Royal Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince Vol 4) (6 page)

“Indeed. Big debates are opening up all over
the world on this.”

The door whines open. I jump. Alex comes in,
looking tired. From his grave features, I know that he has been
unsuccessful in swaying the Archbishop.

“No luck?” I say.

He shakes his head. “He says it’s not what
my father would have wanted.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. I know for a
fact that is true.

“But I see the hand of my mother in this.
Not only my mother, but Nuernberg. They intend to push us into a
corner.”

He gazes at the images onscreen, his eyes
glazing. More student marches are being held.

He says, “This is not what I want Moldavia
to become. I don’t want the people to go against the church.”

“Can you try to talk to him again?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve talked to my mother,
Liz. She is completely on the Archbishop’s side. That’s why she was
so calm when I announced my intent to marry you earlier. She knew
this would happen.” His voice turns bitter. “In fact, I think she
orchestrated it.”

I am not surprised.

I remain silent, my mind churning with
possibilities.

“They are pushing us into a corner, Liz.
Everywhere we turn, they put obstacles in our path. There’s too
much at stake for everyone where Nuernberg is concerned. They are
determined to make us jump through hoops until I do what they
want.”

His face is anguished as he turns to look at
me.

“Even though I am King, they intend to make
me their pawn. When will it end?”

My gut wrenches painfully.

We were so happy . . . so happy.

I close my eyes.

I know what I must do, and I’m not going to
involve Alex.

*

The Archbishop agrees to meet me in his
private quarters in the Ecclesiastical Castle. Everything is
Spartan there. There is no fire in the fireplace, even though it is
winter. The coals have not been stoked. The furniture is made out
of hard wood as though to drum penitence into those who choose to
occupy these chambers.

Oh no,
I think. He is a hard man. He
won’t be easy to sway.

He is as stern-looking as I remember him. He
does not smile as he gets to his feet.

“Ms. Turner?” His accent is heavily
French.

“Your Grace.” I curtsey.

I shiver, wrapping my coat around me. The
castle is chilly. How does he stand it without a heath fire or
radiator?

“Please, have a seat.” He waves to one of
the two chairs in front of his desk.

I seat myself in the left one. It is as hard
as I imagine it to be.

We exchange mild pleasantries.

“Are you a Catholic, Ms. Turner?”

“Uh, no.”

He does not say anything to this, though the
slight curling of his mouth suggests that he possibly thinks I’m as
godless as Alex.

Not a good start.

He waits attentively for me to begin.

“Your Grace, I know Alexander has been to
see you.”

He nods.

“I beg of you to reconsider. We . . . we . .
. ” I cast my eyes down desperately. He intimidates me so. “We love
each other very much. We just want to be together. Surely love has
to count for something.”

I raise my pleading face to his. I don’t
know what I must have been thinking – that my declarations of love
for Alex would melt his hardened heart perhaps. That he would take
one look at me and know that I am not an opportunist . . .
perhaps.

He says harshly, “Is it love, Ms. Turner, or
a desire to be Queen?”

“My desire is to be with Alex forever and to
have his children.”

“As Queen.”

“I would have loved Alex even if he was a
commoner.” Tears spring to my eyes. Why is this clergyman so stony
and forbidding?

He turns a tad calculating. “Would you love
Alex if you
remain
a commoner?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Queen and I have discussed this at
length.”

Of course. Anything the Queen has a hand in
can’t bode well for me.

He leans back in his hard wooden chair.

“If you love Alexander . . . if you truly
love Alexander . . . would you then consider being his
mistress?”

I’m the count’s daughter all over again. Six
hundred years apart, and it’s still happening.

I whisper, a hard lump in my throat, “Who
would you have him marry then?”

“Lady Tatiana, of course.” He raises his
bushy white eyebrows. “The Duke and I have spoken at length as well
– ”

Oh my God, they have orchestrated this. All
of them together! Alex was right. It’s a conspiracy.

“ – and we are in agreement that Lady
Tatiana would not be averse to Alexander having you as a
mistress.”

I wonder if Tatiana really agreed to that or
she had her arm twisted. All this evokes a dreadful sinking
sensation in my stomach.

I say in a shaky voice, “Alex would never do
this. Never.”

“Alexander will come to his senses, as his
father has before him.” The Archbishop smiles benignly. “I’ve seen
them all grow up. There is too much at stake for them not to. The
Kings of Moldavia always had mistresses.”

He acknowledges my panic-stricken face.

“Yes, even Alexander’s father. And the Queen
totally condones it, because she knows that she is the one he truly
loves in the end, for better or for worse. You would be very cared
for as Alexander’s mistress. As a mistress to a King. You would
have a mansion as your home, with maids to cater to your every
whim. You would have horses and paddocks. A Swiss bank account. You
may even have his children. They would not inherit the throne, but
they would still be his children nonetheless.”

Why is everyone making me offers? Am I
someone to be bribed out of the equation? Why not just poison me
and get it over with? It would be easier.

Still, they are offering me a way out. A way
out of all this unpleasantness. Where everyone would be happy.
Except for Alex and myself.

But they are now willing to concede us that.
We can be together.

Just not married together.

10

The Archbishop’s words weigh soberly in my
mind like anchors dragging me down. I don’t want to talk about it
to Alex, though I suspect the Archbishop . . . and the Queen . . .
already have clued him in on the possibility to take me as a
mistress. In short, Alex can have his cake and eat it too. It
merely doesn’t have to be a wedding cake.

I slither into bed with Alex, dressed in
just a mauve slip. We are still sleeping in the East Wing. The TV
is on. The news anchorman shows the results of a CNN poll.

“An overwhelming ninety-six percent have
voted that they fully support King Alexander Vassar and Elizabeth
Turner’s marriage, despite the Archbishop of Moldavia’s wishes on
the contrary.”

Alex is sober as the news clip changes to a
scene of demonstrations taking place outside the churches – not
only in Moldavia but throughout Europe. Even in the Vatican.

“It’s become a much bigger issue,” he
murmurs. “It isn’t right. The people are confusing the issue with
religion. It’s not a religious issue.”

“I know. What are we to do?”

He sighs. “I don’t know, Liz. I don’t know.
My father wouldn’t have wanted this to happen.”

His eyes are glued to the TV screen, and his
expression is pained.

A pang snakes to my chest.

He says, “People are throwing in all their
pent-up frustrations about religious order and the clergy and using
this as an excuse. Sooner or later I’ll have to say something, calm
people down. These protests can escalate into violence, so it’ll
have to preferably be sooner.”

There’s a faraway look in his eyes. He seems
to have aged five years over the past few days.

My insides clench. I put a hand on his
shoulder.

Instead of embracing me, he gets up from
bed.

“I have to go do a few things,” he says, not
looking at me.

“Tonight? But it’s late.”

“I know. But I’ll still have to do them.
Don’t wait up for me.”

Something is wrong. I sense it in my bones,
my flesh, the painfully contracting sac of my heart. But it is not
in my place to stop him or even ask him about what he has to do.
From the straight, firm lines of his mouth and the grim
determination on his face, it will be something he has to do on his
own.

He has to do right by his people.

Oh God.

I can only wait in our bed as he dresses and
strides purposefully out of the door.

I don’t see a way out here. Either way,
people are going to get hurt badly.

From his subtle withdrawal, I think it’s
going to be me.

*

The next morning, I wake up alone in our
bed. My face is sticky with dried tears. I have been crying all
night despite telling myself to be brave.

Alex has not come back. His side of the bed
has not been slept in.

Alarmed, I dress and go down to the
breakfast patio. I can easily place a cellphone call to him, but I
don’t want to appear the anxious fiancée. He’s got enough on his
place without having to worry about my insecurities.

Is it so bad being Alex’s mistress? At least
I get to see him every week, if not every day. At least I’m allowed
to bear his children.

But is it the life I want?

All I do know is that I love Alex more than
life itself. But is being second best enough for me down the
line?

Jasper and Madame Fournier are at the
breakfast table. Their eyes are bloodshot and their shoulders droop
with fatigue. Alex is nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning, Ms. Turner.”

“Good morning, Jasper. Is Alex around?”

“He is having an audience with his mother,
the Queen, and his sisters.”

Oh. It must be important at such an early
hour.

Madame Fournier says, “Are you all right,
Elizabeth? You look distressed.”

I sit down. “No, I’m not all right.”

I take a deep breath and tell her
everything. Both of them. They listen attentively, and when I have
finished, they exchange knowing glances.

“What?” I say. “What are you not telling
me?”

Madame Fournier says, “The King will be
making a public announcement soon. Last night, a Molotov cocktail
was flung at the Ecclesiastical Castle.”

My pulse thuds at my throat. It is exactly
as Alex has predicted. Some quarters are itching for an excuse to
fight the church.

“Alexander feels responsible. We spent all
of last night crafting his public speech. He will address the world
at noon.”

At noon!

“He told me nothing of this speech,” I say
faintly, “only that he has to calm the masses down.”

“He is doing exactly that.”

“He didn’t wake me. I could’ve . . .
helped.” Even as I say that, I realize how lame it sounds. How can
I possibly help to craft a King’s speech?

“He specifically asked for you not to be
disturbed,” Madame Fournier says pointedly.

Of course. I would only mess up things.
Crestfallen, I stare at my empty plate.

I have become a hindrance to Alex. No wonder
he is distancing himself from me. I don’t blame him. Perhaps I
should not have said ‘yes’ to his proposal. I should have stuck to
the plan I made with Tatiana, left for Chicago, and everyone would
be much happier. Even Alex, in the long run.

I am so woebegone that Madame Fournier
reaches out to touch me lightly on the shoulder.

“Don’t fret so much, Elizabeth, about things
out of your control. Just have faith in Alex to do the right
thing.”

“Yes, I do.”

Even Jasper looks sympathetic. They do know
something they’re not telling me.

How awful can it be?

11

At noon, we crowd around the TV in the
parlor to hear Alex’s speech. He is at the station, ready to go on
a special news segment that will be broadcasted live to the
world.

“Where’s the Queen?” I ask Jasper and Madame
Fournier. It seems strange that in times of such crisis, I am left
with two of them instead of Alex’s family. Very telling, I
know.

“The Queen is in her suite. But Marie is at
the station with Alex.”

Oh. So he has decided to ask his sister to
tag along instead of me. I don’t blame him. She’s a princess of
Moldavia after all and she, like, has a political I.Q of 262. She
would be a much better co-presenter for him.

Alex faces the cameras. He’s impossibly
handsome, heartbreakingly so. They have combed his hair and made
his dark circles disappear. His forehead is smooth and unlined once
again.

He begins:

“I come to you, today, people of Moldavia,
as a citizen. A few hours ago, I discharged my last duty as
King.”

My hand flies to my mouth.

No, Alex, no.

“I will be succeeded by my sister, Marie
Vassar, Princess and second born of Moldavia. My first words must
be to declare allegiance to her.”

Why, Alex, why?

“The reasons which have compelled me to
renounce the throne are for the greater good of the people of
Moldavia. I do not wish to be the cause of a separation of the
state and church in the hearts of the people. I do not wish to be a
King who would revoke a law centuries old just because it
inconveniences him today.

“For what are we without laws? It was a law
that was put in place for a very good reason. It was a law that
protected Moldavia’s sovereignty in its time. It was a law that
allows us to walk freely today and count ourselves as one of the
richest nations in the world.”

Tears run down my cheeks and stain my lips
with their salt. I do not attempt to brush them off.

“But in accepting the letter of the law and
acceding to the decision of His Grace, the Archbishop of Moldavia,
I will find it impossible to perform my duties as King without the
woman I love by my side. The decision I have made is mine and mine
alone, and it is a decision for the greater good of my fellow
countrymen.”