His Princess on Paper, page 1
Royal Sarala Weddings
Can these royal siblings find their perfect match?
Prince Rohan of Sarala has always known of the responsibility he was born into—destined to one day be king, but it hasn’t stopped him from being a little rebellious! While his older sister, Princess Marisa, has always been accepting of her kingdom’s long-standing traditions, it doesn’t mean she agrees with them! But now it’s time for them to step up and marry... Is it possible to tame the Sarala siblings?
Don’t miss these fabulous books from Nina Milne!
His Princess on Paper
When Prince Rohan meets his suitably arranged fiancée, Elora, from a neighboring island, he’s shocked by the very undeniable and mutual chemistry he was not expecting! Maybe a convenient engagement can also be fun...?
Available now!
Bound by Their Royal Baby
Princess Marisa of Sarala was never meant to take the throne. But when she discovers her one night with a perfectly delectable stranger has resulted in a pregnancy, suddenly everything in her life is about to change...forever!
Coming soon!
Dear Reader,
I really enjoyed writing Elora and Rohan’s story—partly because I set it on a fictional Indian island, and it was fun to imagine that, but also because I loved taking them from the perspective that they were only together out of a deep sense of duty and emotional obligation to the end, where they truly loved each other and wanted to be together with every fiber of their beings.
I hope you enjoy reading how they got there.
Nina x
His Princess on Paper
Nina Milne
Nina Milne has always dreamed of writing for Harlequin Romance—ever since she played libraries with her mother’s stacks of Harlequin romances as a child. On her way to this dream, Nina acquired an English degree, a hero of her own, three gorgeous children and—somehow!—an accountancy qualification. She lives in Brighton and has filled her house with stacks of books—her very own real library.
Books by Nina Milne
Harlequin Romance
The Casseveti Inheritance
Italian Escape with the CEO
Whisked Away by the Italian Tycoon
The Secret Casseveti Baby
The Christmas Pact
Snowbound Reunion in Japan
Baby on the Tycoon’s Doorstep
Second Chance in Sri Lanka
Falling for His Stand-In Fiancée
Consequence of Their Dubai Night
Wedding Planner’s Deal with the CEO
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To my grandmother (Mamama) and my mum, for both being such fun, good, loving grandmothers
Praise for Nina Milne
“Their Christmas Royal Wedding is an escapist, enjoyable and emotional contemporary tale that will touch readers’ hearts with its beguiling blend of searing intensity, heart-warming drama and uplifting romance. Nina Milne writes with plenty of warmth and heart and she has penned a poignant and spellbinding romantic read.”
—Goodreads
Contents
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
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EXCERPT FROM BREAKING THE BEST FRIEND RULE BY JUSTINE LEWIS
CHAPTER ONE
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ROHAN, unwilling heir to the Kingdom of Sarala, glanced around the small cargo plane as it landed on the tiny, mostly disused airfield and then turned to smile at the pilot.
‘Thank you, Amit, old friend. I appreciate the lift. And the privacy.’
‘Any time, Ro. And good luck. If you need a quick escape, you know where to find me.’
The words, though said half in jest, had an uncomfortable element of truth—there was a chance, slim but there, that Rohan would need an escape route. Not just him, but the whole royal family of Sarala. If Sarala decided to copy the almost unprecedented step that its neighbouring island of Baluka had taken—and declare itself a republic, deposing the incumbent royal family.
As if sensing his friend’s thoughts, Amit shook his head. ‘It’ll be all right, Ro. I’ve spoken to my family, to other people, and they don’t want Sarala to become a republic. They’re happy with the status quo, and with your parents. They are good, just rulers who look after the island and the people. Sarala is mostly prosperous and peaceful—why rock the boat?’
Rohan smiled at his childhood friend, son of the palace head gardener and one of the very few people on Sarala who treated him like a normal human being, not a prince. ‘I don’t think it’s my parents who are the problem. I think it’s the next generation.’ He shook his head. ‘No, that’s not fair.’ His older sister, Marisa, wasn’t at fault, after all he was the heir. ‘It’s me.’
He closed his eyes for a moment, recalled exactly why the people saw him as a problem, remembered the glare of publicity, the relentless coverage of the breakdown of his disastrous marriage, the descriptions of him as ‘cold’, ‘brutal’, ‘heartless’—a bridegroom wedded to duty, a frozen-hearted prince with no sympathy for his ‘persecuted bride’. The photos of his then wife, Princess Caro, tears in her wide green eyes, anguish etched on every beautiful feature.
The memories streamed through his brain and triggered the searing sensation of remembered humiliation, the deep tearing wound of betrayal. But the humiliation, the pain, he had at least been able to keep private—not one person knew the truth of his marriage and none ever would.
He opened his eyes, saw his friend’s expression of sympathy. Amit had no idea what had really happened but he would be able to guess how much Rohan had loathed the public analysis of his private life. The whispers and rumours, the swirling speculation, the hidden conversations and sideways looks.
Now he spoke. ‘Maybe it’s time to fix that, put the past behind you. Spend some more time on Sarala, show the people what you’re really made of.’
Problem was, Rohan wasn’t sure what he was made of, other than flesh, blood, bone and other wobbly bits, just like anyone else. And he couldn’t see why that would impress the people, who had already judged him. That was why he had left Sarala; his parents had been adamant it was the only way to kill the scandal once the divorce was finalised and he’d been forced to agree, despite the uncomfortable sense that it looked as though he were fleeing.
So he had spent the last three years abroad as Sarala’s ambassador, and whilst doing that he’d made a new life for himself, a life he loved—one that had now been upended by his recall to Sarala. An unwelcome recall, but he accepted the necessity. He closed his eyes, hoping against hope that this was a temporary necessity, suspected deep down that it wouldn’t be.
‘I’m not sure they’ll like what they see,’ he told Amit now.
‘That depends what you decide to show them,’ his friend said somewhat cryptically, but before Rohan could ask what he meant Amit glanced down at his phone. ‘I’ve asked a friend of mine, Jamal, to pick you up and take you to the palace. Someone I trust,’ Amit continued. ‘He’s there now.’
A few minutes later Rohan stepped onto the tarmac of the tiny airport, relieved to see that there was no waiting fanfare, no reporters here to record the returning son. Relieved that Amit’s trust in his friend wasn’t misplaced—there had been no tipoff to the press. He glanced around and headed towards the small, discreet dark car parked in the shadows and climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Good evening, Your Highness.’ The young man sounded nervous and Rohan smiled quickly, even as he wished his royalty didn’t affect people.
‘No need for formality. Please call me Rohan.’
The young man in the driving seat looked surprised but nodded, before executing a faultless turn and making his way to the main road, as Rohan assessed the mirrors, checking for signs of pursuit or interest.
‘I don’t think anyone can know that I am giving you a lift. I told no one.’
‘I appreciate that.’ He glanced at Jamal’s serious expression. ‘I don’t want to cause any unrest or a stir until I have a chance to speak with my parents.’ Speaking of whom, it was time to let them know what was going on, now it was too late for them to arrange a ceremonious welcome, if that was what they had planned. He messaged them.
Change of plan. My flight arrived this evening and I am headed to the palace now.
Jamal nodded. ‘I understand.’
There was silence after that and Rohan looked out at the dusky night sky, the indigo darkness of a Saralan night, inhaled the familiar scent of lush sweet flowers that wafted in through the open windows. The smell of home, and for an instant he wished he could be here anonymously, could simply come and go unseen. Or at least only be seen when he chose to be seen.
Instead, he watched as the imposing gates, set in the vast stretch of whitewashed walls that surrounded the palace of Sarala, loomed ahead.
‘I’ll walk the la
‘You’re welcome. Amit speaks highly of you and I am glad to have met you.’
‘You too.’
Ten minutes later, he approached the side entrance, where he was met by a stiff-faced guard. ‘The King and Queen are expecting you in the Throne Room.’
Of course they were. The Throne Room, with its long mahogany table, its dazzling gilt-edged throne, the paintings on the wall of former rulers, the ancient tapestries woven from the silk for which Sarala was justly famed, the room where formal negotiations were carried out, visiting dignitaries met to display and be awed by the weight of royalty, the evidence of the dynasty of the Kamodian family.
So this was to be that sort of meeting—the return of Prince Rohan, Ambassador for Sarala, not a family welcome. Well, what had he expected?
Rohan loved his parents, he did, and they loved him. But he knew that for them the most important thing, the thing they loved the most, was Sarala, and this meeting would be about Sarala.
‘I will call for someone to take you there.’
‘There is no need. I know the way.’ Yet his footsteps lagged as he scrunched across the gravel driveway, heard the rhythmic flow and fall of the water feature, and saw the dimly illuminated shapes of the hedges and bushes of the landscaped garden. For an absurd moment he looked up at the sky, in the foolish hope that Amit would swoop down in his plane and essay a rescue. But the dusky Saralan sky showed only the glitter of stars and the curve of the moon.
He entered via a side entrance and made his way down the long marble corridors of the palace to the throne room. Opened the door to see his parents at the table that stretched across the marble floor, and he looked from the two thrones on a dais across to the stained-glass windows that depicted kings of yesteryear.
King Hanuman and Queen Kaamini rose and stepped up onto the dais in front of the thrones and he joined them, knelt for the traditional blessing.
‘Amma, Papa,’ he murmured and then stood and waited as his parents returned to the table, sat and then motioned for him to follow suit.
His parents’ eyes rested on him and he could see the hint of approbation, the searching glances, the disapproval at his attire—jeans and a T-shirt.
His father’s voice, though, was measured. ‘It is good to see you, my son. But we would have preferred a more official arrival.’
‘Your message said you wished for my urgent return. Given the situation with Baluka, I thought it made more sense to arrive unofficially.’
‘Well, the important thing is that you are here. And here to stay. Your mother and I are recalling you to Sarala. Permanently. It is time for the heir to return home. Time to show the people that you are ready to settle down and learn to rule.’
The words sat like cold stones in his belly. Even though he’d known this would come—had known it all his life.
‘You have done good work in the past few years and been an excellent ambassador for your country. Now it is time to show that you are capable of being a prince and a ruler. To do your duty.’
The weight of that duty, the mantle of royalty, seemed to descend on his shoulders. A duty he’d been born to and would carry out. Because he did love his country, this exotic, lush, beautiful island, producer of the finest silk in the world. And if he wished he’d been born a mere citizen rather than a prince it was a wish that was futile and pointless. And he understood that. If he wished the law could be changed to reflect modern times and allow Marisa, older than he by two years, to be heir, he knew better than to voice that wish.
But he could at least try to buy some time.
‘I understand you wish me to be here more, but I would prefer not to leave my recent duties as ambassador incomplete.’ Didn’t want to leave the life he’d made—more importantly, the business he’d built. His business, one his parents were unaware of.
‘There are more important duties now,’ his mother said. ‘It is time to provide Sarala with an heir. That is why you will marry.’
‘No.’ The denial came from deep within; he couldn’t—wouldn’t—make the same mistake twice.
Both parents raised their eyebrows in a synchronised movement that would have been comical at any other moment than this.
‘I am not ready,’ Rohan said. Not now, not ever.
‘This is not about you. The kingdom needs an heir, needs continuity, needs certainty. A ruler who is here and present, taking no risks, and who has sons to follow him.’ His father’s voice was even and brooked no refusal.
The Queen continued. ‘The monarchy on Baluka fell because there was no heir. Just a distant cousin many times removed who the people did not want. And so they stormed the palace and the King and Queen had to flee.’ There was outrage in her voice, but also a thread of fear, one that touched Rohan with sympathy, even as a visceral, raw panic assailed him. A cold sense of inevitability. Yet he tried.
‘I do understand, Amma, and in time...’
‘There is no time. The preparations are already in hand,’ his mother continued. ‘Tomorrow you will meet your bride.’
Rohan stared at his parents, opened his mouth to protest.
‘This is not about what you want; it is about what Sarala needs,’ King Hanuman said, his voice deep with emotion and a certainty that his son would understand. ‘This is about your duty.’
The following morning
Her Royal Highness Princess Elora of Caruli stared at her reflection, amazed that the years of training were still holding good, that somehow her countenance retained a serene expression, when inside, anxiety, nerves and panic fought for victory.
Somehow, she was even managing to focus on her mother’s words, perhaps in the vain hope that Queen Joanna was going to tell her this whole thing was a joke. That she wasn’t about to meet Prince Rohan, that there was no question of marriage.
Panic swirled and soared again. How could she marry Prince Rohan when the very idea filled her with cold dread?
Perhaps her mother sensed her turmoil. ‘Elora. You understand the importance of this meeting. You must please Prince Rohan, show him you will be a worthy bride. This marriage is necessary and you will do your duty.’ The words were a statement, not a question, uttered in the cold, distant tones she recognised so well, ever since the death of her twin brother. How she wished Sanjay was still here now, that he’d grown up alongside her. ‘This is your chance to do something for your country.’
The word finally, though unsaid, seemed to hover in the air, flashing neon.
‘I understand.’ And she did; an alliance between Sarala and Caruli was vital for both islands now that Baluka had declared itself a republic. For centuries the three neighbouring islands had veered from friendship to enmity until in recent decades they had settled to a civilised alliance of sorts. Uneasy sometimes but an alliance.
But, of course, now everything would change and no doubt Sarala was as shaken as Caruli by events. And so her parents and Rohan’s parents had come up with this. A way of joining forces.
A marriage to tie the royal families of the two islands together. No matter the idea filled her with terror—marriage to Rohan, the prince who had already driven one wife away, resulting in a divorce that had fuelled public speculation for years.
‘Elora.’ Her mother’s voice was tart. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes, Mama. And I do understand.’
‘Then make sure you impress on Rohan that this marriage must take place. Soon.’ The older woman’s perfectly made-up face scrunched into a frown of disapproval. ‘It is ridiculous that he has insisted on seeing you alone. Make sure you say nothing wrong, show him what a good future queen you will make. A future queen and mother to his heir. Because there has to be an heir, Elora. A son.’
Elora tried to keep her face serene, her body relaxed. Marriage did indeed involve more than a political alliance. As for getting an heir, her mother, of all people, knew that it wasn’t that easy. Queen Joanna had tried for years, undergone secret fertility treatment until finally the miracle had happened and an heir had been born. Along with Elora—an unnecessary addition to the family but tolerated, loved even, until Sanjay’s death.
