by Tessa Bowen
“Quit saying you’re sorry—we’re both adults. And maybe…” he paused, shifting uncomfortably. “The comment about eating your young was over the top.”
Was that his idea of an apology? She supposed it was better than nothing. She mustered a weak smile, even though she was still reeling from his harsh words. “Now that I’ve prattled on like a silly goose, I realize I know nothing about you, Mr. Johnson.”
“You don’t need to know anything.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And don’t go snooping into my affairs, I like my privacy. When are we doing this thing?”
“This thing…?”
“When do we get hitched?”
“Oh, I suppose it should be sooner than later or they’ll have to haul me down the aisle in a wheelbarrow. But not too soon, I need some time to plan, make the bookings, work on a guest list—menus, those sorts of things.”
“Just give me a date,” he clipped.
“Two months. We’ll get married in late June. I’ll be at six months by then, just big enough for a ‘shotgun wedding’, isn’t that what you Americans call it?”
“More like a goddamn calamity.” He turned and headed for the door. “See you in two months.”
“You’re leaving?” she squeaked.
“Yep.”
“Wait, don’t go!”
She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate. She let out a relieved breath when she saw that he paused in the doorway.
“Wherever are you going?”
“Off to do a job.”
The Baroness arched a brow. “Calling on Nubia, are we?”
He half turned, scowling over his shoulder at her. “Yeah, so?”
She guessed two could play at this possessive game. Oddly, she found she wasn’t playing at all. Abigail felt a burning jealousy in her chest. Nubia wasn’t carrying around a gourd in the waistband of her pencil skirt. And she had that gloriously straight hair…
“You told me Nubia could jump off a cliff,” she mumbled childishly. “You told me you weren’t going anywhere.”
“I said I’d be back, didn’t I? I like to stay on the move, remember…?”
“Yes, of course. I won’t try to hold you back or pin you down.” She dropped her gaze to her belly. “We’ll just be here…expanding.”
Jack let out an exhausted sigh and faced her once again. He leaned his elbows on the door frame, bracing his long tired self there. “Will you be all right, Slim?”
“You won’t be able to call me that much longer.”
“No, I guess not.”
Abigail searched his handsome face. She wondered why on earth she should miss a man who was so nasty to her—because sometimes he wasn’t nasty, like now. Concern marked an appealing ridge between his brows. She only wished her worry frown was so appealing. He had called it “cute” once, hadn’t he? Oh, she liked it very much that he’d asked her if she would be “all right”. It made her belly tingle when he showed concern for her. Then again, maybe that was his baby tickling her.
The Baroness did her best to relax her features into a serene smile. “I’ll try to be brave, Mr. Johnson.”
Chapter Three
Two months later
“I know how to dance, goddamn it. I don’t need some fruitcake Fred and Ginger lesson.”
“There is no need to curse, Mr. Johnson. We just want to be sure you can waltz.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, which set the seams of his fine cotton shirt straining across his magnificent build.
“I can do a lot more than waltz, lady.”
Abigail dragged her eyes away from his body and fumed in silence for a moment. He wasn’t magnificent, blast it. He was insufferable—an insufferable statue of a man and she hadn’t missed him one bit. She’d thought about him a lot, every single day he’d been gone, but that didn’t mean she’d missed him—no, certainly not.
“We’ll have to have a first dance, you know. There will be people watching.”
“Why don’t you worry less about whether or not I’m going to embarrass you and more about how I’m going to haul your massive weight across a dance floor?”
Her gasp filled the ballroom. He looked rather smug—more than smug. Happy in fact, possibly even overjoyed. She whirled on him, presenting him with her back. If he was going to make fun of her size, she wouldn’t allow him to see her precious protuberance. She felt awkward in her first maternity outfit, a high-necked sleeveless dress of soft yellow silk that she hadn’t thought half-bad until now.
“You’re making this very difficult, Mr. Johnson. We must discuss a few things. Like whether you would prefer salmon to steak for the entrée at our wedding dinner. And there is the matter of the rings…”
“I don’t care if we eat Crackerjacks and goddamn potato chips and I’m not wearing your ring.”
She turned back around, not able to control herself. “I suppose that means you didn’t get me a ring.”
Jack snorted. “You can have the one at the bottom of the Crackerjack box.”
“Oh, you rude horrible man!”
“And I’m not wearing some fancy monkey suit.”
The Baroness threw up her hands. “It’s called a morning suit, Mr. Johnson.”
“Well, I’m not wearing one of those either.”
Sir Archibald tried to smooth things over between them. “Mr. Johnson has his very own suit, My Lady—a very nice dark blue made of lightweight wool.”
“Shouldn’t he wear linen? It’s June after all.”
“Ah, yes—but the weather is still quite crisp as we go into the evening. I assure you, the fabric is most exquisite, draped to perfection—”
“There is nothing exquisite about it. It’s just a blue goddam suit.”
“I’ll just wear the ring my father gave my mother,” Abigail snapped. “Their marriage was a disaster, so it’s quite fitting.”
“Fine, is there anything else? If not, I’ll see you at the church at three.”
“We’re not getting married at a church, Mr. Johnson. I told you before, the ceremony is at the Kensington and Chelsea Register Office. A car will pick you up at one and take you there separately. London traffic must be accounted for.”
“Maybe I’ll be the victim of a fatal accident. One can only hope.”
Abigail pursed her lips. “You must pretend that you like me, Mr. Johnson—at least for today.”
“Yeah, well—that’s going to be a stretch.”
“There is more at stake here than just my pride,” Abigail flared. “I have to protect Trevor too. He will be a guest at dinner and wherever he goes, the press goes. That means photographs will be taken of us—photographs that will be scrutinized. This must look just right.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to tarnish your Nancy-boy’s reputation,” he spat derisively. “I’ll play along like a good little puppet.”
With that, Jack Johnson spun on his booted heel and stalked toward the door, giving it a good slam on his way out. His heavy footfalls echoed throughout the house. The Baroness turned to the old secretary with tears welling in her eyes.
“This is my wedding day, Archie. And I’m marrying a man who hates me.”
“We’ll get through it, My Lady.”
Later, after choking down a cup of tea and half a piece of toast, things went from bad to worse as she began her laborious grooming routine for the day ahead. The girl had finished her hair and it shone like platinum, coiffed expertly in her usual chignon. The knot was coiled low on her neck to make room for her headpiece. The hair wasn’t the problem—it was her swollen dumpling of a body.
A rack of exquisite wedding dresses had been rolled in, all very appropriate for an expectant bride of her age. She’d had them all tailor-made of course. They were of the highest quality, beautiful in their classic designs and expensive fabrics. They would all look very fine on her indeed, if she wasn’t carrying a melon around her midsection.
“I simply can’t wear any of those,” she moaned, putt
ing her freshly exfoliated face in her hands. Her skin stung from the ice facial, but she hoped it had soothed her swollen eyes. She’d had a good cry before the treatment. “I’ll look as lumpy as Penelope Winterbottom.”
“You’ll be beautiful as always, My Lady,” Gracie assured her. “I like the ivory one with the bows down the front.”
“Oh, no—not that one,” she wailed. “I’ll look like an engorged present.”
“How about the Swiss dot, it’s lovely.”
“I’ll resemble a spotted old pudding in that one. If I wear any of them, it will be the one with the lace placket and covered buttons.”
Abigail chewed her lip, knowing she was running terribly late. Nausea rose in her belly and it wasn’t the baby, it was her nerves. Nerves that were so frayed she feared she’d crack any minute. Her worried gaze ran over the row of couture heels laid out for her to choose from. She wondered if her swollen feet would still fit into any of them.
Her heart raced as she began to pace, perhaps pacing would stave off the panic. She couldn’t have a drink or take a pill. What was left? Pacing, she guessed. The hairdresser followed her, re-smoothing her hair as the Baroness treaded aimlessly across the Persian carpet.
“The car is waiting, My Lady,” Gracie fretted. “Should I help you dress now?”
“I can’t go through with it—I simply can’t. I’ll be a laughingstock.”
She waved the hairdresser away as her agitation mounted, batting at the hand that held the combs and pins. When she stubbed her toe on a satin pump, she gave the pump a furious kick and promptly screeched in pain. Her screech turned into a scream when the door burst open and Jack Johnson thundered into her boudoir.
The maid and hairdresser were dumbstruck at the sight of him, as was Abigail. Her scream deflated some of the air in her lungs and now the rest was sucked away by his appearance. Her wind came back to her in little pants as her eyes raked his faultless physique, accented by the perfectly cut suit. A crisp white shirt brought out his tan and the lighter blue silk tie matched his clear blue eyes. His dark locks had been combed and parted in an old Hollywood style. His healthy young face glowed with a fresh shave, highlighting his crisp, masculine features. There was no possible way he could have looked more handsome, while she stood there half dressed, hyperventilating like a heifer suffering from heatstroke.
“You look bloody gorgeous,” the Baroness puffed in an almost accusatory tone.
“Yeah, so? That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Why aren’t you dressed?”
“You were…you were supposed to go ahead.”
“They told me you were having one of your tantrums up here, what’s the problem? We’re going to be late. And why is your face all puffy?”
Abigail covered her face with her hands. “I’ve been crying.”
“Jesus Christ, why now?”
“This is the most horrible day of my life.”
She dragged her hands away from her face and concentrated on taking wheezing breaths as she tightened her robe over her La Perla lingerie.
“You’re just having a panic attack. It will pass.”
“What if it doesn’t? I can scarcely breathe.”
“Giddy-up, Baroness—time to put your tent on.”
“My tent?”
“I figure they had to make your wedding dress out of a tent, or did they use a ship’s sails instead?”
A choked sound of outrage ripped from the Baroness’s throat. Involuntarily, she swung back one long leg and then snapped it forward, giving him a good kick in the shin with her bare foot. She wished she was wearing the Valentino’s with the extra pointy toes. Those would have cut his shin open. As it was, he barely flinched.
“That’s the spirit.”
“I feel fat!” she announced with a stomp of the same foot.
“You’re a little fat,” he shrugged. “But it’s no big deal.”
She let out a long disgusted howl.
Jack nodded to the maid and the hairdresser. “You gals better let me take it from here. This could get ugly.”
The two women scurried out the door, relieved to be excused. The Baroness crossed her arms over her middle, trying to collect herself but failing horribly.
“You’re scrunching again,” he told her.
“What’s the use of caring about wrinkles,” she lamented. “I’m as big as a Rolls Royce—no one will mind the crease in my forehead.”
“Ok, so you’re colossal, but your hair looks perfect.”
Her hand fluttered to her backswept do. “It does, doesn’t it? I had it done.”
“We just have to get you dressed then.”
He covered the space between them in a few strides and grabbed her around the wrist, dragging her toward the rack of dresses.
“Goddamn, you’re as cold as a corpse—that can’t be good for the baby.”
He reeled around and took her by the other wrist. Then he brought both his hands up the length of her arms to her shoulders, kneading them in a chafing motion. His touch scalded her through the satin fabric of her robe.
The Baroness sprung back with a jolt. “Get your hands off me!”
She recoiled from his touch, but it wasn’t from disgust. His hands felt so warm and good that she’d nearly fallen into his embrace and begged him to hold her tight. Abigail couldn’t be near warm and good right now or she’d melt into a puddle of nothing. She had to regain her composure, remain icy and reserved, if she was to get through the day. These embarrassing outbursts of emotion and rage weren’t helping matters.
Jack held up his offending hands and took a step backward. “You’re acting crazy, lady. I’m just trying to help.”
She gave a shudder. “Your touch doesn’t help. Your hands are rough from your work.”
“That’s bullshit—I wear gloves when I work.”
“They’re just so…hot.”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, lady—these are going to be the only hands you’ll feel for a while.”
“What do you mean?” she asked tremulously.
“Remember our little bargain? You’re not going to let any other men touch you while you’re pregnant with my child.”
Abigail’s mouth went dry. “Yes, but…you aren’t going to touch me either. I mean…are you?”
“Someone’s got to. You’re wound up like a spring about to pop.” He motioned toward her vanity. “Want me to bend you over your little powder puff station and have a go at you? It might loosen you up.”
She clutched her slinky robe together tight. “Mr. Johnson!”
“We could just get the wedding night out of the way. You know, nice and quick.”
She backed away from him until her rear hit the top of the dainty little table, setting the bottles of lotions and potions rattling. “I didn’t realize a wedding night was part of the arrangement.”
“Now that your copper-haired boyfriend is off limits you’re going to need me tonight, and every night. I’ve seen how you get when you don’t get your regular poke.”
When he started laughing, she flung her sterling-silver hairbrush at him. He ducked, laughing harder, when the brush smashed into a vase of flowers and the whole mess went crashing to the floor.
“You’re making sport of me!”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Get out. I have to put on my veil.”
“A veil? What’s the point? No need to play the part of the blushing virgin, I’ve already sampled the goods.”
The Baroness chewed her lip, stifling laughter. “Oh, you wretched man—I hate that I’m acting like this. This pregnancy has made me balmy.”
“Trust me, lady—you were no picnic before, but I talked you down, didn’t I? My little manipulation worked. I made you so pissed you forgot to be anxious.”
“Psychological harassment is a strange form of moral support.” The Baroness plopped down in the chair opposite her vanity and began to dab at her face with tissues. “You’re a regular bride whisperer too�
�let’s hurry up and get this over with. You probably want to get back to your precious bloody Nubia.”
Jack threw back his handsome head and guffawed. “You’re already acting like a jealous wife and I only bedded you one time.”
“Yes, we’ve skipped over the marital bliss and gone straight to the bickering. And there was no bed involved, just the cold hard ground.”
His blue eyes glittered. “It wasn’t so hard and cold. You want to have this baby, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What we’re doing today is all for the kid. This marriage doesn’t mean anything besides that, so there’s no reason to panic. Just remember that if another wave of anxiety hits you. It’s all for the kid…”
“Yes, all for the kid…” Abigail echoed. She paused with her eyebrow comb poised in the air. “You have a very strange way about you, Mr. Johnson.”
“How’s that?”
“You can be cruel and kind all in the same breath.”
“You’ll get used to my humor, if you want to survive.”
“What you call humor, I call torture, now do get out—or I might start crying again.”
“Come on, a woman like you doesn’t cry on her wedding day.”
She’d regained her perfect posture and made a show of applying her perfume to the inside of her wrists. “No, she certainly doesn’t”
Jack backed away with a satisfied little smile. “I think my work here is done. I’ll meet you at the altar, Slim.”
SHE HAD THE BEST STEMS HE’D EVER SEEN ON A WOMAN. That was for damned sure. Jack watched his future wife step out of the Bentley. Those mile-long legs unfolded before him, encased in pale sheer stockings and adorned in a ridiculously extravagant pair of shoes. He wouldn’t have been able to describe them if his life depended on it. Were the little bows on the side made of actual pearls and the tall tapered heels covered in satin? An intricate braided piping lined the throat of her delicate footwear, giving them an antique quality. They could have been made for Marie Antoinette for all he knew. Most likely they were made just for her, like the rest of her clothing. This woman liked shoes and she liked clothes and she sure as hell knew how to wear them.
