The Earl's Pregnant Bride

She was on her father’s arm and then, as if by magic, she stood at the altar with Rafe, beneath the stained glass window depicting the crucifixion and ascension of Christ. There were vows and she said them, obediently and a little bit breathlessly.

Rafe kissed her, his soft lips brushing hers for the first time since he’d kissed her goodbye after their brief time together two months before. She shivered a little at the contact and her body ached. For him.

So strange, really. She’d been at his side constantly in the five days since she’d climbed the villa wall to tell him she was having his baby. But they hadn’t really talked, not about anything beyond their plans to marry and what had to be done next.

And they hadn’t made love. He’d been distant and carefully gentle with her. Attentive, but in no way intimate.

Right after the ceremony, as she posed with Rafe and the family and Rory flitted about snapping picture after picture, she wondered if, just possibly, she might have lost her mind. Pregnant. Marrying Rafe, her dearest friend, who was now like a stranger. Mistress of Hartmore.

It didn’t seem real. It was all like some weird, impossible dream.

They had dinner, just the family, in the small dining room in the East Wing, where the family lived. For the occasion, Genny would have liked to have used the State Dining Room again. But it wasn’t to be. The paying wedding parties were still going on in the heart of the house. After the meal, they moved to the East Solarium. There was wedding cake, as well as champagne that she pretended to sip while Rory took more pictures.

At eleven, she found herself in Rafe’s bedroom, the East Bedroom, as it had always been called, though there were many more bedrooms in that wing of the house. The East Bedroom had its own sitting room, a dressing room and bath—and a second bedroom beyond the dressing room. The East Bedroom had been part of the original design of the house, back before the turn of the eighteenth century, and was revolutionary in its day. An en suite bath was rare at the time. Even the very wealthy went down the hall—or even out the back door—to the loo.

The bedroom itself was furnished with Chippendale lacquer furniture and an enormous, ornately draped canopy bed. Wearing the white satin, low-backed bit of silky nothing she’d bought the same day she bought her wedding gown, Genny sat at the lacquer dressing table and stared at her wide-eyed reflection in the slightly streaky antique mirror. She worried that he might not be coming to join her.

She started to chew her lower lip over it, but made herself stop. And then she leaned close to the glass to whisper furiously at her own reflection, “If he doesn’t come, you are not going just sit here and wish that he would. You are getting up and going to find him.”

And when she found him, she would insist that they sleep together as man and wife.

Because they had to start somewhere to build a real marriage. And since the sex had been so good with them, she couldn’t help hoping that lovemaking might be a way to break through the wall of emotional reserve he seemed to have erected around himself.

“No need for that, Gen. I’m right here.”

She gasped and whirled to find him standing there, not six feet away. “Rafe! You scared me to death.” Frantically, she tried to remember just how much of what she’d been thinking she’d actually said out loud.

He stood absolutely still, the crescent scar pulling at the side of his mouth in that perpetual false hint of a smile, his black eyes watchful. “Forgive me.”

She thought of the wild boy he’d been once, tormented by his own father, wary of everyone—except her. And nowadays, he was wary of her, too. She had no idea what he might be thinking.

His thick brows drew together. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Yes, fine.” Dear Lord, this was awful. They really were like strangers, with the long, awkward silences followed by stammered-out reassurances. She rose and faced him, feeling way too uncovered in the revealing nightgown.

He blinked and announced gruffly, “Good, then. I’ll just be a few minutes.” He went through the door to the dressing room and bath, closing it behind him.

She realized she’d been holding her breath. Releasing it in one hard gust, she let her head droop and stared down at her bare feet on the gorgeous old Aubusson carpet. Would he actually come back? He’d said that he would. But there was that other bedroom in the suite accessible through the dressing area. Great lords and ladies, after all, shouldn’t have to actually share a bed if they didn’t wish to. Should she follow him, make sure that he...?

No. Time enough for that later if he failed to return. She drew her shoulders back, spun on her heel and turned off the lights, all but the one at his side of the bed. Then she climbed in between the heavy bed curtains, got in under the covers and sat up against the pillows to wait for him.

She pressed her hand to her chest. Her poor heart pounded away in there with a sick sort of dread. She feared that he wouldn’t come and she would either have to go after him—or know herself for the coward she was.

But then the door opened and there he was, huge and muscular and marvelous, really, in a pair of dark silk boxers—and nothing else. He strode right for her. Her heart pounded hard, but with excitement now rather than dread.

He turned off that last light before climbing in next to her. She sat there in the dark against the pillows, acutely aware of his presence beside her, of his size, his heat. And his silence.

About then, it became too ridiculous. The unreality of it all was too much for her. A silly, hysterical little laugh bubbled up in her chest. She tried to swallow it down.

But it wouldn’t be swallowed. It burst out of her, a breathless, absurd, trilling sort of sound. She slapped her hand over her mouth, but it wouldn’t stop.

“You think it’s funny, do you?” he asked from the darkness beside her.

She laughed some more. “I... Oh, God, I...”

And then she heard it, a low, rusty rumble. It took her a moment to realize that the sound was coming from him. He was laughing, too.

They laughed together, there in the dark, and she remembered...

How they used to laugh together often, over the simplest things—the antics of Moe and Mable when they were pups, or the way he would pop up out of nowhere, bringing a shriek of surprise from her. In the old days, they could laugh together at anything, really. She’d always felt so proud that he would laugh with her. He never did with anyone else. With her, he didn’t feel the need to be constantly on his guard, to hold himself in check.

In recent years, though, he’d become more distant, more careful with her. And she’d missed the playful times they used to share.

The laughter faded. The room was too quiet. Still, she realized she felt marginally better about everything.

And then he shifted beside her, moving closer and even wrapping his big arm around her. He pulled her against him.

She sighed in sudden, lovely contentment and leaned her head on his rock of a shoulder. “I think I’ve become hysterical.”

“Must be the hormones.” His wonderful huge hand moved on her bare arm, a tender stroking motion.

This was more like it. She snuggled in closer. “That’s the advantage to being pregnant. Anytime I behave badly, I can just blame it on the hormones.”

“You haven’t.”

“What?”

“Behaved badly.” His lips brushed her hair.

She rubbed her cheek against the hot, smooth flesh of his shoulder and wished it might be like this between them always. “Have you forgotten what happened when we told my parents we’d decided to get married? The way I made you promise not to tell them about the baby—and then went right ahead and blurted out the truth when you were trying so hard to keep the secret for me?”

“That wasn’t behaving badly. That’s just how you are.”

“Unable to stick with a plan of action?”

“No. Not wanting to disappoint your parents—and yet never quite able to hide the truth.”

“I’m honest to the core, am I?”

“Yes.” He said it so firmly, without even having to stop and think about it. His belief in her cheered her.

But then she thought about their marriage, which wouldn’t have happened except for the baby. Now, because of the baby, she had achieved her lifelong dream: to be countess of Hartmore. “But I’m not,” she said miserably. “Not honest at all.”

“Shh.”

She dared to lift her head. “Rafe, I—”

“Shh,” he said again. And then his hand was there, at her throat, caressing, brushing upward to lift her chin. “Gen.” His breath warmed her cheek. She drank in the familiar, exciting scent of him.

And then, light and questioning and heartbreakingly tender, his mouth touched hers.

A real kiss. At last.

She sank into it, parting her lips for him, welcoming him in.

He accepted her invitation, dipping his tongue in, making her whimper low in her throat as he pulled her closer, turning his big body toward her. She moaned in pleasure at the glorious feel of her breasts pressing into his broad, hard chest. Clasping his giant shoulder, she melted into him.

They sank down into the bed, still kissing. She pushed at his shoulder then, urging him over. He gave to her will, stretching out on his back so that she could ease her leg across him.

Her nightgown had slithered up. It was a crumpled knot at her waist. She didn’t care. She was lying on top of him, her body pressed along the length of his.

His big hands were on her hips, pulling her closer. She could feel the hard, wonderful ridge of his arousal through the thin silk of his boxers.

He wanted her.

And she wanted him. Surely they could make things good and right between them, now, tonight, on their wedding night.

She reached up to caress his face and felt the curving, puckered shape of the scar. And she moaned deep in her throat, in excitement. In pleasure. And also in sympathy for all he had suffered.

And then, out of nowhere, he froze. She made a soft, soothing sound. She stroked his shoulder, urging him to relax, to stay with her, to keep kissing her, touching her...

But he only shifted stiffly beneath her, tugging on her nightgown, smoothing it down to cover her. He eased her off him and gained the top position once more.

“Rafe, what—?”

He put a finger against her lips. She stared up at him through the darkness, waiting for him to explain himself, to tell her what had gone wrong.

But he didn’t explain a thing. After a moment, he stretched out beside her, pulling her close again, settling her head on his shoulder. “Let it alone for tonight,” he said quietly. “It will be all right.”

She wanted to believe him. But she didn’t, not really. And that had her thinking of Edward, for some reason.

Edward, slim and tall, with blue eyes and golden-brown hair. Edward was always so elegant, as sophisticated and charming as Rafe was stoic and tender. Edward had been the hero of her earliest fantasies. He used to flirt with her shamelessly. And she had thoroughly enjoyed every teasing glance and clever compliment.

Edward...

Maybe what they needed, she and Rafe, was to talk about the hardest things—like Edward’s death, which he seemed to have a real aversion to discussing. Two months ago, at Villa Santorno, when she’d tried repeatedly to bring it up, he’d only refused over and over to go into it.

She went for it. “Is this about Edward somehow?”

“Go to sleep, Gen.”

“I touched the scar on your cheek...and it all went bad.”

“No.”

“Rafe, I think we really need to talk about it.”

“Leave it alone.”

“No. No, I’m not going to do that. I know what happened that night, the facts of the situation. Eloise told me. She said that you were driving home from a party at Fiona’s.” Fiona Bryce-Pemberton was a longtime friend of Brooke’s; they’d met as children, Brooke and Fiona, at St Anselm’s prep school in nearby Bakewell. At the age of nineteen, Fiona had married a wealthy banker. The banker had bought her Tillworth, a country house not far from Hartmore. “I know that it was two in the morning and Edward was driving. Brooke had stayed the night at Fiona’s. There was only you and Edward in the car when he drove off the road and into an oak tree. Eloise said that the investigation absolved you of any wrongdoing, that it was simply an accident, one of those terrible things that can happen now and then.”

Rafe lay very still. At first. And then, with slow, deliberate care, he eased away from her. They still lay side by side, but their bodies were no longer touching. “So, then. You know what happened. There’s nothing to talk about.”

She sat up, switched on the lamp by her side of the bed and turned back to look in his hooded black eyes. “There’s everything to talk about. There’s how you feel about what happened. How you’re...holding up. And there’s the question of why you won’t let a good plastic surgeon have a look at that scar.”

His eyes flashed dark fire. “I feel like bloody hell about what happened, thank you. I’m in one piece, in good health and I’m now the earl of Hartmore, so I would say that I’m holding up just fine. As to my face, it may not be pretty, but I really don’t give a damn. If you don’t want to look at me, then simply look away.”

“Oh, Rafe, that’s not fair. You can’t just—”

He cut her off by reaching for her, yanking her close and smashing his lips down on hers in a hard, angry kiss.

She shoved at his shoulders until he let her go. “What is the matter with you?”

“Leave. It. Alone.” Each word came out as hard and cold as a stone.

Her lips still tingled from the force of his kiss. She pressed her fingertips to them, soothing them. “This isn’t like you.”

“I mean it, Gen. Edward is dead. There’s nothing more to say on the subject.”

“Of course there is. There’s everything to say. I know you loved him, as he loved you. I know it has to be killing you, that he’s gone, that—”

“Enough.” He threw back the covers and got up. “Good night.” And then he left her, just like that.

She watched him stride through the door that led to the other bedroom, pausing only to close it behind him so carefully, hardly making a sound.

She longed to jump up and go after him.

But no.

She’d tried. It hadn’t gone well. She needed to let it be, at least for now. She settled back against the pillows, sliding her hand under the blankets, resting her palm on her belly where their baby slept.

It will get better.

They would somehow work through all the awfulness. Somehow they would find each other, as friends. As lovers. As husband and wife.

She absolutely refused to admit that she might have made a terrible mistake, that she’d married a man she no longer even knew.

* * *

It was after three in the morning when she finally fell into a fitful sleep.

She woke at a little past nine, feeling exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept at all. But she couldn’t stay in bed forever. So she rose and showered and dressed and resisted the temptation to check the other bedroom.

Finally, at the very last minute, before she went down to breakfast, she went to the door of the other bedroom and gave it a tap.

Nothing.

She knocked again. When he still didn’t answer, she went ahead and pushed it open. He’d already gone. No one had made the bed yet; the sheets were in tangles. She couldn’t help taking selfish satisfaction from the evidence that he hadn’t slept all that well, either.

Out in the hallway, her bodyguard, Caesar, was waiting. He followed her to the Morning Room, positioning himself just outside the door, ready in case she might need protecting.

Which she did not. But after her brother Alex’s kidnapping and four-year captivity in Afghanistan, everyone in the family had security whenever they traveled outside the principality.

Her marriage to Rafe changed that. Now she was part of Rafe’s family and as such allowed to choose whether she still wanted security or not. She chose not. Caesar would be going home with her parents. Nothing against him. He was quiet and unobtrusive and easy to have around. But she looked forward to getting along without a soldier following her everywhere.

In the Morning Room, the staff kept a buffet breakfast on the sideboard until eleven. The room was empty, the table set, the silver chafing dishes lined up and waiting.

Her stomach felt a bit queasy. Pregnancy and a wedding-night argument were not a good combination. She took toast and apple juice and sat at the table.

Rory came in as she debated whether or not to try the raspberry jam. “Any news?”

Genny glanced up from the jam pot. “News about what?”

Rory got some coffee and took the seat next to Genny. “No one told you?”

“Apparently not. What are you talking about?”

Rory set down her china cup without taking a sip. “Geoffrey’s disappeared. Brooke went to his room at eight to get him ready for the drive up to London. He wasn’t there. He’d left a note on his pillow saying he hated school and was running away and never coming back.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.