The Bride's Baby

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Your ankles are not swollen,’ he said with the conviction of a man who paid close attention. Then, as if aware that he’d over-stepped some unspoken boundary, ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure a skilled photographer will be able to produce pictures that won’t give the game away.’

  She groaned. ‘The photographer. I forgot to call the photographer. It’s true what they say. My brain is turning to Swiss cheese…’

  ‘All the more reason for you to go and put your feet up now. The drawing room has been surrendered to your Wedding Fayre, but there’s a fire in the library.’

  ‘Mr Kennedy lit a fire? What bliss.’

  ‘I lit a fire when I was working in there this afternoon. Go and enjoy it.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’ That was the thing about living on your own. No one ever told you to put your feet up or brought you a cup of coffee. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything to say. Then the word ‘coffee’ filtered through and she said, ‘Not coffee. Tea. Camomile and honey. You’ll find the tea bags-’

  He closed the gap between them and kissed her, and she forgot all about tea bags.

  It was a barely-there kiss.

  A stop talking kiss.

  The kind of kiss she could lean into and take anywhere she wanted and she knew just how right it would be because they’d done that before. But how wrong too. She wanted him just as much-more, because this time it would be her decision, one made with her heart, her head. Not just a response to that instinct to mate in times of stress that had overwhelmed them both.

  But she wanted Tom involved with his baby. That was the important relationship here. Her desires were unimportant.

  Maybe he understood that too, because he was the one who leaned back. Left a cold place where, for just a moment, it had been all warmth.

  ‘-somewhere,’ she finished, somehow managing to make that sound as if nothing had intervened between the first part of the sentence and its conclusion. Then, because keeping up that kind of pretence was never going to be possible, she quickly scooped up her laptop and the brochures and walked away.

  Not that it helped. She could still feel his lips clinging to hers. Still feel the tingle of that kiss all the way to her toes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  F OR a whole minute Tom didn’t move. Taking the time to regain control over his breathing, over parts of him that seemed to have a will of their own.

  His heart, mainly.

  For a moment there he’d been certain that Sylvie was going to kiss him back. Reach up, put her hands to his cheeks and hold him while she kissed him and he climbed over the table to get at her, show her everything he was feeling.

  But this time she didn’t lose it. Attuned to her in some way he didn’t begin to understand, he’d sensed an almost imperceptible hesitation and he’d put a stop to it before he embarrassed himself, or her.

  In fact common sense suggested that the most sensible thing he could do right now was walk out of the back door, climb into his car and head for the safety of London.

  But he’d run before. There was no help for him in distance and Sylvie was locked into another relationship. She’d said it plainly enough. She’d made a commitment and she always delivered on her word.

  No matter what she was feeling deep down, and he knew she had felt the same dark stirring of desire that had moved him, she wouldn’t lose her head again.

  As for him, the need to face himself in the mirror every morning would keep him from doing anything he’d regret. Hurting her any more than he already had.

  He dragged both hands through his hair, flattening it to his head, staring at the ceiling as he let out a long, slow breath.

  He’d lived without love so long that he could barely remember what it felt like, could only remember the fallout, the pain. It was an alien concept, something he could not begin to understand. And spending a lifetime watching from the sidelines as friends and acquaintances fell apart and put themselves back together again offered few clues. He had always kept his distance until, finally, he’d arranged what had seemed like the perfect marriage to the perfect trophy wife. A woman who’d neither given nor wanted deep emotional commitment.

  Just the perfect trophy husband.

  Then he’d come face to face with Sylvie Duchamp Smith and, from that moment on, his perfect marriage had hung like a millstone round his neck. But, like Sylvie, he’d made a commitment and, like her, he always delivered on his promises.

  Yet even when he’d been granted a last-minute reprieve he’d still fought against feelings he did not understand. He’d been emotionally incapable of saying the words that would have made everything right. Had instead, for the second time in his life, reduced a woman to tears.

  His punishment was to watch helplessly as she planned her wedding. A wedding that she didn’t appear to be anticipating with any excitement, or pleasure, or joy.

  He clung to the edge of the sink, reminding himself that she was pregnant. That whatever she was doing, for whatever reason, her baby had to come first.

  He turned on the tap but, instead of filling the kettle, he scooped up handfuls of water, burying his face in it to cool the heat of lips that still tasted of her.

  And then, when that didn’t help, ducking his head beneath the icy water.

  Sylvie abandoned her burden on the library table and gave herself up to the comfort of one of the old leather wing-chairs pulled up by the fire and closed her eyes, but more in despair than pleasure.

  The intensity of the attraction had not diminished, that much was obvious. It wasn’t just her; it was a mutual connection, something beyond words, and yet it was as if there was an unseen barrier between them.

  Or perhaps it was the all too visible one.

  One of the things that Candy had been most happy about her ‘arranged’ marriage was the fact that Tom wasn’t interested in children and her figure was safe for postperity.

  But that was the thing about arranged marriages. There had to be something in it for both parties. This house was a pretty clear indication of what Tom had in mind. Posterity. An heir, and almost certainly a spare. Maybe two.

  The family he’d never had.

  So what was his problem?

  If it was a business arrangement he wanted, she had the same class, connections, background as Candy and she was nowhere near as expensive. On the contrary, she was entirely self-supporting. And the heir was included.

  Maybe it was her lack of silicone implants that was the deal-breaker, she thought, struggling against a yawn. Or the lack of sapphire-blue contact lenses.

  ‘If that’s what he wants, then I’m sorry, kid, we’re on our own,’ she murmured.

  Tom pushed open the library door and stopped as he saw Sylvie stretched out in one of the fireside chairs, limbs relaxed, eyes closed, head propped against the broad wing.

  Fast asleep, utterly defenceless and, in contrast to the hot desire he’d done his best to drown in a torrent of cold water, he was overwhelmed by a great rush of protectiveness that welled up in him.

  Utterly different from anything he’d ever felt for anyone before.

  Was that love?

  How did you know?

  As quietly as he could, so as not to disturb her, he placed the tray on a nearby table and then took the chair opposite her, content just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Content to stay like that for ever.

  But nothing was for ever and after a few minutes her eyelids flickered. He saw the moment of confusion as she surfaced, then the smile as she realised where she was.

  A smile that faded when she saw him and, embarrassed at being caught sleeping, struggled to sit up. ‘Oh, Lord, please tell me I wasn’t drooling.’

  ‘Hardly at all,’ he reassured her, getting up and placing a cup on the table beside her. ‘And you snore really quietly.’

  ‘Really? At home the neighbours complain.’

  ‘Oh, well, I was being kind…’ He offered her a plate of some home-made biscuits he’d found as she
laughed. Teasing her could be fun…‘Have one of these.’

  ‘Mrs Kennedy’s cure-alls? Who could resist?’

  ‘Not me,’ he said, taking one himself. Then, as it melted in his mouth, ‘I can see how they got their name. Maybe she should market them? A whole rang of Longbourne Court Originals?’

  ‘With a picture of the house on the wrapper? Perfect for the nostalgia market. Except, of course, that there won’t be Longbourne Court for much longer. Longbourne Conference Centre Originals doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?’

  He didn’t immediately answer. And, when he did, he didn’t answer the question she’d asked.

  ‘When you asked me if I bought the house for Candy, I may have left you with the wrong impression.’

  The words just tumbled out. He hadn’t known he was going to say them. Only that they were true.

  ‘You always intended to convert it?’

  ‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘No. I told myself I was buying it for her. The ultimate wedding present. But when I walked into the house, it was like walking into the dream I’d always had of what a family home should be like. There were old wax jackets hanging in the mud room. Wellington boots that looked as if somebody had just kicked them off. Every rug looked as if the dog had been sleeping there just a moment before.’

  ‘And all the furniture in “country house” condition. In other words, tatty,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘Comfortable. Homely. Lived in.’

  ‘It’s certainly that.’

  ‘Candy would have wanted to change everything, wouldn’t she? Get some fancy designer in from London to rip it all out and start from scratch.’

  ‘Probably. It scarcely matters now, does it?’ She lifted a brow but, when he didn’t respond, subsided back into the comfort of the chair. ‘This is total bliss,’ she said, nibbling on the biscuit. ‘Every winter Sunday afternoon of childhood rolled into one.’ Then, glancing at him, ‘Is it raining?’

  ‘Raining?’

  ‘Your hair seems to be dripping down your collar.’

  ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing. I missed the kettle and the water squirted up at me,’ he lied.

  ‘And only got your hair?’ That eyebrow was working overtime. ‘How did you get so lucky? When that happens to me, I always get it full in the face and chest.’

  ‘Well, as you’ve already noticed, I’ve got a damp collar, if that helps.’

  ‘You think I’m that heartless? Come closer to the fire or you’ll catch a chill.’

  He didn’t need a second invitation but took another biscuit and settled on the rug with his back propped up against the chair on the far side of the fireplace.

  ‘Tell me about your winter Sundays, Sylvie.’

  ‘I’d much rather hear about yours.’

  ‘No, believe me, you wouldn’t. They are definitely nothing to get nostalgic over.’ Then, because he didn’t even want to think about them, ‘Come on. I want everything, from the brown bread and butter to three choices of cake.’

  ‘We never had three choices of cake!’ she declared in mock outrage. ‘According to my mother, only spoilt children had three kinds of cake.’

  ‘I’ll bet you had toasted teacakes. Or was it muffins?’

  ‘Crumpets. It was always crumpets,’ she said, still resisting him. ‘I will have your story.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry if you do.’ But for just a moment he was tempted by something in her eyes. Tempted to unburden himself, share every painful moment. But he knew that, once he’d done that, she’d own him, he’d be tied to her for ever, while she belonged to someone else.

  ‘Did you toast them on one of those long toasting forks in front of the fire?’ he asked.

  And, finally, she let it go with a laugh.

  ‘Oh, right. I remember you, Tom McFarlane. You were the grubby urchin with your face pressed up against the window-pane.’

  Her laughter was infectious. ‘I wish, but I was running wild, scavenging in Docklands while you were still on training wheels. But if I had been standing at the window, you’d have invited me in, wouldn’t you? Five or six years old, a little blonde angel, you’d have given me your bread and honey and your Marmite soldiers and a big slice of cherry cake.’

  Then, unable to keep up the self-mocking pretence another minute, he reached for a log, using it to stir the fire into life before tossing it into the heart of the flames, giving himself a moment or two to recover. He added a second log, then, his smile firmly in place, he risked another glance.

  ‘You’d have defied your father, even when he threatened to chase me off with his shotgun.’

  Charmed by this imagined image of a family gathered around the fire at teatime, he’d meant only to tease, but in an instant her smile faded to a look of such sadness that if he’d had a heart to break it would have shattered at her feet.

  ‘You’d have been quite safe from my father, Tom. He was never at home on Sunday afternoon. It was always tea for two.’

  Beneath her calm delivery he sensed pain and, remembering how swiftly she’d cut her father out of his role at her wedding this morning, a world of betrayal. A little girl should be able to count on her father. Look up to him. That she hadn’t, she didn’t, could only mean one thing.

  ‘He was having an affair?’

  ‘My mother must have known, realised the truth very soon after the big society wedding, but she protected me. Protected him.’ She looked away, into the depths of the fire. ‘She loved him, you see.’

  It took him a minute, but he got there. ‘Your father was gay?’

  ‘Still is,’ she said. ‘A fact that I only learned when his own father died, at which point he stopped pretending to be the perfect husband and father and went with his lover to live on one of the Greek islands, despite the fact that my mother had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. It was only his father whose feelings he cared about.’

  ‘If she loved him, Sylvie, I’m sure your mother was glad that he was finally able to be himself.’

  ‘She said that, but she needed him. It was cruel to leave her.’

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t actually a relief for her too? When you’re sick you need all your energy just to survive.’

  She swallowed. Just shook her head.

  ‘Do you ever see him?’ he persisted. And when silence answered that question, ‘Does he want to see you?’

  She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘He sends birthday and Christmas cards through the family solicitor. I return them unopened.’

  ‘No…’

  Touched on the raw, the word escaped him. She did that to him. Loosed emotions, stirred memories. Now she was looking at him, her beautiful forehead puckered in a tiny frown, waiting for him to continue, and he closed out the bleak memories-this was not about him.

  ‘He doesn’t know he’s going to be a grandfather in a few months?’ he asked. ‘Are you waiting for him to read an announcement in The Times? To Sylvie Duchamp Smith…’ he couldn’t bring himself to say Hillyer ‘…a son.’

  Or had he, too, read about it in Celebrity? He remembered the shock of it. The unexpected pain…

  There had been a moment then, when the idea of coming home had seemed so utterly pointless that he couldn’t move. An emptiness that he hadn’t experienced since the day he’d realised that his mother was never coming back and he was completely alone…

  ‘A daughter,’ she said, laying a protective hand over the curve of her abdomen. ‘The scan showed that it’s a girl.’

  ‘…a daughter,’ he said softly.

  A little girl who’d have blonde curls and blue eyes and a smile to break a father’s heart.

  ‘I wonder how he’ll feel when he hears,’ he said, but only because he wanted her to think about it.

  He already knew.

  Cut out, shut off from something he could never be a part of.

  ‘You care?’ she demanded, astonished. Looking at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hea
ring. ‘You’re actually concerned?’

  ‘Yes, Sylvie, I’m concerned. He’s your father. His heart will break.’

  Under the flush of heat from the fire, she went white.

  ‘How dare you?’ she said, gathering herself, pushing herself out of the chair, swaying slightly.

  ‘Sylvie, I’m sorry…’ He scrambled to his feet, reaching out to steady her, aware that he’d strayed into a minefield but too late to do more than apologise. This was all strange to him. He’d wanted, just for a moment, to share her happy childhood memories, not drag up bad ones.

  It had never occurred to him that she could have had anything but the perfect childhood.

  ‘Sorry? Is that it?’ she said, shaking him off. ‘You’ve got some kind of nerve, Tom McFarlane.’ And she was striding to the door while he was still trying to work out what he’d done that was so awful.

  Abandoning him to his foolish fantasies of happy families.

  ‘Sylvie, please…’ He was at the door before she reached it, blocking her way.

  She refused to look at him, to speak to him. Just waited for him to recall his manners and let her pass, but he couldn’t do that. Not until he’d said the words that were sitting like a lump in his throat.

  He’d already apologised for the helpless, angry insult that had spilled from his lips earlier that morning-rare enough-but now he found himself apologising again, even though he didn’t know why. Would have said anything if only she’d look at him, talk to him, stay…

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business…’

  She looked up at the ceiling, determinedly ignoring him, but her eyes were suspiciously bright and he wanted to take her, sweep her into his arms, hold her, reassure her. Protect her from making what seemed to him to be the biggest mistake of her life.

  Marrying Jeremy Hillyer had to be a mistake. He’d let her down once and he’d do it again.

  She didn’t have to marry him just because she was having his baby.

  Or was that it?

  Was she so desperate to give her baby something that she felt she’d been denied? If so, she was wrong. Her father may not have been the ideal ‘daddy’; her childhood may not have been quite the picture book perfect life that he’d imagined. To go with this picture book house. But she did have a father and he knew exactly how the man must feel every time one of his letters or cards came back marked ‘Return to Sender’.