The Bride's Baby

Her only escape was to retreat, take a step back. His eyes, gleaming dangerously, suggested it would be the safe move, but she knew better.

She wasn’t the naive girl who’d left this house nearly ten years ago. She’d made a life for herself; had used what skills she had to build a successful business. She hadn’t done that by backing away from difficult situations, but by confronting them.

She knew he’d take retreat as a sign of weakness so, difficult as it was, she stood her ground.

Even when he continued to challenge her with a look that sent the butterflies swerving, diving, performing aerial loop the loops.

‘In the middle of a Wedding Fayre?’ he persisted, when she didn’t answer.

He didn’t sound particularly happy about that. He’d be even less so if he knew why she was part of it. They were in agreement about that, anyway. Not that it helped.

‘I’m, um, working. It’s a Celebrity thing,’ she said, offering the barest minimum in the hope that he wouldn’t be interested in the details. ‘They’re covering this event.’

‘I’d heard,’ he said, leaning back slightly, propping an elbow in one hand while rubbing a darkly stubbled chin in urgent need of a shave with the other as he regarded her with a thoughtful frown. ‘So what kind of feature would a wedding planner be working on for a gossip magazine?’

Of course he was interested.

Men like Tom McFarlane-women like her-did not succeed by glossing over the details.

‘I don’t just coordinate weddings,’ she replied. ‘SDS, my company, organises all kinds of events. Celebrations. Bonding weekends for company staff. Conferences…’

At this point she would normally offer to send a brochure.

She fought the temptation, but only because she’d have to explain to Laura how she came to be thrown out of what had once been her family home.

‘And which of those events is being featured by Celebrity?’ He spread his fingers in a gesture so minimal that it made the word redundant but which, nevertheless, perfectly expressed his meaning. ‘At a Wedding Fayre.’

She shifted her shoulders, sketching an equally minimal shrug while she tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t send him through the roof.

Rescue came in the form of Pam Baxter, approaching from the kitchen.

‘Tom?’ she said, evidently surprised to see him. ‘You’re still here. I’ve just asked Mrs Kennedy to make you some breakfast.’ Then, looking to see who he was talking to, ‘Oh, hi, Sylvie,’ she said, spotting her in the shadows of the doorway. ‘Have you introduced yourself to-’

‘There was no need-’ Tom McFarlane cut short her introduction ‘-Miss Smith and I have already met. In her professional capacity.’

‘Oh?’ Then, belatedly catching on to his meaning, ‘Oh.’ She might have added something else under her breath. Neither of them asked her to speak up. In fact no one said anything for what seemed like a very long time until Pam broke the silence with, ‘Have you settled in, Sylvie? Got everything you need?’

‘Settled in?’ Tom McFarlane demanded before she could reply, never taking his eyes off her.

‘Sylvie’s wedding is being featured by Celebrity magazine,’ Pam said, which saved her the bother of having to give him the bad news.

‘Her wedding?’

The silver specks in the rock-grey eyes turned molten. He was angry. Well, of course he was angry. He probably thought she’d arranged the whole thing, had brought it to his doorstep in an attempt to force his hand.

‘They’re giving Sylvie’s charity a vast amount of money for the chance to feature it,’ Pam said before she could do anything, say anything to reassure him. ‘She was going to stay in Melchester, but it seemed so much more sensible to have her stay here. It’s not as if we’re short of rooms.’

‘Her charity?’ He turned away to look at Pam and for a moment Sylvie was assailed by a curious mixture of emotions. Relief, largely. But something else. Something almost like loss…

As if being looked at by Tom McFarlane brought her to life. Which would explain why, ever since she’d had to leave him, taking delivery of that damn cake, she’d felt something had been missing.

‘The Pink Ribbon Club? Sylvie’s mother, Lady Annika Duchamp Smith, founded it.’

‘Your father was that Mr Smith?’ he said.

For a moment Tom McFarlane had been distracted, but now he regarded her with, if that was possible, even more dislike.

Something missing? That would be her common sense, obviously.

‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘He was that Mr Smith.’

‘And now the charity is yours.’

‘I took my mother’s place as the Honorary President, that’s all. I help with fund-raising when I can. Like now.’

‘So you used to live here?’

She’d misjudged him over that. He hadn’t known. But he did now.

‘Well, yes,’ she said, doing her best to imply a good-heaven’s-that-was-years-ago carelessness. As if it didn’t matter. Adding, with polite interest, ‘I understand that the plan is to turn the place into a conference centre.’

‘And where did you hear that?’

‘From someone who lives locally who’s involved with English Heritage.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘You can’t keep secrets in the country, Mr McFarlane.’

‘No?’

There was something almost threatening in the word. A warning.

Ignoring it, striving for casual, as if it really didn’t matter to her what he did with the house, she said, ‘Are you telling me it isn’t true?’

‘Oh, it’s true,’ he assured her, with what could only be described as a satisfied little smile-nowhere near big enough to get anywhere near his eyes-which suggested that she needed to work on her ‘carelessness’. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Not at all-’

‘A rare moment of agreement-’

‘-in fact I was going to offer my company’s conference services. I’ll ask my office to send you a brochure, shall I?’

That, at least, got a reaction. A glowering, furious reaction but Pam stepped in before it boiled over with a swift interjection.

‘I’d better go and put your breakfast on hold for another twenty minutes. Sylvie? Can I get you something?’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need waiting on, Pam,’ she said. ‘I know my way about.’ Which was probably exactly the wrong thing to say but she doubted that there was anything she could say that was right.

Realising that this was a conversation going downhill fast, Pam took charge. ‘It’s no trouble. Camomile tea, isn’t it?’ And, before she could say anything else calculated to irritate her boss, ‘You’re okay in the morning room? It’s warm enough?’

‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

Pam waited, evidently planning to escort her out of harm’s way, but, still trapped in the doorway by Tom McFarlane’s rocklike figure, she was unable to escape so, with a meaningful look at him, she said, ‘Shout if you need anything, Sylvie.’ And left them to it.

‘So, Miss Duchamp Smith-’

‘Just Smith. Sylvie,’ she added with a touch of desperation-how ridiculous was that? It didn’t elicit an invitation to call him Tom and, since she was the one in the wrong place, she said, ‘I promise you that I had no idea that it was your company that had bought Longbourne Court, Mr McFarlane.’ She emphasized the Mr McFarlane, making the point that she wasn’t here to put in a plea for her baby. Or for herself. ‘If I’d known-’

He didn’t wait for her to tell him that she wouldn’t have accepted Pam’s invitation to stay. He simply leaned close and, speaking very softly, said, ‘Well, you do now, so you won’t get too comfortable in the morning room, will you? Or upstairs. I’ve had my fill of your kind.’

She didn’t have to ask what kind of woman he thought she was. Twenty per cent told her that and how could