by Tessa Bowen
“Nothing of the sort, Mr. Johnson,” Sir Archibald flapped. “Although a strong case of déjà vu has come over me. I’m not trying to make a story—I’m trying to see to it that this one has a happy ending, or as happy an ending as we can manage.”
The Baroness had sucked down her glass of water and was somewhat refreshed. The chill of the ice cubes on her tongue helped to bring back her words. They weren’t the most diplomatic words however. “If you don’t marry me, I will never recover from the scandal.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Jack said dryly.
The Baroness bristled. “You would have me suffer the persecution of my peers?”
“Jesus—this isn’t all about you and your precious reputation, don’t you care what’s best for the kid? And by the way, your reputation is already in tatters. You got knocked up in a barn by your horse trainer, remember?”
Jack Johnson had shown up and didn’t plan on deserting her, but he was far from her knight in shining armor. In fact, he was a beastly man, even if he did have a bloody good bum.
Abigail shot out of her seat. “Yes, I’m knocked up,” she threw back. “But I’m also the envy of all because I’ve landed you, Mr. Johnson.”
He looked at her like she was insane. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“They think you’re quite glamorous. They’re wild about you—positively salivating in fact, they’re ready to award this old girl a medal for luring a specimen like you into her bed.”
“I wasn’t lured, I was knocked the fuck down.”
The Baroness screwed her eyes shut, willing herself to calm down. If she was going to make an ass of herself in front of this man, there was no reason to have Archie witness her shame. And the poor dear didn’t need to be subjected to the American’s foul language.
“Will you please excuse us, Archie? I’ll handle it from here.”
“Of course, My Lady.”
When they were alone, Jack Johnson rose to his feet. “I won’t be your hired stud, My Lady.”
“I don’t need you to be a stud, that work has already been done apparently,” she said through her teeth as she motioned to her midsection. “What I need is a husband to make things seem more legitimate. I would expect nothing from you but your name. After we go through with a wedding ceremony, which would be just for show of course, you can do whatever you wish—go wherever you wish. I know you find this idea of marriage to me repugnant, Mr. Johnson. How much can I offer you to sweeten the prospect of becoming my mate on paper?”
“Quit trying to throw goddamn money at me,” he hissed.
“We just want you to be comfortable.”
“I could never be comfortable in this world. “
“I certainly never have been,” Abigail muttered under her breath. “How else can I convince you, Mr. Johnson?”
“You don’t have to convince me. I’ll do it, not for your goddamn reputation or the money—I’ll do it because it’s the right thing.”
Abigail sunk back in her seat even as he began to pace the length of the room. So Mr. Johnson didn’t want anything to do with her money—another astounding wrinkle. He didn’t seem remotely hard up, so she shouldn’t be so surprised. He was oddly sophisticated in his own simple way (in spite of his decidedly unposh way of speaking). She knew he made a very good living as a trainer, but still, most people wouldn’t turn down her sort of money.
“You’ll really do it?”
“I said so, didn’t I?” he snarled.
“I’m very grateful—”
“I don’t want your gratitude. I just want to know my kid. If I marry you, it will give me my rights. I don’t trust you people. I know how you play with people’s lives. I won’t be owned. I won’t take any of your money, so don’t offer it again. As it is, I have to live with knowing that people think I’m your goddamn gigolo.”
“Our nuptials will be very understated, Mr. Johnson—quiet and nice. I was thinking simple vows at the Chelsea register office and dinner to follow. Perhaps we’ll rent the Royal Exchange—nothing too fancy, but fashionable enough to make a statement—”
“Jesus Christ, lady—I’m not planning this sham of a wedding with you.”
“Just leave it all to me, Mr. Johnson—it’s what I do best. Oh, um…I’ll need your measurements of course. Perhaps a nice blue suit, or would you rather wear black tie? I think the blue would rather suit you, with your eyes, I mean—”
Jack threw himself onto the delicate settee once again. He groaned and covered his face with his hands. “Stop talking,” he begged.
Abigail chewed her lip as the man across from her fought to recover himself.
He dropped his hands and looked at her. “What sort of a pickle have I gotten myself into?”
“I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.” She dropped her gaze demurely, folding her hands in her lap in an attempt to appear harmless. “Fear not, we won’t go the way of Trevor and Isabel. Ours will not be a lavish affair. It wouldn’t be fitting in our current state and I won’t horrify you with a flowing white veil and gown if that’s what you’re afraid of. That sort of frippery would be decidedly unbecoming on a woman of my age.”
Jack squinted at her. “Just how old are you?”
She supposed she’d walked right into that one. “You’re rather blunt, aren’t you? Well, I assure you I’m hardly a tigress.”
“A tigress?” he asked in confusion.
“Isn’t that what you call women of a certain age in America who chase after younger men?”
“I think you mean cougar.”
“God forbid a man would find a woman over thirty attractive,” she huffed.
“Try over thirty-five.”
“You’re very rude!”
Abigail ejected herself from her seat and went to hide herself behind the burled wood secretary. She started to fuss with papers like a ninny.
“Don’t take a hissy fit. I was just asking your age.”
She slammed down a heavy paperweight “I’m thirty-six and I’ll be thirty-seven in two months. I’m sorry if that shocks you.”
He gave a shrug. “There is nothing wrong with your age,” he said simply.
She looked at him carefully. “I suppose not. How old are you, Mr. Johnson?” She prayed he wasn’t truly that much younger than she was.
Please don’t make him be in his bloody twenties…
“Nearly thirty-two.”
The Baroness let out the breath she’d been holding. She could live with five years. Five years wasn’t much really. It was just enough to make people whisper, which was rather fun, wasn’t it? It was fun until the math was properly worked out and one could easily figure she was that much closer to forty, while he’d been in his twenties only two short years prior.
“Oh, blast!” she cursed. She’d been holding a letter opener so tight that it had scored the edge of her finger. Blood appeared in the little nick. She stared down at it with a frown.
“All that scrunching is going to give you more wrinkles,” he goaded from the settee.
Her frown deepened. “Scrunching?”
“The way you bunch up your forehead like that, it’s going to give you more wrinkles.”
“More wrinkles? I assure you, Mr. Johnson—no one in this room has wrinkles.”
She massaged her forehead and tried not to glare at him. She wished she wasn’t so far away from her hand-formulated anti-aging cream from Paris—she could probably use a good slathering. It was all the way upstairs, much too far for her to get to now. She should probably be more worried about finding a bandage for her finger.
“I’ve got some gnarly ones around my eyes and mouth,” he told her.
“Yes, but your crinkles only add to your masculine appeal. It’s not the same for women.”
“Masculine appeal, huh,” he teased lightly. “Did you cut yourself?”
She nodded dumbly as blood dripped on a document. Jack Johnson moved toward her so quickly that she let out a little y
elp of alarm. He seemed to be at her side in the flash of a second. He took her by her injured hand, inspecting the little gash before popping her finger between his lips.
The feel of his warm mouth came around her finger in a wet embrace. He drew on it softly. The sucking caused a rippling sensation throughout her entire body. She stood mesmerized as he worked the finger in his mouth. His eyes went from her bosom to her abdomen in an almost languid fashion. She knew he was taking in the swell of her breasts and the bump of her belly, but she couldn’t stop staring at the attractive grooves around his mouth. They weren’t really wrinkles, just dimples in repose.
Having Jack Johnson lap at her wounded finger was somehow strangely erotic. So was having him this close, especially when she was pregnant with his child. A more intimate connection could not be made between a man and a woman, and yet they didn’t know each other at all. He gave her finger one last tug, swirling his tongue along the pad in such a way that made her think of his tongue on another part of her body, a very specific and sensitive part of her body. The man would make her hair frizz if he didn’t stop. Still, she was sorry when he slipped her finger from the cozy cave of his mouth.
“You’re all better, Baroness.”
She peered at her clean finger, now only marked by a smooth sliver.
“Sucking is the best way.”
“Yes, sucking…” she agreed.
He dropped her hand, but didn’t do it abruptly. He brought her arm to her side and then let it go.
“No need to impale yourself on letter openers. We’ll make this work.”
“We will?”
“Even if you are too old for me.”
Her expression of shock melted into a coquettish smile when she realized he was having a go at her. He didn’t smile back but a light flickered in his blue eyes. Abigail thought that light quite resembled the flame of a freshly struck match, phosphoric in its incandescence.
“I’ve always wanted a kid.”
“You have?”
Now the bold brightness was gone from his eyes, replaced by a glowing azure heat.
“Uh huh, but I’ve never been one to put down roots. I like to stay on the move. Women don’t really appreciate that quality in me, they don’t like how possessive I am either, so I didn’t think it was in the cards for me.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear you’re not entirely shattered by this development.”
“It took a little time to get over the initial shock. I can’t say I’ll be around a lot, but enough. And when I am here, I’ll be a good father.”
Abigail found herself wondering if he would use his animal-soothing voice on the child and the soft-but-firm touch of his hands to calm their baby’s cries. Perhaps he wouldn’t be a father in the traditional sense, but she didn’t doubt he’d make a fine parent. He would offer their child the protection of his manly strength and she was grateful for that, even if it would come only in small doses.
Were she and Mr. Johnson bonding just a bit? Perhaps it was her turn to reveal some personal information.
“I never thought this was in the cards for me either. I was one man’s mistress for a very long time, most of my adult life really. He already had a child you see…” she trailed off when his expression darkened.
“…and a wife,” Jack Johnson finished for her.
“Yes, but it wasn’t a happy marriage. It’s not something I’m proud of,” she went on carefully. “But Trevor and I have known each other since we were children and he—”
“And he is the love of your life—I get it,” he cut her off rudely. “Spare me the details of your high society soap opera.”
“I just meant…I didn’t think I would have an opportunity for children either. I am getting on in years.”
He turned on his booted heel and stalked around the edge of the secretary, putting some distance between them. “Yeah, yeah you’re positively ancient—you gave him the best years of your life, blah-blah-blah.”
Abigail frowned in consternation. Why was he so suddenly annoyed? What had she said to offend him? She had only mentioned Trevor. Jack Johnson couldn’t be jealous, could he? He had just told her he was possessive.
“I know you wish with all your reptile heart that the Duke was the kid’s father,” he went on bitterly. “But I guess you knocked the wrong guy down in the dirt that night. Don’t worry, I’m sure the way you two carry on, you’ll be back together in no time, but just so you know, no kid of mine is going to be raised by your married lover.”
The Baroness followed him around the edge of the desk. “We’re quite over,” she assured him. “Trevor has made that very plain. His marriage with Isabel is one of true love.”
“That won’t stop you. You’re tenacious when it comes to that idiotic fruitcake.”
“Perhaps I have other things to pour my energies into now,” she retorted crisply.
“Listen lady, I don’t care what you do, but you won’t do it while you’re pregnant with my child—got it? That’s my only stipulation. I won’t have another man rooting around near my kid’s head, especially that silk ascot-wearing moron.”
The Baroness’s nostrils flared. “Mr. Johnson, I’m hardly in the position for such things!”
“Just wait until the hormones kick in, you’ll be twitching like a tick on a hot stove. You’ll get in the position all right—you’ll be begging to get into his fancy pants.”
Abigail decided not to take the bait this time. She’d take the flirtatious route instead. Her blood had started to simmer and it wasn’t just anger or hormones that caused this heated thrill. The idea of his male envy was rather…dare she say…exhilarating?
She batted her eyes at him in a practiced show of feminine coyness. “You’re being quite territorial for a man who has never even kissed me, Mr. Johnson.”
Jack Johnson let out a resonating snort, an exhalation so loud that it rocked the tea tray he had dismissed earlier. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t kiss those snake lips if they were the last lips on earth.”
“You wanted to kiss these snake lips that night in the barn,” she objected.
“Yeah, and you wouldn’t let me. Only a reptile would want sex without kissing.”
“I do apologize for hurting your feelings, Mr. Johnson. You may kiss me now if you wish.”
She snapped her eyes shut and tilted her head back, puckering her lips into a pout. Something big and hot and hard clamped down on her jaw, holding her around the throat. She could only guess it was his hand. Would he kiss her so hard it would hurt? She might like that. Perhaps he planned on choking her. She didn’t think she’d like that.
Her eyes fluttered open. He was actually snarling at her. Then he gave her a rude shove with that big hand. Her backside nudged against the secretary and she clutched it for support, a shocked sound escaped her throat.
“Let’s get one thing straight: I can’t stand you and I sure as shit don’t want to kiss you.”
“You shouldn’t lay your hands on me in violence,” she wheezed. Her neck burned where he had grabbed her. “I am after all the mother of your child, whether you can stand me or not.”
“You’re not a mother yet, Baroness. And something tells me you’ll be piss poor at the job. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t take the easy route—most women like you would do away with an unwanted pregnancy. Do you know what having a baby will do to your figure?”
“Do away…”
“Or maybe you plan on eating your young. Oh, yeah—that’s right, you don’t eat.”
Her hands spread wide across her belly, holding the little bowl in her protective embrace. “I never entertained the thought, not even for a second. I could never do away with this life inside me. Never, do you hear me, Mr. Johnson. And this baby is not unwanted.” The words caught in her throat on a strangled sob. She bit her knuckles, stifling a whimper.
“Jesus, are you crying?”
“Your words have upset me deeply,” she got out. She fought back tears as he watche
d her. “Don’t say it—don’t say you didn’t know reptiles could cry.”
“You cried yesterday too. For Christ’s sake,” he bit out. “Go ahead and blow your nose if you need to.”
“I do not need to blow my nose, Mr. Johnson—the moisture is welling in my eyes not my nose.”
She escaped his menacing presence by shrinking behind the secretary once more. Her hands rested on her abdomen again. Feeling the warmth beneath her hands soothed her and she was able to continue her speech.
“I knew I was pregnant very early on, before most women have an inkling—I knew within weeks really. I’ve never been pregnant before. As soon as I felt the warm tickle in my belly I knew it was a life growing there. It must be a very strong life to have made its presence known so quickly. I was anxious, of course, when I realized. But soon I welcomed the news. No, I don’t look forward to the havoc it will wreak on my figure, but my life needs a change, Mr. Johnson. Perhaps this child will be my way out. I have purpose in my life now. I have a lot to learn about being a mother—it’s true, but one thing I know is I won’t be anything like my mother. And that’s one step closer to being a good mother I think.”
The Baroness drew in a quavering breath. In her attempt to snuff out her tears she’d forgotten to breathe. Her face was on fire—she could feel it. This man made her bloody red in the face. Her emotions always seemed to run hot around him. Emotions she’d forgotten she possessed. She’d certainly forgotten about the horrifying blushing. She thought she’d given that up long ago. The plump kinky-haired girl she’d once been used to blush a lot, that very same girl who had been persecuted by a cruel mother but adored by a kind father—a father who had left this earth far too early. She’d known one kind man in her life at least. Trevor had never been cruel, but had suffered from an overwhelming case of self-absorption and could often times be cold. Now this man would treat her unsympathetically it seemed.
She smoothed her hair even as he continued to peer at her, scrutinizing her words, as if measuring them on his bullshit meter. “Once again, Mr. Johnson, I’m sorry for all this. I’m sure it will cause you great strain to parent a child with a woman you have such distaste for.”
