Blackmailed By The Ruthless Emperor: A Forbidden Pregnancy Royal Historical Erotic Romance

By Grace Jones

Liam, the ruthless Emperor of Ashdown, is trapped in a frozen marriage to a princess he cannot touch. He needs an heir to secure his legacy, but he can't find the right vessel - until he sets his sights on Charlotte, the humble seamstress who trembles in his presence. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freedom Books
• Release date: Dec 22, 2025

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Iron Throne of Ashdown

The needle slipped, piercing the pad of Charlotte’s thumb, and a single bead of crimson bloomed against the ivory silk of the Emperor’s inner tunic. She gasped, a sound of pure terror, and quickly pressed her finger to her apron to keep the stain from spreading. Kneeling at the feet of Emperor Liam was a position of both honor and extreme peril, and at this moment, with the weight of the Ashdown crown hanging over the upcoming nuptials, peril was the dominant sensation.

Do not stop, girl, Liam growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards of the dressing chamber. The ceremony is but hours away, and this garment sits ill upon my shoulders.

Charlotte’s hands shook as she reached for the gold - embroidered hem once more. She was a creature of the shadows, a seamstress whose life was measured in yards of lace and the strength of whalebone stays. Above her, the Emperor stood like a monument of carved granite, his massive frame draped in heavy brocade that cost more than her family’s village. The scent of him - leather, sandalwood, and a raw, masculine heat - filled her lungs, making her head spin.

It is the weight of the mantle, Your Majesty, Charlotte whispered, her eyes fixed on the polished leather of his boots. The velvet is thick, and the lining requires another row of stitching to hold the shape against your... your stature.

She felt his gaze burning into the back of her neck. Liam was a man of iron, a sovereign who had spent his youth on battlefields and his maturity in the cold, calculating halls of power. Now, he was a man forced into a cage of tradition, bound to marry a Princess he did not desire to secure a legacy he had yet to sow. The pressure of the empire was a corset of its own, tightening around his chest with every passing hour.

My stature? Liam repeated, the words laced with a dangerous amusement.

He suddenly reached down, his large, calloused hand gripping her chin and forcing her head up. Charlotte’s breath hitched. Her own modest bodice, laced tight with cheap hemp cord, felt as though it might burst as her heart hammered against her ribs. She was small, delicate, and marked by the toil of her class, yet as her eyes met the Emperor’s piercing stare, the world outside the dressing room ceased to exist.

Look at me, girl, Liam commanded, his presence filling the small room until the air itself felt heavy. Do you understand what it means to catch the eye of your sovereign?

Charlotte trembled, her fingers clutching a discarded stay of satin she had been using for measurements. I understand only my station, Your Majesty, she whispered, though the heat in his gaze made her pulse race. I am here to serve the crown, to ensure the Emperor of Ashdown appears as formidable as his reputation suggests.

Liam’s thumb traced the line of her jaw, a gesture that was far from royal and entirely too intimate. He saw the callouses on her fingertips, the evidence of her hard labor, and contrasted it with the soft, pale skin of her throat. In a court filled with women who painted their faces and cinched their waists until they fainted, this girl was a startling vision of raw, unadorned vulnerability.

Formidable, he mused, his eyes darkening with a hunger he had not felt for the Princess who awaited him in the high chapel. You spend your days lacing the ladies of this court into their finery, pulling their silks until they can scarcely draw breath. Tell me, seamstress, do you ever wonder what it would feel like to have those laces torn away by a hand that does not care for the fragility of the fabric?

Charlotte’s face flushed a deep, burning scarlet. The audacity of his words should have signaled her execution, yet the raw dominance in his tone sparked a treacherous flame deep within her. She was a commoner, a girl of needles and thread, and he was the sun around which the empire turned. The disparity between them was a chasm, yet in this dim light, with his hand firm upon her skin, the gap felt narrow enough to leap.

I... I think only of the fit of the garment, Sire, she lied, her voice cracking.

Liam leaned closer, his shadow swallowing her whole. The heavy scent of his power was intoxicating. You lie. I see the way your chest heaves against that rough cotton. You are terrified, and yet, you do not look away.

He released her chin, but he did not step back. Instead, he stood over her, a predator marking his prey. The strategic marriage, the political necessity of a bride, the silent halls of Ashdown - all of it faded behind the sudden, sharp obsession he felt for the girl at his feet. He was a man who took what he desired, and the iron throne had never felt so cold as it did when compared to the heat radiating from this humble servant.

Finish your work, Liam ordered, his voice dropping to a rasp that promised much and spared nothing. But know this, girl. Once the vows are spoken and the Princess is installed in her wing, I shall have need of a seamstress in my private quarters. There are many things in this castle that require... adjustment.

Charlotte bowed her head, her fingers fumbling with the silk laces of his surcoat. The rustle of his heavy robes sounded like a warning, a prelude to the scandal that was about to unfold within the grey stones of Ashdown. She was no longer just a girl with a needle; she was the secret obsession of a king, and the corset of her simple life was about to be shredded by the very man who wore the crown.

Chapter 2: A Needle in the Imperial Court

The Princess Isabella has breached the outer bailey, Your Imperial Majesty!

The Lord Chamberlain’s voice cracked with the strain of his haste, his boots skidding on the polished marble of the dressing chamber. He did not wait for a summons, his breach of protocol a testament to the urgency of the arrival.

Liam did not turn. He remained standing upon the dais, his arms outstretched like a dark god carved from obsidian. Below him, Charlotte knelt, her small, nimble fingers trembling as she worked a silver needle through the heavy velvet of his ceremonial surcoat. The sudden intrusion caused her to flinch, the sharp point of the needle piercing her thumb. A single bead of crimson bloomed against the ivory silk of his lining.

She is a week early, Liam remarked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and into Charlotte’s knees. He did not look at the messenger. His golden eyes were fixed downward, watching the way the seamstress sucked the wounded digit into her mouth, her eyes wide with terror as she realized she had marked the Emperor’s person with her common blood.

The southern winds were favorable, Sire, the Chamberlain stammered, bowing so low his nose nearly touched his knees. The Council demands your presence in the Great Hall. The marriage contract must be sealed before the sun sets. They - they insist the succession cannot wait another night.

The Council may wait until I am properly attired, Liam commanded, his tone brook no argument. Begone, Lord Crane. And ensure the Princess is settled in the North Wing. She is not to set foot in the throne room until I have summoned her.

As the heavy doors thudded shut, leaving the chamber in a stifling, weighted silence, Liam looked down at the top of Charlotte’s head. Her hair was pulled back in a modest, severe bun, yet several soft tendrils had escaped to brush against the nape of her neck. He could see the frantic pulse thrumming in her throat, visible just above the high, stiff collar of her drab grey bodice.

You have bled upon my robes, girl, he said, the words sliding over her like heavy silk.

Charlotte gasped, dropping her needle. She scrambled to her feet, her head bowed in a posture of complete supplication. Forgive me, Your Majesty! I shall fetch the salts - I can lift the stain before it sets -

Stay, he barked, the single word pinning her to the spot more effectively than any iron shackle.

He stepped off the dais, his massive frame looming over her. The scent of sandalwood and expensive leather filled her senses, overwhelming the smell of starch and beeswax that usually defined her world. He was a man of immense power, a sovereign who governed millions, yet in this moment, his entire focus was narrowed to the trembling girl before him.

Liam reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping her chin. He forced her face upward, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth. The disparity between them was a physical ache - his skin was bronzed and warm, hers pale and marked by the toil of the needle.

The Princess is here to provide an heir, Liam murmured, his gaze darkening as it raked over her features. She is a political necessity, a vessel for the crown. But she is cold, Charlotte. She smells of mountain lilies and frigid duty.

Your Majesty, please, Charlotte whispered, her breath hitching as his thumb moved to her lower lip, pressing with a raw, possessive force. I am but a servant. I - I must finish the alterations for the Empress’s wedding corset. The whalebone stays are not yet secured, and the lacing -

The lacing can wait, he interrupted, his voice dropping to a rasp that made her thighs tremble beneath her heavy wool skirts. You speak of corsets and constraints, yet you are the one who binds the women of this court. You pull the silken cords until they cannot breathe, until their waists are as narrow as a wedding ring. Tell me, girl, who pulls your laces at night?

Charlotte’s heart hammered against her ribs, the tight stays of her own modest corset suddenly feeling as though they were being cinched by his very gaze. I... I manage for myself, Sire.

A tragedy, Liam growled. He let his hand drop from her chin, only to slide it down the column of her neck, his palm coming to rest over the erratic beating of her heart. I find I have a sudden, insatiable curiosity regarding the layers of a seamstress’s attire. You spend your days hidden in the shadows of the wardrobe, a needle in the imperial court, invisible to all but me.

He stepped closer, his chest brushing against her breasts, forcing her to lean back against the heavy mahogany sewing table. Behind her, the discarded wedding corset of the Princess lay like a skeletal remains of a ghost, its white silk and silver ribbons a stark contrast to the dark, carnal tension filling the room.

Look at me, Charlotte, he commanded, his voice thick with a hunger that no treaty could satisfy. Do you understand what it means to catch the eye of your sovereign? Do you understand that while I may bed a Princess for the sake of the empire, it is your face I shall see in the dark?

It is a scandal that would ruin me, she breathed, her hands coming up to rest tentatively against his broad chest. The heat of him was intoxicating, a fire that threatened to consume the rigid boundaries of her station. I am nothing. A girl of the commons.

You are mine, Liam corrected, his hand sliding around to the small of her back, his fingers finding the rough laces of her bodice. From the moment you knelt at my feet, you ceased to belong to the commons. You belong to the Emperor.

With a sudden, sharp tug, he pulled her flush against him. The raw dominance in his movements left her breathless, her senses reeling as he bent his head, his lips hovering just inches from hers.

The Princess waits in the Great Hall, Charlotte reminded him, though her voice lacked any real conviction.

Let her wait, Liam hissed. Let the empire wait. I have spent my life bound by the stays of duty and the heavy brocade of my station. Tonight, I shall have what is real.

He didn't wait for her consent; he took it. His mouth crashed onto hers with a primitive hunger, his tongue demanding entry as he asserted his total claim. Charlotte moaned into the kiss, her fingers clutching at the fine velvet of his surcoat, the very garment she had been mending. The silver needle she had dropped lay forgotten on the floor, its sharp point glinting in the dying light of the afternoon - a tiny, forgotten instrument of a life that was now irrevocably changed.

The rustle of her skirts and the sharp snap of a stay breaking under his grip were the only sounds in the room, a secret symphony of class and consequence played out within the cold, grey stones of Ashdown. The Emperor had found his obsession, and the girl with the calloused fingers had found her master. As he pressed her back against the table, the weight of his royal robes discarded on the floor, the scandal of Ashdown began not with a crown, but with the undoing of a simple cotton lace.

Chapter 3: The Weight of Brocade and Bone

I am lost, Charlotte thought, the frantic beating of her heart a drum against the rigid cage of her stays. There is no road back to the sewing rooms, no return to the quiet safety of my needles and thread. I have tasted the breath of a king, and in doing so, I have signed my own warrant of ruin or exaltation. The terror of it was a cold weight in her belly, even as the heat of his touch remained branded upon her skin. To serve him was her duty; to be desired by him was a death sentence draped in the finest silk. She looked at the door, knowing that once she stepped through it at his command, the girl she had been - the invisible daughter of a cobbler, the nimble-fingered servant of Ashdown - would cease to exist.

The Emperor pulled back just enough to look down at her, his dark eyes burning with a possessive fire that brooked no defiance. He did not ask; he took. His hand, large and calloused from the hilt of his sword, moved to the nape of her neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive line of her jaw with a terrifying deliberation.

You tremble, Charlotte, Liam said, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her very bones. Is it fear that makes your knees weak, or the realization that you belong to me now?

She could scarcely find her breath. The corset she had laced so tightly that morning now felt like a deathtrap, her lungs fighting against the whalebone as she looked up into the face of the man who held her life in his palm. It is both, Your Majesty, she whispered, her voice cracking. I am but a seamstress. I have no place in the shadows of your bedchamber.

Liam’s grip tightened, not to hurt, but to anchor her. You have the place I carve out for you. Your station is what I decree it to be. From this moment, you are no longer a servant of the needle. You are the secret I will keep, the fire I will stoke when the cold stones of this castle threaten to freeze my soul.

He turned her toward the private passage, his hand firm against the small of her back. The weight of his brocade coat brushed against her simple wool skirts, a physical manifestation of the gulf between them. Every step away from the workroom felt like a descent into a beautiful, gilded abyss. There would be no more gossiping with the other girls over lukewarm tea, no more simple dreams of a cottage and a husband of her own class. She was entering the world of bone and velvet, of blood and betrayal.

As they entered his private sanctum, the air changed. It was thick with the scent of expensive oils and the heavy musk of a man who had spent the day in the saddle. Liam did not release her. Instead, he moved behind her, his fingers finding the laces of her bodice.

This humble cotton, he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. It offends me. It hides what is mine.

Charlotte felt the first tug at her laces. The sound of the cord sliding through the metal eyelets was deafening in the silence of the room. Please, Sire, she gasped, the sudden release of tension making her lightheaded. The Empress - if she should find out -

The Empress has her duties, and I have mine, Liam interrupted, his voice hardening. My duty tonight is to ensure you understand the depth of my claim. You will not speak of her. You will think only of the hands that touch you and the man who commands your every breath.

With a sharp pull, the knot gave way. The bodice loosened, spilling open to reveal the thin chemise beneath. He didn't stop there. His hands moved to the heavy stays, the rigid whalebone that shaped her into the image of propriety.

Look at me, girl, he commanded, repeating the words that had started this descent.

Charlotte turned, her hands instinctively rising to cover her modesty, but he caught her wrists, pinning them to the side. The raw dominance in his gaze was a physical weight, heavier than any garment. He forced her to stand before him, half-undone, the contrast between his imperial finery and her tattered dignity starker than ever.

You are terrified, he noted, a dark smile touching his lips. Good. Fear keeps the senses sharp. It makes the pleasure more acute. Do you understand what happens now, Charlotte? There is no turning back. You cannot un-lace this night.

I understand, she choked out, the reality of her situation crashing down. She was his plaything, his obsession, and perhaps his only escape. The weight of the brocade he wore, the gold embroidery that marked him as a god among men, felt like a cage to him, just as her corset was a cage to her. In this illicit union, they were both seeking to break free, even if the cost was their very souls.

Liam reached out, his fingers hooking into the top of her stays, pulling her flush against his chest. The metal buttons of his vest bit into her skin, a reminder of the power he wielded. Then yield, he whispered. Yield to me, and I will give you a world of silk to replace your rags. Yield, and I will make your calloused fingers forget the sting of the needle.

He lowered his head, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder, and Charlotte knew she was truly lost. The old life was a ghost, a shadow fading into the grey stones of Ashdown. Ahead lay only the fire, and the man who would consume her in it.

Chapter 4: A Cold Union of Crowns

Do not look so morose, Princess, for the eyes of every baron and duke are fixed upon the crown you now wear, Liam said, his voice a low vibration that carried no warmth. He sat upon the high dais of Ashdown, a figure of obsidian and gold, his presence overshadowing the woman who sat trembling beside him. The Great Hall was a cavern of suffocating opulence, where the scent of roasted meats mingled with the heavy, cloying perfume of the court, creating an atmosphere that felt more like a battlefield than a wedding feast.

Princess Isabella sat stiffly, her spine held upright by a corset of such rigid whalebone that her breathing was shallow and frantic. The ivory silk of her gown, painstakingly embroidered by Charlotte's own calloused hands, shimmered under the light of the massive iron chandeliers, yet it served only as a beautiful shroud for a woman who clearly wished to be anywhere else.

I seek only to do my duty, Your Majesty, Isabella whispered, her gaze fixed on the wine - dark as blood - in her silver goblet.

Liam turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter of the room where the servants lurked in the gloom. He was a man who commanded the very foundations of the earth, yet his pulse only quickened when he caught the flicker of a simple, grey wool skirt near a stone archway. Charlotte was there, a ghost in the machinery of his empire, watching the union she had helped to clothe. The contrast was a physical ache in his chest - the cold, polished marble of the Princess versus the raw, hidden heat of the seamstress.

He stood abruptly, the heavy velvet of his royal mantle snapping behind him like a whip. The music faltered, the lutes and pipes trailing off into a tense silence. The feast has lasted long enough, he announced, his voice booming through the rafters. The Empress is weary. See her to her chambers.

Isabella looked up, a flicker of hope or perhaps terror in her eyes, but Liam did not offer her his hand. He did not offer her even a glance. He gestured for her ladies - in - waiting to converge upon her, their silken skirts rustling like a nest of vipers. He watched as they led her away, a sacrificial lamb in a gown of gold thread.

Once the heavy oak doors had closed behind the royal procession, Liam strode from the dais, ignoring the confused murmurs of his ministers. He did not head toward the bridal suite. Instead, he moved with predatory intent toward the narrow, drafty corridor that led to the sewing rooms.

He found her there, leaning against the cold stone wall, her breath hitching as he loomed over her. The shadows of the hallway stripped away his imperial facade, leaving only the man who hungered for the girl who lived beneath his notice.

You watched us, Liam stated, stepping into her personal space until the gold buttons of his doublet pressed against the modest swell of her breasts. You watched me bind myself to a phantom of statecraft while you hide in the dark.

Charlotte tried to lower her head, but he caught her chin in a grip of iron, forcing her to look into the abyss of his desire. I am but a servant, Your Majesty. It is right that I remain in the shadows.

You are the only thing in this godforsaken castle that possesses any heat, he growled, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a roughness that made her shiver. The Princess is a statue of silk and bone. You, Charlotte - you are the fire that burns beneath the ice.

He reached down, his fingers finding the laces of her bodice, the simple cord a stark contrast to the intricate ribbons he had just seen on his bride. With a sharp tug, he pulled her closer, his dominance absolute. She wears the crown, but you will wear my mark. Do you understand, girl? You will be the one who eases the weight of that throne tonight.

Charlotte felt the familiar, terrifying rush of submission. The tight lacing of her own modest corset felt as though it might snap under the pressure of his proximity. The court will speak, Sire. The scandal -

Let them speak, Liam interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. I am the Emperor of Ashdown. I do not ask for permission to take what is mine. And make no mistake, Charlotte - from the moment you knelt at my feet, you became mine.

He didn't wait for her consent; he didn't need it. He spun her around, pressing her face against the rough stone wall, his large hands working the fastenings of her garments with a practiced, ruthless efficiency. The sound of tearing linen and the sharp intake of her breath filled the corridor, a secret symphony of class and carnal need that the high walls of Ashdown would keep, as they kept all the sins of the powerful.

He leaned into her, his weight pinning her against the masonry, his lips brushing against her ear. While the Empress sleeps in her bed of state, you will learn what it means to belong to a sovereign who knows no mercy.

Charlotte's fingers clawed at the stone, her heart hammering against the confinement of her stays. She was a mere seamstress, a girl of no standing, yet as the Emperor's hands claimed her in the dark, she knew that no crown in the world could match the power of the fire he had ignited within her. The union of crowns was cold, but the union of their bodies was a conflagration that would leave only ashes of the world they knew.

Chapter 5: The