The Princess and the Pediatrician
Autor:in
Annie O'Neil
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Kapitel
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One Caribbean night together. One pregnant princess! When Dr. Lia Trelleburg — aka Princess Amelia of Karolinska — meets hot pediatrician Oliver Bainbridge at a fundraiser, she decides to break the habit of a carefully controlled lifetime and indulge in a breathtaking night of passion. Only, Lia falls pregnant, and Oliver stuns her by agreeing with palace protocol — yes, they must marry! Despite the odds, could they really find the happiness they desire together… as a family?
CHAPTER ONE
THOUGH LIA WOULD never admit it, there were some perks to being a princess.
‘Champagne?’ asked a passing waiter.
Flutes of fancy fizz when you were really, really nervous was one of them. If only it could make her feel as bubbly as it looked.
She scanned the room to see if she could catch a glimpse of her boss, Dr Nate Edwards, for a confidence-boost. She hadn’t seen much of him around the clinic lately, so she’d thought perhaps they’d catch up tonight at the gala. She’d even shown up early, to check out all the donations from local businesses who seemed to have outdone themselves with their generosity of amazing-looking food, floral displays and just about everything in between for the silent auction.
She scanned the room again. Nope. No Nate. She was beginning to regret the effort she’d gone to with her ‘princess’ gear. Swishy dress. Actual make-up. Tiara.
Only her huge-hearted boss and a good cause like the St Victoria Foundation could get her to pull out her blow dryer and mascara wand, let alone the tiara. Otherwise she’d be parked in the corner of her extra-comfy cottage, wearing her softest cotton jim-jams and watching a box set.
But tonight the box set would have to wait. The Foundation was holding its annual charity gala, and guests hobnobbing with a princess helped boost the coffers. It didn’t mean it made her any less socially awkward, though. Casual chit-chat was definitely not her forte.
She was about to accept a glass of fizz when she pictured the white-blonde, pinch-faced woman with a clipboard who attended official events with her back in Karolinska. She could practically see the woman wrinkling her nose, then hissing, ‘Say No, thank you. And you’ve got lipstick on your teeth.’
The flipside of the perks.
The Princess Faux Pas Posse—or the PFPP as she called them—was a little tribe of helpers the palace back in Karolinska sent to babysit her on the rare occasions when she participated in an official event. They pointed out things like...oh, ketchup on her face, a bit of spinach in her teeth, or—the one the press hadn’t let go of for ages—her hair blowing across her face so it looked as if she had a Victorian moustache.
This wasn’t even her official event—it was Nate’s. He was the founder of The Island Clinic here on St Victoria, her Caribbean home away from prison.
Home! She meant home away from home. Obviously. A palace was hardly a prison.
She sniggered. Try telling that to the Tower of London.
She gave her head a shake. She wasn’t British, nor waiting to get her head chopped off by Henry VIII. And she’d left modern-day Karolinska, where royal traditions felt like medieval shackles, three years ago now. The warm nights and sea-salted air were regular reminders that she had changed her life to be precisely that. Hers. St Victoria spoke to her every bit as much as her homeland did.
Luckily, Karolinska had diplomatic ties with the government here and, unlike her homeland, St Victoria boasted a glorious tropical sprawl of warm beaches, an extraordinary medical clinic, and—more to the point—no PFPP.
Here, she felt able to breathe. She could work without worrying about being ‘The Spinster Surgeon Princess’, as she would no doubt be described in the headlines of the papers back home. She’d been every manner of princess—single/alone/lonely/little—since her parents had split. Now that she was in her early thirties she could add ‘spinster’ to the list.
Being labelled by the media was something she probably should’ve got over a million years ago, but...
It wasn’t all bad, of course. Loath as she was to admit it, sometimes it was fun dressing up. And this was the one night of the year she went full-on glam. And who didn’t like the swish of fabric against their legs when it had been...oh, about three years since they’d felt the touch of a man’s hand?
She gave her head a short, sharp shake. Where had that come from? She was quite happy with her job and with being one hundred per cent in control of her life, thank you very much.
Well. Most of it. The palace was pretty good at tightening the noose when it wanted to.
She thanked the waiter but refused the drink. She was a representative of The Island Clinic tonight, and as such needed to keep her wits about her. She’d have a glass once the press had left and there was no danger of an ‘incident’ being reported back to the palace.
And by ‘incident’ she meant embarrassment. Members of the Karolinskan Royal Family did not embarrass The Crown. ’Twas ever thus.
Which, of course, brought out her mischievous side.
She pulled her mobile out of the delicately woven palm frond clutch one of her patients had given her and, after a surreptitious glance around, took a goofy selfie in front of an enormous floral display, which was designed to look like a tropical flower guide to the Caribbean Islands.
She tapped in her cousin’s number. He had donated the special grand cru for this event. He was probably out on a peace-keeping mission with the rest of his squad. It was how Jonas spent most of his time these days—in well-worn army fatigues, keeping the peace in volatile hot spots in the world. Places she should be as well, providing medical care, but wasn’t thanks to the King and Queen...aka Grandmama and Grandpapa.
Yes, thanks to them, and to her father’s inability to stand up to them on her behalf, instead of following up the years of military medical training she’d poured her heart and soul into with an appropriate career, she ‘kept the peace’ in a different way. Patient by patient, case by case, at The Island Clinic.
She’d been drawn to the clinic after reading about its extensive charitable work. And events like tonight’s ball would help ensure the clinic could carry on with the promise that no patient in need of their elite treatment would be turned away. She genuinely loved it. She was a neurosurgeon, and there were some incredibly interesting cases which she never would’ve seen if she hadn’t wrangled her way round the palace’s rules and found this job.
Another one of the catering staff swept by, miraculously managing to balance a tray filled with sparkling glasses of fizz even as her hips moved to the rhythm of the guitarist who was warming up on the small stage.
The woman did a quick double-take when she recognised Lia, and instantly swirled the tray round in front of her. ‘Champagne?’
Lia flushed, as she usually did when she was recognised, and said, ‘No, thank you.’ Then, in a burst of spontaneity, she tapped the side of her nose and with a grin said, ‘Not yet, anyway.’
The woman sashayed away with a knowing laugh.
Lia looked around the room and, as she was on her own, let herself have a sway to the music, too, crossing her arms so that one hand rested on each hip.
It really had been a long time since she’d been held by a man.
She pulled a face. Being horny was not usually her thing. Nor was it helping her align her focus to where it should be. On the guests about to arrive.
They were going to have such fun tonight. Beautiful music, amazing food—all supplied by talented and warm-hearted local businesses—and, thanks to the ballroom staff here at the Harbour Hotel, in an absolutely beautiful location. If ever there was a night to donate a million dollars to an excellent charity, or to...say...share a first kiss...this was it.
The event team had extended the sumptuous floral aesthetic of the loggia surrounding the sprawling hacienda-style building into the ballroom. All of the carved wooden sliding doors had been tucked away into invisible corners, so that the glittering harbour could be seen twinkling away. The arches soaring up to the double-height ceilings were hidden behind massive palms bearing swirls of fairy lights. The tables were dappled with beautifully perfumed flowers perched in cleverly crafted banana leaf ‘vases’.
The overall effect was tropical chic at its finest. A true celebration of all that was beautiful on the island of St Victoria, and a reflection of the spirit of the community who lived on it. Generous, kind, gorgeous people Lia hoped she would never have to say goodbye to if—heaven forbid—duty ever called.
Speaking of which...
She tapped out a quick message to her cousin.
Hey, Jonas, what do you think of my island look? I’m sure our grandparents would love it! LOL. We’re in the throes of the rainy season, but tonight it’s dry and deliciously cool. For the Caribbean, anyway. Still not worn a jumper. Has the snow started back home? Ha-ha. Kidding/not kidding. Enjoy your summer if you’re home. Catch-up video-call soon? Lia x
Her thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button as she took a moment to examine the photo she’d just snapped. Her long, very Scandinavian-looking blonde hair was in a thick, loose plait, woven together at the back of her head with a smattering of the beautiful tropical flowers that bloomed here year-round. The delicate purple of the blossoms was a nice accent to the eggshell-blue maxi dress she’d decided to wear tonight. It managed to both look elegant and be comfortable—one of her prerequisites now that she was choosing her own outfits.
After years of being handed photos by the disappointed palace press secretary, who loved to point out how awkward and uncomfortable Lia looked, she’d finally asked for ‘classy, but with room to breathe’ to be the guideline for all the clothes designers sent to her.
It hadn’t made much of a difference.
Moving countries had.
Since she’d moved here to St Vic, well out of ‘lens shot’ of the paparazzi, the designer clothes had dried up and—surprise, surprise—she’d begun to look less awkward and uncomfortable in the rare photos she appeared in. Clothing, she realised, had had nothing to do with her discomfort.
Smiling and looking pretty as a princess simply wasn’t her thing.
Doing something that made a genuine difference was.
She felt her smile falter as she thought back to the days when, as only sixth in line to the throne, she’d never taken centre stage on the palace balcony family portraits, but had always been required to be there, waving, smiling, looking out over the fairy tale main square of the capital city of Karolinska and, more importantly, at the people who revered the royal family and all they stood for.
Stoicism. Duty. Scandinavian pride.
In fairness, her country was beautiful. Nestled between Sweden and Denmark, it was almost entirely comprised of little islands dotted about the Baltic Sea—except for the capital city which stood proudly on the mainland coast. A beacon of Scandinavian beauty and civic pride.
As a nation, they were highly regarded for their strong moral compass on matters of global import and for their generosity when it came to the social well-being of their citizens. As her grandfather the King often said, ‘We set the standard the rest of the world must follow.’
She had a few rebuttal points for that, but... Loyalty, loyalty, loyalty! That was how it worked in her family.
She shivered as she felt the claws of family obligation dig deep into her core. How was it that they still held so much power over her, three years after she’d left the snow-capped rooftops of Karolinska behind?
She squinted at the photo, trying to divine if something—anything—had changed in her in the time since she’d arrived on the pristine white sandy beaches of St Victoria.
She blinked in surprise.
Gosh...
Three years of island life had changed her.
She looked happy. Genuinely happy. And why not? She was mostly free of the royal shackles that had weighed her down back home. The loneliness. The hunger for a so-called normal family. Well... Okay, so she was still lonely, and she was absolutely without a doubt single. And, judging by all her not entirely appropriate thoughts she was a little bit lusty... But at least her grandmother wasn’t trying to set her up with ‘suitables’, as she called them.
Here, Lia was on the periphery of a different type of family: The Island Clinic. It was a mismatch of international and local doctors and health professionals, brought together by the clinic’s American founder Nate Edwards.
To the staff, she wasn’t Princess Amelia Margit Sigrid Embla Trelleburg of Karolinska, sixth in line to the throne, as she was back in Europe. Here she was free to be plain old Lia. Or Dr Li-Li, as some of the nurses and patients called her.
Not that it happened that frequently... Being comfortable in her own skin was still something she was working on. As was trusting people to be her friend for no other reason than that they liked her. But she’d get there one day. So long as everyone who was in line to the throne before her stayed healthy and well. She never wanted to take The Crown. Managing her own life was hard enough, thank you very much.
Soon enough the room began to fill, and introductions came in a long stream of names she’d never remember. It was overwhelming, but all for a good cause.
As she eventually wended her way through the tables towards her own seat she fought the lonely feeling that inevitably began to hollow her out at big events like this. The tables were filled with people dressed in all of their finery, chatting away, laughing, smiling, listening. Oh, she could put on a show and do the same, but her childhood hadn’t prepared her to feel at ease in a crowd...
A mother who’d hated the limelight, a father who’d bowed and acquiesced to the throne, and a shocking divorce had meant the palace had taken over the ‘finer points’ of her upbringing and given short shrift to that. One-on-one interactions were more her style. And even then...
She smiled and nodded, shook the odd hand, gradually feeling more and more isolated as she approached the head table where she guessed Nate wanted her—still no Nate!—and stood behind her chair.
Why did being in a crowd always feel like the loneliest place in the world?
She held back the inevitable grimace, weighted with bad memories. There were a thousand reasons why and all of them had to do with growing up in her family. One that could’ve been happy if only—
She forced her thoughts to screech to a halt.
If only nothing. What was done was done. If she wanted to carry on being happy here on St Vic, she’d have to find a way to re-establish how she dealt with people. Just because her parents were divorced, and her mother had been ostracised, and Lia had been sent off to moulder away in a remarkably unpleasant convent school for the entirety of her childhood, didn’t mean her adulthood had to be miserable. Just as she had the power to change someone’s life in the operating theatre, she also had the power to change her own.
Having told herself off, she scanned the vast room and forced herself to think of all of these people as potential friends. Or... Her eyes skipped from one male face to another. Potential boyfriends? It was an area of her life she was particularly gun-shy about. The last few had wanted to live the life they’d thought royals led, only to discover it wasn’t quite the way the society papers would have had them believe. Suffice it to say being dumped by text when you were a princess was a double blow.
There had been one name—well, a face, really—that had stood out from the crowd earlier. A paediatrician from the UK whose name she hadn’t been able to catch, because before he’d got to her in the greeting queue he’d spotted a little boy who’d been treated at the clinic. He’d left the queue and shared a jolly greeting with the lad and his parents before the pair of them had completed a very intricate handshake only the two of them seemed to know.
She’d liked that. Honouring a child she presumed had been his patient over kowtowing to ‘royalty’.
Well. Royalty. Without the quotes.
She was genuinely royal, whether she liked it or not.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a rather lovely male hand take hold of the back of the chair next to hers. It looked strong, capable, and oddly callused for someone she presumed was a doctor.
‘Is this seat taken?’
She was about to say yes, that they were all assigned seats, when she realised the very man she’d been thinking of was standing next to her. Tall. Athletically lean. Short caramel-blond hair. And piercing blue eyes that sparkled in the twilight hues of the ballroom lighting.
Unlike a lot of the guests who didn’t seem able to look her directly in the eye—because of the princess thing—this man didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated. He had an aura of strength about him that spoke of a deep-seated kindness, an inner peace that didn’t necessitate any shows of bravura or machismo.
She glanced down at the name card.
Oliver Bainbridge.
She surprised herself by fixing him with a cheeky grin. Something about him made her feel comfortable. And, even more surprisingly, sexy. An internal glittery sensation she hadn’t felt in ages lit inside her, making her feel as effervescent as the champagne everyone was drinking.
‘It is taken, but I suppose we could switch the name cards to make it yours. So long as you promise to be more entertaining than the real Oliver Bainbridge. He sounds a bit of a bore, don’t you think?’
His eyebrows quirked at the challenge.
She pressed her lips forward in a Go on, I’m waiting moue. Was she flirting? Crumbs. She was flirting!
‘Oliver’s not exactly a name that soars up the sexy charts, is it? Would it help if I told you my middle name was Casanova?’
She hooted with laughter, and through a giggle managed to say, ‘I think that would be worse.’
‘Well, then...’ He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. ‘Would you be satisfied if I were to stay plain old Oliver?’
He pressed the softest of kisses to the back of her hand, sending a spray of heat through her body, highlighting the more...ahem...erogenous zones.
This Oliver Bainbridge could be rather dangerous. Dangerous and yummy. The problem being, Princess Amelia Margit Sigrid Embla Trelleburg of Karolinska didn’t find men ‘yummy’. She found them suitable. Or appropriate. Or, in the case of her last boyfriend, well-vetted.
But Lia, for the very first time in her life, fancied a bit of yummy.
Her eyebrows arrowed up into what Jonas called her ‘imperious Empress’ expression. ‘I suppose the name will have to do until we come up with a better one. Now, then, as we’re seated next to one another, do you think you’ll be able to keep me entertained all night? I have very high standards, you know.’
Who was she—and where had plain old Lia gone?
‘I shall endeavour to do my very best.’ His lips twitched as if they’d just shared a private joke of a much more carnal nature. ‘If you’ll allow a humble paediatrician the pleasure of trying?’
‘Oh, the pleasure is all mine,’ she said grandly, knowing as she did so that never before had truer words been spoken.
