His Wedding-Night Heir (25 page)

mockery when he'd finished. 'Your chaste couch awaits you.

Now I'll get your milk.'

When he'd gone, she got into bed, sitting back against the

banked up pillows, arranging the sheet carefully, so that most

of her was covered. Not that he seemed to care that she was

wearing nothing but a transparent layer of voile, she thought.

He'd hardly even looked at her. But probably that was just as

well, considering the doctor's advice.

But earlier he'd wanted to sleep with her—nothing more. And

she knew now, with total certainty, that she wanted it too—so

badly. Longed to feel his arms around her, holding her close

and safely.

Vanessa Layton was a beautiful woman, but she, Cally, had

her own weapons. She was Nick's wife, for God's sake, and

carrying his child. And that had to matter.

So why had she conceded victory so readily to her rival? She

loved Nick desperately, so why wasn't she prepared to fight

for him? To try and make a marnage out of the shambles of

their lives?

And persuading Nick back into her bed seemed an obvious

beginning, she thought, slipping off her nightgown and

tossing it to the floor, where he'd be bound to see it when he

returned. And if that wasn't enough—well, surely she'd

learned enough from their nights together to tempt him back

to her.

He returned quite soon, carrying a porcelain beaker which he

handed to her. 'Hot milk,' he said, 'with honey and a pinch of

cinnamon and nutmeg. Just like Nanny used to make.' Then he

bent and picked up her nightdress, placing it on the bed.

Concealing her chagrin, Cally accepted the beaker with a

murmur of thanks. 'You had a nanny?'

'I had loads of them,' he said. 'On the whole, I preferred the

older plainer ones. They tended to be around for longer,' he

added, his mouth twisting cynically.

She sipped her milk, which was as delicious as it was com-

forting. 'Your mother didn't bring you up?'

'Ma started pursuing her career again while I was still quite

young,' he said. 'As I got older I realised why. Marriage to my

father was tricky at best. Most of the time it must have been

impossible.' He shrugged. 'I'm sorry. Bedtime stories are

supposed to have a happy ending.' He gave her a brief smile. 'I

hope the milk does the trick. Goodnight, Cally.'

'Nick.' She put the empty beaker down on the night table and

clutched at the sleeve of his robe as he turned away. 'Nick—

don't leave me, please.' The sheet fell away, baring her

breasts. Kiss me, she pleaded silently, touch me.

The dark face was suddenly expressionless. 'A few hours ago

you couldn't wait to be rid of me.'

She tried to smile. 'I—I was feeling a little wobbly. Put it

down to the hormones.'

'Or perhaps the same instinct that made you run away from

me last year.' The grey eyes watched her steadily. 'Maybe you

were right all along, Cally. Your grandfather would certainly

have thought so.'

'Grandfather?' she echoed. 'What do you mean?'

He moved to the chair she’d vacated and sat down. I went to

him,' he said quietly. 'Told him I wanted to marry you and

asked his permission to court you—pay my addresses—some

suitably old-fashioned phrase. I thought he'd appreciate that.

But I was wrong. He made it very clear in a few well-chosen

words of his own that I wasn't fit to come near you, and that

he'd do his damnedest to ensure that I never did.'

'He said that?' The breath caught in her throat. 'But why?'

'Oh, he had a whole list of reasons.' Nick examined a fleck on

his nail. 'He was quite embarrassingly frank. I was too old for

you, and altogether too shop-soiled, he said. He condemned

my past, discounted my future, and had some harsh words

about my present lifestyle. He wanted, he said, a decent lad

for his precious girl. And when I suggested, quite mildly, that

two virgins together wasn't always a recipe for happiness, he

called me a foul-minded bastard and ordered me out of the

house.'

He paused. 'It seems there'd also been a problem with my

father. Years ago, he unwisely attempted to try it on with your

mother. It got him nowhere, but it was an incident that clearly

still rankled and it tarred me with the same brush.'

He sent her a faint smile. 'But believe that you were precious

to him, Cally, even if he didn't always show it. I think he was

simply trying to protect you. And, on balance, he was

probably right.'

She said huskily, 'When was this?'

'Not very far into our acquaintance. Just before you decided to

go and live in London, as it happens. I thought perhaps your

grandfather had told you he'd warned me off, and you were

taking yourself out of harm's way.'

'You just—faded out of my life,' she said slowly. 'There was a

dance, and you never came near me all evening. I didn't even

see you out riding.'

'You were out of bounds,' Nick said. 'And I wanted to prove to

your grandfather, and myself, that I was still capable of

behaving decently.'

He shook his head. 'Then your grandfather got sick, and all

your other problems started piling up. I should have stuck to

my guns and stayed away. Instead I decided I could—help.

I've thought since it must have maddened your grandfather to

discover he was in any way beholden to me, and I'm sorry for

that. And as a result here we are today, in this unholy bloody

mess.'

He gave a swift, harsh laugh. 'It's all my own fault, of course.

I should have accepted your belated change of heart and let

you go. Given you a quick, quiet divorce. Not dragged you

back here and inflicted this latest disaster on you.'

He got to his feet. 'I wonder if your grandfather would have

approved of Kit Matlock—thought he was decent enough for

you.'

'Kit?' she repeated incredulously. 'But I never considered him

like that. Not once, I swear it.'

'Well, it's not important now. We have to think about this

baby I've forced on you.' He stared down at the floor. 'It may

not be an appropriate time for this, but maybe your lack of

sleep is caused by worry—about the future. And I want you to

know that there's no need. Not any more. All the things I said

once about custody—well, let's say I was angry. Because I

would never take the baby away from you. Cally not unless

that was what you wished. If you decided to opt for a different

kind of life, without the burden of an unwanted child.'

She gasped. 'I would never do that.'

The situation was slipping away from her. No, she thought,

not slipping—galloping down to some kind of destruction.

She could feel it.

She said pleadingly, 'Nick—listen...'

He held up a silencing hand. 'Let me finish—please. You can

live wherever you wish—have whatever money you require.

It will all be taken care of. I hope that you'll allow me regular

visits, establish in our baby's mind that he or she has a father.

Perhaps we can even create some kind of working relationship

between us.'

He moved towards the door. 'And now that your mind's at

rest, maybe you'll be able to sleep.'

Cally said his name again, but she spoke to an empty room.

A microcosm of the empty life which was suddenly yawning

in front of her, she thought with despair. And she was fright-

ened.

'Well, I think that's a good morning's work,' Cecily Tempest

said with satisfaction. 'Lunch is now indicated. Why don't you

grab us a table at the Unicorn while I take all these parcels

back to the car? You can order for me, Cally-—some of their

home-baked ham with salad. It's too hot for anything else. Oh,

and a spritzer,' she threw over her shoulder as she moved off

in the direction of the car park.

Smiling, Cally lifted a hand in acknowledgement and turned

in the opposite direction, making her way towards the High

Street and its sixteenth-century inn.

It was the first real shopping spree she'd indulged in since

she'd bought her trousseau. She still hadn't worn half the

clothes she'd bought then and probably she never would, be-

cause nothing fitted her any more.

There was a boutique near the cathedral called Great

Expectations, and under her mother-in-law's approving eye

she'd picked out some well-cut trousers and tops, and a few

pretty dresses to see her through the middle of her pregnancy.

At the very end, when the weather was cold, she'd simply get

some large sweaters, she thought, and use them as

camouflage.

If things had been different she might even have borrowed

from Nick...

She bit her lip. She was trespassing on forbidden ground here.

She and Nick were polite strangers who sometimes shared a

roof, and she had to accept that—come to terms with it—

because there was no alternative.

'A working relationship', he'd said. She presumed that was

what he'd been trying to establish over these past weeks, be-

cause while he treated her with friendliness and consideration

there was certainly no intimacy between them. The risk zone

was well behind them now, but Nick never came to her room,

even though she'd started leaving the communicating door

open as tacit encouragement. She'd been tempted, often and

often, to go to him instead, but the very real fear of rejection

prevented her.

But if her emotional life seemed to have reached its nadir, her

pregnancy was going well now. Her sickness had suddenly

stopped, but she was still sleeping badly, alone in that huge

bed, and Dr Hanson, concerned, had prescribed the mildest of

sedatives on a strictly temporary basis in order to break the

pattern of insomnia.

But the drug that would cure the heartache and loneliness

which were Cally's real problem had yet to be invented.

Not that Nick was at the Hall a great deal these days, she

thought. He'd seemingly thrown himself completely back into

his work, and was involved in a lot of business trips. Getting

her used to life without him, she supposed.

Cecily Tempest came and went as her lecture tour permitted.

The fund-raising had gone well, and she would soon be re-

turning to Guatemala, although she'd promised to return for

the baby's birth.

And to say goodbye, if she did but know it, Cally thought

drearily as she turned into the High Street. After an initial

sticky period she had managed to create a rapport with Nick's

mother, whom she'd been told to call by her first name, and

found herself genuinely enjoying her company. She would

miss her, she told herself, even if it was only for a few

months.

Halfway along the street there was a Victorian shopping ar-

cade with a high stained glass roof, and Cally was glad to

escape into its shade for a few minutes to look in the window

of a babywear shop that had recently opened.

She had opted not to know the sex of the baby in advance, but

as she looked at the heart-wrenching display of small gar-

ments in traditional blues and pinks, she found herself won-

dering if she'd made the right decision. She'd asked Nick's

opinion, but he'd politely deferred to her, which was no help

at all.

I could always change my mind, she thought, admiring an

exquisite lace christening robe.

With a sigh, she turned towards the heat and glare of the High

Street, and halted, eyes narrowing in shock behind her glasses.

On the far side of the street there was a short row of Georgian

houses, now transformed into offices, and Nick had just

emerged from one of them, his arm round the shoulders of

Vanessa Layton, who was walking beside him.

As she watched, Cally saw him bend his head slightly and

drop a light kiss on his companion's hair. She smiled back at

him and put up a hand to touch his cheek. Then they parted,

walking away in opposite directions.

Everything about the little scene was deeply and irrevocably

etched into Cally's mind. The body language said it all, she

thought. She was permitted no physical contact with her hus-

band, but Vanessa could stand close to him, stroke his face,

and smile into his eyes—all gestures that epitomised a close

and familiar intimacy, that had nothing to do with mere lust.

He loves her, she thought. He really loves her, and I've never