Royal Affair

  Royal Affair

  A Princes of Danislova Novella

  Alice Gaines

  Copyright

  Copyright 2015 Alice Brilmayer

  Smashwords Edition

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 978-1-940854-10-6

  Cover Design: Talina Perkins, Bookin’ It Designs

  Digital formatting by Author E.M.S.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Alice Gains

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Alice Gaines

  Kiss the Frog

  The Glass Slipper

  Beauty Awakened

  Royal Affair

  Chapter One

  After loving Friedrich VonRamsberg for over forty years, Marta Damrov was finally kissing him. Or he was kissing her. Who could tell? All that mattered was that the caress outshone all her dreams with its sweetness and its heat.

  Still tentative, he held her with one hand loose at her waist. A miracle when he’d first touched her—now, it wasn’t enough. She moved toward him, never separating their lips, and ran her arms around his neck. She’d released him once from an embrace and had kicked herself the ten years since. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  His breath hitched as if she’d surprised him with her forwardness, but then he circled her with his other arm and nestled her against him. Their lips parted in unison as the kiss took on a life of its own. Her mind still registered the sound of birdcalls as if from a great distance. Otherwise, the vineyard around them disappeared from consciousness as a new reality blossomed. Friedrich was kissing her. He wanted her. Perhaps he didn’t love her as she did him. Perhaps this was no more than lust, even at their ages. But they’d been friends for so long. They could build from here. Finally. This time, she’d make sure they did.

  Emboldened by the knowledge, she grazed his lower lip with her tongue and pressed for entrance to his mouth. He responded with a moan and pulled her hard against him. They fit together so perfectly, her breasts full against his chest. Sexual arousal—something she hadn’t felt for so long—wrapped its tendrils around her, making her bones feel pliant. As if she’d fall if he released her.

  He ended the kiss but still held her, his cheek against hers. His breath came in puffs at her ear, matching her own struggle for air.

  “Marta,” he whispered.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” He pulled back, his gaze searching her face.

  Just then, reality made a quick return in the form of voices at a distance. They’d be discovered in a moment if they remained as they were. He caught the sound, too, and stepped back.

  She nearly did stumble at the sudden absence of his body but caught herself. Straightening, she smoothed her hair and composed her face into a neutral smile as their visitors came into view. Friedrich’s youngest son, Ulrich, and his Southern belle, Dixie, emerged from the woods and headed between the rows of vines toward them. From the looks of them—rumpled clothing and a softness around the eyes—they’d engaged in even more intimate play during their “walk” than she and Friedrich had a moment ago. Clearly, there’d be a third royal wedding soon, to follow those of Friedrich’s older sons, Dev and Kurt, who’d married their own Americans recently.

  Ulrich glanced around. “Kurt and Casey gone inside?”

  “Of course they have, silly.” Dixie nudged Ulrich with her elbow. “They’re newlyweds.”

  Friedrich cleared his throat, and his normally dark complexion gave a hint of a blush. Marta remained a few feet away from him and crossed her hands in front of her. What should she say? Ask them if they’d had a nice walk, when they’d clearly been naughty? Make some innocuous remark about the weather? She settled on the latter.

  “It turned out to be a lovely day, didn’t it?” she said.

  “Lovely,” Friedrich repeated.

  Dixie studied them, clearly assessing the situation. Ulrich, thank heaven, seemed completely oblivious.

  “Say,” Dixie said a bit too loudly as she took Ulrich’s hand and tugged. “Why don’t we check out the brandy distilling equipment?”

  “We did that this morning,” Ulrich said.

  “I might have overlooked a few details,” Dixie said. “Y’all won’t miss us, will you?”

  “Not at all, my dear,” Friedrich said. “I’m sure the monks will be happy to show you around.”

  “Time’s a-wasting,” Dixie declared, and this time she was successful in pulling Ulrich away.

  Marta watched them go in silence, aware in every cell of her body of the man standing beside her and his too-stiff posture. Oh, no. He would not walk away from her again. She wouldn’t allow him to.

  Finally, the other two were gone, and Friedrich turned to her. Before he could speak, she placed her fingers on his lips. “Don’t.”

  He moved her hand away. “You said that before.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “That’s what you were going to do, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. Or explain myself.”

  “Don’t do that, either. I don’t want an apology or an explanation.” She steadied herself. She would do this. “I want more kisses.”

  For a moment, he seemed perplexed, simply staring at her out of those dark eyes she’d admired for decades. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it.

  Though her knees weakened, she stood her ground. She might well have surprised him with her honesty. Women of her age and upbringing didn’t speak so frankly about matters of the heart. They hung back, hoping the object of their desire would somehow fathom their needs and wants without anything more than a sideways glance from the woman as a clue. She’d tried that these last ten years with this man, and he’d either missed her hints or decided to ignore them. He’d stepped over a line with this kiss, and he’d ignore her no longer.

  “I had no idea,” he said softly.

  “You must have, Friedrich. You’re not a stupid man.”

  “Never underestimate a man’s ignorance where women are concerned.”

  “You must have noticed how much I…” All right. Here, the correct words—desire, want—could prove impossible. She couldn’t reinvent herself after decades of training in how to act as a modest woman, after all. “…admire you.”

  “You seem willing enough to dance with me,” he said. “But then, for some reason, all women want to dance.”

  “There’s a very good reason I like to dance with you, and I imagine you can puzzle that out for yourself if you try.” She stared up at him evenly. If she shamelessly stood there and dared him with her gaze to admit the truth, he’d have to figure out her meaning. She wanted his arms around her and the closeness of his body. He’d have to realize she meant more—physical intimacy.

  “Oh,” he said after a moment. “That.”

  “Yes, that.” Perhaps she’d engaged in more difficult discussions in the past, although exactly when eluded her. She couldn’t back down on this one. The last time he’d touched her had taken place ten years earlier. She would not wait another ten years.


  “I thought…that is, that day at your house…you didn’t seem…” His voice trailed off.

  “You startled me.” The whole encounter had come on suddenly and ended just as abruptly. His visit to offer condolences and whatever support she needed. Exactly the same as so many other visits she’d had—right up until the last few minutes when he’d risen to leave. She’d seen him out, of course, her hand on the door, as he’d bent to place his lips to hers. Then his mumbled apology, and he’d left before she’d managed to utter a word.

  “It was too soon,” he said. “Your husband had just died.”

  “It wasn’t the right time, I’ll admit,” she said. “Alexander’s harpy sisters were staying at the house. They would have had a fit over any sign of improper behavior.”

  “You seemed so sad. I only wanted to comfort you.” He lifted a hand as if to touch her but let it drop back down. “That’s what I told myself. I never expected to react as…well, I did.”

  She might have asked him how he reacted that day, but the whole discussion clearly embarrassed him. Unfortunate, that, as she planned to continue this conversation until it got her everything she’d craved the last ten years.

  “And were you comforting me just now?” she said.

  “No.” He blushed again, but at least he was still talking, even if in monosyllables.

  “There are no harpy sisters to keep us apart now. It’s time we explored this thing between us.” Lord knew she’d always felt that pull, all the way back to when she’d been hardly out of the schoolroom and he’d been a dashing young prince. Too old for her and completely out of her reach. How she’d dreamed.

  If she didn’t live those dreams now, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

  “We should discuss this,” she said. “Honestly and openly.”

  “Men don’t discuss these things.” He blew out a breath the way one might after being beaten over the head with truth. “Especially not men my age.”

  “That causes most of the world’s problems, wouldn’t you say?” she said. “Men not discussing things.”

  “We’re not talking about war.”

  “I disagree.” She stuck her nose up into his face. “What goes on between men and women is the oldest war in human history. I’m tired of it. I want to negotiate a truce.”

  “Marta…”

  “For goodness sake, we’ve already wasted ten years by not talking about this. I’m not getting any younger.”

  He laughed. “Neither am I.”

  Although Friedrich had a timeless quality to him—the patriarch who never truly aged but became more centered, more sure of who he was in relation to those around him, he’d never grow old, at least not in her eyes. He’d remain the tall, strong prince of fairy tales every girl dreams of. In the meantime, she’d come so far in winning her heart’s desire. One more prompt, and she’d have him.

  “Well then…” she said.

  He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. We need to talk”

  “Come to my room tonight,” she said.

  “Here?” He gestured around him. “At a monastery?”

  “Unless you’d rather we returned to the palace or went to a hotel.” Lord in heaven, had she actually said that?

  He raised his hands in surrender. “No, here.”

  “I’ll see you after everyone has retired. And bring some brandy.” Before he could object or she could change her mind and beg him to forgive her outspokenness, she turned on her heel and headed down the path toward the main monastery building. He’d come to her, and she’d turn a new page on her life.

  *

  Friedrich VonRamsberg, Prince Royal of Danislova—a widower with children old enough to make him a grandfather—found himself skulking along the chilly hallways of a monastery on his way to an assignation. Unless he was very much mistaken, he’d have to tread carefully to avoid colliding with his youngest son who, no doubt, was on a similar prowl at this very moment. The whole thing smelled of Balzac or a ribald Italian opera, especially given the flask of brandy and glasses he carried. His heart hammered in his chest, and he listened carefully for his own footfalls in case they’d give him away. Against the stones, they made no noise, but surely anyone nearby would hear his breathing.

  This whole situation was ridiculous, and he’d never have gotten himself into it if he’d controlled himself in the vineyard that afternoon.

  But then, Marta had looked so beautiful among the vines with the sun shining down on her. Her laughter had filled his heart. When she’d smiled at him with such warmth, he couldn’t have torn his gaze away from her mouth. From there, the fantasy of how her lips would taste had overcome him. He might not be young any longer, but he was still a man.

  And therein lay her greatest power over him. Reminding him of what he’d once been and daring him to wonder if—perhaps, perhaps—he might still be.

  A door opened behind him, and soft laughter floated down the hallway. He darted around a corner and pressed his back to the wall, flattening himself against it. Ulrich. As he’d imagined. His son’s footfalls made no more sound than his own, and so he couldn’t follow Ulrich’s progress toward Dixie’s room. For all Friedrich knew, she might be down this side corridor and Ulrich might come right up on him. No lie in the world could explain why he was hiding from his own son with a flask of brandy and two glasses in his hands. Two, not one. He did his best to keep his breathing even and silent and waited for what felt like long minutes.

  Finally, another door opened not far from where he stood. Ulrich whispered something Friedrich was probably better off not understanding, Dixie giggled, and the door closed. Thank heaven.

  Now that he could take deep breaths again, he did, still leaning against the wall for support. No one would find him now as long as none of the monks decided to wander about at night. It wouldn’t do to have one of the brothers discover their sovereign in his dressing gown in a hallway where he didn’t belong. If one did, Friedrich would have to bluster some explanation, whatever that might be.

  With Ulrich safely stowed away for the night, Friedrich resumed his journey. He’d reminded himself of the instructions Marta had slipped him after dinner on where to find her. The north wing of the monastery, third room from the end on the right. She’d leave her light on so he’d find it shining under her door. He rehearsed some mental geography and took a turn onto a smaller corridor. Here the wall lamps cast less light, and shadows lurked everywhere. He went, counting doors silently, until he spotted one with a sliver of a glow peeking out from beneath. Third from the end, as she’d said.

  He stood before it for a moment. Did he truly dare to do this?

  Good Lord, he was nervous. He hadn’t had reason to be nervous about a woman for almost fifty years, and he’d forgotten how to do even that properly. He’d lived a happy married life and had three sons, two with their own brides and the third courting one. He ruled a country well enough by all accounts. At this stage in his life, everything ought to be settled. He shouldn’t find himself standing outside a woman’s bedroom, quaking in his slippers.

  He’d promised Marta he’d come, and he didn’t go back on his word. He’d faced bigger challenges in his years on Earth. He could face this.

  As he raised his hand holding the glasses, the door opened suddenly, and he found himself face to face with the woman he’d kissed that afternoon. They both jumped, and he nearly dropped the brandy. He recovered, though, thank heaven, without making a sound. For her part, she placed her hand over her chest and took a step backward, motioning him inside.

  She closed the door behind him. “I thought you might be lurking out there.”

  “I’m a prince,” he said. “I don’t lurk.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Not lurking.” He could call it girding his loins, but the less said about his loins, the better. He held out the flask. “You asked for brandy.”

  “I did.” She took the brandy and the glasses from him. “Have a seat.”


  He glanced around. In a monastery, not even a guest room used for visiting nobility had much in the way of furniture. Only he had a sitting room, and that because the abbot had vacated his own space in Friedrich’s favor. Marta hadn’t gone to the narrow bed, though, but stood at a small table between two armchairs near the fireplace, pouring brandy into the glasses he’d brought.

  She hadn’t meant for him to sit on the bed, then. And damn him why did that give him a sense of relief?

  Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off Marta as she finished pouring the brandy and then stoppered the flask. The graceful arch of her arm, the length of her neck. She’d been gangly as a teenager…all elbows and knees. Several years younger than him. Then she’d grown into a woman, and when he’d finally noticed, he’d had a wife he’d learned to love and a child on the way. And then, of course, she’d married.

  She held a glass toward him, her head cocked to one side. Puzzlement or amusement at his awkwardness. Perhaps both.

  “Please do sit down,” she said.

  He took the drink from her and sat. The other chair stood close enough that when she joined him, the scent of her cologne tickled at his nostrils. Complex and very female, the perfume seemed to waft from the fabric of her negligee. The gown didn’t reveal anything more than a dress she’d wear at a ball would, but it hinted, and his imagination happily filled in the rest. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip. He even pictured long, graceful toes inside her slipper. Ye gods. Thinking of her toes had him excited. He took a generous swig of his brandy and let it burn the back of his throat.

  She sipped her own brandy and smiled. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.” He might as well tell the truth.