Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

B EAU DID NOT know how to parse what had happened in the library. He had kissed her. For no...discernible reason. Except maybe...he'd wanted to?

She had to admit, she hadn't allowed herself to dream about the possibility her arranged husband might actually find her...attractive. The greatest hope she'd allowed herself had been that they could have a partnership built on mutual respect.

It felt downright dangerous to think of anything else, but he'd kissed her.

And now he led her down the hall to their bedchamber. Theirs. Because once again, they would share a bed tonight. She thought the second night would feel less nerve-racking, but that kiss changed everything.

Everything.

It hadn't been a brush of lips. It had been a kiss . She had spent a lifetime loving to read a scene about knee-weakening kisses without ever really believing that was a real thing, physiologically. But she'd had to lean into him just to stay upright. She hadn't been able to breathe .

Kiss? No. Devour? Maybe. Maybe she finally understood that as a descriptor for a kiss. Because...

Wow.

He opened the door to their rooms and gestured her inside. So much of this was like last night. An unwieldy dress she'd need help with. Nerves dancing, but not the kind that created fear or panic. No, there was something far more like anticipation wriggling around with nerves.

She felt full of pent-up energy. Like she simply wanted to... run or yell or something. So she kept walking, through the sitting room and into the bedchamber. She walked all the way to the large window that looked out over a dark night. The moon hovered at the edge of one of the peaks in the distance, partially shrouded by all that mountain.

She tried to find some sense of calm, some sense of self in the celestial scene outside. So they had kissed. So it had been unplanned, and wonderful. So they would have to do a lot more to produce heirs. This was what she'd agreed to. She needed to stop being so silly about it. Romanticizing it. When she'd promised him she didn't have romantic notions.

Because this wasn't romance. It was simply a physical reaction to one another. Besides, chemistry and attraction were good. It would make the whole thing less awkward. And it didn't mean she thought she'd fall in love or get swept off her feet. She was too practical, understood herself too well, had too much to hide to believe in any of that.

So, this was good .

Why did it feel so damn scary?

"If all goes well, we will travel to the vacation chalet for the weekend. A honeymoon, in the press. It's up there," he said, coming closer with every word until he was standing next to her and he pointed to the mountains in the distance.

"Is it as beautiful as here?"

"More."

"Then I hope all goes well." She tried to offer him a happy smile, but when she looked up he was gazing at her intently.

"As do I."

Then he didn't say anything. Just stood there. Close and intense. A huge wall of...of... man . And for some reason her dress just felt too heavy, too cumbersome, too much. Or maybe it was all of this just too much.

She wasn't sure how to broach the topic, considering what had just occurred in the library, considering the way he was looking at her, but even as off-kilter as she was, she was still herself . To the point, no matter the consequences. "I'll need help with my dress again."

His gaze slowly tracked down, from her face and then millimeter by millimeter down her dress, before taking a slow perusal back up to her eyes.

Slowly, his gaze on her, he undid the knot of his tie.

She had no idea why that made her breath catch in her throat, stay there. Particularly when he didn't remove it. Just left it there loose.

"Would you like to have me help you here or in the changing room?"

"My—my clothes are in the closet, so..." She gestured helplessly toward the door, but Lyon didn't move. And neither did she.

"Perhaps we should move on to step three."

For a moment, she didn't understand what he was saying. Then all at once it dawned on her, the memory of last night and him assuring her there would be steps to ease them into what they had to do. "Three?" She had to swallow at her suddenly dry throat. "What was two?"

His mouth curved, slowly. Sensuously. So that something seemed to curve inside of her in response. A deep, warm yearning .

"Step one was simply a brush of mouths. Simple. Something even friends could have shared. Step two was the taste of you."

Taste of you. God.

"Wh-what would step three be?"

He didn't respond right away, but he didn't give the impression that he was somehow thinking it over. No. He knew. He was just...drawing out the moment.

When he finally spoke, each word was carefully delivered in a low, controlled voice. But his eyes... There was something that reminded her of that moment in the chapel. Where despite all his control, all his rigid certainty, she'd seen the flash of something wild.

"I want to see you."

She could feign some ignorance there, but she knew what he meant. Naked. He wanted to see her naked.

Wanted to. She supposed if anything, that was the hardest part to reconcile. That these things—the kiss, the steps were things he wanted . When she'd assumed everything would be...very awkward business. A chore. A responsibility.

This was better. It had to be. Besides, didn't she want the same? "Do I get to see you?"

He lifted a shoulder. "If you wish."

"Well, it only seems fair," she managed to say, not sounding too strangled.

The smile on his face was an unfair advantage. The way he carefully pulled the tie from his collar and placed it across the back of the big, luxurious chair in the corner. Then he turned back to her, considering.

Her breath had completely backed up in her lungs, and it felt as though her face was on fire, while a tension coiled deep inside of her. A heat that centered between her legs. And still it wasn't the anxiety or panic she was used to when faced with an uncomfortable or scary situation.

Lyon moved his finger in a circle, encouraging her to turn around so he could once again deal with the buttons on the back of her dress.

She had to swallow through too many sensations coursing through her before she could manage to get her feet to take the order to move. To turn.

His fingers brushed lightly down the back of her neck. "You make a beautiful princess, Beaugonia. Beau ."

She had never been complimented on her looks. She had, in fact, very rarely been complimented. Only Zia ever seemed to see her positive attributes. Beau had thought she was sort of above it. She needed no one else's approval or assurances.

She knew what and who she was. She was almost always certain in her decisions. But that compliment felt...wonderful. She didn't want to depend on anyone else's opinion of her. Didn't want to be some sad version of her mother, twisting herself just to make everything easy. Just to be approved of .

But him thinking she was beautiful, or at least saying it, sent a new wave of satisfaction through her.

"I'm certainly glad you think so," she managed to return, without jumping at the contact of his hand on her neck, then back, then at the top button. She could feel his breath dance across her skin. It seemed an interminable stretch of minutes as the dress gently pulled and then began to sag.

She didn't hold it up this time. Even though the idea of baring herself to him made her shake, she kept her hands firmly at her side. Even as the dress slid down, though it stopped at her hips. She could feel him tug it down over.

So the only things she was wearing were underwear and a pair of stockings. Her dress in a heap at her feet. She focused on breathing evenly, just like she tried to do when she felt a panic attack creeping up. Careful, numbered inhales. Slow, controlled exhales.

It was just bodies. Just...inevitabilities. Better to get it over with, wasn't that always her motto?

"Step out," Lyon said. She couldn't quite ascertain what his voice sounded like. Tense, maybe. Still, she followed instructions.

She didn't turn to face him though. She couldn't quite bring herself to.

"Turn around, Beau."

She wanted to make some quip about him needing to say please or something about not liking being ordered around. But in this strange, not-herself-at-all moment, she found being obedient was exactly what she wanted. It felt like a safety blanket. Something she couldn't do wrong. So she turned.

He muttered something in Italian, but she was pretty sure it was a good something, based on the intent glint in his eyes. The way it hit her like its own force, a flame. Her skin felt tight, and she wanted to shake but she wouldn't let herself. She held his gaze. She stood tall and proud.

Even as the air felt cool on her skin. Even as she felt hot from the inside out. Even as she felt the need to clench her legs together just to ease some of the wild tension stitching itself tightly within her.

How did she protect herself from this? From all these physical responses. Chemistry. Attraction. Desire. Whatever word, it didn't really matter. She had to find some way to survive it.

"I think it's your turn," she managed to say. Because this wasn't just her. It was both of them. Stuck in this strange place the world and their own stubbornness had landed them in.

She should enjoy it. Whatever pieces of it she could.

He inclined his head then undid his cuff links, set them in his meticulous way on a little dish on the end table. Then he unbuttoned his shirt in quick efficient moves. He shrugged out of the shirt, laid it across the tie on the chair. The entire time, his gaze never left her body. Like he was drinking in every detail, memorizing it, and everywhere his gaze landed she felt branded. Like every inch of her skin was made specifically for him to see.

To touch.

But he didn't touch. He stayed just out of reach as he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. So that they stood there, in little to nothing, simply watching each other.

Strangers.

Husband and wife.

She had certainly never been in a room before with a man in his underwear. While she stood there, naked from the waist up. And if she'd dreamed of a scenario like this, she would have included some touching. Kissing. A bed maybe, instead of all this standing. Staring. Breathing like they were running marathons.

But there was something exhilarating about it. The anticipation. The wait. The soaking it all in.

"The tiara is an excellent touch," he finally said, breaking that silence that had been building like some kind of crescendo in a symphony.

She lifted a hand. She'd completely forgotten it was still pinned to her hair.

"Leave it," he ordered sharply when she moved to pull out a pin.

He had never spoken to her like that before—with a hint of some... edge . It heated through her bloodstream like a shot of alcohol. If he didn't touch her... "Lyon."

But something changed. He stepped back. That intense look shuttered. "I think that should be enough for tonight, tesoruccia. "

She could only stare at him. Enough? But she was...she was throbbing . She was naked , mostly. And he was near enough. He hadn't even touched her.

"Go get dressed for sleep. Step four will come soon enough."

Step four? What if she wanted step four now? What if she wanted to be touched?

But he'd turned his back on her, and all those soaring feelings, all those hopes, deflated. She knew she hadn't done anything wrong. He'd liked what he'd seen initially, so what would have changed? Nothing to do with her. Whatever it was came from him, internally.

And even though her new hopes might include an interesting and enjoyable physical relationship with Lyon while trying to produce heirs, she certainly wasn't foolish enough to think there would be some...emotional one.

So she went and got dressed for bed. Just as he'd told her to do. And if she felt a bit like crying, she doubted it would be the last time.

Lyon did not allow himself mistakes. If one crept on him, he immediately corrected it.

Which was why he'd ended things where he'd ended them. To prove he could. To correct the mistake of thinking he could somehow wield this thing inside of him in a productive way.

If he spent another uncomfortable, sleepless night in bed with his wife, this was punishment for allowing himself to step too close to that edge. Where he focused more on want than right.

And, oh, how he'd wanted . She was beautiful. Soft and golden. Like some kind of angel. Celestially made just for him. For him to want. For him to have.

But no. That was not his lot in life. His one and only job was to protect Divio. To stabilize it. To fix it. The men who'd come before him had hurt Divio over and over again—financially, in worldly reputation and most importantly in breaking the trust between the monarchy and the citizens.

The princes who'd come before had put their own selfish desires first and their citizens last. His grandmother had always made sure he understood that, and that it was his role to be their opposite. To earn and keep their trust. To pay the debt her family had carved deep.

So he had ended things without touching Beau, though it had felt a bit like cutting off his own limbs in the moment. But he'd done it. He was in control. Not desire, no matter how big and hot and uncontrollable the flame inside had seemed, he had stopped it.

He was not like his cousins, his uncles, his great-uncles, letting his wants rule the day and ruining the reputation and good standing of the monarchy. He was everything his grandmother and mother had built him to be. A crown prince. The last hope of his family and country.

When he finally took Beau to bed, he would be in control, not desperate. There would be no sordid stories, no pictures, no whispers .

He had a certain amount of privacy and freedom at the royal chalet. Particularly if he did not bring any staff. He would work out any...control issues there. When they returned to the castle, he would know how to handle his alluring bride. In all the ways his grandmother's oldest brother never had. He had scandalized a country with sordid stories about the wild life he'd led with his wife, the princess.

It had been the beginning of a long line of men who'd behaved worse and more selfishly with each pass of the baton.

Beau tossed and turned next to him, sometimes asleep, sometimes not. He dared not think about what she might be feeling, wanting. It didn't matter. He lay there and watched the gap in the curtains, until dark became light and he could feasibly get up and prepare for the day ahead.

He showered, dressed, then made his way down to his office where he called on a variety of staff members to determine the next steps. Alice assured him the video was well received, which allowed him to make arrangements for a weekend trip to the chalet.

Once he was satisfied everything would run well without him, he began to gather the things he'd want to bring with him in case of emergency. Including the romance novel Beau had picked out yesterday morning.

Which was when his mother walked in. Unannounced.

He didn't bother to chastise her for it. "I am on my way out, Mother. Did you need anything from me before Beau and I leave for the chalet?"

"That is what I came to speak to you about. I'm not sure jetting off on a honeymoon is best."

"I am hardly jetting off, Mother. We are simply going to the chalet. I'm even going to drive." He slid his laptop into his bag next to Beau's book. "A short, cozy honeymoon. It is what the people expect of a happily married couple."

"Are you sure you want time away when people could be conjuring up all sorts of stories about her ?"

Lyon stopped what he was doing and looked up at his mother. Her expression was uncharacteristically pinched, and there was no missing the disdainful way she had said her .

He considered what Beau had said last night. That his mother did not like her. She had not been wrong. And what a good quality for a princess, to know when she wasn't liked, and not react much to it.

But he didn't know what to do with his mother. They had almost always got on. Their goals had always been aligned. Grandmother had passed that goal down to them. It had always been a family tie, and it had always been held with accord.

Perhaps if he thought hard on it, there'd been times as a boy he had felt...chained to his grandmother and mother's vision for him, but he'd been but a child. He could hardly remember those times. Didn't like to. Wouldn't have if his mother wasn't standing here concerned with Beau and stories.

When if there was any real concern, his staff would have informed him , not his mother.

"If someone finds something that I did not, then I suppose we will deal with it as we can. But I find that eventuality nearly impossible as I was very thorough in investigating the Rendalls."

"The Rendalls. Not her specifically."

"Mother."

"I don't trust her."

While he often listened to his mother's opinions of people, he found he could not take this one on board. She was good at understanding motivations, particularly of the political set. She knew how to handle threats, but Beau was not a threat. She was...

Well, she wasn't a threat.

"You do not need to, Mother. But you need to trust me. And treat your crown princess with respect."

Mother's expression went cool. "Very well, Your Highness ." Then she swept out of the room.

Lyon sighed. He did not have time to smooth over things with his mother. Besides, she was the one acting out of turn.

She was just worked up about change, no doubt. Just because it was a necessary change they'd both agreed on likely didn't mean it was easy to realize she was no longer needed as his partner. Beau would take that role.

Beau. Likely still asleep. Cheeks flushed from the warmth of the bed, hair tousled from tossing and turning. She'd worn rather unattractive pajamas to bed last night, but that hadn't erased the memory of her standing before him in nothing but—

He shoved the last of his things in his bag. Forcefully. Before marching out of his office. He simply wouldn't think of it. He'd pretend it had been a dream he'd had. Even if she tried to bring it up, he would refuse.

He let that certainty take him all the way upstairs and into his rooms. He expected to find her still in bed, but she was dressed, seated on a chair in the sitting room. She was reading a book, a cup of coffee in one hand.

She looked up. Briefly. "Good morning," she offered pleasantly.

"Good morning," he returned. Then he waited. But whatever he was waiting for did not materialize. She went right back to her book and sipping her coffee. She was dressed perfectly in another pair of dark, loose slacks that looked like silk, and a more formfitting sweater. Today the color of ripe berries.

Which reminded him of...

"Our video has been well received," he said, stiffly and suddenly even to his own ears. "It even got picked up by a few European news affiliates. People are enamored with the story. So, we will head off this morning. I have much to do, and I don't like to be too far away for long, but we will take the weekend as a honeymoon of sorts."

After a moment, she set the book aside—his family biography that he'd given her, he realized—then she looked up at him. Her hazel eyes were a storm of things he couldn't name. She sipped from her cup, then nodded. "Do I need to pack?"

"My staff will take care of everything you'll need."

"Naturally." She got to her feet. "Are we leaving now?"

"In about fifteen minutes."

She nodded. "If you don't mind, I'd like to grab a few books from the library."

"Of course." But he found himself rooted to the spot, blocking her exit from the room. "I have requested next to no staff for this trip. There will be some security, but we will have the chalet to ourselves. Complete privacy."

Her gaze didn't falter, but she tilted her head to one side. Studying him. "For step four?"

He still wasn't sure whether he was delighted by her directness, or if he disliked it entirely. He never quite expected it from her because she was timid in so many other ways. So it continually surprised him, when he was no fan of surprises.

Yet he always found himself smiling anyway.

"For as many steps as you'd like, tesoruccia ."

"What does that mean? Tesoruccia. I keep meaning to look it up."

He wasn't sure why he hesitated. He wasn't embarrassed or he wouldn't call her that. "Treasure," he offered.

She laughed.

"Is that funny?"

"The idea that I'm some kind of prize? Yes. Never in my life has anyone..." She trailed off and shook her head. For all her attempts at elegant dismissiveness, a shell of sorts as if nothing got to her, any time she spoke of her family some little hint of vulnerability snuck through.

And reached inside of him like a barb, stuck there, until he did something to smooth it away.

"The truth of the matter is, whatever it is that Zia has done that you do not wish to divulge, it is clear she wasn't going to marry me. The fact you stepped into her place is of great value to me, Beau."

She blinked at that, something soft and sweet in her expression. "I think the only person in my entire life who's ever felt that way is Zia."

"I suppose it is a good thing you ended up married to me then."

Her smile was small, shy. It made warmth bloom in his chest like it was some great feat to make that happen.

So he moved out of the way. So she could go get her books. And he could...figure out what the hell he was feeling.