real enough, but maybe one of the reasons he was a billionaire was his ability to learn from past mistakes and never repeat them.
‘Definitely not,’ she said, although her mouth was dry, her voice woolly and not quite as steady as she intended. But, with the help of a steadying breath, she slowly jacked her self-control back into position. ‘You don’t need a step-by-step instruction manual, Tom McFarlane. You know all the moves.’
‘Now, why,’ he asked, looking down at her, ‘do I get the impression that was not a compliment?’
‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you there,’ she said as, with extreme care and ignoring the cold emptiness where for a moment his hand had rested against his growing child, she turned away and scooped up the tissue- wrapped gown, holding it across her arms in front of her. A shield. ‘You’re just going to have to work that one out for yourself.’
She managed a smile. If she managed to keep it light, to laugh it off as if it were nothing, staying on at Longbourne Court might, just might, be possible for the next few days. And, pitifully, she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. She’d fled in misery ten years earlier. This felt like a second chance to say goodbye properly.
And she hadn’t quite given up on her baby’s father.
His reaction to the baby’s movement beneath his hand suggested he wasn’t as immune to the idea of fatherhood as he thought. Maybe if she could somehow make him believe that she did not want anything for herself-convincing herself would be something else-he might find it in his heart to love a daughter, no matter how unexpected.
But not now. Not here. Right now, the only thing on her mind was to put some safe distance between them. Try to recover the little ground she seemed to have made when they’d been in the library.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must get this to Geena,’ she said.
‘The wedding must come first?’
And she thought she could do irony…
‘The wedding
‘You’re really going to wear them?’ he said, refusing to be drawn in by the waistcoat. ‘The shoes.’
‘The idea is growing on me,’ she admitted. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s the groom’s job to colour coordinate with the bride. I also seem to recall that you promised to help me sort out the contents of the attics-’
‘I will-’
‘-but it seems that now you’ve found what you wanted you can’t wait to escape.’
His tone was disparaging but she smiled nevertheless. His first reaction on seeing her had been to warn her not to get too comfortable. Now he was asking for her help, even though they both knew that auction houses would be falling over themselves for the chance to make an inventory of the contents of the Duchamp attics.
‘Actually,’ she replied, ‘I think the deal was that I’d point out what was up here, but even that’s going to take more than half an hour, which is just about all I’ve got right now.’ Then, glancing around because it was safer than looking at him, ‘What will you do with it all?’
‘Is it any of your business?’ he asked, reclaiming a little of the distance he’d briefly surrendered. ‘Since it’s all mine?’
It was in the nature of a challenge but she didn’t rise to it. She’d ceased to think of any of this as hers a long time ago. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. Then, after a moment, ‘None at all.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ he said, regarding her through narrowed eyes. ‘You want something. The bear? Your grandmother’s clothes for the costume museum?’
Was he really capable of tempting her simply for his amusement? Or was his conscience beginning to prick him? There really was no need for him to feel bad about becoming the unwitting owner of the junk her family had stuffed up here.
‘Actually, I’d quite like some of them for myself, but that’s just self-indulgence,’ she assured him.
Some things were lost for ever and you just had to accept it. Live with it.
‘Why don’t you just leave it all up here?’ she suggested.
He shook his head. ‘I need the room. Come on, you might as well tell me.’
She looked at him. He seemed serious enough and nothing ventured, nothing gained-she might as well ask for something that could be auctioned off to help the women her mother had cared so much about.
‘Nothing for me. Truly. But if you’re feeling generous, and since you thought it was all going to be rubbish anyway, maybe you’d consider giving a few things to help raise money for the Pink Ribbon Club?’
Tom McFarlane didn’t know what he’d expected. But, surrounded by family treasures that she’d lost, given the opportunity to reclaim some precious memory, it had never occurred to him that she’d ask for something to give away.
‘The charity your mother founded? What does it do, actually?’
‘It supports women with cancer. And their families. When my mother was going through her treatment, she realised just how fortunate she was.’
‘Private treatment? No waiting?’
‘Cancer is like war, Tom. There are officers and there are men, but the bullets don’t distinguish between them.’
‘I’m sorry. That was a cheap shot.’
‘Yes, actually, it was.’ Then she lifted her shoulders in a barely-there shrug. ‘But you’re right. She had her chemo in a private room. Had the very best medical attention, every chance to recover. The thing was, Tom, she didn’t take it for granted. She knew how lucky she was, which is why she took so much pleasure in being able to give something back.’
‘But she still died.’
Pam had attempted to fill him in on some of the background while he’d had breakfast. He’d shut it out, concentrating on what had been happening with various projects he’d left in her more than capable hands when he’d taken to the hills, not on Sylvie Smith’s family. But he had picked up the fact that Lady Annika Duchamp Smith was dead.
‘Not from cancer. She was driving to London to talk to the bank in an attempt to sort out the mess.’ Her gesture took in the attic, but that wasn’t the mess she was referring to. ‘The weather was bad, she was upset. I should have been with her instead of behaving like a bratty teenager.’
He saw her throat move as she swallowed and it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to her, but this time in a gesture of comfort.
Before he could make a total fool of himself-she’d finally got the Earl to provide her with every possible comfort-she gathered herself and said, ‘Look, don’t worry about it. You’ve loaned us the house. That’s more than generous.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but said, ‘I have to go.’
‘Or course. I mustn’t delay you.’
With a wedding to plan and a baby on the way, she had more than enough to keep her occupied.
It wasn’t a problem. He’d get someone from one of the auction houses to come and sort through the trunks. Put aside anything of value.
She paused in the doorway, looked back. ‘If you like, I’ll give you a hand later. If you’re planning on staying?’
Was there just a hint of hope in her voice? A fervent wish that he’d make himself scarce and leave her to have the free run of the house, to be cosseted by the old family retainers for a few days so that she could pretend that nothing had changed?
Or was she expecting company?
‘I’m staying,’ he assured her, crushing it. Then regretted the thought.
Despite their similar backgrounds, she was nothing like Candy, who, it had to be admitted, was shallower than an August puddle.
No doubt she just wanted to forget, wipe from her memory, the moment when she’d clung, whimpering and pleading, to him. And who could blame her for that? Why on earth would she want to remember?
‘Maybe, if you have some time to spare later, you could give me some clues as to what I might find,’ he suggested.
‘Well, there’s nothing on television,’ she said, ‘so you’ve got yourself a date.’ Then, almost as an afterthought,
