THE EARL'S PREGNANT BRIDE (9 page)

But Fiona didn’t die. She only covered her face with both hands, fell over sideways on the sofa and dissolved completely into an ugly fit of soggy snorts and heavy sobs.

Genny did nothing for several seconds. She sat there and watched Fiona cry and longed to get up, march over there, grab Brooke’s BFF by her long red hair and slap her good and hard across her snot-soaked, splotchy little face.

Chapter Seven

G
enny gave herself a count of ten to let her violent urges fade down to a slow-burning rage. And then she said, slowly and clearly, “I’ll say it again. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m as sorry as anyone that Edward is gone. But Rafe is doing Hartmore proud and he is every inch the earl in every way. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop spreading vicious lies.”

Fiona only went on sobbing. “I can’t bear it. I never s’pected he would... That it would end. It
can’t
end. That’s not how it was supposed to be....”

Clearly, there was no point in talking to her.

Genny got up, went to the door to the hallway and opened it wide. Then she marched into the bedroom and took the box of tissues from the dressing table. She carried it back to the sitting room and stood above the sobbing, shoeless woman in the yellow dress. “Fiona.”

“What?” Fiona dragged herself to a sitting position. Her dark eyeliner had dribbled down her cheeks. She blinked at the tissues. “Ugh. Thanks.” She whipped out a handful and dabbed at the mess on her face. “I’m...” She let out an enormous belch. “Oh. S’cuse me. So sorry...”

“Take it.” Genny shoved the box at her.

Fiona caught it, fumbling, and blinked up at her. She was catching on at last. “Oh, my. I do b’lieve you’re bloody cheesed off....”

“Yes, I am.” She grabbed Fiona’s shoes in one hand. With the other, she took Fiona’s arm and hauled her upright. “And you are going to your room.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea...walking and all that. I’m a li’l woozy...”

Genny ignored her. She jerked the arm she held, guiding it up and across her shoulders.

“Ow! You’re
hurting
me....”

“You’re going now.” Genny started moving, taking Fiona with her, to the door and through it.

Half walking, half dragging the other woman, Genny somehow managed to keep them upright and moving down to the end of that hallway and on to the next.

Halfway down that second hallway, Fiona dropped the box of tissues. “Stop,” she whined. “The tissues...”

Genny only snapped, “Never mind that,” and kept them lurching along toward the room Fiona always used when she came to Hartmore.

It took forever. With each step, Genny feared Fiona would pass out completely. Or chuck up all that wine she’d drunk.

But they made it to Fiona’s room at last. Genny dropped Fiona’s shoes on the threshold and shoved open the door.

Inside, Genny dragged the other woman past the small sitting area and over to the neatly turned-back bed. She backed them both to the mattress and sat Fiona down on it, then eased out from under the limp weight of her arm. Fiona swayed in place for a moment—and then collapsed back across the bed, her shoeless feet dangling over the side.

Genny stared down at her, thoroughly disgusted. She tried to think of one final thing to say to her, the right words that would shut her evil little mouth about Rafe once and for all.

But then Fiona started snoring.

Genny went to the door, scooped up the yellow shoes and tossed them into the room. Then, quietly, she shut the door and returned to the East Bedroom, only pausing to get the fallen box of tissues on the way.

She turned off the lights and crawled into bed and lay awake for hours, missing Rafe, thinking that in the morning, Fiona probably wouldn’t even remember what she’d done and said while she was so thoroughly plowed.

As for the old story about Rafe being some gardener’s son? It was one of those big secrets that a lot of people seemed to be in on. Genny had heard the whispers about Rafe’s “real” father long ago—from an English girl she’d met at school who knew the DeValerys, and also from a village boy one summer when she’d come to Hartmore for a long visit. It seemed to her that she’d always known.

Fiona getting sauced and deciding to throw the old rumor in Genny’s face didn’t really amount to all that much—beyond providing yet more proof that Brooke’s BFF was a raving bitch. Genny had never cared in the least that Rafe might be the product of a forbidden liaison between his mother and one of the staff.

What really mattered was her own unwillingness to raise the subject with him. Even back in the old days, when she and Rafe could talk so easily about so much, they never discussed the ugly rumors concerning his “real” father.

It was another one of those things they didn’t speak of. Like the pretty woman on the jetty the summer she was fourteen; like the night Edward died. Like the shameful truth that she would have married Edward just to get Hartmore.

She believed Rafe did know what people whispered behind his back. And she assumed it must be hurtful to him. She was reasonably certain that most of his difficulties with his father, Edward II, went back to those rumors. The old earl had too much pride to disown him, but had never treated him as a true son.

Genny wished they
could
talk about it. But she feared if she brought it up, things would go the way they had on their wedding night. She would only upset him and push him away.

* * *

The next day, Fiona failed to appear in the Morning Room for breakfast.

Brooke, nursing what looked like one hell of a hangover, seemed unconcerned. She waved a dismissive hand. “Fiona left. Said she had a lot to attend to at Tillworth.”

Genny felt only relief not to have to deal with her.

That day, she went out with Eloise to the walled garden, which supplied fruits and vegetables for Hartmore. The garden, on the far side of the lake, was large and well tended, with modern glasshouses for protecting more delicate plants and a beautiful old pavilion-type structure that served as a giant storage shed.

The walled garden had always provided much more than the DeValerys could eat themselves. The extra they carted to the village market for sale. That day the garden staff was digging new potatoes, picking runner beans and tomatoes, as well as raspberries and strawberries for pies and desserts.

In the afternoon, before walking back to the house, Genny and Eloise sat together on a stone bench under an elm tree and made more plans for the future. Eloise said she’d always dreamed that someday they might open a restaurant by renovating the stables and the cobbled courtyard outside them. The DeValerys still kept horses, but only a few now. They could build smaller, modern stables farther from the house and use the old, rambling stone stables for the restaurant. They could sell Hartmore produce there, too. And maybe, eventually, they should have a gift shop. It would fit in the stable area, as well.

Genny agreed. The more income they produced, the better.

“It’s so satisfying,” Eloise said, “to feel we’re really going somewhere now, that we’re doing all we can to keep the house in good repair, to plan ahead and build on what we have. It’s no small thing, to keep an old pile like Hartmore standing—let alone in the family.”

Genny thought of the rotten things Fiona had said the night before. “Rafe’s doing a wonderful job, I think.”

Eloise patted her hand. “Oh, yes. God knows, we all loved Edward, rest his soul. But he was never a planner, was he? Not one to look ahead and decide what will need doing, not one to apply himself to the basic questions of survival. He was a beautiful charmer, that one....”

“Yes.”

“We’ll miss him. But we must count our blessings. And Rafael is very much among them.”

Genny longed to confide in Eloise, to tell her about Fiona’s drunken ramblings last night, to ask if Eloise thought the old story about Rafe’s parentage was true.

But she hardly knew how to start such a difficult conversation. Surely Eloise had heard the rumors, too. Still, what if she hadn’t? It wasn’t the kind of thing the old woman even needed to know about. Whatever the truth of his birth, Rafe
was
the earl of Hartmore now. Digging around in the secrets of the past wouldn’t change that.

Better to let it go.

Or, if she just
had
to discuss it with someone, it really ought to be with the man himself. Maybe. Someday...

Eloise asked, “Shall we go, then?”

They got up and left the garden, taking the lake path back to the house.

That evening at dinner, Brooke was downright pleasant. She mentioned Geoffrey’s birthday, which was about a month away, on the first Saturday in July. He would be home from school by then. She’d decided to throw a birthday party for him.

Eloise reminded Brooke that Geoffrey didn’t like a lot of fuss. “But if we keep it small and simple...”

“Of course,” Brooke said brightly. “That’s exactly my plan.”

Genny agreed that a party would be nice. And she decided to take Brooke’s new attitude for a good sign that Rafe’s sister really was trying to get along, that things would be better between them from now on.

Rafe was due back on Wednesday in the afternoon. Genny woke early that morning thinking,
Today, he comes home.

All morning, she had that edgy, excited feeling, like a child who’d been promised some special treat. She kept busy, spending most of the morning in the center of the house, helping out wherever she was needed. They had a steady stream of visitors that day.

By one, she felt downright anxious. She couldn’t wait to see him. It was almost embarrassing—the sense of longing, the way her heart seemed to have got stuck up high in her chest at the base of her throat. It was pounding away in there, yearning and burning. And her cheeks felt much too warm.

Ridiculous. Really.

She decided she needed exercise. She would work off some of the tension caused by all this crazy anticipation. It was a clear, bright day. Perfect for a run. She changed into shorts and a pair of trainers and put her hair in a ponytail. Then she took Moe and Mable and headed to the lake.

She ran half the way, the dogs bounding on ahead, circling back and taking off again. When she couldn’t run another step, she found sticks and threw them for the collies to fetch. Now and then, she passed a visitor or one of the gardeners or someone from the village. They all smiled and waved as she raced by, the dogs at her heels. No doubt she’d get a bad reputation: that wild, young princess who married the earl.

By the time she was on her way back to the house, she dripped sweat and her hair was falling down. She had mud spattered all over her trainers, halfway to her knees. She needed a hot shower and clean clothes.

But she did feel more settled within herself, not so achy and hormone crazed. Funny, how it was all turning out. Even with the things that lay unspoken between her and Rafe, even with the guilt she felt over getting pregnant during their four-day fling, even given the sadness and regret over Edward’s tragic death, she was glad, so glad that she’d married him.

And not because of Hartmore, either.

Really, who did she think she was kidding? The truth was so simple. She not only loved him, as she always had, as her dearest friend in the world. No. It was more than friendship for her now. She was falling
in
love with him.

How could she not? He was so smart and true and good at heart. She loved how he looked out for Geoffrey, how he treated his grandmother, with respect and real affection, how he was patient and forgiving with Brooke, who, let’s face it, was the kind of woman who could try the patience of a saint. He was also thoughtful and kind to the staff and the local people. Not to mention way better in bed than any man had a right to be.

She wanted to tell him, to just say it right out:
Rafe, I’m falling in love with you. I’m falling deeper and deeper every day
.

But then she had no idea how he would react to such news. And she felt like such a complete fraud, after all those years of waiting for Edward, telling herself she was in love with
him.
Wasn’t it way too convenient that she’d suddenly decided she loved Rafe now?

She probably shouldn’t rush it. Better to give it time, think it over. Surely a woman shouldn’t just spring something like that on an unsuspecting man.

Even if he was her husband.

She dropped the dogs off with Eloise, who was busy in the rose garden, and let herself in at the East Entrance the family used, pausing just inside the door to check the soles of her trainers. Unlike the tops, the soles were clean, wiped off by all that running across the damp grass. She wouldn’t be tracking mud up and down the fine old floors and carpets. She took off for the stairs to the first floor.

And then she heard the voices. They were coming from the Blue Drawing Room not far from the stairs: a woman’s voice. And Rafe’s. Her heart did that leaping thing and got lodged in her throat again.

“Never change,” he said, his tone warm and easy.

And the woman laughed in a husky, intimate way. “No danger of that.”

Genny veered from the stairs and over to the wide-open doors to the drawing room. Rafe and a slim, dark-haired woman stood over by the Palladian window that looked out on the wide swathes of open parkland rolling away from the north front of the house.

Rafe spotted her. “Gen—there you are.”

The woman turned to smile at her.

It was the woman he’d kissed on the boat jetty eleven years before.

Genny’s mind went blank—and then started spinning. What was going on here? She didn’t like it—no, worse.

She
hated
it.

She hated
herself
for hating it.

He held out his big hand. “Come here, love. I want you to meet Melinda Cartside.”

Melinda. So that was her name—a name Genny had heard recently. Hadn’t she? Melinda...

Right. The shop owner in Chelsea that Brooke had gone on about. The woman who’d grown up right here, in the village.

Rafe had spoken so fondly to her. Too fondly. And the way she had laughed, so husky and teasing...

Did he still have a thing going on with her, after all these years? He’d just come from London. Had he been with this woman there?

Genny wanted to scratch the woman’s wide brown eyes out. Not only was she much too good-looking to be laughing intimately with someone else’s husband, she had a really fabulous sense of style. She wore an ankle-length full skirt, of all things. The skirt was a swirling pattern of red and fuchsia-pink. Into the skirt, she’d tucked a crisp white oxford shirt. And she had sky-high, very ladylike black pumps on her delicate feet.