The Crown Prince's Bride (Royal Duology 2)

Somehow, over the years, they’d become friends. It had been in part because she’d attended some of the family functions, too, at Ceci’s insistence.

Then, when Ceci was gone . . . suddenly Stephani wasn’t family anymore. Except she was, and she stepped in and shouldered so much of the load. At the time he hadn’t seen it, but looking back now, he knew he’d been mired in grief and she’d kept things afloat.

Because she cared about him, expecting nothing in return.

It had taken all this time for him to see her. To really see her. And the vision was breathtaking.

They began with a delectable shrimp salad and artichokes with truffle ham and black olives, followed by more champagne. Their mains came—beef filet for him, braised lamb for her, and a bottle of full-bodied red. They chatted and laughed, made eyes at each other over the glimmer of the candle, and tasted each other’s dishes.

He loved how she seemed to enjoy the simple pleasures. The beef was tender and flavorful, and she closed her eyes as she tasted it from his fork. When she opened them, her tongue swept over her lips, licking away the butter and shallot sauce, and her pupils re-adjusted to the light. He swallowed tightly. Did she know what such an innocent gesture did to him?

“I haven’t said thank you for this afternoon,” she said quietly, toying with a roasted fig. “It was amazing, Raoul. Simply amazing.”

“You are welcome. And that’s just a sample of what the spa has to offer. We have three full days left, Steph. I want you to book yourself for one new treatment each day.” He winked at her. “Sometimes being a guinea pig is a pretty good job.”

“I will if you will,” she countered, surprising him. “There are men’s treatments too, you know. And if we’re supposed to be mixing business with relaxation, you deserve some pampering, too.”

He laughed. “Me?”

“Well, I haven’t looked at their services, but you’re probably spared from a body scrub or get rid of cellulite wrap.” She grinned, and took a sip from her wineglass. “But a facial feels so good. And you could do a massage, or a manicure.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Then he refilled her wineglass and they chatted longer, lingering over their entrees until they were finally cold and the candle on their table had burned low. Raoul was surprised to see they were the only ones left on the veranda. They’d certainly lingered over their meal.

“Dessert, Your Highness? Mademoiselle Savalas?”

“What do you think?” he asked.

She looked up at the waiter. “I’ve been longing to try the blackberry vacherin since I arrived.”

“My favorite, mademoiselle.” He smiled at her.

“And I’ll have the lemon tart,” Raoul said, giving a nod. “And we’ll each have a glass of Sauternes. ¿Sí, Stephani?”

He was so used to making decisions that he’d forgotten to defer to her, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. He certainly hadn’t meant to speak for her.

“That sounds lovely. Merci.”

When the waiter was gone, Raoul apologized. “I didn’t mean to order for you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s fine.” She gave a little shrug. “Raoul, I’ve known you long enough now that if I didn’t want it, I would have simply spoken up and said so.” She reached across the table and put her hand over his. “You have never been autocratic with me. And I have never once felt I couldn’t speak my mind if I really needed to.”

“Except to tell me your feelings.”

“Telling you my feelings wouldn’t have been helpful. That was a matter of discretion, not intimidation. They are two very different concepts.” She squeezed his fingers. “And far more complicated than whether or not I wanted a dessert wine.”

“You’re very good for me, you know,” he said, turning his hand over and twining his fingers with hers. “It can be lonely, being seen as the title. But you see me as a person. As a man.”

“More than is appropriate,” she murmured, keeping her voice low and intimate.

Dessert arrived and he slid his fingers away from hers, somewhat reluctantly. They still needed to be discreet, and despite the lack of diners around, it was no secret among the staff that he was here. He scooped up some of the tart, but barely tasted it as their eyes met time after time, and it seemed as if the lingering part of dinner was over. Now there was a different energy, a desire to finish, a need to move on to whatever came next.

Because something was going to happen tonight. He wasn’t sure what, but something was. He’d been utterly appropriate ever since their arrival, but now . . . he wanted to move forward. But only if she was on the same page.

When their dishes were cleared, he held out a hand. “Shall we?”

“Of course.”