The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1), Iris Morland [best reads of all time TXT] 📗

"Yes. The door that adjoins your chambers—the lock, it is, shall we say..." Laurent stared at the ceiling. "Very old."

Since I'd lived in my own apartments in another part of the palace until I'd moved into the east wing last week, I didn't know the ins and outs of its layout. Laurent, having worked at the palace for over twenty years? Well, he knew everything.

I clapped him on the shoulder. "You're my favorite servant, you know that?"

"So you've said, despite my lack of holiday for over a decade."

Laurent never wanted to go on holiday, anyway. I gave him a droll look, shooing him off to sleep.

Before he left, though, he said quietly, "Be gentle with her, sir. She's young, and in a strange place."

My frustration with Niamh melted. I sighed. "I won't say that you're correct."

"Of course not, sir. That would be out of character." Laurent bowed, and I dismissed him for the night.

I entered my own chambers. Opulent and limned with gold, the curtains blood red and velvet, embroidered with the royal carnation, it looked like something out of eighteenth-century Versailles.

Which was precisely the point: when it was built, my long-dead ancestors had attempted to copy the court of Louis XIV, although luckily for them, they'd avoided the later years involving guillotines and rolling heads. Apparently they hadn't been creative enough to come up with their own interior designs, or fashions, or music. Anything interesting, really.

Although there had been updates to the bedding, draperies, and carpets since then, they'd always kept a similar style. I had to admit, I'd never liked the opulence. I understood that a palace should look like a palace and not some university flat with broken-down furniture from IKEA, but there had to be a happy medium between the two.

My bedroom was connected to another room, a parlor, that connected to Niamh's bedroom. Entering it, I took in the uneaten tray of dinner that Niamh hadn't touched.

Going to the other door that led into Niamh’s bedroom, I remembered another door in my previous apartments that was similarly old. Pushing against it with my shoulder, I was able to unlatch the lock before turning the knob.

I opened the door to find Niamh desperately trying to undo the countless tiny buttons down the back of her wedding dress. She whirled at my entrance, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"What the fuck! How did you—“

"Do you need help?"

With her long, dark hair coiled about her head, pearls surrounding her slender throat, she was the complete opposite of the ragamuffin girl I'd first encountered at her grandfather's estate in Dublin. On our journey through Europe, she'd always worn jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie when it was cold. I'd seen her wear mascara once.

Now, though, she wore an ivory gown that accentuated her curves. It was made of silk and beaded with thousands of crystals down the back, then along the train and around the neckline. Sleeves came to her elbows. Although she'd worn a veil in the church, she'd already taken it off.

"You look beautiful," I said softly.

"Yes, I know. I look like a princess."

Her words had an edge to them. I was fairly certain if I approached too quickly, she'd gouge my eyes out.

She had a reason to hate me, of course. I'd forced her into this marriage. Because I wanted to keep the secret of my bastardy a secret. Because I wanted to remain the Hereditary Prince of Salasia, the heir to the Valady dynasty. I wasn't about to let over three hundred years of my family ruling this small principality crumble with me.

So, Niamh, the true heir to the throne after her older brother Liam, was my ticket to holding onto my birthright. She'd only agreed to marry me because she didn't want to ruin her brother's life.

She was extremely protective of him, sometimes to the point that I wondered if there was another reason why. He was a grown man who seemed capable of taking care of himself.

"We agreed that we would spend the night together," I said, "so as not to risk gossip starting."

"I changed my mind."

She sat down at a vanity and began to take off her jewelry. I barely restrained myself from throttling her, but I remembered Laurent's words. Be gentle with her, sir. She's young, and in a strange place.

"I'm trying to protect you," I said.

She looked at me from the mirror. "Really? Because I'm fairly certain everything you've done has been to protect yourself, dearest husband."

I leaned over her, my hands now on her upper arms. We gazed at our reflections.

"You agreed to this marriage. You had ample time to change your mind. Don't act as if I chained you up in a dungeon to get you to agree. Besides." I trailed my hands down her arms, enjoying feeling her shiver. "It's not as if there isn't chemistry here." I kissed the side of her neck. I saw her close her eyes.

She sighed. “You know very well why I said yes. But if you think I'm going to be your little dutiful wife, who only ever nods her head, you're very mistaken."

I tilted her chin up so she looked me in the eyes. "I never expected anything else."

Heat crackled between us. We'd barely touched since our engagement three months ago. We'd kissed after we'd said our vows, of course.

But now, we were finally alone, and the memory of the last time we'd been in that hotel room in Berlin, when I'd made her come under my tongue, sent a thrill through my body. My cock hardened instantly.

"I'm not going to have hate-sex with you," she whispered.

I laughed. I didn't tell her I didn't believe her. Instead, I began to unbutton her dress. With each patch of pale skin revealed, I could hear her breathing increase. A flush had begun to crawl from her chest into her face. She could deny this attraction between us until her dying day. Her body told a