by Tessa Bowen
She burrowed her head into his arms, absorbing the scent clinging to his sleeve. She didn’t need the jacket to sniff if she had the man.
JACK JOHNSON SAW TO IT THAT HER TRANSITION to the delivery room was smooth by continuing to carry her. The Baroness frowned at the nurse who insisted he deposit her into a wheelchair so that she could be pushed the rest of the way.
“We don’t want you straining your back, sir.”
Jealous bitch.
She smirked at the swarm of nurses that followed them down the hospital hall. She wasn’t the bloody queen after all. She knew the special treatment had very little to do with her. No doubt these tittering birds wanted to make eyes at the handsome cowboy who now piloted her perambulator. She felt a little bit like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, except Jack Johnson made William Holden look like a sap. She patted her chignon smugly. She’d snagged a younger man, and a magnificent one at that. Well, not so much as snagged as ensnared.
There was one hitch in her heroic husband’s performance that day. She supposed they had to get one little squabble in before she gave birth. She stared up at him in horror when he insisted on being in the delivery room.
“I couldn’t possibly let you see me like that.”
“You could possibly,” he argued. “Trust me—I’ve seen far worse. I’ve witnessed foals born backwards. That’s not a pretty sight—an animal that size born breech is a real freak show.”
“Our baby won’t be born backwards. And as for the size, I’m sure our child will be svelte and elegant.”
“Babies aren’t supposed to be elegant, Baroness—or svelte.”
“Well, mine will be,” she flared defensively.
“Healthy babies are fat.”
“Oh dear, I suppose you’re right.”
“I need to be in the room to make sure these tea-sipping Nancy-boy doctors know what they’re doing. They’ll probably try to deliver my baby in cotillion gloves.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To be ushered into this world by satin-covered hands.”
“You would say that.”
In the end Abigail won the argument. Jack bowed out of the room when the doctor gave him a stern look, telling him he was agitating the mother—her rising blood pressure was a bit of a problem in a woman of her age. Abigail cringed when the doctor referred to her “mature pregnancy”. She was relieved to see him go (or at least her vanity was), but a little sad as well. She felt as though she was losing a part of herself when the door of the delivery room closed behind him.
When the first contractions began, Abigail didn’t make a peep. She’d suffer in silence for as long as she could and she wouldn’t be one of those women who went through labor with her hair in a sweaty halo around her head. No, this baby wasn’t going to muss her chignon. The Baroness gave birth with style and grace. She did wince as she pushed and she screwed her brow into a scrunch as she concentrated on her task, but all in all it wasn’t much worse than a double session with Zara the Pilates instructor from hell.
In the last stage of her labor, two male voices erupted from the hall. She recognized the booming baritone of Jack Johnson and was that Trevor out there with him? She would know those clipped haughty tones anywhere. It was kind of him to come, but she supposed her young husband didn’t think so. A squeaky high-pitched tone cut through the rising tension (Isabel playing referee no doubt).
“What on earth are they bloody shouting about?” the Baroness panted.
“Your husband doesn’t seem to be taking kindly to the Duke’s presence,” the young nurse observed.
The girl was so preoccupied by the heated male antics in the hall that she was hardly paying attention to the Baroness’s plight.
“They’ve stolen my thunder, haven’t they?” she wheezed to the doctor. “Still, it’s nice of them to fight over me.”
It was Isabel that she allowed into the room, and no other. Abigail held her tiny hand tightly as she gave one last push. She was vaguely aware of how bonkers her life had become. The young Duchess was in her delivery room offering her support while her horse trainer (who was now her husband) argued in the hallway with her former lover. It would make for good press that was for sure.
“Holy crap, it’s a girl!” Isabel exclaimed.
“A girl,” Abigail repeated with a sad sigh as she fell back on her propped pillows. “Poor thing—is she pretty at least?”
Chapter Seven
The Baroness stared down at the baby in her arms. She was definitely pretty, this diminutive duckling. The baby’s pale body was covered in a soft cotton jumper, her little feet adorned with lace sockettes. On her tiny head she wore a cheerful little cap made of the same fine cotton and lace. Abigail thought she looked like something from the sweet shop, a dreamy confection—delectable and delicate and decidedly…duck like.
The Baroness was wrapped in fine cotton and lace as well, propped up on a nest of pillows with her baby in her arms.
Mother goose and daughter duck.
Abigail chewed her lip to stifle a chuckle. She was able to take in the dainty features of the infant as she slept. Her heart-shaped face was perfect, complete with an alluring dimple. Though her parcel was petite, she boasted blushing rounded cheeks that puffed as she snored—a button nose so small that Abigail could hardly make out the nostrils opening and closing as she breathed. Her rosy lips were like satin bows, the upper lip protruding in a generous pout. The baby had long dark lashes and full brows, much like hers. Quite amazing really that a baby would have such character in her face so soon, but Abigail supposed her daughter was nothing short of amazing.
Her heart raced with giddy excitement—now for the moment of truth. She laid a whisper-soft caress to the infant’s head, ever so gently pushing the cap off her head to reveal the platinum threads. Fine silken hair stood up on end, glistening like spun sugar in the filtered light that streamed through the windows around her bed.
“How marvelous,” Abigail breathed. “It’s straight as a board.”
She couldn’t resist and brushed a hand through the downy feathers, trying to pat them into place, but static electricity worked against her and the baby’s hairs clung together in sort of a faux hawk. As fine and silky as the strands were, they appeared to have a mind of their own.
“Oh dear,” she giggled.
Her laughter woke the sleeping babe. She started when the baby’s eyes snapped open. These weren’t the hazy, vague eyes of an infant. They were clear and blue as a summer sky, pinning her to the spot with their incredible intensity. Her daughter did indeed have the remarkable eyes of Jack Johnson and perhaps his strong jaw as well. Such a stubborn chin on a woman would surely be arresting.
Abigail cleared her throat. “Hello there, I’m your mother.”
The tiny forehead crinkled in annoyance, the dark brows slammed together, creating a crease in an otherwise flawless face.
“You have my scrunch!”
The baby’s brow lowered dangerously as she studied Abigail.
“Are you scowling at me?” the Baroness inquired with some apprehension.
Those rosebud lips puckered disapprovingly.
“Will I make the cut, wee downy one?”
The little girl seemed to huff, her glare growing more pronounced. Could a baby be indignant? She thought newborns slept without end and cracked cherubic smiles on occasion. She wasn’t aware they shot daggers. The baby was sizing her up, weighing her in the balance and finding her wanting.
“You’re rather a judgmental bundle, aren’t you?”
The infant let out a squawk of outrage. How had such a sound come out of that little body? She issued another bold complaint then spewed forth a threatening stream of spittle.
“Do you want to be fed, is that it? Go easy on me, I’m learning as I go…”
The Baroness lowered the bodice of her nightgown and brought the imperious package to her breast. The baby turned her nose up and raised her teeny weeny pugilist’s fists in defiance. Her dau
ghter began to bat at her bosom with miniature knuckles. Was her daughter actually beating her? This child was strong and agile in spite of her size. Maybe they’d mixed her baby up at the hospital. Perhaps this was Thor’s baby and not hers at all. She looked like a fragile pansy but boxed like Tyson and seemed to have his disposition as well. She would do well to keep the baby’s toothless gums away from her ear—this baby was a bully.
“Don’t be nasty to me, please.” Abigail begged. “Aren’t you hungry?”
A dreadful panic rose in her belly when the child glowered accusingly at her as though she were an imposter. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Abigail swallowed the lump in her throat and tried again. This time she guided her milk engorged nipple into the baby’s grimacing maw. The baby was having none of it and to prove her point she let out a howl of rage.
The door to her bedroom crashed open and Jack Johnson strode in. He wore the same accusatory expression as his furious daughter. “What the hell are you doing to her?” he thundered over the loud squalls.
Tears stung her cheeks as she quickly righted her nightgown. “She despises me.”
He covered the space between them with two strides and swiped the baby from her, cradling her in his big arms. “It sounded like you were murdering her in here.”
“I was only trying to feed her…”
Immediately, the baby quieted and lolled in her father’s embrace. A serene expression relaxed her features. Her eyelids drooped in dopey surrender and her cherry lips formed a fetching pucker.
The Baroness covered her face with her hands, holding back a sob. “She loves her father and hates her mother. She already knows I’ll be a terrible parent to her, just like my mother was to me.”
“Do you plan on being a terrible parent?” he asked, rocking the baby as if he’d rocked a thousand babies.
“No, of course not—I want her to like me, but apparently she does not. She just glares at me. I don’t know what she wants.”
“It’s your job to know.”
She sniffled and wiped pathetically at a fresh tear. “Well, she’s probably hungry. I tried to feed her, but she wouldn’t latch on.”
“Stop with the waterworks,” he snapped. “That’s not going to help anything.”
“I never used to cry. I seem to cry all the time now.”
“Well, quit it—don’t you know crying makes a woman’s face look all pinched?”
This was hardly the happy family moment she’d hoped for. She’d given birth to his perfect daughter, hadn’t she?
“Why are you so cross with me?”
“Ask your goddamn boyfriend out in the hall? Does he really have to be here?”
Abigail’s expression clouded over with confusion. “My boyfriend…? Are you still put out about Trevor? He’s only here to offer his support.”
“We don’t need his support,” he rumbled. “He’s not the father, I am.”
“We are well aware of that. You needn’t act like an ogre just because he wants to show he cares. And Isabel is with him, it’s all very proper. They’re my only true friends you know.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.”
The Baroness crossed her arms. “Snakes don’t have friends, is that what you’re saying?”
He ignored her while he caressed his baby into relaxation by stroking her small brow with his thumb. Apparently he was not only a horse whisperer but a baby whisperer as well. He had relaxed her with that same touch in the back of the Bentley—he had been kind and comforting then, but not now. He was a moody sort, this Jack Johnson. She couldn’t quite understand what set off his temper regarding Trevor.
“Regardless of what you may think of the situation, Mr. Johnson, Trevor and I are allies. He is very important to me, as is his wife.”
“You don’t deserve her,” Jack said flatly.
The Baroness picked a thread off the lace bodice of her nightgown. “You’re probably right.”
“Is your ‘ally’ planning on being around for the rest of my daughter’s life?” he asked between his teeth.
Abigail couldn’t help but notice when his narrowed gaze brushed over her bosom. She detected the flicker of male recognition there. She knew the outline of her distended nipples stood out against the cream satin. Perhaps her mammoth breasts were an asset after all.
She arched one dark brow and stuck her chest our further. “Are you planning on being around?”
“I told you my one condition. You didn’t seem to have a problem with it before. I don’t want another man replacing me when I’m not here.”
“Replacing you?” she said silkily. “You certainly are playing the part of the jealous lover, aren’t you?”
“I’m a jealous father—nothing more.”
Now both her baby and her husband had crushed her feelings in the span of five minutes. The Baroness’s posture deflated. She’d been a fool to think she could flirt in her current state. Hadn’t she learned the hard way that he didn’t respond to her feminine wiles? Instinctively, her fingers went to her hair. She knew her chignon wasn’t in its proper place today—far from it.
“Neither of you like me, I suppose it’s just what I deserve,” she mumbled childishly. “Being a snake and all…”
“She doesn’t know who she likes—she’s too young to make any judgments. She operates on instinct, that’s it. She intuits how uptight you are. If you want her to be comfortable with you, you have to relax. Why don’t you try letting your goddamn hair down for once? You’re sitting there like some sort of an ice queen. You’re a mother now—loosen up for Christ’s sake. She probably has performance anxiety.”
Abigail didn’t know how she could be any “looser”. She was wearing her nightclothes and her bun was crooked.
“I’m sure her dislike of me has very little to do with my hairstyle.”
“You’re right—she probably senses you’re evil.”
“I know having a child with a woman you abhor is a hardship, Mr. Johnson—but must you be so cruel!”
“Don’t yell around the kid!” he hissed back, covering the baby’s head with his palm, protecting her ears from hearing their heated argument. “Fuck…we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. We need Margaret.”
“Who the bloody hell is Margaret?” She demanded. “Another one of your women?”
“You’re talking to me about other women when you have your goddamn boyfriend out in the hall telling me how to be a father? I almost snapped his pencil neck a minute ago. I will you know. I’ll kick his head in like a fucking pumpkin if he gets in my way again—”
The door of the Baroness’s bedroom crashed open for the second time that morning. A different sort of whirlwind entered—this time a tiny tornado.
“God!” The Duchess exploded. “You can stop being such an a-hole. I got rid of Trevor, ok? He’s out in the garden with Charlotte, so just calm the frig’ down, already!”
“Yes, the Duchess is quite right,” Abigail chimed in smugly. “You really must calm down.”
Isabel turned her wrath on the Baroness. “And you need to zip it, fancy pants.”
“Zip it?” Abigail asked in confusion.
“Zip up your lip.” She whirled on Jack Johnson again. “You’re coming with me.”
“But…” Jack stammered.
“You can bring your baby.”
JACK JOHNSON FOLLOWED THE DUCHESS OUT INTO THE HALLWAY, his head hung in contrition.
“I know I’m being a total dick,” he mumbled before she could start in on him.
“I’ll say. Can’t you give her a break? I did.”
“I’ll calm down now—I promise.”
Just knowing that redheaded fruitcake was out of the building was working wonders on his temper. Jack studied the small woman’s dark features in silence. Her large eyes expressed her feelings. They were filled with liquid pain.
“I have to put up
with it too, you know. Do you think it’s easy for me? You know how amazingly beautiful she is. That’s my husband’s oldest friend in there and they were lovers for years. It eats me up inside every time I see her mile-long legs and her perfect friggin’ hair.”
“According to her, it’s not perfect,” Jack remarked. “And who has ever seen it down anyway?”
“I’ve seen it down. Trust me—it’s perfect. The point is, you better get used to their relationship. I’ve had too. I mean, I know it eats you up inside too.”
“It’s not like that between us,” Jack denied.
The little Duchess gave an eye roll. “Whatever, dude.”
The young woman was astute for her years. Then again a blind idiot could tell that he was acting like a possessive madman. He told himself it was all about the kid, and it was mostly. Wasn’t it? He knew he had issues—issues born long ago from a devastating experience with an entirely different woman. Still, he supposed his reaction was a little unreasonable.
“I just don’t need another man telling me how to do my job.”
“Trevor is highly talented at telling people what to do,” she smirked.
Jack dropped his gaze to his sleeping baby. “My kid is a real knockout, isn’t she? Just like her mother.”
The words were out before he could take them back. He felt like a goddamned fool. Oh well, it was the truth, wasn’t it? The little Duchess certainly knew it—everyone else knew it too. That crazy-making woman on the other side of the door was possibly one of the greatest beauties of her time. It shouldn’t really matter, except she’d given birth to the most beautiful baby of her time and Jack couldn’t say he was sorry about it. His daughter would be a total dish, just like the Baroness. He’d see to it that she wouldn’t be the same hoity-toity snob though.
“She’s the most perfect baby I’ve ever seen. Abigail did a great job, you know. I was there at the end. She was in a lot of pain, but she wouldn’t take any drugs. She said it was bad for the baby. She hardly made a sound and never complained. She said she wanted to make you proud.”