Becky had forgotten how much she loathed that arrogant voice. Of course, the girl probably had a hopeless, spotty teenage crush on Logan. Becky knew she did, why not this girl? No wonder she sounded so much like she hated her.
‘But I really don’t know that I can transfer you. Or tell him. He said he didn’t want to be bothered with you.’ There was a note of triumph in her voice. ‘He was most particular, like.’
‘Listen to me. This is very serious.’ Becky hated having to beg and
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plead. ‘This isn’t about bills or anything trivial. It’s - it’s - a matter of life and death, OK? A matter of life and death.’
‘Are you OK?’ Tracy said, reluctantly concerned, then, more
panicked, she went on, ‘There’s nothing wrong with Will, is there?’ ‘Not with him. Just get him to call me. It’s important.’ ‘OK, miss,’ the girl said, hanging up.
Becky went and made herself a cup of tea. The British had built an
empire on cups of tea. Maybe one would help her now.
It didn’t.
She was sipping disconsolately when the phone rang. It was probably
Sharon, but she still jumped on it.
‘Hello?’
‘Becky?’ It was Logan, and she half jumped out of her skin. ‘What do you want? Are you sick?’
He was half shouting at her, like he was really mad. ‘This had better be good.’
‘That depends on your definition,’ Becky said, and her voice sounded like it belonged to another person, coming from far away, calm and
measured. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ he shouted.
‘I’m pregnant. The doctor confirmed it to me today.’
‘And you think I’m the father?’ he said, after a pause.
The question pierced her right in the heart, with an almost physical stab.
‘Who else could be?’ ‘
‘How the hell should I know?’ His voice was gruff.
Becky fought back the sob that rose in the back of her throat. ‘There’s been nobody but you ever since I split up with Rupert. Actually. And now we’re going to have a baby.’
He was silent at the end of the phone. ‘I ma, he you three months gone, then.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You’re at Fairfield. I can’t get there till tomorrow. I’ll be there then.’ ‘Why are you coming here?’
‘Why not? We’ve got things to discuss, don’t we?’
‘I’m not having an abortion,’ she said, and now the tears did start to fall, and she bit her cheek, so glad he couldn’t actually see her.
‘I didn’t bloody ask you to,’ he said, and slammed down the phone. Becky was left holding the receiver and a dial tone. She gently replaced the receiver, then went outside to find the small back stairway that led up to her private bedroom. She bolted the door, flung herself on to her bed and burst into tears.
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1Xupert gave Kathy Donalds a full-wattage smile. Despite his fatigue and jet-lag, he knew he looked fantastic - one of his old, sober, Gieves & Hawkes suits, his John Lobb shoes and cologne from Floris. He didn’t have a woman’s advantage of concealer for the shadows under his eyes, but he carried a pair of thin glasses set with non-prescription glass for just such an emergency.
He had wasted all his money, and now all he had left was the title and the looks.
But that could be changed.
The article he had seen pleased him imanensely. It made both of those stupid bitches look like the spoilt wastrels they were and, of course, it had emphasized what Becky was doing to Fairfield. And pointed out that Lira’s first dabbling in P1K had come at his expense. Why, with giving her her shot at TV, he had made her. And he deserved something for that …
As for Becky, she was a common thief. Whatever the courts said. A thief, and now a vandal.
Rupert burned with righteous indignation. He didn’t want to have to move down to the last resort. That was to marry money. To marry some older woman with pots of cash and no class, the kind that would pay for a title and agree to settle money on him in his own name. Because he’d rather be a whore than be poor, he thought bitterly.
God, imagine a lifetime of screwing the Baronne, or equivalent, and maybe having her open the curtains. He couldn’t take it, there wasn’t a strong enough drug in the world.
But while he was here, he Was fishing madly. His old society pals, unaware, perhaps, of his fiscal status, were welcoming him back with open arms. Perhaps he could find some rich, desperate debutante with a forgiving disposition, one desperate for love who would refuse to look too closely at his nights away from home. His chances would certainly be helped if he could show he had legitimate business interests.
Lita and Becky had plenty. They owed him, and he intended to collect.
And a couple of calls had persuaded him that this man would be willing to help him.
Kathy Donalds smiled dreamily up at him.
‘Mr Bessel will see you now, your lordship,’ she said.
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When he came down the drive, Becky was waiting for him. For the first time in her life, business became completely uninteresting to her. She let Sharon deal with the fall-out from the R.upert article. Sharon persuaded her to dig up a distant relative, a dowager countess, to come and stay free, to fill the gap created by one of the morally upright guests who had pulled out and demanded a refund.
‘She had three rooms. That’s going to put a big hole in our budget.
And she didn’t cancel in time.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Becky had looked like she couldn’t care less. ‘Give
Mrs Feuerstein her money back fight away, and the same to her guests. I mean today. And send them one of those silk cushions filled with lavender from the garden, with a note saying we hope to see them at Fairfield or another Lancaster hotel in the future.’
‘OK.’ Sharon nodded. ‘Actually, you’re right. We can’t get a reputation for anything other than—’
‘Effortless luxury. How we deal with this situation will make the
rounds in Palm Springs, Malibu and the Hamptons.’ ‘I follow you, boss-girl.’ ‘And fill that room.’
Sharon was starting to understand Becky’s philosophy. The Countess
was ideal. The old lady was as pleased as Punch. to be wined and dined free for a week, and the Americans and Canadians that were left were thrilled to be mingling with a real aristocrat every day. Bookings that had trailed off were suddenly, magically reconfirmed. Lita was as good as her word - there were no more damaging stories in the press.
The Edinburgh hotel was close to completion, and the outfitting of
the London property was coming along on schedule. Banks that wouldn’t give Becky the time of day before were suddenly tripping over
themselves to lend her money.
But she didn’t give a damn.
There was a new life inside her. Her child and Will Logan’s child.
Becky’s emotions ran so deep, she could hardly figure out where to start obsessing. Over the baby? Had the wine she habitually drank at dinner
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harmed it yet? Over Will? Would he refuse to acknowledge paternity? He hadn’t actually done that yet. And what if he did, what then? Would her baby be subject to sullen, angry visits once a month from its Yorkshireman father, and trips to some poky town to visit with Logan, his wife and all his legitimate children? Maybe with that snotty teenage secretary of his. Would Logan tell the child it was the product of a one night stand? Surely somebody would.
Becky had to fight herself not to hang her blonde head in shame. Bastard. A word they would always throw at her baby. And the tabloids would just love it, wouldn’t they? It would follow the kid around all the time. ‘Tom Lancaster, the bastard child of the last Lancaster heiress…’
She knew she shouldn’t care, but she did. She cared desperately. Since she had made the first decision not to sell Fairfield, Becky had been trying to restore her father’s name, her father’s rights. And now she was about to embroil his name in a public scandal. Knocked up from a one-night stand.
She brushed away the tears that threatened to trickle down her cheeks. Logan was here, finally. And Becky would die before she’d display any weakness to him.
She ran into her bathroom and quickly dropped some of those blue drops from Boots into her eyes to get rid of the redness. She took deep breaths to get the blood out of her nose, and rubbed a little Oil of Ulay into her face. A slick of bronze powder made her pallid face look a little healthier.
Yeah, that was better.
She heard the front door’s heavy swing, and Mrs Morecambe’s voice talking to Logan. She couldn’t make out the words, but even the low, masculine timbre of his accent sent shivers racing through her. She picked up her L’Arpge and spritzed herself lightly; scent as armour. Then she walked downstairs.
Logan was wearing black corduroy pants and a black T-shirt. He had stubble, and he looked even more muscular than she remembered. Perhaps he’d been working in some garden somewhere, hoisting stone to build a terrace, or carting statues about. The T-shirt was tight over his pecs and sliced off at his biceps.
She didn’t dare look at him in case she started to want him even now. ‘Hello, Will. Good of you to come.’ God, she sounded like she was offering the vicar another round of cucumber sandwiches. ‘I thought we
could have some privacy in the office.’
‘Fine.’
His eyes looked dull and defeated. It was torture to Becky. Was
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having a child with her that bad? He looked like he’d been sentenced to
life.
‘Mrs Morecambe, will you see that we’re not disturbed on any account?’ ‘Certainly, miss,’ Mrs Morecambe said stoutly.
Becky showed Logan into the library and shut the door. Then she
picked up the phone and took it off the hook.
‘Have a seat.’
Logan sat. He sat on the edge of her Louis XVIII chair, like he
wanted to get the hell out as soon as possible. His dark, gorgeous eyes
stared into hers, challenging her.
‘I assumed you were on the Pill.’ ‘Well, I wasn’t. It’s your baby, Will.’ ‘I know that.’ He sighed.
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Lady lebecca doesn’t need anything
from the hired help.’
‘I hope you can be reasonable about this. I just want what’s best for
the baby.’
‘And what’s that? To have a couple of married parents that actually
give a damn about each other?’
That was almost too much for Becky. She felt the tears surge implacably in the back of her throat. She had to take thirty seconds before she could force them back down through sheer will-power, and even then her voice was quavering. ‘
‘We have to deal with the situation the way it is.’
‘Agreed,’ he grunted.
‘So… I guess I need to. know what part you want to play in the
baby’s life. I don’t want it to form an attachment if you’re not going to
be there.’ ‘
Tll be there the entire time.’ Logan frowned thunderously. ‘You
think I want a child, my child, teased and bullied because we didn’t use protection?’
‘They’re going to call her a bastard,’ Becky said, and a tear trickled treacherously down her cheek.
‘It might be a boy.’ He sat there and stared at her. ‘I want to get married.’
Becky stared at him. Her heart started to race furiously, surging with
hope that she couldn’t suppress. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘Just temporary, like. For the child. I’m not expecting us to be tied to
each other for even a year. We get married now, get a divorce six
months after the birth. That way the baby has a name, and we don’t
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have to see each other. After that, I’ll visit him once a week. We’ll tell him it just didn’t work out.’
The fire of her hope flickered and died. Becky pressed her hands to her forehead. It was like having a bad acid trip. She was going to marry the man she had fallen so hopelessly in love with, but he still hated her.
But it was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her happiness wasn’t important. For a year of suffering, she could eliminate the tabloids, the nicknames, the gossip, from this baby’s life.
Becky hated this idea, but she had to jump at it before he changed his mind.
‘That’s fine,’ she muttered.
‘And we shouldn’t do it shotgun either. You want to stop them talking, you can’t run and hide. Not that you need to have a big expensive wedding, but you’ve got to announce it, you’ve got to invite relatives.’
Becky shivered at the thought of her family seeing her misery. Logan noted it, and his face darkened.
‘I hate the idea as much as you do. But it will be one day, and it won’t last long. We should rent a place together so that people don’t talk when they see the separate rooms.’
‘There’s a small cottage at the end of the orchard I already thought about buying.’
‘Fine. You can sell it once we’re through.’ Logan stood. Tll get a ring today and send it to you in the post. You can make the announcements and put the wedding list together. I’ll send you a list of my guests.’
‘It doesn’t have to be huge, does it?’ Becky almost whimpered. She didn’t think she could hack that:
Logan shot her a look of pure disgust.
‘Just big enough to stop talk. Family and a couple of friends. You’ll have my numbers. Let me know the arrangements, and pull something together as fast as you can.’
He left her without a backward glance.
After ten minutes, Mrs Morecambe crept into the library carrying a
tray with a pot of tea and a slice of jam sponge.
‘You need to eat something, miss …’
She had expected to find her sitting weeping in a chair, but Becky was dry-eyed and cold, writing at her desk.
‘Thank you, Mrs Morecambe. Could you get me the telephone directory? I need to call The Times.’
Becky had no idea how she got through the next two weeks. She pulled a wedding together in record time, paying Smythson’s extra to rush
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through the invitations, placing engagement announcements everywhere, even posing for photographers with a glassily smiling Logan. She held out the hand with the simple, one-carat diamond he had sent her in the mail as though he had slipped it on to her hand in some flower strewn meadow. She wasn’t showing at all yet, but there was no time to get a custom wedding gown so Becky had a local seamstress attach an antique lace train to a stately, long white shift dress.