by Tessa Bowen
“Christ, don’t thank me. Then I’ll have to say, ‘I’m glad I could be of service’, like I’m your sex minion.”
“You make a most excellent sex minion,” she said lightly.
He threw her a scowl.
“Or rather…what I meant to say…” She hesitated, seeming to concentrate very hard on her words. “You may have found the encounter strange, but I found it rather…exciting.”
He knew she was probably just buttering him up with bullshit, but it worked. Male pride puffed up his chest. “Maybe I got your mind off Trevor Barrington for a second anyway.”
“Trevor Barrington, who’s he?” she said with exaggerated innocence, then shivered again.
He shrugged out of his coat. “Here, take my coat.”
“That’s quite all right…”
She resisted even as he tossed it around her shoulders. The incongruous combination of this lady in a barn coat was rather charming, so was the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze as she tucked herself deeper into the woolen layers.
“You want me to walk you home?”
She did look up at him then, utter confusion clouding her eyes. “Home is just across the lawn.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “I guess men don’t do that here. I was trying to be a gentleman.”
“It isn’t…necessary.”
“I’ll say goodnight then. It’s certainly been interesting knowing you.”
“Likewise I’m sure, but don’t you want your jacket back?”
“Keep it.”
He turned to go, he’d lingered long enough. The sooner he got out of this pickle the better. Damn it, why was he hesitating at the door?
“He’s not worth it, you know.”
“Perhaps not,” she said with a regretful sigh.
“Make me a promise, will you? Give up on that horse. It’s not the horse for you and it never will be.”
“You think…it’s time I move on, Mr. Johnson?”
“I do,” he said simply.
It was time he moved on too, moved on out of here and away from this doozy of a female before he got himself into any more trouble. He pushed the barn door open with the toe of his boot, not planning on looking back again.
“Mr. Johnson…”
There was enough urgency in her voice that he felt obliged to turn. She looked real pretty in the dim light of the barn, and surprisingly small in his big jacket. He wondered if the wool was scratching her tender hide. He supposed it was better that she wasn’t cold.
“Yes?”
“I might just get out of the garden someday. Stranger things have happened.”
“The garden?”
“The garden of snakes, I might just slither out of it one day. Try something different…”
He threw a little smile her way before taking his final exit. “See you at the soup kitchen, Baroness.”
Chapter One
Four months later
Just as she had every day since she could remember, the Baroness stared at herself in the mirror, inspecting every hewn angle and sculpted curve that made up her fine figure. This day was different from the rest. It had finally happened—the dreaded and inevitable weight gain. Those angles weren’t as straight and her curves were more curved, bordering on…dare she say…abundant? This was a very different silhouette than she was used to—a fuller kind of silhouette, a more…
Fertilized silhouette.
“Oh, that beastly man—just look at what he’s done to me.”
The strange interlude she’d shared with the horse trainer had resulted in much more than an earth-shattering orgasm. It had created a life as well. A life that now grew in the center of her body.
She laid a hand over her rounded belly, pressing the firm swelling there as if she could push it back into her abdomen. She was four months into her pregnancy and just starting to show. The change in her body was evident, especially in her midsection and her breasts. She wasn’t so hefty yet that others would notice, but she certainly could. Her critical eye picked up the subtle transformation. How much longer could she hide her situation? Not long—not long at all.
“Tell me the truth, Archie. Can I get away with some sort of a loose-fitting frock? God forbid I should go the tunic route like Penelope Winterbottom after she had that wretched mishap with the botched hernia operation, but I do have that A-line chiffon tea dress in the buttermilk silk. It is rather flowy.”
The Duke’s trusted and beloved secretary tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. “It does flow quite nicely, My Lady, and should do the trick.”
“I must put in an appearance before I pack myself off or go into hiding—I simply must. Those wicked geese haven’t caught sight of me since Trevor and I ended. I can’t skulk in the shadows any longer. They’ll think I’m bloody heartbroken if I don’t show myself. This auction and benefit is the perfect place to make my presence known. Besides, I’m dead set on procuring that horse for Trevor. A polo pony would be a perfect apology gift.”
“His Grace would be touched.”
“I’m not trying to win him back, you know. Nothing like that—it’s just…well, I suppose I miss his friendship more than anything.”
That odd choking feeling gripped her around her throat again. Emotion seemed to be a symptom of her pregnancy. She took a deep breath, putting on a brave face. She couldn’t think about the fact that she was alone and in such a condition or she just might fall apart in front of the old secretary. It appeared she’d inherited him from Trevor. He couldn’t hate her too much if he’d sent Archie to work with her a few days a week. Then again, perhaps the assistant was just a guilty parting gift from her former lover.
“I’m sure fences can be mended, My Lady,” Sir Archibald said gently.
“I’m not so sure, but I must try.”
“One must always try, My Lady.”
The Baroness feigned hardiness as she chucked her chin in the air. “Quite right—there is something else I must try to obtain at this charity auction, Archie.”
“What’s that, My Lady?”
She motioned to her midsection. “A bloody husband—or I’ll be a laughing stock.”
“Oh, I see, My Lady.”
“Do you think anyone will have me in my current circumstance?”
The old gentleman must have seen the worry written all over her face (no doubt she was making that old biddy frown again), because he hurried forward on his cane to take her hand in a courtly gesture. “You are a prize in any condition, My Lady.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Archie. You’re the only one who knows my secret. Soon all of Britain will be aware of my little indiscretion and something tells me they won’t be as kind as you are about it. But I must face them—and I must put an end to their gossip. They all know Trevor ran off to America to find his bride after she left in the night, due to my evil plotting. They all know he’s found her as well. It’s all over the internet and the celebrity news, “DUKE TAKES SECOND HONEYMOON WITH CINDERELLA BRIDE”, while the jilted Baroness rots away in England—they forgot to add that bit.”
She said the words without bitterness or malice. They were spoken in a resigned tone. She’d taken Jack Johnson’s advice. She’d moved on, now she just needed to tie things up neatly and decide what to do next. Perhaps she would skip the husband all together and have this child alone in open defiance. Or disappear with it into an entirely new world, a kinder world. In any case, she wouldn’t let Penelope Winterbottom and her hernia gossip about her anymore.
“Yes, I’ll make the highest bid on the horse—make a show of gifting it to Trevor, let them see all is right between us. It’s the least I can do. I don’t want to add to any more drama he has to suffer with the press. When did you say they were returning to England, Archie?”
“In the next week or so, My Lady.”
“I’ll see to it that he has the coveted polo pony in his stables by then. Who is the trainer anyway?”
“Some
unknown, the Winterbottoms have been quite hush-hush about it.”
“Quite nervy of them to start the bidding at half a million pounds, don’t you think? It’s not as if they are putting a Jackson Mustang on the block.”
“I’ve heard the animal is nothing short of magnificent and all the proceeds will go to cancer research. So it is for a very good cause, My Lady.”
“Showing off for cancer, is she? Just like Penelope and her gaggle of geese to build up the mystery around her trainer. He’s probably a hack. Or who knows, perhaps he’s a good-looking young buck like my trainer.” Abigail threw a cheeky smirk at the secretary, trying to make light of her terribly awkward situation. She gave her belly a little pat. “Perhaps I’ve started a new trend.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, My Lady. I’ll make sure Gracie steams the chiffon A-line.”
The Baroness’s posture wilted after the old secretary left the room. There was no reason to put on a good face anymore. She could take a rest from being brave now. She turned from the mirror, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Yes, the chiffon would do nicely to cover her bump. And she looked lovely in that shade of yellow. It was just the right choice for an early spring garden event. She’d wear it with her oversized straw hat with the plumed hand-woven detail. The hat was a real show stopper. Besides, it would be sunny in the late afternoon at the Winterbottoms. She didn’t want to freckle. The Chanel D’Orsay pumps would accompany the dress and hat nicely. Should she wear pearls or her stunning yellow diamonds? She’d decide at the last moment. Although diamonds in the day seemed garish, so she’d most probably go with the pearls.
Her hand fluttered to her hair, smoothing the back of her tight chignon. She wondered if pregnancy would make her hair curlier. There was no question it would certainly make her fatter. Her mother would be horrified. It didn’t matter how long Suzanne Sutton had been dead, sometimes Abigail swore she was still in the room with her. Arching a careful brow or sneering at a loose thread, focusing on every hair that may or may not be out of place and on every ounce of flesh, pinching and testing the skin under her chin or at her side.
“Yes, Mother. Trevor ran off with an ill-educated orphan from America and I’m left here to swell like a steamed dumpling.” She threw one more glance toward the mirror. “Or a snake that swallowed a dumpling rather.”
A snake—that is what the insufferable Mr. Johnson had called her.
“Oh, just look what you’ve gone and done to me,” she repeated her earlier words, letting out a little whimper of despair.
Abigail’s cheeks blazed at the memory of that night, knowing all too well that she’d done this to herself. For all her fretting, she was happy about her situation. Well, maybe not entirely happy. She was anxiety ridden, of course. She was in a precarious situation at best. And she didn’t have Trevor’s protection anymore. One thing was for certain: She may hide the father’s identity to her dying day, but she wouldn’t have people thinking that Trevor was responsible for this. She’d figure out a way to see them both clear of it.
In the meantime, was it so wrong to be a little intrigued by the life that grew within her? It was the only place in her body that felt warm. She didn’t relish the idea of resembling a pumpkin, but she quite liked the fluttering in her belly. It kept her company.
Tentatively, she gave the bulge another pat. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you eat whatever you want. And if you have curly hair, so be it.”
Abigail massaged the crease in her brow. She didn’t know what kind of mother she’d be. Probably a horrible one, but she’d try not to be. She’d try very hard. It was true what the mysterious trainer had said that night. She’d led a vain and shallow existence. And yes, she’d slithered more than a few times, but she was tired of slithering. Tired of caring how she looked all the time.
Could it be that there was life beyond fashion and dieting? Was it possible this new being could show her a different life? Perhaps her greatest mistake would turn out to be her salvation and not a mistake at all, but a new purpose in an otherwise meaningless existence. Maybe this child was her ticket out of the “garden”. She didn’t know how exactly. That remained to be seen, but she had the distinct feeling that this life would take her on a new adventure. An adventure that would lead her far away from all that she knew. She hoped for that adventure with all of her being. She supposed her journey had begun that night in the barn—the night her world had come crashing in on her. The same night she’d known intense pleasure in the arms of a stranger. It made sense somehow that their cataclysmic coupling had resulted in conception.
Abigail’s cheeks had gone from rosy to flaming. She’d never forget the power of their joining. Even now the heated memory caused a pulsing dampness to flood the junction of her thighs. She seemed to be having an abundance of steamy fantasies lately. Was it the pregnancy? She supposed her body was teeming with hormones. Then again, perhaps one night with the horse trainer had turned her into a lecherous old sow.
“Oh my,” she whispered, rushing to the side table to pour herself a glass of cooling water.
Apparently, the trainer’s knack with horses extended to his dealings with women as well. Her guilty gaze wandered to her closet. She wafted toward it, caressing the row of fine couture garments until her fingers touched rough wool. Jack Johnson’s jacket hung at the back, big and brawny and so very masculine, just like him.
Her hands shook as she pulled the jacket off the hanger. The weight of it felt heavy in her arms. The now familiar scent of him wafted from the jacket’s collar, a pleasant outdoorsy fragrance, clean and fresh and decidedly male. Had he worn cologne? No, not Mr. Johnson—he wouldn’t engage in such frippery.
Her fingers traced over the hand-stitched monogram on the leather patch under the collar. “J. H. J” it read. She wondered what the “H” stood for. She guessed she’d never know. She supposed her child would never know his or her father either. This jacket was all Abigail had to remember the elusive trainer by—the jacket and the life growing inside her.
Both made her very warm.
THE CANAPÉ SELECTION WAS QUITE A DISASTER, or so the Baroness thought. Penelope had gone “against the grain” (as it were) and had done away with all manner of toast points, crackers or breadsticks, substituting a strange array of dips, spreads and whipped items unaccompanied by any sort of starchy vehicle. And was that chicken curry? Who served a luncheon that resembled a Bombay buffet in an English garden? Needless to say, this particular part of the refreshment table had been left untouched.
Everything else was as it should be at the Winterbottom’s charity function. Everything except the old girl’s quivering bulge, which she attempted to conceal behind yet another streaming tunic, this one in the most ghastly shade of burnt orange. Abigail supposed the colorful hummus and spice-laden items (along with her hostess’s sari-like garb) were all in keeping with the horse that would come up for auction—a Marwari from the Jodhpur region of India, a breed of horse known for its sheer size and power.
The Baroness wondered how many waves of nausea she’d have to suffer before they brought the animal out. The scent of tamarind and mango salad (not to mention the anise and chickpea fritters) curdled her stomach. She swallowed a gag and twiddled her fingers at her misshapen hostess, feeling secure wedged behind a four top table. Her own quivering bulge was hidden by the voluminous tablecloth. A flute of fizzing champagne sat in front of her, untouched of course, and only there for show.
I’d give my eyeteeth for a cup of tea.
It was far too early for tea. This dreaded lunch business seemed endless. Having all eyes pinned on her wasn’t as exhilarating without Trevor on her arm. She took cover under the brim of her resplendent hat, shading herself from the crowd. She guessed being gawked at was nothing new. She knew they admired her beauty and her style and until recently her choice of escort, but things were different now. It wasn’t all admiration in their stares. No doubt they whispered about her and wondered what her next move would be.
>
She felt more than a little awkward sitting there alone and realized she should have spent less time on her appearance over the years and more time cultivating actual relationships. She supposed she was paying for a decade of having her nose in the air, for it was evident that no one ‘fancied a chat’ with the Baroness.
The feeling of isolation grew heavy on her spine. She felt herself stooping and took a deep breath, righting herself. She better put that well-shaped nose back in the air so the wide eyed onlookers wouldn’t know anything was amiss. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, nodding gracefully at a couple who passed by. She had to remember why she’d come here—she’d come to show them she wasn’t a broken woman. Alone, yes—but not broken. She’d show them she still had fight left in her when she won that horse today, even if it meant dipping heavily into her inherited wealth. She could be ironic and trade in the yellow diamond necklace Trevor had bought her for her thirtieth birthday. Always yellow diamonds to match her hair, he’d said. She wore emeralds sometimes to match her eyes and pearls during the day of course.
Yes, she’d show them all she was still a trendsetter, even if she wasn’t the Devil Duke’s longtime mistress anymore. And she’d show them before she turned into a hippopotamus—which was no doubt imminent. This really was her last chance. She might pass at five months with her slim figure and another blousy choice but by six months she would certainly belong in a zoo.
She caught the unfortunate son of Lord Alfred Astaire watching her with love-struck wonder. He was only unfortunate when he opened his mouth to speak, he was quite passable otherwise. Abigail extended one long leg beyond the table, making a play of smoothing her sheer stocking. She still had the legs of a showgirl even if her middle was starting to resemble an ale keg.
She finished her little performance with a smile and a capricious nod toward the stuttering son of Lord Alfred, who promptly started to blush. His intended, a sour-faced girl with hips the size of end tables, whisked him off with a resounding huff. Abigail stifled a tired sigh that turned into a sharp intake of breath when she saw Trevor standing where the couple had just been. His young bride was behind him, creating her own little scene.