The Bride's Baby

‘Just now. I was watching you. You saw something. Felt something.’

What she’d seen was the image that Geena had put into her head. Her nineteen-year-old self dressed in her great-grandmother’s wedding dress, the soft lace veil falling nearly to her feet.

The only difference being that in her fantasy moment it hadn’t been the man she’d been going to marry standing at the altar.

It had been Tom McFarlane who, for just a moment, she’d been certain was about to reach out and take her hand…

‘Sylvie?’

‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘You’re right. I was remembering something. A dress…’

Concentrate on the dress.

‘Are you really going to be able to make something from scratch in a few days?’ she asked a touch desperately. ‘Normally it takes weeks. Months…’

‘Well, I admit that it’s going to be a bit of a midnight oil job, but this is the world’s biggest break for me and everyone in the workroom is on standby to pull out all the stops to give you what you want.’ Then, ‘Besides, since you’re not actually going to be walking up the aisle in it-at least not this week-it wouldn’t actually matter if there was a strategic tack or pin in place for the photographs, would it?’

‘That rather depends where you put the pins!’

‘Forget the pins. Come on,’ she urged. ‘This is fantasy time! Indulge yourself, Sylvie. Dream a little. Dream a lot. Give me something I can work with…’

Those kind of dreams would only bring her heartache, but this was important for Geena and she made a determined effort to play along.

‘Actually, the truth is not especially indulgent,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘Or terribly helpful. I did the fantasy for real when I was nineteen. On that occasion the plan was to wear my great-grandmother’s wedding dress.’

‘Really? Gosh, that’s so romantic.’

Yes, well, nineteen was an age for romance. She knew better now…

‘So, let’s see. We’re talking nineteen-twenties? Ankle-bone length? Dropped waist? Lace?’ She took out a pad and did a quick sketch. ‘Something like that?’

‘Pretty much,’ she said, impressed. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ Then, shaking her head. ‘You are so lucky. How many people even know what their great- grandmother was wearing when she married, let alone still have the dress? You have still got it?’

About to shake her head, explain, Sylvie realised that it was probably just where she’d left it. After all, nothing else seemed to have been touched.

But that was a step back to a different life. A different woman.

‘I’m supposed to be displaying your skills, Geena,’ she said. ‘Giving you a showcase for your talent. A vintage gown wouldn’t do that.’

‘You’re supposed to be giving the world your personal fantasy,’ Geena reminded her generously. ‘Although, unless it’s been stored properly, it’s likely to be moth-eaten and yellowed. Not quite what Celebrity are expecting for their feature. And, forgive me for mentioning this, but I don’t imagine your great-grandmother was-how do they put it?-in an “interesting condition” when she took that slow walk up the aisle.’

‘True.’ The dress had been stored with care and when she’d been nineteen it had been as close to perfect as it was possible for a dress to be. Life had moved on. She was a different woman now and, pulling a face, she said, ‘Rising thirty and pregnant, all that virginal lace would look singularly inappropriate.’

‘Actually, I’ve got something rather more grown-up in mind for you,’ she replied. ‘Something that will go with those shoes. But I’d really love to see your grandmother’s dress, if only out of professional interest.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Great. Now, hold still and I’ll run this tape over you and take some measurements so that we can start work on the toile.’

CHAPTER SIX

MARK HILLIARD didn’t say a word when Tom joined him, but then they’d known one another for a long time. A look was enough.

‘I’m sorry about that. As you may have realised, there’s a bit of…tension.’

‘Sackcloth and ashes? If that’s tension, I wouldn’t like to be around when you declare open war.’ Mark’s smile was thoughtful. ‘To be honest, it sounded more like-’

‘Like what?’ he demanded, but the man just held up his hands and shook his head. But then, he didn’t have to say what he was thinking. It was written all over his face. ‘It was a business matter,’ he said abruptly. Which was true. ‘Nothing else.’ Which was not.

Sackcloth and ashes.

That wasn’t like any business dispute he’d ever been involved in. It was more like an exchange between two people who couldn’t make up their minds whether to throttle one another or tear each other’s clothes off.

Which pretty much covered it. At least from his viewpoint, except that he hadn’t wanted to feel that way about anyone. Out of control. Out of his mind. Racked with guilt…

She had clearly wasted no time in putting him out of her mind. But he could scarcely blame her for that. He’d walked away, hadn’t written, hadn’t called, then messed up by asking his secretary to send her a cheque for the full amount of her account. Paid in full. No wonder she’d sent the money back.

And then, when he’d been ready to fall at her feet, grovel, it had been too late.

But six months hadn’t changed a thing. Sylvie Smith still got to him in ways that he didn’t begin to understand.

And he was beginning to suspect, despite the fact that she was expecting a baby with her childhood sweetheart-and he tried not to think about how long that relationship had been in existence, whether it was an affair with her that had wrecked the new Earl’s marriage-it was the same for her.

The truth of the matter was that, even in sackcloth, she would have the ability to bring him to meltdown. Which was a bit like getting burned and then putting your hand straight back in the fire.

But as she’d stood there while that crazy female went on about the village church, about walking up the aisle, about someone standing at the altar-about him standing at the altar-he’d seen it all as plainly as if he’d been there. Even the light streaming through a stained glass window and dancing around her hair, staining it with a rainbow of colours.

He’d seen it and had wanted to be there in a way he’d never wanted that five-act opera of a wedding, unpaid advertising in the gossip magazines for Miss Sylvie Duchamp Smith that Candy had been planning.

A small country church with the sweet scent of violets that even out here seemed to cling to him instead of some phoney show-piece. A commitment that was real between two people who were marrying for all the right reasons.

So real, in fact, that he’d come within a heartbeat of reaching out a hand to her.

Maybe Pam was right. He should go back to London until this was all over. Except he knew it wouldn’t help; at least here he would be forced to witness her making plans for her own wedding. The ‘blooming’ bride. Blooming, glowing…

Euphemisms.

The word was pregnant.

If nothing else did it, that fact alone should force him to get a grip on reality.

Realising that Mark was looking at him a little oddly, he turned abruptly and began to walk towards the outbuildings.

‘Let’s take a look at the coach house and stable block,’ he said briskly.

Pregnant.

‘I think we could probably get a dozen accommodation units out of the buildings grouped around the courtyard,’