The Bride's Baby

CHAPTER EIGHT

SYLVIE watched with a certain amount of detachment as Geena and her staff went into raptures over her great-grandmother’s wedding dress.

‘This is so beautiful, Sylvie!’ Geena said, examining the lace. The workmanship. ‘French couturier?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ she said. ‘Great-grandma Clementine started out as she meant to go on. But it’s a dress for a very young bride. She was barely nineteen when she married my great-grandfather.’

She managed a shrug, as if such a thing was unbelievable.

‘I agree. I’ve designed something much more sophisticated for you. Flowing, loose, since it’s a style that suits you so well. No veil, though. I thought a loose-fitting jacket with wide sleeves, turned-back cuffs.’

She proffered her sketches.

Sylvie swallowed. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, Geena. Perfect. What’s that in my hair?’

‘A small tiara. Nothing over the top,’ she added with a grin. ‘Since you seem hooked on elegant restraint.’

‘I don’t know about restraint,’ Sylvie said with a wry smile. ‘There are the purple shoes.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I forgot I was wearing them so I had to buy them.’

‘If you believe that, my darling, who am I to contradict you? I’ll put in an order for the purple waistcoat then, shall I?’

‘Will anything I say stop you?’

‘I don’t know, give it a try.’

She shook her head.

‘Okay, you can leave the tiara to me, if you like. The woman who makes them for me is showing at the Fayre. Can we add a touch of green to the violet? You’re not superstitious?’

‘No.’ She’d done everything by the book the first time and it had still all fallen apart. And this time it was make-believe, so it really didn’t matter. ‘I’ll send you over a colour sample-’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll pick it up when I come over with my final drawings and material swatches for the appliqué first thing in the morning. Be ready to make a decision.’

‘I’ve got the message, but now I really have to love you and leave you because I have an appointment with the caterer, the florist and the confectioner.’

Followed by an evening cosseted with the devil himself, sorting through the discarded ephemera of generations of the Duchamp family.

Not the brightest of decisions, considering the effect he had upon her. She couldn’t think what had made her volunteer. Or maybe she could, which was truly dumb, even though he hadn’t carried through with this morning’s opportunistic pass. Despite the fact that she hadn’t done a single thing to discourage him.

Somehow they’d managed to move on without sinking into terminal embarrassment, although only she knew how hard it had been to keep it light, make a joke of it.

Only she knew how torn she was between relief and regret that he’d taken a step back, rescuing her from her runaway hormones.

She might have spent the last six months yearning for the phone to ring, for him to make a move, to suggest they continue where they’d left off, but the truth was that some affairs were doomed from the start. And that was all it would ever have been for him-a tit-for-tat affair to throw oil on the fire of gossip and give him back his pride.

A lesser man would have gone for it without a second thought. Used it to bolster his shattered self-esteem. Used her to strike back.

That he hadn’t seemed to prove that Tom McFarlane was made of finer stuff. He didn’t need to hurt someone else to make himself feel good. Not even her, even though he couldn’t have made it plainer that he despised everything that made her who she was. A reaction which only increased her curiosity about the forces that had shaped his character.

She frowned as she wondered about his lack of family memories.

His meteoric rise from teenage entrepreneur to billionaire was the stuff of legend, but where had that teenager risen from? If he had no family, it would go a long way to explaining his inability to confront emotional issues. His coldness in the face of Candy’s desertion. His inability to connect physical love with anything deeper.

Maybe.

But it would have to keep, she told herself with a sigh as she pulled into the caterer’s premises, trying to raise her enthusiasm for the latest twist on poached salmon-never a favourite.

‘Something smells good,’ Sylvie said as she tossed a folder containing menus, photographs of flowers and every style of cake imaginable on to the kitchen table and crossing to the stove where Tom, unbelievably, was beating potato into submission. ‘Mrs Kennedy’s spiced beef casserole?’

‘It’s beef and it’s a casserole, beyond that I’m not prepared to hazard a guess,’ Tom said. ‘I’m only responsible for the vegetables.’

He offered her the pan and Sylvie dipped a finger in the potatoes, licked it and groaned with pleasure. ‘Butter, garlic. Real food.’

‘There’s plenty for two,’ he said, apparently amused at her pleasure.

‘Are you sure? I’d better warn you that I’m starving.’

‘A first. A woman with an appetite,’ he said, his smile fading as quickly as it had come. ‘But then you’re eating for two.’

‘Oh, I’ve never been a fan of lettuce,’ she said, too hungry to worry about his sudden loss of interest, instead reaching up to the warming rack above the stove for a couple of plates. ‘Where’s Mrs Kennedy?’ she asked. ‘Why isn’t she mashing your spuds?’

‘She’s putting her feet up after being run ragged by the hordes of exhibitors and construction people tramping through the house all day, wanting tea, scones and sandwiches. You are aware that they’re eating us out of house and home?’

Us?

Just a figure of speech, no doubt, but it sent a thrill of pleasure rippling through her tired limbs.

‘Send the bill to Celebrity; this is their party,’ she replied and, since emotion was off his radar, doing her best to keep the smile down and the tone chirpy.

‘They’re picking up the tab for everything?’ he asked, glancing at her.

‘Peanuts for them. You missed out, Tom. If you’d let them cover your wedding they’d have been stuck with the bill.’

‘And filled their pages with the story when Candy made her break. No, thanks. It was enough of a circus already.’

Sylvie grinned. ‘You got off lightly, Tom. Last month I organised a wedding where the bride arrived on an elephant-’

‘Stop! Stop right there.’

‘And you escaped the butterflies…’

‘Give me a break,’ he said, but he was grinning too.

‘Okay. But only because you’re being so protective of Mrs Kennedy. Although I bet she had a whale of time with an endless stream of people to fuss over for a change.’

‘A stream of people taking advantage.’

‘Rubbish. She didn’t have to make scones. She didn’t have to offer them anything. The workmen almost certainly brought flasks and packed lunches with them.’

Tom’s only response was a noise that sounded like something a disgruntled bulldog might have made as he spooned some of the rich casserole on to a plate.

‘I understood the Fayre was your party,’ he said. ‘Pink ribbons and all.’

‘Okay,’ she said, opening a drawer and finding knives and forks for both of them, before pulling out a chair and making herself comfortable at the kitchen table. ‘Why don’t you send the bill to me and I’ll send it on to Celebrity?’ Then, ‘And I promise that I won’t make you go through it item by item.’

‘No?’ he said as he put his own plate on the table, holding her attention while he fetched two glasses and a bottle of red wine that was already open. Then, as he looked up and caught her gaze, ‘Maybe I’ll insist.’

And Sylvie blushed. What an idiot! Anyone would think she was angling for a repeat performance…

Maybe she was.

‘But tomorrow they’re on their own,’ he continued as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

She cleared her throat. ‘Right.’ Then, ‘Will you tell Mrs Kennedy that you’re going to spoil her fun? Or would you like me to do that?’

He shook his head, trying not to smile. ‘Just tell her not to overdo it. Meantime,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect her to wait on me.’

‘Perish the thought,’ she agreed as he filled both glasses without bothering to ask her whether she wanted wine or not and he looked up, apparently catching the ironic tone.

‘What?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I may be wrong,’ she said, getting up and fetching a bottle of water from the fridge and another glass, ‘but I suspect she’s disappointed not to have had the chance to lay out everything in the dining room to show the new “master” what she can do.’ Then, as he scowled, presumably at falling into her trap, ‘And maybe just a little anxious about their future too. They have a pension-that was ring-fenced-but their cottage has been their home for thirty years.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone was worrying about that when the bailiffs were in.’

‘You suppose wrong. My mother was deeply concerned. As far as she was concerned, they had tenure for life and it was one of the things she hoped to straighten out.’ She dismissed that. It was past. ‘I’m not trying to get at you, Tom. I’m just telling you how it is.’

For a moment he just stared at her, then he nodded. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

‘Thank you.’ Then, ‘Where’s Pam tonight? Isn’t she hungry?’

‘She’s taken the opportunity, with my presence, to go back to London for a couple of days to catch up.’ He raised an ironic glass in her direction. ‘It’s just you, me and the ghosts.’

Okay, maybe she’d asked for that with her ‘master’ crack. He couldn’t have made it clearer that he despised the landed gentry and everything they stood for.

Would no doubt enjoy turning this venerable old manor house into a conference centre, the stables into accommodation for bright young executives. Take pleasure in the thought of them being moulded into team leaders as they played paintball war games in the ancient woodland.

And why not?

It was a new era, meritocracy ruled and she should be using this opportunity to demonstrate her own company’s experience in the field of conference coordination.

She’d relish the chance to expand her business in that direction.

Whatever Josie thought, she had, like Tom, had enough of weddings to last her a lifetime. And she was losing her taste for celebrity parties too. Maybe it was impending motherhood but she wanted to do something a little more grown-up and meaningful with the rest of her life than think of new ways to spend other people’s money. When this week was over she was going to talk to Josie about a partnership, gift her the ‘fun’ side of the business so that she could concentrate on more serious stuff.

She didn’t think that Tom McFarlane would be that impressed if she used the opportunity to pitch for his business, however, so she poured herself a glass of water and, matching his gesture, touched it to his.

‘To the ghosts,’ she said, ‘although I have to warn you that they’re all family. Protective of their own.’ She swallowed a mouthful of water, put down her glass, then picked up a fork and speared a small piece of tender beef. ‘I’ll sleep soundly enough tonight,’ she lied. How likely was that with him just yards away? ‘You, on the other hand, are going to be tearing the place apart and I doubt they’ll take kindly to that.’

‘Then I’m glad you’re here. If they come calling, I’ll seek refuge with you.’

She choked as she swallowed the beef. Then, unable to help herself, laughed. ‘Why on earth would I protect you?’

‘Because this is all your fault.’ He gestured around the kitchen with his fork. ‘If you’d kept your staff under better control, Candy would have had her country estate and Longbourne Court would have been safe for another fifty years.’

She stared at him, shocked out of her teasing. Her appetite suddenly non-existent. ‘You bought this for Candy?’

He didn’t answer her question, but just said, ‘Do you think she would have thought twice about running off with Quentin if she’d known?’

Sylvie lifted her shoulders and said, ‘It was always Candy’s declared ambition to marry a millionaire, Tom, and she came close more than once, as I’m sure you know.’

He shrugged. ‘She could scarcely deny that there hadn’t been a certain amount of history,’ he admitted. ‘Her romances were always given the full Celebrity treatment.’

‘As were her break-ups. She had a habit of doing something outrageous, wrecking her chances.’

‘So? What are you saying? That I’m the last in a long line to get her very individual style of brush-off?’

She shook her head. ‘Not exactly.’ She stirred the creamy potato with her fork. ‘I always assumed it was because she thought she could do better. Had someone richer, more interesting, more exciting in her sights. But then she had you, Tom, and she still ran.’

The corners of his eyes fanned into a smile. ‘I do believe you’ve just paid me a compliment.’

‘I do believe I have,’ she replied, matching his smile and raising it. Then, feeling slightly giddy, ‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since I saw them together. When they came home.’ The change in her had been extraordinary. ‘She didn’t leave you for someone richer or more interesting, but for sweet, adorable Quentin. A man without anything very much to offer her except love.’

‘And the prospect of a title.’

‘He comes from long-lived stock, Tom. No one inherits in that family until they’re drawing their pension.’

‘Then why?’

‘Why did she marry him? I guess she finally found what she’d been looking for all this time. The missing ingredient.’

Tom frowned.

‘They were in love,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but hearts trumps diamonds. Love trumps everything.’

‘I’m glad for her.’ Maybe she didn’t look convinced, because he said, ‘Truly. We both had what the other wanted, or in her case thought she wanted. But neither of us was ever so lost to reality that we believed we were in love.’

‘Reality is a good basis for marriage,’ Sylvie assured him, moved at his unexpected generosity. ‘There’s so much less possibility of disillusion setting in over the honeymoon cornflakes.’

She’d seen the mess that friends-‘deeply in love’ friends-had made of their marriages.

‘It’s a great theory but it doesn’t take account of the X factor that makes fools of us all.’ Then, ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Would Longbourne Court have been enough to carry Candy up the aisle?’ She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Do you regret not telling her?’

‘There’s no right answer to that question.’

‘No, but if it helps, I’ve known Candy since we were both twelve years old and I’ve never seen her so…involved. For what it’s worth, I don’t think the crown jewels would have swayed her.’

‘In that case, I’m glad I didn’t tell her.’ He clearly didn’t have quite the same faith in the power of ‘the real thing’ as she did. Then, obviously not wanting to pursue the matter, he said, ‘How are your wedding plans coming along? Did the dress do the trick?’

‘Geena is happy,’ she said, not elaborating.

‘What about you?’

She lifted her shoulders. ‘It’s her show and I’m sure the result will be stunning. To be honest, I’m getting to the point where I just want the whole thing over with.’

Tom regarded her steadily. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be the happiest day of a woman’s life? Every fantasy she ever dreamed of?’

‘Yes, well, right now, Tom, my fantasy would be to have someone else arranging all the details. I suddenly see the attraction of hiring a wedding planner; I really should have left this to my assistant.’ Josie would have been great. ‘Unfortunately, she’s already handling both our jobs.’

Tom regarded Sylvie with a touch of real concern. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes, at her temples and, despite her assertion that she was starving, she was doing little more than push her food around the plate.

This was all too much for her.

She should be resting, not racing about trying to organise a wedding at a moment’s notice when she had a demanding job, a company to run. Where the devil was her ‘groom’? The father of her baby? Why wasn’t he taking on some of the burden of this?

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Sylvie, you don’t appear to be enjoying this very much.’

‘Believe me, only the fact that I’m supporting a very worthwhile charity induced me to put myself through this.’

He frowned. There was something not quite right about all this, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. ‘How much did Celebrity offer to cover this wedding of yours?’

‘Nowhere near enough,’ she said, finally breaking into a laugh. ‘It doesn’t help that it’s all at such short notice.’ He was staring at her. ‘Because of the Wedding Fayre?’ she prompted.

Was that it?

Did her Earl, so recently freed from one marriage, think he was being rushed, pressured into another, not just by her pregnancy but to support her charity?

It would take a brave man to ask a soon-to-be bride that particular question and he confined himself to, ‘Above and beyond the call of duty, no doubt, but with your experience it must be little more than going through the motions.’

She sighed. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ she said, toying with the mash so that he wanted to scoop it up, forkful by forkful, and feed it to her in small comforting bites. ‘I’ve done it hundreds of times for other people. The problem is that I have a reputation to maintain. My “wedding” has got to have that special wow factor,’ she said, looking about as ‘wowed’ as a post-party balloon. ‘It’s got to be imaginative, different, original.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I need a theme. Normally I have a bride to drive that enthusiasm, feed me with ideas. Too many ideas, sometimes.’

‘And you don’t have any ideas about what you want for your own wedding?’

‘Sad, isn’t it?’ she said, pulling a face. ‘The problem is that I’ve done all this before. Spent months planning every last detail.’

‘Not everyone gets a second chance to get it right.’

‘Maybe that’s the problem. It was perfect the first time.’ She smiled a little sadly. ‘Too perfect. I drive Josie crazy demanding she find some tiny flaw, something that went wrong…’

‘The Arabs weave tiny mistakes into their carpets in the belief that only God can make things perfect.’

She looked at him, her eyes lit up. ‘That’s it. That’s exactly it…When Jeremy was five and I was in my cradle, our families were already planning a dynastic marriage and like well-behaved children we did the decent thing and fell in love.’

‘How convenient.’

‘You think we were just talked into it?’ she asked, less than amused. ‘In love with the idea?’

‘I may think that but I wouldn’t dare make the mistake of saying so,’ Tom hurriedly assured her.

‘Of course you would. You just did. But honestly, it couldn’t have been more perfect. Then my grandfather died, the creditors moved in and the wedding was put on hold.’

Then her mother had died too. While she was behaving like a bratty teen because she’d been dumped by the man she’d loved-his entire family-because they didn’t want to be connected to the disaster.

‘And Jeremy?’ he asked. ‘What happened to him?’ Because something evidently had.

‘Oh, he was offered a transfer abroad by his company.’

‘That would be Hillyer’s Bank?’

‘It would.’

‘Convenient. I imagine he was shipped out of harm’s way so that the relationship could die a natural death.’

‘Cynic.’

‘But right.’

Money and land marrying money and land. He suspected that the only one who had been totally innocent was Sylvie-much too young to cope with a world of hurt. Without thinking, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around hers.

Startled, she looked up and he saw her swallow, blink back tears that she’d let flow in the aftermath of lovemaking. And, just as he had been then, he was overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvie,’ he said, removing his hand from hers, picking up his glass, although he didn’t drink from it.

‘Don’t be.’

No. She’d got her happy ending. Ten years late, but it had all come right in the end for her. So why were her eyes still shining with unshed tears?

How many had she wasted already on a man who was so clearly not worth a single one?

‘Marriage is for better or worse and we were far too young, too immature, to handle the “worse”,’ she said, as if she had to explain. ‘At least this way we didn’t become just another statistic.’

‘There’s an up side to everything,’ he said. ‘So they say.’ Even the cruellest wounds scarred over with time and Jeremy Hillyer, newly elevated to his earldom, had finally returned to claim his childhood sweetheart. And, before he could stop himself, Tom found himself saying, ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Excuse me?’

She might well look surprised. He’d hardly been the most welcoming of hosts.

But then, having always considered love to be just another four-letter word, he appeared to have been sideswiped by feelings that wouldn’t go away. That just got deeper, more intense the more he’d tried to evade them.

It seemed that the man with a reputation for never letting an opportunity slip his grasp had, in the biggest deal of his life, missed his chance.

‘With the wedding?’ he said.

‘You’re kidding?’ And, out of the blue, she laughed. A full-bodied, joyful laugh that lit up her eyes as the sun lit the summer sky. Then, ‘Oh, right, I get it. You think if you can hurry things along I’ll be out of your hair all the quicker.’

‘You’ve got me,’ he said, even though it had, in fact, been the furthest thing from his mind. Sitting here with her, sharing a meal, talking about nothing very much, was an experience he thought he would be happy to repeat three times a day for the rest of his life.

Well, that was never going to happen. But he had today, this week and, despite everything, he found that he was laughing too.

‘So? The dress-’ and she’d wanted an updated version of the original dress, he now realized ‘-is taken care of. What’s next?’

She looked confused, uncertain, as well she might.

‘It’s therapy,’ he assured her. ‘Confronting what you fear most.’

‘Oh, right.’

Was that disappointment? Not the explanation she’d been looking for? Hoping for?

‘Food,’ she said, accepting it. ‘Something a man so wonderfully gifted with a potato masher must surely know all about.’

‘A man who lives alone needs to know how to cook.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that was a problem. Surely women are fighting over the chance to feed you, prove themselves worthy.’

‘Not the kind of women I date,’ he said.

And she blushed. He loved how she did that.

‘This should be right up your street, then,’ she said, ducking her head as she pushed the glossy menu brochure across the table to him. Then, holding on to it, she asked, ‘What would be your perfect wedding breakfast?’

There had been something intense about the way she’d said that, about the look she gave him. As if there was some deeper meaning. As if she was trying to tell him something.

‘Probably nothing in here,’ he admitted, waiting-although what for he could not have said.

She shrugged as she finally released it. ‘Surprise me.’

He picked it up, but couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wasn’t glamorous in the way that Candy had been glamorous. But she had some quality that called to him. A curious mixture of strength and vulnerability. She was a woman to match him, a woman he wanted to protect. A combination that both confused him and yet seemed to make everything seem so simple.

Except for the fact that she was carrying another man’s child. A man who’d run out on her when she’d needed him most. And apparently had to do nothing more than turn up to pick up the threads and carry on as if nothing had happened.

‘The deal is that I check out the menu, you eat,’ he said.

For a moment he thought she was going to argue, but then she picked up her fork, using the food as a shield to disguise the fact that she was blushing again. Something she seemed to do all the time, even though she’d responded to him like a tiger. The woman was a paradox. One he couldn’t begin to understand. Didn’t even try. Just waited until he was sure that she was eating, rather than just pushing the food around her plate, before he gave his full attention to the simpler task of choosing a menu for her wedding, just as, twelve months ago, she’d been choosing one for his.

Sylvie, watching Tom flicking through the sample menus, rediscovered her appetite. Somehow, talking to him, she’d finally managed to bury every last remnant of the hurt that Jeremy had caused her.

Learning that he’d met someone else in America, was getting married, the arrival of each of his children, had been a repetition of the knife plunge to her heart, each as painful as that first wound inflicted on the day he’d told her that they needed ‘a little space’. That he was going away for a while just when she’d needed him most.

Maybe if he hadn’t been her first love, her only love, she’d have got over it sooner. As it was, no one had touched her until Tom McFarlane had walked into her office and, with just one look, had jump-started her back into life, just as the garage jump-started her car when the battery was flat.

There would be no more tears over Jeremy Hillyer. Tom McFarlane had erased every thought of him; she’d scarcely recognised him when he’d turned up at that reception. Not because he’d aged badly, far from it. But because it was so easy to see him for the shallow man he’d always been.

No more tears for the girl she’d been either.

They’d threatened for a moment, but Tom had been there and they’d dried off like a summer mist.

The trick now would be to avoid shedding any over him.

He looked up from the brochure and, with an expression of disgust, said, ‘Is this really what people are expected to eat at weddings? Fiddly bits of fish. Girl food. We’ve got to be able to do better than that.’

We. The word conjured up a rare warmth but she mustn’t read too much into it. Or this.

‘The idea is that it’s supposed to look pretty on a plate,’ she said.

‘For Celebrity or for you?’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘Whose wedding is this?’ he demanded, disgusted. ‘What would you really choose? If you didn’t have to pander to the whims of a gossip magazine?’

Whoa…Where had that come from? It wasn’t just irritation, it was anger. As if it really mattered.

‘They are paying a lot of money to have their whims pandered to,’ she reminded him. ‘Besides, there are the Wedding Fayre exhibitors to think of. This is their big chance.’

‘It’s your wedding. You should have what you want.’

That did make her laugh. ‘If only, but I don’t think ten minutes with the registrar in front of two witnesses, followed by a fish and chip supper would quite fill the “fantasy” bill, do you?’

‘That’s what you’d choose?’

‘Quick, simple. Sounds good to me.’ Then, because his expression was rather too thoughtful, ‘That’s classified information, by the way.’

‘Of course. I realise how bad it would be for business if it got out that the number one wedding planner hated weddings.’

‘I didn’t say that!’

‘Didn’t you? Or are you saying that it’s only your own wedding that you can’t handle?’

‘I can handle it!’ Of course she could handle it. If she wasn’t here. If he wasn’t here. ‘It’s just that it’s all been a bit of a rush. I can’t seem to get a hold of it. Find my theme.’

‘Why don’t you wait until after the baby arrives? Isn’t that what most celebrities do these days?’

‘I’m not a celebrity,’ she snapped. ‘And the Wedding Fayre is this weekend.’

‘There’ll be other fayres.’

‘People are relying on me, Tom, and when I make a commitment, I deliver. It’s a done deal.’

‘So you’re going through this hoopla just for the sake of a donation to charity?’

‘It’s a really big donation, Tom. We’ll be able to do so much with the money. And I really do want to help local businesses.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Isn’t it enough?’

‘I thought we’d already agreed that it wasn’t, but who am I to judge?’ He sounded angry, which was really stupid. Her fault for making such a fuss, but before she could say so, apologise, he said, ‘Fish and chips?’

‘Out of the paper. Or sausage and mash. Something easy that you can eat with friends around the kitchen table.’

‘Well, it certainly beats anything I’ve seen in here,’ he agreed, tossing the menu brochure back on the pile of stuff she’d gathered during the afternoon. ‘I didn’t know there were so many ways of serving salmon.’

She groaned. ‘I loathe salmon. It’s just so…so…’

‘Pink?’ he offered, breaking the tension, and they both grinned.

‘That’s the word.’ Then, ‘Come on.’ She stood up, began to gather the plates. ‘Let’s clear this away and then we’ll go and take a look at the attics.’

‘Forget the attics. Go and sit down. I’ll bring you some coffee.’

She leaned back a little, pushed back a heavy strand of hair that had escaped the chiffon scarf and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve been running around all day. You need to put your feet up. Rest.’

‘Well, thanks for that, Tom. You’ve just made me feel about as attractive as a-’

‘You look wonderful,’ he said. ‘In fact, you could be a poster girl for all those adjectives that people use when they describe pregnant women.’

‘That would be fat.’

‘Blooming.’

‘Just another word for fat.’

‘Glowing,’ he said, putting his hands on the table and leaning forward. ‘Apart from the dark smudges under your eyes that suggest you’re not getting enough sleep.’

‘Tired and fat. Could it be any worse?’

‘Well,’ he said, appearing to consider her question, ‘maybe you’re a little thinner about the face.’

About to protest, she caught the gleam in his eye and realised that he was teasing.

‘Tired, fat and gaunt. Got it,’ she said, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Teasing! Who would have thought it? ‘You haven’t mentioned the swollen ankles.’

‘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.