Robyn Donald - The Virgin and His Majesty

‘I suspect you’re every man’s dream mistress, Rosemary. No strings, no commitment, no future planned. Just the promise of sex whenever we want it, wherever we want it.’ His voice deepened. ‘However we want it.’

‘Oh, there’s going to be some sort of commitment,’ she told him, hoping she sounded as confident as her words. She needed to get something straight, although her heart constricted when she said, ‘Until we call a halt I’ll be faithful to you, and I’ll expect the same from you.’

The dark head bent in an autocratic nod. ‘Very well, then. It’s a deal.’

The words were blunt—as blunt as hers had been.

‘It’s a deal,’ she whispered, and held out her hand.

His mouth was a thin line, strangely ruthless, as they shook hands. But it gentled when he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips.

The sensuous caress sent more wanton excitement tingling through Rosie. And then he bent his head and kissed her again, and his mouth took her into that realm where thought and logic no longer mattered, where the only reality was Gerd’s passion and her abandoned response.

But even as she yielded she wondered how he might react if he realised she’d never done this before.

Robyn Donaldcan’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit; as well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon® she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, and uses the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

Recent titles by the same author:

RICH, RUTHLESS AND SECRETLY ROYAL

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THE MEDITERRANEAN PRINCE’S CAPTIVE VIRGIN *

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By

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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AS CORONATION balls went, Rosie Matthews thought, surveying the palace ballroom, this one in Carathia had to be about as good as it got.

Wherever she looked flowers glowed richly against the white and gold walls. Men in the austere black and white of formal evening clothes radiated power and privilege, and beautiful women dazzled in couture so haute the ballroom looked like a catwalk for society’s most favoured designers. Light from the gilded ballroom chandeliers scintillated opulently from famous and priceless tiaras, earrings and necklaces.

And every other woman in the ballroom seemed tall and impossibly elegant, including the one beside her. Hani Crysander-Gillan, Duchess of Vamili and sister-in-law of the newly crowned Grand Duke Gerd, was another racehorse, and the tiara glittering against her dark hair featured the rare and beautiful fire diamonds from her homeland of Moraze.

‘I envy you,’ Rosie told her cheerfully. ‘This will be the only coronation ball I’ll ever attend, but to get a good view I really need to stand on one of those gilded chairs. Still, I’ve never seen so many fabulous jewels. And the clothes—wow!’ She gave an elaborate sigh. ‘I feel like the proverbial poor relation. And I’m not even a relation!’

Hani laughed. ‘A likely story. You look stunning, and you know it. I don’t know how you managed to find something the exact honey-amber of your hair.’

Rosie glanced down at her balldress. ‘It was a stroke of luck; there’s a really good vintage shop just around the corner from my flat. And this doesn’t seem to have been worn much. It doesn’t look ten years old.’

‘Who cares how old it is? It’s a classic.’

Certainly its body-skimming flow gave Rosie some much-needed extra height, assisted by a pair of killer heels that had cost her almost the last of her savings. Hani raised her brows. ‘It’s not like you to be afflicted with self-doubt. What’s the matter?’

‘It’s not self-doubt, it’s the realisation that the jewellery alone must be worth more than most small countries,’ Rosie returned airily.

She lied. Prince Gerd Crysander-Gillan, Grand Duke and ruler of Carathia—crowned only that day—happened to be dancing right in front of her with the woman expected to become his bride. Princess Serina was yet another willowy, impossibly beautiful creature, her dark hair sleeked into an elegant chignon that showed off the diamonds of her family tiara to perfection.

‘And the fact that every other woman in this room is at least ten centimetres taller than I am and wearing a tiara,’ Rosie went on mournfully, before flashing Hani a gamine grin. ‘However, being short means no one can see me, and Gerd won’t expect glitz from a cousin by marriage.’

Especially a cousin by marriage who’d just finished her degree, only to discover that the job market had dried up.

Lifting her small, round chin, she let her eyes roam across the dancers. Inevitably they found the man who’d invited her—and hundreds of others—to his rich little country to celebrate his coronation. As Rosie’s gaze found his arrogantly handsome face Gerd smiled at the princess in his arms, then lifted his black head and looked across the ballroom, his boldly chiselled features radiating force and authority.

Flushing, Rosie lowered her eyes. Of course he wasn’t looking at—far less for —her. He was just making sure everything was going according to plan. Gerd always had a plan, as well as the ruthless determination to carry it through, no matter what the obstacles.

A hungry longing ached through her. She’d been so certain the tenuous thread of hope that had kept her dangling for years would be severed once she saw him with the glamorous, entirely suitable Princess Serina.

Instead, coming to Carathia, seeing him again, had reignited a fire that had never died.

So who’s being melodramatic? she mocked silently. How could a fire die when it had never really been lit? OK, so three years ago—on the other side of the world—she and Gerd had been thrown together for a whole magical summer.

Although they’d known each other all her life, things had changed during those long, hot weeks, but even at eighteen Rosie had been wary. Gerd was almost twelve years older, and probably a couple of centuries further advanced in sophistication. As well, her mother’s lamentable history with men had coloured Rosie’s outlook, so although she’d become giddy with excitement whenever he smiled at her, she’d masked it with the brash, cheerful façade she’d made her defence against the world.