The Princess in His Bed by Lila Dipasqua

Author:Lila Dipasqua [Dipasqua, Lila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780425237007
Google: -ij4xr0r69MC
Amazon: B004P5OPF2
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-11-02T05:00:00+00:00

5

“Good morning.” Emilie walked into her aunt’s private apartments the next day smiling and sat down at the table with Pauline and Marthe in the antechamber. Her presence in the room had effectively silenced the two older women’s bickering. Arguing that could be heard from the hallway.

The subject of their argument was Emilie. As always. But she was in too fine a mood to be aggravated.

A servant stepped forward to pour her a goblet of water with orange slices. Reaching for the crystal vessel, Emilie brought it to her lips and stopped short when she saw the looks of shock on her mealtime companions’ faces.

“Is there something amiss?” she asked and took a sip.

“Why, Emilie . . .” Marthe began. “You’re not wearing a cloak.”

“And it isn’t morning. It’s midday,” her aunt was quick to point out.

Emilie motioned the servant to place two slices of ham on her plate as well as a hearty portion of mutton. Normally she didn’t much care for mutton and gravy, but she was famished. She’d yet to break the fast.

“I’m afraid I slept in,” she said to her aunt and to Marthe. “I don’t believe I need a cloak today, dear Marthe. It’s rather warm.” As a habit, she’d placed one on earlier, but even the lightest of the lot felt heavy and cumbersome. She’d walked out of her rooms in simply her gown, feeling light and free and entirely different. Thanks to Vincent. She even felt . . . well, pretty.

He’d made her feel desirable. He’d made her feel desire, delicious and pure. He’d made her feel like a woman. Whole. Undamaged. Not for a moment in his arms did she feel in any way less than any other female. She hadn’t had to hide her identity. He wanted her. Just as she was. And that alone made it impossible to deny what she’d been trying to suppress for many months. She was in love with him. Rather hopelessly, actually.

She wasn’t naïve enough to think Vincent was going to propose marriage or that his affections ran as deeply as hers.

The prudent thing to do in this situation was to guard her vulnerable heart and leave promptly, sparing herself the anguish it was going to be to part with him at the end of the week. With certainty, the longer she stayed with him, the greater the heartache.

But she refused to leave—heartache be damned. She wouldn’t deprive herself of the opportunity to be with him. That way, in her old age she couldn’t bemoan how she’d missed out on an incredible week, on creating cherished memories—all because she’d lacked the courage to face the heartbreak and had run.

Vincent had kept her up until the early-morning hours making love. She wouldn’t deny herself more of the same. Heated memories flitted through her mind. She felt her nipples harden and her heart dance. There was a delicious soreness to her private muscles that reminded her of the magical night she’d had—one that hadn’t required any make-believe at all.

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