approached the terrace from the lawn, her heart thumping heavily as she recognized her handsome dance partner standing on the other side of the low stone wall of the terrace.

      “Hello, there,” she murmured.

      He turned, immediately picking her out of the darkness and strolling to the edge of the wall. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. And in one powerful, lightning-swift move, he vaulted over the wall and dropped to the ground beside her.

      She pressed a startled hand to her mouth, then released a nervous laugh. “Some people use the steps,” she pointed out, gesturing to the marble stairs at the center of the terrace.

      “But you weren’t near the stairs,” he replied in a perfectly reasonable voice.

      She smiled. “No, I wasn’t, was I?”

      He cupped her elbow, drawing her away from the lights of the terrace and into the dim evening coolness of the gardens. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming.”

      She caught her breath in dismay, turning to face him and clutching his arm. It suddenly seemed vitally important to reassure him. “I’m sorry. It took longer than I expected. You see, I had to—”

      But her words were stilled when he gently placed one large finger against her lips. “Hush. It doesn’t matter.”

      His gaze held hers as he slowly, without any hurry or fumbling, placed his hands at her waist and drew her closer. She found she was holding her breath as his mouth drew nearer and nearer. “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening,” he murmured. His lips were a heartbeat away now, and she found she was holding her breath as she leaned forward the scant distance that separated them and allowed his lips to meet hers.

      It was heaven, was all she could think. His mouth was warm and tender, competently molding hers as he gathered her closer. Suddenly, within the space of a second, a flashfire raced through her system as desire spread. She sank against him, and instantly his arms tightened, his mouth grew firmer, less tentative and more demanding. He kissed her as though she were the only thing in his entire world, his tongue invading her mouth in a basic, primitive rhythm that grew stronger, more insistent and demanding until she locked her arms around his shoulders, straining against him as he plundered her lips.

      He groaned, deep in his throat, and one hand slid down her back to her bottom, sliding around and over the tender flesh, tracing the crease of her buttocks with one long finger, then clasping her firmly in his hand and lifting her strongly against him. She gasped against his mouth as she felt his hard body pressing into her, the blatant surging against her soft belly and the driving need his shifting hips communicated. She realized her hips were moving, too, slipping back and forth against him as her body sought relief from the need racing through her.

      His mouth blazed a trail down her throat, pressing a string of stinging kisses to her collarbone and firmly sliding down over her heated flesh until his face was pressed into the full swell of her breasts. He turned his head, and she jumped as a hot breath seared her tender flesh, and then his mouth began to move again. Her head fell back as he brushed over one straining nipple, suckling her through the thin fabric of her gown, and she moaned, twisting against him, her hands coming up to clutch at his hair, combing restlessly through the black silk strands.

      He lifted his head, and he was breathing heavily, harsh gasps for air. “Where can we go?”

      His voice was so deep and guttural, it was nearly a growl, and her feminine nature recognized the primitive possession in the sound, her body drawing into a nearly painful knot of need. “The—the garden house,” she said breathlessly. “Down this path—oh!”

      Before she could complete the sentence, he had lifted her into his arms, his head coming down again, his lips slanting over hers in a complete claim that it never occurred to her to resist. She might not know his name, but her body recognized his. And as he began to stride down the path, she relaxed in his arms and gave herself to the embrace that should have felt strange but only felt…right, as if finally, after twenty-seven years of waiting, she’d found what she hadn’t even known she’d been waiting for.

      Two

      On the dot of seven, Rafe knocked on the door of the Royal Princess of Wynborough’s suite. Almost immediately, the double doors swung inward, as if Elizabeth had been waiting on the other side.

      Elizabeth. She’d been nameless for five months now. Her real name was going to take some getting used to.

      Her eyes widened, and he knew she must be contrasting the image he’d presented yesterday in his work clothes with the charcoal suit he donned now. She shouldn’t be that surprised—she’d seen him in a tux.

      For that matter, he thought with a surge of grim humor, she’d seen him wearing a whole lot less.

      “Good evening,” she said, stepping back and waving a hand in invitation for him to enter. “Please come in.”

      “Thank you, Your Highness.” He gave the title the faintest emphasis and was gratified to see a blush climb her neck as he stepped into the room.

      She was dressed simply, in a pretty, lightweight dress in a silky fabric that swirled loosely around her body and draped over the full swells of her breasts, drawing his eye as he passed her. His body sat up and took notice as he remembered the soft mounds that had filled his hands a few months ago…. He mentally shook himself, annoyed that he was letting his sex drive get the better of his good judgment again. Just like the first time he’d seen her.

      The Children’s Fund Ball was an annual masquerade event, and he still didn’t know what had possessed him to attend. Once he’d seen this woman, though, he’d ceased to wonder. He and his mysterious lady had complied with the ball’s unspoken rule, not identifying themselves. Still, he was almost positive his paramour had been one of the princesses. Her demeanor had been refined, almost archaically elegant compared to the brash American women whom he’d seen throw