Michelle Celmer - The King's Convenient Bride / The Illegitimate Prince's Baby - The King's Convenient Bride

The King’s Convenient Bride by Michelle Celmer

A thought suddenly struck Hannah. For the first time since their marriage had been arranged, she and Prince Phillip – No, King Phillip – were alone.

Totally alone.

In the past, whenever they met, there had always been a chaperone present. But right here, right now, there was no one to stop them from…whatever.

Suddenly she felt ultra-aware of his presence. The clean, crisp scent of his aftershave. The weight of his gaze as he studied her. He was just so… there .

And so close.

With little more than a lift of her hand, she could touch him, brush her fingertip across his cheek.

“If you keep chewing your lips that way, there’ll be nothing left for me,” he teased, and something playfully wicked flashed behind his eyes.

The Illegitimate Prince’s Baby by Michelle Celmer

He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, his breath on her face.

She held her arms to her side to stop herself from doing something monumentally stupid. But she suspected that it was already too late. And just as she decided to give in, the phone started to ring.

“I should get that,” she said, slipping out from under his arm and dashing to the cordless on the table.

She glanced over her shoulder at Ethan, where he leaned casually against the door, watching her. She couldn’t think straight when those smoky eyes were fixed her way.

This was it. She could leave now and put an end to this. For tonight anyway, and possibly forever. Or she could stay. With Ethan. Knowing exactly what that would mean.

This time, it wouldn’t end with just a kiss.

MICHELLE CELMER

Bestselling author Michelle Celmer lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mum, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm really hard you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping.

Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website at: www.michellecelmer.com, or write to her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the first book in my ROYAL SEDUCTIONS series. This is my first series for Desire and I couldn’t be more excited, nor could I have picked a more interesting family to write about than the Royals of Morgan Isle, a small island country located in the Irish Sea between England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales.

Phillip is everything you would expect from a king. Gorgeous, wealthy and powerful. And let’s not forget stubborn . This arranged marriage is nothing to him but that. An arrangement. But Hannah Renault, his bride-to-be, wants the real thing, and she’ll stop at nothing to chip away the ice covering his frozen heart.

I hope you enjoy their story!

Best,

Michelle

MICHELLE CELMER

MICHELLE CELMER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mum, Karen,

who is hands down my most devoted fan.

by

Michelle Celmer

One

Though she had been preparing for this day for eight years, as the limo pulled up to the palace steps and Hannah Renault caught her first glimpse of the prince—make that the king —waiting to welcome her, she trembled in her ecru Gucci pumps.

Wearing his royal dress uniform, King Phillip Lindall Augustus Mead stood at the top of the stairs flanked by what had to be the entire palace staff. A collection of medals and commendations on his jacket glittered in the sun and a gilded sword hung at his hip.

Outside the gates, residents of Morgan Isle crowded to get their first glimpse of their soon-to-be queen.

Aka: Her .

The limo stopped at the base of a gold-rimmed red carpet. The door swung open and a gloved hand appeared to help her out.

She smoothed the skirt of her dark blue linen suit. This is it , she told herself. This is the day you’ve been dreaming of. The time to make a good impression on your husband-to-be and, from the looks of it, half the country. So, whatever you do, as you’re climbing those stairs, don’t trip .

With all the grace and dignity a woman could manage while climbing out of a vehicle, her heart fluttering madly in her chest, Hannah stepped into the balmy sunshine. Beyond the gates a cheer broke out among the onlookers.

Warring with the sudden, intense urge to turn around and dive back into the limo, she took a deep breath, straightened her spine and lifted her chin high. As per the instructions she received from the royal social secretary, she stood her ground and waited for the king’s formal greeting. She held her breath as he descended the steps and a deafening hush fell over the crowd, as though they were holding their breath with her. Don’t be nervous , she told herself, but nervous didn’t even come close to what she was actually feeling. She bordered more along the lines of terrified .

Just breathe, Hannah. In and out. You can do this.

It had been two long years since she had seen her fiancé face-to-face, and he was more handsome, more heart-stoppingly beautiful than she remembered.

As instructed, the instant the king’s foot hit the bottom step, Hannah stepped forward and dipped into a routinely practiced curtsy. With a bow of her head, and in a wobbly voice, she said, “Your Highness.”

“My lady,” he returned in a deep, rich voice, with proper British inflection, then offered his hand. A small burst of energy arced between their fingers an instant before they actually touched. When she met his eyes, something warm and inviting swam in their smoky-gray depths. Taking her hand gently in his own, he bent at the waist and brushed his lips across her skin. “Welcome home.”

Her stomach bottomed out and her legs went weak while thunderous applause rattled her eardrums.

You must appear regal and confident, but never cold , she had been told a million times from her royal-appointed etiquette coach.

But under the circumstances, it was all she could do to stay upright and conscious.

This was really happening. In two weeks she would marry this handsome, powerful man. In two weeks, she would be a queen .

Shaking with excitement and fear, from her toes all the way to the ends of her hair, she allowed him to lead her up the steps, chanting to herself: please don’t trip, please don’t trip .

Picking up on her abject terror, and in a serious break of royal tradition, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close to his side. Then he dipped his head and said in a low whisper, so only she could hear, “Relax. The worst is over.”

She was so grateful she nearly dissolved into tears right there on the steps. He felt so solid and sturdy and he radiated self-assurance. If there were only a way she could absorb a bit of that confidence for herself.

They reached the top step, where they would stop and she would formally greet the staff and country. But in another breech of ceremony, the king swept past the receiving lines and led her directly to the enormous, gilded double doors that, seemingly on their own, swung open to welcome her inside.

He led her through the cavernous foyer. Two royal attendants were close behind them, the soles of their shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. He stopped in front of a pair of ceiling-high, carved mahogany doors.