Royal Desire (Maid for the Billionaire Prince Vol 4)

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Artemis Hunt

Cover art by Artemis Hunt

Published by Artemis Hunt at Smashwords

WORKS BY ARTEMIS HUNT

EROTIC ROMANCES

The ‘Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha
Male’ series

A Virgin Enslaved

The ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’
series

Mysterious Desire

Forbidden Desire

Infamous Desire

Royal Desire

ROMANCES

The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick

Snow White and the Alien

EROTICA BY APHRODITE HUNT

The ‘Bound
and Shackled
to
the Billionaire’ series

His Indecent Proposition

His Indecent Demands

His Indecent Desires

The ‘Initiation’ series

Open Your Legs for Me

Blindfolded and Spread-eagled

Thighs Wide Apart

Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy

The Final Initiation

The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories

The ‘Initiation 2’ series

Open Your Legs for my Family

Bend Over for my Family

Publicly Display Yourself for Me

Sex Slave at Sea

Paraded before the Billionaires

Sex Slave at the Auction

The ‘Initiation 3’ series

Sex Slave to the Dictator

‘
The Royal Captive’ series

Prince Miro’s Capture

Prince Miro’s Submission

Prince Miro’s Enslavement

Prince Miro’s Punishment

Prince Miro’s Escape

Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation

The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3

The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6

The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series

I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac

Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me

Gang Banged by the Chain Gang

Tempting the Hot Navy SEAL

The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series

Her First Clit Ring

Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage

Her First Clit Ring 3: Desensitization

The ‘Undercover’ series

Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor

Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO

The ‘Alien’ series

Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens

Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2

Hot, Wet and Steamy
(individual
stories)

When He’s Inside You

My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper

The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter
(Erotic Suspense)

Dear reader, as this list is not always
comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this
point in publishing, please visit
http://artemishunt.blogspot.com/
and
http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/
for more stories and updates. I write as Artemis Hunt for erotic
romances with a more romance feel and Aphrodite Hunt for pure
erotica and erotic romances which are slightly kinkier. So please
be aware of what you’re getting into, dear reader, when you read
one of my stories. Thank you so much for your support.

1

The day of the state funeral dawns
uncharacteristically sunny. Soft white clouds scud in the sky,
occasionally hiding the cheerful ball of yellow sun. The entire
nation of Moldavia is either out in the streets or watching the
proceedings on TV. The stores have all closed. Flags are flown at
half-mast. The mood is somber as is fitting for the death of a King
who has served the people for well over forty years.

My heart is leaden in my chest.

Although the old King had no fondness for
me, he was a good man. I bore him no ill will. He was the father of
the man I love, after all. He would not have been glad to hear of
Alex’s proposal to me. Most likely he would have keeled over dead.
So in essence, I’m secretly glad he won’t be around to be murdered
by our announcement.
I
would have keeled over from a heart
attack if I’m held responsible for the death of Alex’s father.

People line both sides of the street. They
are unanimously dressed in black. Black hats, black veils, black
gloves, black dresses. Many shades and hues of black. There’s misty
black, charcoal black, blue black, raven black, shimmering black.
Even in mourning, the Moldavians are a fashionable lot.

Some people are openly crying. The King must
have been dearly loved. The royal hearse rolls slowly down the
streets from the palace. It is laden with flowers. Even from where
I stand, I can smell their cloying, sickly sweet scent.

The Queen, Alex and his sisters have chosen
to walk behind the hearse. The procession is slow, plodding. As I
am not yet part of the family, I walk behind the royal guests and
dignitaries – twenty rows deep. Tatiana and her father are just
behind the Moldavian royals. Yes, I’m well aware of the contrast
between her status and mine.

Royals from all over Europe have flown in to
attend the funeral. The news crews from every continent are out,
filming the entire procession. No flash bulbs today. Photos are
taken discreetly and digitally.

My consolation is to be placed beside Madame
Fournier, who is elegant in a flowing black dress and a black
turban wrapped around her head.

“You look very nice,” she says to me.

“Thank you.”

I am dressed in various shades of harmonious
black. My head is crowned by a black hat. My face is shadowed in a
lacy and netted veil.

“I heard about the proposal,” she says.

There has been no formal announcement. Alex
and I both agreed that it would be crass to tell anyone outside
immediate family.

“Who did you hear it from?”

“Jasper.”

Figures. Jasper walks behind us, probably
listening to our every word. Although he has been kinder to me of
late, I still hold him in suspicious regard. I bear no illusions
that he would not hesitate to ship me on the next flight out of
Moldavia if his Queen wishes it so. I raise my head. Since coming
to Moldavia and being labeled Public Royal Enemy Number One, I have
gained considerable backbone.

I think.

Anyway, I love Alex and I will do whatever
it takes to weather tornadoes for him. And I can smell them hurling
in like thunderbolts from the near distance. I’ve developed quite a
nose for them since spending a month in Indonesia.

I find myself drifting back to that
wonderful time Alex and I shared on the sunny beaches. Just the two
of us . . . in the outskirts of the village. Making love on the
sand. It was a simple, uncomplicated time. Oh, how I wish –

I shouldn’t wish. I can’t reverse time. Alex
is King now. He has his duties, and as the woman he has asked to
marry, I must do my duty to him.

Madame Fournier says, “How did the Queen
take it?”

“I don’t know.” My black shoes are starting
to hurt. “She has not spoken to me since the hospital.”

It’s true. I don’t blame her. The last three
days have been very trying on the family. I’ve hardly seen
Alex.

“I suggest not making your engagement public
for at least six months,” she says meaningfully.

Yes. Everyone would hate me even more, just
when I thought I had reversed a little of it. I’m sure the public
doesn’t hate me so much anymore, especially since I’ve embraced
their culture. Even the dress and shoes I’m wearing are Greta
Havre, a Moldavian designer. I’m sure all this would not be lost on
the tabloid press.

Still . . . six months! Six months to wait
before we can proclaim our commitment to the world. A lot can
happen in six months.

Our procession walks down the main street of
Moldavia. Once we reach the end, a bevy of sleek black limos are
waiting to take us back to the palace grounds, where the old King’s
body will be interred.

The ‘burial’ takes place in the Imperial
Crypt. The mausoleum is larger than a house. Its external walls are
festooned with winged angels and cherubs and saints – all carved in
black granite. The huge twin iron doors bear Latin inscriptions and
two large crosses on either side. Only immediate family is allowed
inside the crypt, and so the ceremony is conducted outside.

The royals and dignitaries all throng the
open casket, which will be wheeled into the crypt. I am once again
three rows deep. I am told that the old King’s body has been
embalmed and he will be put together with his ancestors, who date
back to the sixteenth century. One day, Alex will grow old and die,
I’m morbidly aware, and he too will be interred here together with
his father, who once disapproved of his choice of a wife.

The Archbishop of Moldavia is the highest
cleric in the land. He prays in Latin, something I reckon most of
the audience does not understand. He is a man of seventy, with
shocking white hair and stern eyes as piercing as the sky. As he
prays and blesses the casket with holy water, his gaze rakes over
the audience.

Although I’m behind two bodies, I swear his
eyes alight on me for a tad longer than usual. They blaze with
derision.
So
, they seem to say.
You are the one who has
caused such grief.

And then the moment passes and his eyes flit
away.

I swallow. Could it have been my
imagination?

It is Alex’s turn to say something. In
black, he is somber and serious and very handsome, as befitting a
young new King. He speaks in French, something I will have to learn
if I am to be his wife. I don’t understand most of what he’s
saying, but I believe he is asking for forgiveness.

Forgive me, Father, for hurting you.

Forgive me for not being at your side when
you were first taken ill.

Forgive me for failing to be the son you
wanted.

Forgive me for constantly disappointing
you.

Although I am not sure what Alex is saying
(nor do I intend to ask him), my mind runs over with things he
may
be saying.

Forgive me for choosing to marry a woman so
far beneath my station and bringing this family shame. Now that I
am King, I will rectify this, Father. I will cast her aside and
take Tatiana to be my one true bride.

OK, I’m still insecure and paranoid. I can’t
help it. Look where I am. A chilly breeze whips up and sends leaves
scuttling against the mausoleum. It’s much chillier than any wind
present today by far. It’s as though the ghost of Alex’s father is
omnipresent, guiding the proceedings and fueling my newfound
fears.

Thankfully, it is over. The casket is
wheeled inside the crypt and laid into a cubicle carved into one of
the walls. I am not allowed inside, but I imagine the ghosts there
whispering to the Alex as he vanishes into the mausoleum, bidding
his father goodbye a final time.

With a final blessing, the iron doors clang
shut, never to open again until the death of the next monarch.
Queens are not allowed to be interred here. It is strictly for
Moldavian Kings. When we die, Alex and I will not be buried
together.

I’m being horribly morbid today. Blame it on
the atmosphere.

We slowly walk towards the waiting limos.
Alex has his arm around his weeping mother as he ushers her to the
lead car. A pang stabs my chest. The Queen must have loved her
husband so, so much.

“Elizabeth Turner?” a female voice calls
me.

I turn.

Alex’s sister, Marie, walks towards me. She
resembles her mother – all long dark hair and flashing eyes – but
somehow she does not possess the same beauty, as though she is a
faded version of a beloved painting rather than the real deal. She
is less austere however, as one would expect of a student from
Yale. I have never officially been introduced to her because she
just flew back in yesterday.

“Hello?” I say cautiously. I have already
been exposed to the toxic Claire, Alex’s youngest sister. I don’t
expect Marie to be much better, especially when Claire tells her
I’ve been rifling through her closet.

Marie holds out her hand and smiles warmly.
Well, that’s a start.

“I’m Marie . . . ”

“I know. Alex has told me so much about
you.”

She scrutinizes my dress. “Moldavian, huh?
Good strategy.”

“It was Madame Fournier’s idea.”

“Yes. Good woman, that.”

Her eyes do not mirror her words, and I get
the impression she’s not very fond of Madame Fournier. Then she
smiles again. I don’t know if I’m correct to assume this, but she
does not seem overly upset that her father is dead. Or perhaps true
royals behave like this. Still, perhaps she copes with her grief
differently.