The Bride's Baby (14 page)

‘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?’