by Tessa Bowen
“The nights are growing cooler, aren’t they?” she remarked.
“Yes, the season is about to change.”
“Summer to fall,” she said wistfully, turning back to the window to view the skyline. An orange tinge colored the clouds. “The light always changes in early October. I find the shorter days make me quite melancholy.”
“You are not a fan of autumn, My Lady? The grounds take on a lovely warm hue.”
“I suppose.” Abigail placed a hand on her large stomach. “The baby will come soon—a new baby for a new season.”
“We are all very excited, My Lady.”
“Still no word?” she barely whispered.
Sir Archibald was careful to keep the regret out of his voice. “No, My Lady.”
Summer had come and gone. She had toiled away the last two plus months sulking in this window seat. Hot tears scalded her cheeks. Her sleeves were too wet to do any good so she used the edge of the blanket, but the wool scratched her already chapped cheeks.
Archie tucked a soft handkerchief into her palm. “Use this, My Lady.”
“You’re a savior, Archie.” The Baroness honked loudly. “I barely knew him, you know? I have no reason to grieve. Anyway, it’s probably better this way. Neater…and perhaps someday I’ll meet a man who will be a father to my child. If not, I’ll do it on my own. I’ll be mother and father both. I won’t fail in this, Archie.”
“I don’t doubt it, My Lady. When you set your mind, you can do anything.”
“I haven’t put my will to any worthwhile pursuits until now. I’ve lived a selfish and empty existence. Mr. Johnson was the first person to make me aware of that. I suppose I’m paying for my sins now. After all, I’ve been double-jilted, haven’t I? Once by an English duke, then again by an American cowboy—at least there is variety in my heartache.”
The Baroness rose from her window seat and adjusted the wool blanket around her. She straightened her posture, wearing the pale tartan like a queen’s robes. She’d suck it up for Archie’s sake, and for her child’s. It was time to show a stiff upper lip. No more wallowing.
“I’m through with tears for today, Archie.”
“I’m glad to hear it, My Lady.”
“I think they’ve finally stopped, now that I’ve made my own little ocean on the carpet.”
“Or at the very least a good-sized puddle.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Yes, I’ll go at this alone, Archie. I’m sure an annulment is in order—you’ll draw up the papers, of course. I’ll just have to suffer the gossip—it’s sure to be brutal.”
“You’ve managed worse, My Lady.”
She raised her chin higher. “That’s right.”
She stroked her belly as she regained her composure, gaining strength from the life there. She was feeling a good deal better now. Maybe her excessive weeping had proven therapeutic. Maybe she should pencil in crying more often.
The Baroness headed for the door, pausing to favor the old secretary with her mossy gaze before leaving the room.
“And Archie, I’ll be the most stylish single mother in London society, even if it kills me. Put in a call to that maniacal Pilates instructor, Zara Havens, will you? I’ll need her services after the baby is born.”
Chapter Six
The Baroness wrapped herself in the buff-colored plaid every afternoon when she strolled the grounds of Sutton Place. Well, waddled the grounds more like. She took comfort in the weight of it around her shoulders. She’d never had a security blanket. Why not have one now? She certainly needed one. Her mother would roll in her grave at the thought. Perhaps she’d wrap her baby in it, swaddle the tiny body of her son or daughter in cashmere. She’d let her child have a thousand security blankets.
Her thoughts turned to another wool garment hanging upstairs in her closet. She’d have to get rid of the jacket. Strange how the scent clinging to it had perfumed the rest of her clothes, so that she always smelled like him a little.
Abigail had decided not to play the part of the bitter old bag. She wouldn’t harbor anger toward the man who had forsaken her. Bitterness wasn’t a good look on a woman of her years. No, she’d excuse him for leaving them. After all, he was still young and had his own life to lead.
With Nubia…
A sharp pang of jealousy tore through her. She stuffed the reaction down deep, blaming her unreasonable response on her pregnancy. She had no right to stew and suffer. She wouldn’t have things any other way, would she? She brushed her fingers in long caresses over the distended skin of her stomach, trying to communicate with the life there—the life that would be her new life. Jack Johnson had given her that new life—delivered her from her old life. How could she harbor ill will to the giver of such a gift?
Because he had rejected her feminine advances, that was how.
Abigail’s brow bunched at the memory, but she quickly dismissed the image of that night. She’d regain the full power of her womanly charms. The next man she made a play for would fall at her feet. She’d see to it. Silently, she chastised herself. These weren’t the thoughts an expectant mother should be having. Mothers weren’t vain and lustful and they weren’t jealous.
The Baroness heaved a long sigh. “This maturity bit is tough business,” she mumbled to herself.
She wasn’t as tired as yesterday. Perhaps she’d walk a little farther today—past the wide lawn to the rolling hills beyond. She could see the copse of trees in the distance. Beyond was Devoy. She’d never make it that far. She wouldn’t even make it as far as the trees, but it might feel nice to take her shoes off when she reached the knoll and feel the cold earth beneath her swollen feet. This might be the last time she had the opportunity to wander alone. Her due date was nearing. Two weeks and she’d be bound to her little one.
She set out, ignoring the pain in her back. Try as she might to admire the vibrant October day, the “changing of the leaves” and all that—her thoughts kept returning to the father of her child. Would her baby look like him—with his startlingly blue eyes, dark hair and dusky skin? She supposed any child would be lucky to resemble such a man. Then again, perhaps their offspring would take after her and be fair. She hoped there would be some feature that resembled Jack Johnson. She didn’t want to forget his face.
It was quite a struggle pulling off her tall Wellies. She was glad no one was around to see the ungainly fat woman doing battle with her rubber galoshes. She could barely reach over her belly to roll up her beige corduroy trousers (the ones she’d had made with an elastic placket for a waistband).
“If one can even call it a waistband,” she muttered. “More like an elasticized tarp.”
It was hard to heft her bulk off the ground and she steadied herself with a little puff. She gave a satisfied smile at the sight of her pale toes curling in the damp grass. A lady wasn’t supposed to walk barefoot. She’d never even seen her mother’s feet. Jack Johnson had seen her bare feet the night they’d made this baby together—he’d tickled them too.
The breeze picked up and blew a burnished leaf free from the tree. It landed in her hair and she didn’t bother to pick it out. Nor did she bother to tidy the lock that slid free from her bun. There was no one around. She’d right her chignon before she headed back to the house. For now she was enjoying the crisp day—the bracing feel of the air, the moisture of the velvety grass seeping into her heels.
The breeze turned into a bluster and sent a flurry of leaves falling down around her. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the whisper-soft kisses of the silky leaves. The wind whipped through her clothes and hair as if speaking to her. Did the breeze bring a message? Perhaps the breeze carried no words, but a soft caress—no, not a caress. A warning? Not a warning, nothing as ominous as a warning (although her skin did prickle). A signal then? But a signal of what? The change to come she supposed. Her body reacted to the shift in the atmosphere and her baby did too, giving a good kick. She clutched her stomach as the battering of hooves overtook the noisy blow of the win
d.
She searched the horizon with watery eyes. She knew the sound of a horse’s hooves beating the ground as well as she knew her own heartbeat. She’d grown up around that sound—had ridden a horse every day of her life since she was three (up until the time she’d made the promise she wouldn’t). She yearned to ride, missed it almost as much as she missed…
No, she wouldn’t let her mind go there.
The Baroness wiped at her tears, trying to clear her vision enough to see who in the bloody hell was barreling toward her on a horse. It was a man certainly, she could tell that much by the broad tall width of the torso bent low over the heaving animal—the chestnut Warmblood she had replaced the Friesian with (the horse she planned on riding after the baby came). Who on earth was riding her horse like that? Surely the young groom she paid to exercise the animal couldn’t ride with such skill. The horse’s muscular body heaved and its nostrils flared, steam pluming around its mighty head. Whoever this horse thief was he was pushing her stallion to its limit.
She made out the top of the man’s head—dark curls plastered to his skull as he rode like holy hell across the wide expanse of grass. The man’s powerful thighs clutched the sleek flanks of the horse. He sat in a strange pale saddle with silver embellishment. It was oversized and decidedly…
Western.
The Baroness stood rooted to the ground as Jack Johnson materialized. He slowed to a steady clip, maneuvering the horse toward her. The animal breathed heavily, its coat slick with sweat. The rider (however) looked utterly composed.
Her breath came back to her in a wild rush. “What…what on earth do you think you’re doing!”
“Don’t pitch a fit. It’s only a saddle. Did you see him run? He looks good, right?”
“Who…who gave you the permission?” she spluttered.
Jack Johnson was here—in the flesh. He was the man of her dreams and the star of her every waking fantasy. She had pined for his presence these last few months, wept buckets for him, but in all her window seat reveries she had never imagined their reunion would be quite like this. She'd never envisioned she’d be stuttering in outrage while he loomed over her on horseback. How dare he re-enter her lonely existence looking like a hero from an American Western. She simply wouldn’t have it. Especially since she stood there like a swollen git with dried leaves in her hair. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“Get off my horse!”
“I was just testing him out,” he told her casually. “Seeing if he’d be safe for you—he’s a solid animal, I approve.”
“You…you approve, do you?” she stammered. She was ranting and maybe hyperventilating a bit too—wheezing at the very least. “It’s been over two months and now he bloody approves,” she went on bitterly.
He dismounted and moved toward her with the sun behind him. He was nothing but a long dark shadow now. Perhaps he was an apparition, a hallucination brought on by her elevated hormone levels. She stared up at him as his features took shape. Was it possible he had grown more handsome and even taller—his eyes brighter, his hair and skin darker? He smelled just the same, like warm skin and spice.
A little squeak escaped her. “You came back…”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re here and…you came back…”
“The stable kid said you kept your promise. He said you haven’t been near the horses while I was away. Frankly, I’m surprised. I know how defiant you are.”
What was the man going on about? Bloody horses again? She only knew he seemed as tall as the horse and as gorgeous as any stallion.
And he was here.
“You came back…”
Jack Johnson crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What’s with the broken record act? I said I’d be back, didn’t I?”
“Most men would have picked up the phone. I mean…it has been over two months.”
“Well this man picks up the phone as little as possible. I said I’d be back before the kid was born, so I’m right on schedule. Jesus, you’re as big as a house.”
Her nostrils flared. “You’ve reappeared just to tell me that? Believe me, I’m well aware of my size. You didn’t need to return just to tell me I’m massive.”
His azure eyes twinkled and she didn’t know whether to kick him in the shin or fall into his arms.
“Should I go then?” he teased.
“No!” She grimaced at her transparency. “Or…I mean…at least stay for tea.”
He grinned widely at her. “I didn’t come for tea—you know what I came for.”
She lowered her gaze. “Yes, you came to poke fun at me. It’s true I’ve lost my figure. There was no way around it.”
To her horror he tilted his head sideways, inspecting her. “You’re ‘heavy with foal’—that’s what we call it back on the ranch.”
“I resent the term heavy,” she sniffed.
“Aren’t your feet cold? Why are you standing here barefoot and pregnant?”
“You left me like this!” She exploded, bending awkwardly to reach for her boots. A cramp in her back stopped her and she winced. The man hadn’t been back five minutes and already she was a hysterical harpy—and an ungainly one at that.
“Stop being so dramatic—I didn’t leave you.”
“I can’t even put on my own boots!” she wailed.
He had the audacity to laugh. “You still haven’t learned how to dress yourself? You were supposed to be brushing up on your skills while I was away.”
“I can’t reach anything properly,” she lamented.
“Ah, that’s why you’re so wound up.”
Her face flushed hotly. She knew exactly what he was referring to. When he knelt in the grass and grabbed her around one ankle, she gasped. He retrieved her sock from inside her boot and positioned her foot on his knee. She gawked at the sight of his dark, large hand holding her delicate pale toes. Her mouth went dry and she felt a shifting down low.
“The last time I touched your feet you went through the roof,” he said conversationally as he slipped her sock on and then her boot.
Went he went for the other foot she remembered that she was extremely ticklish and screeched. He chuckled as she attempted to stoop. Huffing and puffing, she knew a bend at the waist was not in her near future so she lowered herself to the ground and scowled at him as she put on her other sock and boot.
The laborious task was done, but how would she ever get up? By rocking perhaps? She grunted as she tried to use the strength in her legs to rise. Her limbs shook under the weight of her middle and her arms were like limp noodles. She pitched far to one side.
“Whoa there, Humpty Dumpty.”
When he took her by the hands and hauled her to her feet, she knocked into him, her round belly bouncing against the hard wall of his abs.
He steadied her. “Well, we won’t need to bring a beach ball for our trip to the coast.”
Even as he made fun of her, his hands on her shoulders lent a supportive heat and his nearness calmed her. She was too overwhelmed by his presence to be put out anymore. A warm dampness seeped into her lower extremities. Not just in her loins, but in her lap as well. Moisture from the grass she suspected, but why was it hot?
“I’m rather damp from the ground. I need to go change my trousers…”
“You’re more than ‘rather’ damp, Baroness. Your water just broke. Either that or you’re really glad to see me.”
She swallowed hard, following his gaze to her soaked lower half. She was standing in a puddle of her own making.
“It’s much too early,” she whispered with wide eyes.
“You’ll be fine. Babies are born two weeks early all the time. And you’re shy of two weeks by two days.”
Abigail searched his face in disbelief. “You know my due date?”
“Of course, you titled nitwit.”
Her heart started to race. “Well…why aren’t you more panicked?”
“I’ll leave that part to you.”
With that, Jac
k Johnson hefted the Baroness into his arms and lifted her off the ground as though she weighed no more than a feather. Not before slapping the stallion on its rear, which sent it galloping back in the direction of the stables.
“Mind the mess,” Abigail fretted. “You’ll be soaked through.”
Jack ignored her fussing and moved quickly and efficiently, closing the distance between the land and the house in what seemed like a few strides. Abigail hung on tight. The rest seemed like an out of body experience. Sir Archibald’s voice sounded very far away as he called out for the car. The only thing that seemed real and near was Jack Johnson’s strong body hauling her into the back seat of the Bentley.
He pulled her halfway into his lap. “Stretch your legs out and rest your head here,” he ordered, helping her extend her limbs. He cradled her head and shoulders in his capable embrace.
“I’m feeling a little embarrassed, Mr. Johnson.”
“Don’t worry about it—I’ve seen a lot of births. I spent most of my childhood in the foaling stall.”
She stiffened, remembering decorum. She was very aware that she was a soggy disaster in his arms. “A Bentley is hardly a foaling stall and I don’t plan on having this baby here. Do I…?”
“The driver will get us to the hospital fast. In the mean time you should keep your legs bent and your hips slightly raised. It will be more comfortable when the contractions come. I’m surprised they haven’t already. You must be in the one percentile. Usually women experience contractions before their water breaks.”
“You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing.”
“I’ve been doing a little reading.”
She blinked up at him, wondering when the cramping would start. “I’m not afraid of the pain,” she told him softly. “I’ve been uncomfortable my entire life.”
His lips twitched as a smile threatened.
“You find that amusing?”
“No, I want you to be as comfortable as possible. You’re having my kid today.”
The Baroness was about to have the most frightening experience of her life, but she wasn’t frightened. She was calm and quite comfortable indeed.
