The Queen's Baby Scandal. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
It was a strange and wondrous place, some rooms carved entirely of ice, and requiring coats for entry, others fashioned of steel and glittering lights, everything fading into each other like a twisting, glittering paradise.
Astrid had grown up surrounded by luxury. But it was not a modern luxury. Not in the least. It was velvet and drapes, gold and ornate wrought iron. Cold marble and granite.
This was color, twisted metal and light. Fire and ice all melded together in an escape for the senses that verged on decadent.
There was a dance floor that was suspended up above a carved icy chamber. It glittered and twisted, casting refracted light all around. Railings around the outside of the platform prevented the revelers from falling below. She had never seen anything quite like it.
It was like something from a dream. Or a fairy tale.
If fairy tales contained house music.
And for the first time, a slight thrill went through her.
She had come about this entire plan with the grimness of a general going to war.
At least, that was what she had told herself. She had told herself that it had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted one night of freedom.
Had told herself that Mauro Bianchi had not been her target because he was attractive. Because he had a reputation for showing women the kinds of pleasure that was normally found only in books. No.
She had told herself that he was a strategic target.
A man with no royal connection or blood, which would make the claiming of her position even more unquestionable. Had told herself that a known playboy was sensible because as an unpracticed seductress, she would need a target that would have very low resistance.
Because she knew where to find him.
She had told herself all of those things, and the more she had read articles about him, the more she had seen images of him, his face, his body, the dark tattoos that covered his skin…
She had told herself that none of that mattered. That his beauty was secondary, and indeed only a perk in that it was a genetic point of desirability.
But now that she was here… Now that she was here in this club with dance music wrapping itself around her skin, and the thrill of her deceit rocketing through her like adrenaline, a smile spread across her lips.
Freedom.
This was a moment of freedom. A moment to last a lifetime.
Yes, she was doing this to claim the maximum amount of freedom a woman in her position ever could. But even so, she would go back to her life of service when all this was said and done. But this… This was a moment out of time.
Not a moment to think about the future. Of what it would be like to finally have the power over her country she deserved. To finally get out of her father’s stranglehold. Not a moment to ponder how the ache of loneliness she felt inside might finally be assuaged by holding a child of her own. A child she would love no matter what.
She was Alice, through a looking glass. Not Astrid.
And she was going to seduce a man for the first time in her life. Possibly the last.
All she had to do was find him. And then she saw him, there could be no mistaking him. He was up on a platform above the dance floor, surveying the party below. It could be only him. That dark, enigmatic gaze rolling over the crowd with an air of unquestionable authority.
Astrid was royalty in Bjornland. She was the queen.
But there was no mistaking that here in this club, Mauro Bianchi was king.
The king of sin, of vice, of pleasure.
The kind of king who would never be welcome in a state and steady nation such as hers. But the perfect king for tonight.
She took a breath and made her way over to the stairs, thanking a lifetime of deportment for her ability to climb them with ease even in those spiked, crystal heels she had on her feet. She let her fingers drift along the rail in a seductive manner, the kind that she had been warned against as a girl. She had been taught to convey herself as cool. Sexless, really.
She was the first female monarch in Bjornland since the 1500s. The weight of the crown for her could never have been anything but heavy.
Her father had ever been resentful of the fact that it was the daughter who had been born first. Resentful. Distrustful. Doubtful.
But her mother… It was her mother who had made absolutely certain that there would be no creative shifting of birth orders.
Astrid had been born first. And her mother had had the announcement issued with speed and finality.
Her mother had also made sure that Astrid’s education had been complete. That she had been trained in the art of war. Not just the kind found on the battlefield, but the kind she would face in any and all political arenas.
There was a ruthlessness, her mother had told her, to all rulers. And a queen would need to hone her ruthlessness to a razor-sharp point, and wield it with more exacting brutality than any king.
And so she had been instructed on how to hold herself, how to be beautiful, without being sexual.
She was throwing all of it away right in that moment. Allowing her hips to sway, allowing her fingertips to caress the railing like she might a lover.
She had never had a lover.
But it was the aim of tonight.
And so, she could forget everything she had learned, or rather, could turn it upside down in this place that was like a mirror of her normal life.
That was how she felt. As if she’d stepped through the looking glass. As if she was on the other side of wealth and beauty. Not the weighted, austere version, but this frivolous palace made of ice. Transient and decadent. For no purpose other than pleasure.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and the moment she stepped onto the dance floor, she looked up.
Her eyes collided with his.
He saw her. He more than saw her.
It was as if there was an electric current in the air.
And so she did something she would have never done on any other day when her eyes connected with a strange man’s from across the room.
She licked her lips. Slowly. Deliberately.
And then she smiled.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and continued onto the dance floor.
There were many women, and men, dancing by themselves and so she threw herself into the middle of them, and she allowed the rhythm to guide her movements.
She knew the steps to any number of formal dances. Music composed to complement a dance, not music created to lead it.
But she let the beat determine the shift of her hips, the arch in her spine. And for one, wonderful moment she felt like she was simply part of the crowd. Exhilarating. Freeing.
And then she felt the crowd move. But it was more than that. There was a change in the air. In everything around her.
And she knew already what it meant.
The king was on the dance floor.
She turned, and she nearly ran into a broad chest, her face coming just to his collarbone.
He was wearing a black jacket, black shirt with the top two buttons undone, exposing a wedge of skin and dark hair, tantalizing and forbidden—in her estimation—as no dignitary she had ever encountered would approach her without his tie done up tight.
She looked up, and her heart nearly stopped. And then when a smile tipped his lips upward, it accelerated again.
Photographs had not prepared her.
She’d