The Earl's Pregnant Bride

Rafe. Her husband...

Dear Lord. Was this really happening?

Her mother touched her arm. “Darling? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’m fine. And we’ll explain everything when Rafe is here, I promise.” She asked that her father be there, too.

And her mother asked again what exactly was going on.

Genny hugged her and whispered, “Two o’clock. We’ll tell you all of it then.” And she escaped before her mother could ask any more questions.

Back in her apartment, she called Rafe and told him when to be there. He arrived at one-thirty and came straight to her rooms as she’d asked him to do.

She gestured him in. “It’s good you’re here early. We’ll have a little time to plan.”

“There’s more to plan?” He sounded doubtful.

She stepped back to get a good look at him. “You look...terrific.” She felt oddly breathless suddenly. Because he did look wonderful in a fine lightweight jacket and trousers. Wonderful in a completely feral, un-English way, with his thick black curls, full lips, black velvet eyes and huge, hard body. A savage in a suit. The scar only added to the impression of otherness.

“And you are beautiful,” he said in that carefully controlled, formal way he had.

She wasn’t, not really. Her mother was beautiful. And her four sisters, too. Genny was the most ordinary looking of all of them. With wispy blond hair and brown eyes, she was pretty enough, but nothing spectacular. She smoothed her hair and adjusted her fitted white jacket, which she’d worn over a simple jewel-blue shirtwaist dress, an outfit she’d deemed demure and appropriate for this particular meeting. “Thank you—did you reach Eloise?”

“I did.”

“Did you tell her there will be a baby?”

“Yes.”

Genny gulped. “How did she take it?”

“She was pleased on all counts.”

“She wasn’t surprised...you know, that you and I were, um, lovers?”

He looked at her with infinite patience. “Nothing surprises my grandmother. You should know that.”

“I...” She started to say something vague and dishonest. But why lie about it? “Yes. I suppose I do.” Eloise had never made a secret of her desire to have Genny join the DeValery family and had openly encouraged a union between Genny and the lost Edward.

Not only did Genny adore the DeValerys and Hartmore, she had money. Pots of it—and giant old places like Hartmore needed serious infusions of cash on a regular basis. The lion’s share of Genny’s money came down to her from her godmother and namesake, Genevra DeVries. Aunt Genevra had never married. She’d had no children of her own and had always considered Genny the daughter of her heart.

Now that Edward was gone, the supremely practical Eloise would see nothing wrong with Genny marrying her other grandson, the new heir. Genny only wished that she could be half as indomitable as Eloise.

“Grandmother loves you,” Rafe said. “Never doubt that.”

“I don’t. Of course I don’t....”

He watched her steadily. She had that feeling she too often had with him. That he could see not only through her clothes to her naked body beneath, but even deeper, right into her heart and mind. And then he said, “Now. What are these ‘plans’ you need to discuss with me?”

She stared at him, chewing her lip, trying to decide how to begin.

He shook his head. “You had better just tell me.”

“Ahem.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, I’ve...I’ve been thinking that we shouldn’t actually come right out today and tell my parents that I’m pregnant.” He arched a thick black brow, but said nothing. She added airily, “I’m thinking we can do that later.”

“When is later?”

“Oh, well. You know, after we’ve settled in at Hartmore. One thing at a time, I was thinking...”

He gave her one of his deep and oh-so-patient looks. “You don’t think they’ll wonder why the rush to the altar? Why you’re suddenly marrying me, of all people?”

“What do you mean, ‘of all people?’” she demanded sourly, as though she didn’t know exactly what he meant.

Edward. She was supposed to have married Edward.

Rafe regarded her solemnly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

She could almost become annoyed with him. After all, he was the one who’d asked her to wait until he was with her to speak of the baby. If she’d just gone ahead and told her mother that morning, it would all be out in the open now. Her mother would have told her father and it wouldn’t really be necessary to say much more about it.

Now Rafe would be there for the big reveal. And her father, too. Dear Lord. She should have thought this through earlier. Because she realized now that she just wasn’t ready to sit in her mother’s office and look in her father’s face and tell him about the baby.

He was a wonderful man, her father. He was the best. She couldn’t bear to think he might be disappointed in her.

Rafe caught her arm and she realized she’d been swaying on her feet the tiniest bit. “Gen. Do you need to sit down?”

She blinked up at him, all too aware of his touch, of the heat of him so close, of his tempting scent. Of the velvet darkness of his eyes. Carefully, she eased her arm from his grip. “Really, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m fine. I just want you to let me do the talking, let me handle it with my parents.”

He studied her from under the heavy shelf of his brow. Evidently, he believed that she wasn’t going to faint, because he didn’t try to steady hear again, but only lifted one huge shoulder in a shrug. “You don’t want me to ask for your hand?” He was teasing.

Or was he?

She really couldn’t tell. “I... No, of course not. It’s already decided. We’re just sharing our plans.” For that, she got another unreadable look, one that had her waving a nervous hand. “More or less. Can we not overthink it, please?”

He captured her hand as it fluttered between them and pressed his lips to the back of it. A warm, delicious shiver danced up her arm. For such a giant rock of a man, he did have the softest, supplest mouth. “As you wish, love,” he said.

Love. He’d been calling her that forever—at least since she was thirteen or so. She’d always liked it when he called her that, and felt as cherished as a dear friend.

Now, though, it only reminded her that she wasn’t his love in the way that she ought to be as his bride.

She cleared her throat. “Ready?” He offered his arm. She took it. “All right, then. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

In her mother’s private office, there was tea served in the sitting area with its long velvet sofa and priceless old wing chairs.

At first, they endured the obligatory small talk—gentle condolences from her mother about the lost Edward, questions about Rafe’s injuries, inquiries about the health of Rafe’s family. He told them that his nephew, Geoffrey, whom Genny adored, had been sent up to boarding school in London “under protest.” Geoffrey’s mother, Rafe’s sister, Brooke, was getting along fine. His grandmother, he said, was in good health and as busy as always about the house and the gardens.

Too soon, it seemed to Genny, the small talk ran out. Her parents looked at her expectantly.

And she realized she had absolutely no idea how to go about this. She’d purposely not planned what she would say, telling herself not to make a big deal of it, that the right thing to say would come to her naturally.

Wrong.

All that came was a frantic tightness in her throat, a rapid pounding of her pulse and a scary generalized tingly feeling all over, a full-body shiver of dread. And her stomach lurched and churned, making her wonder if she was about to experience her first bout of morning sickness.

“Gen.” Rafe said it so gently. His big, hot, strong hand covered hers.

She looked at him, pleading with her eyes. “I...”

And he took over, turning to face her parents, giving a slow, solemn dip of his large dark head. “Ma’am. Sir. I know this may come as a bit of a surprise. But I love your daughter with all my heart.”

Loved her with all of his heart? Had he actually said that? Her throat clutched. She swallowed, hard, to relax it, and tried to paste on a smile.

Rafe continued, so calmly and clearly, still clasping her hand, engulfing it in his heat and steadiness. “And Genevra has done me the honor of consenting to be my wife. We’re here today to ask for your blessing.”

Genny stared across the coffee table at her parents. They both looked surprised. But not in a bad way, really—or was that just desperate wishful thinking on her part? The two of them shared a long, speaking glance. What exactly that glance said, well, she just couldn’t tell.

And her mother said, “We had no idea.”

Rafe squeezed her hand. She knew she really had to say something. But she couldn’t for the life of her think what. Once again, poor Rafe had to answer for her. “It’s sudden, I know. And we’re...” He seemed to seek the right word. “We’re eager to get on with our lives together. So eager that we’re planning to marry in Saint Ann’s Chapel at Hartmore on Saturday.”

Her father frowned. “Saturday is four days away.”

“Um, five if you count today,” Genny put in helpfully.

“So quickly,” said her mother, drawing her slim hand to her throat. She looked at her father again.

Her father didn’t catch that glance. He was busy watching Genny, frowning. “Genevra, are you ill?”

And Genny knew she couldn’t just keep sitting there like a lump, trying not to throw up and letting poor Rafe lie for her. It wasn’t right, wasn’t fair. So she opened her mouth—and the truth fell out. “We were together for four days in March, when Rafe came to arrange renovations at Villa Santorno. I, um, well, I’m pregnant. And, er, Rafe insists on doing the right thing and marrying me.”

Rafe corrected stiffly, “We both feel it’s the right thing. And of course, I want to marry your daughter.”

There was a silence then. An endless one.

Finally, her mother said softly, “Oh. I see.”

Her father turned his gaze on Rafe and said in a carefully controlled tone, “You know we think the world of you, Rafael.” He went on, with growing heat, “But what in the hell were you—?”

Her mother cut him off by gently murmuring his name. “Evan.”

Her father shot her mother a furious glance—and then sighed. “Yes. Fine.”

Genny just ached for them—all three of them. Her mother and father because they’d already been through this with two of her siblings. Genny hated that she was putting them through it again. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to practice proper contraception in this day and age.

And she had practiced it. They’d used a condom every time.

But then, there had been a lot of times....

And poor Rafe. He thought so highly of her parents. It had to be awful for him, to have to face them with this news.

“Of course, you’re both adults and this is your decision, between the two of you,” said her mother, and went on to add exactly what Genny had known she would say. “We only want you to be sure this is the right choice for you.”

“It is,” Rafe said in low growl, not missing a beat.

Her mother’s legendary dark eyes were focused solely on Genny. “Darling? Is it the right choice for you?”

The right choice...

Genny went through her list of reasons in her mind again: the baby, who deserved the right to claim his inheritance. And her fondness for Rafe. Surely they should have a good chance to make a successful marriage together, with friendship as a basis. And being intimate with him wouldn’t be a hardship—oh, who was she kidding? Sex with Rafe was amazing.

And Hartmore.

Yes. She would have Hartmore. And, fair enough, she was a little ashamed that Hartmore mattered so much.

But the plain fact was that it did.

“Genevra?” her father prompted gruffly.

She wove her fingers more tightly with Rafe’s. “Yes,” she said. It came out firm and wonderfully sure sounding. “Marrying Rafe is the right choice for me.”

* * *

After three days jam-packed with shopping and preparations and endless visits with lawyers to hammer out all the legal and financial agreements, they flew to East Midlands Airport on Friday. There was Genny, Rafe, her mother and father and Aurora, whom they all called Rory. The wedding would be very small and private, only family members, just the bride and groom in the wedding party, with Genny’s father to give her away.

Rory would be taking the pictures. She was the baby of the family, a year younger than Genny—and everything Genny wasn’t.

There was nothing ordinary about Rory. Rory loved the great outdoors. She thrived on adventure. She had a bachelor of fine arts in photography from the School of the Arts Institute of Chicago and she’d already had her pictures published in National Geographic, Country Digest and Birds & Blooms. Genny found her baby sister a little intimidating.

But then, Genny found all of her siblings intimidating. They seemed larger than life to her, somehow, each of them not only knowing what they wanted, but also going after it with passion and grace. True, Genny had always known what she wanted: to be a DeValery and mistress of Hartmore. But her sisters’ ambitions were so much grander than hers. Compared to them, Genny sometimes felt like a plain gray pigeon raised in a family of swans.

At East Midlands, two cars were waiting to take them to Hartmore. Genny, Rafe and Rory rode together. Genny’s and Rory’s bodyguards sat in front, one of them at the wheel. The ride took about an hour. Rafe was mostly silent and Genny didn’t feel much like talking, either. Rory, always full of energy and plans, tried to keep the conversation going, but eventually gave up. They rode in silence through the English countryside and Genny drifted off to sleep.

She woke suddenly, her head on Rafe’s shoulder, as they pulled to a stop at Hartmore, the North Entrance, so stark and spectacular. Open parkland, designed two hundred years before by Capability Brown, rolled away into the distance dotted with giant old oaks and beeches. A masterpiece of Georgian perfection in its day, the house was composed of a central block joined by single-story links to three-story wings on either side. Six Corinthian columns supported the central pediment.

The façade remained magnificent. But inside, Genny knew, more than a few of the two hundred rooms had been water damaged due to roof leaks. So much needed doing in the months and years to come. But right now, all she could think of was the first time she’d seen the house. Her mother had brought her and her four sisters, Arabella, Rhiannon, Alice and Rory, for a visit when Genny was five.

For Genny, that visit had been a revelation; at the tender age of five, she’d suddenly known what she wanted, known where she fit in. Now, twenty years later, she felt exactly the same. She was coming home—home to stay, at last.

“We’re home,” said Rafe so softly, echoing her thoughts.

She smoothed her sleep-flattened hair and gave him a smile that only trembled a little.

* * *

An hour later, after her mother, her father and Rory had been properly greeted and shown to their rooms, Genny and Rafe met privately in one of the East Wing drawing rooms with Rafe’s grandmother, the dowager countess, Eloise.

Tall, with the proud posture of a much younger woman, Eloise had a long, heavily lined face, pale blue eyes and wiry, almost-white hair that she braided and pinned close to her head. She lived in old trousers and wellies, her tricolor rough collies, Moe and Mable, trailing in her wake.

Genny loved Eloise—absolutely and unconditionally. An amateur botanist, Rafe’s grandmother ruled the grounds and gardens. And she ruled well. Overall, the estate lands were in much better shape than the house—especially the West Wing, where roof leaks had necessitated the removal of many of the furnishings.

“Moe. Mable. Go.” Eloise pointed to a spot by the fireplace and the collies trotted right over there. “Sit.” They sat. She lowered her hand, palm down, toward the floor. “Down.” The dogs stretched out obediently. Then she turned a glowing smile on Genny. “My dearest girl.”

With a low cry, Genny ran to her.

Chuckling, Eloise gathered her up in those long, capable arms. She smelled of lavender and lemons. Genny took comfort from the beloved, familiar scents. “So. We shall have you as our own after all.”

Genny hugged the old woman closer. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Let me have a look at you.” Eloise took Genny by the shoulders and held her away. “A little pale, perhaps.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“That’s the spirit. We’ll soon put pink in those cheeks and fatten you up.” She pressed a rough, heavily veined hand to Genny’s cheek. “I’m deeply gratified that you will be my own granddaughter at last.”

Genny bit her lip and nodded and didn’t really know what to say. “It’s all a little overwhelming....”

There was a noise in the hallway. The dogs perked up their ears and the door flew open. “Genny!” Dressed in his school uniform, complete with blue vest and striped tie, eight-year-old Geoffrey came flying into the room. “You’re here! You’re really here!”

“Slow down, young man,” Eloise commanded, hiding a grin.

Genny held out her arms.

He landed against her and hugged her good and hard. “They let me come from school because of the wedding,” he said. “And Great-Granny says you will be my aunt Genny.”

“Oh, yes, I will.”

Then he scowled. “Mum’s sending me back on Sunday.”

Genny smoothed his tousled sandy hair. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

He beamed her a big smile and she saw that he’d lost two baby teeth in front. “I’m so glad to be home.” Then he turned and flung himself at Rafe. “Uncle Rafe!” Rafe chuckled and lifted him high.

“Put him down, Rafe.” Brooke DeValery Landers, Rafe’s sister and Geoffrey’s mother, stood in the open doorway looking stunning as always in turquoise silk leggings, a big-collared white tunic, ballet flats and a look of disapproval. “He’s way too excited, behaving like a savage. No manners at all.” She raked her long sable hair back from her forehead and turned her angry sapphire eyes on Genny. “Lovely to see you, Genevra.” Her tone said it wasn’t lovely at all. Brooke was divorced from an American, Derrick Landers. Her ex lived in the States. He’d remarried and had two more children.

“Hello, Brooke.” Genny and Brooke had never really gotten along. The best they ever did together was a kind of cool civility. Genny put on a smile and went to her. They air-kissed each other’s cheeks. “You look well.”

Brooke stared past her at Rafe. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“It’s true,” Rafe answered without missing a beat. “Gen has made me the happiest man on earth.”

“Genny.” Geoffrey tugged on her hand. “Samson had kittens, did you know?” He gave her his jack-o’-lantern grin.

Genny widened her eyes. “But how is that possible?”

“Because Samson turned out to be a girl!” He chortled with glee.

“Geoffrey, come along now,” Brooke cut in sharply. She held out her hand, snapping her fingers. “I want you out of that uniform before you get something on it.”

His laughter died. He slumped his small shoulders. “But I want to take Genny out to the stables and show her—”

“Geoffrey. Now.”

Dragging his feet, he went to his mother. Herding him out ahead of her, she pulled the door closed as she went.

Genny stared at the shut door and promised herself that she’d steal a little time with Geoffrey before he had to return to school on Sunday.

* * *

They had dinner at eight in the State Dining Room, with its Chippendale sideboards and urn-topped pedestals and the glorious old table that could seat forty.

Geoffrey didn’t join them. Brooke said he was overtired and already in his room. The conversation was, for the most part, innocuous. Rory whipped out a camera and took several pictures right there at the table before the meal was served. She said she was headed to Colorado on Monday, to the town of Justice Creek and a long visit with Clara, her favorite Bravo cousin. Eloise spoke of her bedding plants and the vegetable border in the walled garden, which she couldn’t wait to show Genny. Genny’s mother and father were charming and agreeable.

And Rafe was his usual silent, watchful self. He ate slowly, with never a clink or a clatter. When he set down his delicate crystal water goblet after taking a sip, the water within hardly stirred. Genny tried not to stare at him, not to get lost in inappropriate fantasies of those four days two months ago.

Or in distant memories of the feral boy he’d been once, roaming the gardens and grounds, unkempt and unsupervised. His mother, Sabrina, had doted on him and refused to rein him in. His father, Edward II, had little to do with him, except to punish him for what the earl considered Rafe’s uncivilized behavior, punishments which were frequent and severe.

Genny had met Rafe during her first glorious visit to Hartmore, when she was five and he was thirteen. He was still running wild then. He’d dropped out of an oak tree practically on her head and she’d run off screaming. The next day, when he’d popped out from behind a topiary hedge into her path, she’d somehow managed to hold her ground. Before the end of that visit, they were unlikely friends: the earl’s big, wild second son and the five-year-old Montedoran princess. Her mother, who had always encouraged her children to get out and explore the world, had allowed her to roam all over the estate as long as Rafe was there to look after her. He’d told her that he hated his father. And she’d admitted that she wished she could stay at Hartmore forever.

That fall, strings were pulled and Rafe went away to St Paul’s in London. He shocked everyone by doing well there. After St Paul’s he attended Emmanuel College at Cambridge, where he’d finished at the top of his class. More than once in recent years, Eloise had confided in Genny that Rafe had a brain to match his giant body and an aptitude for money management. He’d taken a modest inheritance from a great-uncle and made some excellent investments with it. Now he was doing well for himself. Before Edward’s death, Eloise had even once let drop that Hartmore would be better off had Rafe been the heir.

Across the table next to Rafe, Brooke let loose with a brittle laugh. “Genevra, what are you staring at?” Of course she knew. She even turned a mean little smile on Rafe to drive home her point.

Genny ordered her cheeks not to blush and spoke up fast, so Rafe wouldn’t feel he had to step in and defend her. “Why, at you, of course, Brooke. Love that dress.”

Brooke made a scoffing sound and lifted her wineglass high. “To marital bliss, everyone. Though God knows in my experience it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Chapter Three

The State Rooms at Hartmore were open to the public Thursday through Sunday from noon to four in the afternoon, April through October. One small-budget film of Jane Austen’s Emma, as well as a couple of BBC specials, had been shot there.

Hartmore was also available for weddings. There were two wedding parties scheduled for the next day, the first at one in the afternoon and the second at four, both in Saint Ann’s Chapel, with receptions to follow in the State Dining Room and on the grand terrace, respectively.

By five-thirty, the second party had left the chapel. Hartmore staff got right to work switching out the flowers and hanging a fresh set of lace and floral swags from the ends of the gorgeous old mahogany pews.

At a quarter past six, Genny walked down the red-carpeted aisle in the six-hundred-year-old sandstone church on her father’s arm. She wore a sleeveless white-lace creation bought three days before in Montedoro and carried pink roses from Hartmore’s rose garden. Rafe waited for her at the altar dressed beautifully in a charcoal morning coat, buff waistcoat and gray trousers. To her, the whole experience had an air of unreality.