The Queen's Baby Scandal

One night at the Italian’s ball…

has permanent consequences!

Mauro Bianchi is stunned to discover the beautiful innocent who left his bed at midnight three months ago is a queen…and she’s pregnant! He’s never wanted a family, but nothing will stop this billionaire from claiming his heir.

Queen Astrid can’t forget the pleasure of Mauro’s touch, despite her scandalous royal bombshell! To protect her throne, she is determined to raise her baby alone. Only now Mauro’s back, his powerful presence a constant reminder of their chemistry. And he has a demand: “I want my child.”

MAISEY YATES is a New York Times bestselling author of over seventy-five romance novels. She has a coffee habit she has no interest in kicking, and a slight Pinterest addiction. She lives with her husband and children in the Pacific Northwest. When Maisey isn’t writing she can be found singing in the grocery store, shopping for shoes online and probably not doing dishes. Check out her website: maiseyyates.com.

Also by Maisey Yates

His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

Brides of Innocence miniseries

The Spaniard’s Untouched Bride

The Spaniard’s Stolen Bride

Once Upon a Seduction… miniseries

The Prince’s Captive Virgin

The Prince’s Stolen Virgin

The Italian’s Pregnant Prisoner

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Queen’s Baby Scandal

Maisey Yates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08847-3

THE QUEEN’S BABY SCANDAL

© 2019 Maisey Yates

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To Jackie, Megan, Nicole and Rusty.

Finding true friends who understand you, relate to you,

make you laugh and even try to politely respond to the

100 raccoon pictures you send them a day

is a rare thing. I think it might even be magic.

Thank you for being my friends.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

QUEEN ASTRID VON BJORNLAND had never been to a club before. But she was reasonably familiar with the layout of the Ice Palace, nestled in the Italian Alps, hidden away from commoners and social riffraff—as defined by Mauro Bianchi, the billionaire owner of the establishment—in spite of the fact that it was a place she’d never before visited.

She and Latika had done an intense amount of research on the subject prior to hatching their plan, and image searches of the facility itself had been involved. Though, the findings had been sparse.

Mauro was intensely protective of the image of the club as exclusive. And the only photographs that existed were photographs that had been officially sanctioned by Mauro himself, and included only the main areas, and none of the VIP locations that the many articles Astrid had read stated were stationed throughout the club.

Her palms were sweaty, but she knew that the invitation that she held in her hand was good enough.

Latika had assured her of that. And Latika was never wrong.

When Astrid had been looking to hire an assistant the year before her father had passed, she’d made discreet inquiries among the circle of dignitaries and royalty she knew, and Latika had appeared the next day. Polished, sleek and just a bit too good to be true.

It hadn’t taken long for Astrid to realize Latika was hiding something.

“I had to get away from my father. He’s a very rich man, and looking to consolidate that wealth by marrying me off to a man who is… He’s not a good man. I will need to stay out of the spotlight completely. So all of my work will be done quietly, efficiently and with me out of the picture.”

That was all Astrid had needed to hear. She knew all about the looming specter of potential arranged marriages and overly controlling fathers.

And so, she had hired Latika on the spot.

She was a whiz of an assistant—and had become an even better friend, and ally—and able to conjure up near magic with the snap of her fingers. In this case, magic had included: an excuse for Astrid to go to Italy, a car rented on the sly, an extravagant and extravagantly skimpy designer dress, jewels and shoes, and a near impossible invitation to the party.

And now Astrid was standing and waiting behind the thick velvet rope, in line, for entry.

Astrid had never waited in a line before. Not once in her life.

Astrid had never waited full stop.

She had been born five minutes before her twin brother, Prince Gunnar, much to the dismay of her father and the entire house of nobility. And that had essentially set the tone for her entire life.

A tone that had led to this particular plan, as dangerous, unlikely and foolhardy as it was.

All of those adjectives had belonged to Latika. Who had scolded Astrid the entire time she had aided her in putting the plan together.

Latika had many opinions, but none of them really mattered. Both in terms of what she would help Astrid accomplish, and in terms of what Astrid would choose to do. She would make happen whatever Astrid asked her to make happen. And that was the simple truth of it.

Astrid tugged at the hem of her impossibly short white dress. It was daring, and nothing like she would wear in her real life, but that had been part of the plan.

She could not look like Queen Astrid. If her brother found out, he would come down to the club and physically drag her out. Not to mention if any of the various government officials found out, they would do the same.

But she was doing what had to be done to wrest control of her kingdom into her own hands. Control of her future.

She would find other ways if need be, but this plan had come together with so much expert timing that Astrid was willing to chance it for several reasons.

And, she had been willing to wear a gown that was essentially a suit jacket with nothing beneath it. The neckline gaped, showing curves and angles of her body she normally kept well hidden.

Her red hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she was wearing a single, long emerald on a chain, which swayed perilously between her cleavage and made her feel like she was drawing attention.

Of course, if she wasn’t drawing attention to her cleavage, then she was calling attention to her legs, with that abbreviated hemline in the sky-high heels. And perhaps her rear, where she knew the white dress clung with a kind of saucy cheekiness. At least, that was what Latika had told her.

But the final thing that Latika had said to her as she had dropped her in front of the queue for the club was that she absolutely had to be back out at the curb by two in the morning.

The timing was essential, and if she missed the timing at all, not only could the plan be in jeopardy, but Latika’s job certainly would be. And by extension possibly Latika herself, given that her position at the palace had been insulation for her for the past three years.

Astrid was the figurehead for her country. And she had power, it was true. But her father’s antiquated board, along with the elected government, had authority and if something was ever put to a vote, whether it be a member of staff or law, then Astrid would be outweighed. It would be thus, she had been assured, even if Gunnar had been made king. Even if he were not born five minutes after his sister.

Though, Astrid was not convinced of this.

And she had found a loophole. And that loophole was why she was here.

It certainly had nothing to do with Mauro Bianchi. Not in the personal sense. She didn’t even know the man, after all. But she knew about him. Everyone did. A self-made billionaire who had risen up from abject poverty thanks to his grit and determination.

In Astrid’s opinion, had this been the Middle Ages, he would have been a marauding conqueror. And as she was dealing with arcane laws more firmly in the Middle Ages than in the modern era, that had only made him all the more attractive to her as she set about hatching her plan.

She took a step forward in line as all of the people shuffled upward, and she found herself facing a large, grim-looking bouncer with a pronounced scar running across the length of his face.

She squared her shoulders, and then, changed tactics. She arched her breasts outward instead, and rather than affecting her typical severe glance, she went with a pout, just as she and Latika had been practicing in her hotel room tonight before they had gone out.

“Here is my invitation,” she said, somehow feeling like she hadn’t quite gotten down the simper that the other women in the line had thrown out when they had presented their invitations to the bouncer.

But it didn’t matter. The invitation—while for a person who didn’t exist—was for the person she was playing, and it was legitimate.

“Of course,” he said, looking her over, something he did in his gaze that Astrid had never had directed at her before. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Steele.”

He kept the card firmly in his hand, and ushered her inside.

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 first seen him in a gossip magazine a year ago when Astrid had brought in a copy of a particularly vile rag that had featured a scandal about Astrid’s brother—who had not spent life on his best behavior in the slightest.

But it wasn’t Gunnar and his naked exploits with a French model that had held Astrid’s attention. First of all, it was a terribly common thing. Even for Gunnar. It wasn’t even interesting.

But second of all…

Oh, there had been Mauro. A dissolute, salacious, scandalous playboy in a tux, with one woman clinging to each arm as he walked through one of his clubs.

Her heart had stopped. The world had stopped.

That was just a photograph.

In person…

He was beautiful, but not in the way the word was typically used. He was far too masculine a thing for simple beauty. Hard and angular like a rock, his jaw square and sculpted, his lips perfectly shaped and firm looking. His dark eyes were like chips of obsidian, the lights on the dance floor swallowed up in those fathomless depths.

He said nothing, and she wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway. But he extended his hand, and she took his, the spark of fire that ignited at that point of contact spreading over her body like a ripple in the water. Sharp and shocking at its core, rolling over her wider and broader as it expanded.

He caught her and held her against his body.

She had danced with men before, but they had not held her like this. So close that her breasts were crushed to hard, muscular midsections, a large commanding hand low on her back.

And then his lips touched her ear, his whisper husky. “I’ve never seen you before.”

She moved back, tipping her chin upward so that she could see him, so that she could look him full in the face. Except, she could hardly sustain it. She looked down.

And he captured her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze again. If she hadn’t been wearing those heels she would have been so incredibly dwarfed by him there would have been no responding. But he lowered his head, and she leaned in.

“Because I’ve never been here before.”

“It’s always nice to see an unfamiliar face,” he said, this time brushing her hair back from her face as he whispered.

“Dance with me,” she said, not bothering to whisper this time.

The way that the rather predatory grin slid over his mouth told her that he understood.

That she wanted to do more than dance.

His eyes burned into hers as he gripped her hips, dragging her toward him as they moved in time with the music. She felt his touch everywhere, not just where he had his hands, but all the points in between, down deep, in the most intimate parts of her. She had danced with men before, but it had never been like this. Of course, the perfectly polished aristocrats who had always attended the balls she’d been at had never been anything like this.

There was an element of danger to this man. And she found herself drawn to it.

In fact, she found she wanted to fling herself against it. Against him. She had always been asked to be strong, but she had also been sheltered in many ways. Her take on the world was theoretical. And now, she was being tasked with ruling an entire country, while still suffering from that same fate.

Power, but with chains around it.

She wanted to test herself. To test those bonds.

It was what she was here to do.

“Maybe you could show me your club.”

His grip tightened on her, and he looked at her for a long moment, before taking her hand and leading her from the dance floor. He held on to her as he took her down the stairs, away from the pulsing music. But they didn’t go back to the entry, where people had crowded in. Instead, he moved her down a slim corridor with black flooring that had gold light shooting through the spaces in the tile. He pushed open a door that simply looked like another obsidian panel. “You will want a coat,” he said, not taking one for himself, but offering her a snow-white one from a rack by the door.