Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (8 page)

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Luc’s voice stilled her, so sad and quiet. ‘At least,’ he amended, ‘I didn’t want it to be like that.’ Abby waited, unable to move, even though she knew she should. Luc took a step towards her and she slowly turned around. ‘That night was one of the best experiences of my life, Abby. I know that sounds trite—a bad line from a pop song, I suppose. But
it…’
His eyes met and melted into hers. ‘It gave me hope at a time when I was utterly in despair.’ If the words sounded melodramatic, the tone was not. He sounded matter-of-fact, a little bleak and utterly sincere. Abby forced herself to look away.

‘Then why did you leave?’ she asked in a voice that was far too lost and little. ‘Did you change your mind?’ She swallowed, needing to ask the one question her pride had forbidden her to voice. ‘Did you not want me any more?’

‘Oh, Abby.’ Luc’s voice was choked, and he took another step towards her so they were only a handspan apart. ‘Did I not want you?’ he murmured softly in disbelief. He reached out to curl his hands around her shoulders, sliding them up to cup her face, his fingers threading through her hair. It wasn’t until he touched her that Abby realized how starved she’d been for the contact, and she closed her eyes, savouring the touch of his fingers against her skin.

‘I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone,’ he whispered, pressing a kiss against her brow before trailing more kisses along her jawline. Abby shuddered. ‘I walked away because I didn’t want to hurt you more than I already had.’ His lips hovered over hers. ‘But I keep coming back, don’t I,’ he said brokenly, choking on the words. ‘I can’t leave you alone, even though I know it’s the right thing to do.’

‘Then don’t,’ Abby murmured, the words a plea. Right now she didn’t care about why he might go or stay. She just wanted this moment to last, to keep him with her—even if it hurt in the end—whether it was for an hour, a night or for ever. ‘Don’t let me go,’ she whispered, and closed the space between them, her lips on his, a moan of deep satisfaction starting low in her throat. How she’d wanted this. Needed it.

The little cottage-bedroom was a world away from the sumptuous suite at Hotel Le Bristol, yet it hardly mattered. Once again the world fell away so all Abby was conscious and achingly aware of was Luc.

Luc, standing before her, his face so serious yet with the faint flicker of a smile on his lips as he surveyed her. Luc, reaching out to slip off her tee-shirt and unbutton her jeans. Abby shrugged out of them easily, standing before him naked, unafraid, unselfconscious.

It was so wonderfully the same as before, and yet, Abby knew, it was also different.
She
was different. Stronger, perhaps. More certain. Yet even as these thoughts occurred to her they melted away when Luc looked at her, touched her; his fingers barely skimmed her skin, and yet still she shuddered.

He smiled. ‘I’ve dreamed of this.’

‘So have I,’ she confessed in a whisper, and reached for the buttons of his shirt.

In but a few moments they were both naked, and Luc claimed her in a kiss as they somehow, half-stumbling, made it to the bed. From the open window Abby could hear the
shushing of sea against sand, the distant cry of a gull. Then she lost the ability to hear, see or even think as Luc went to work with his mouth and his hands. He touched her, treasured her with his body as she writhed in response, until all was lost except for the exquisite sensation rolling through her, consuming her in wave after wave of endless pleasure.

And when the time came for their bodies to join, Abby didn’t tense, even though she knew there would be some kind of pain. Whatever discomfort she felt melted quickly away in the growing realization that
this
was what everyone talked about, knew about. This was what she’d been missing. She felt as if she’d been seeing the world through a misty veil without realizing it, and only now could she see and feel clearly. The final piece of her soul, her very self, had slid into place, and she hadn’t even known it was missing until now.

Afterwards she lay in the cradle of his arms, the sun slanting golden onto the floorboards. She thought of how she’d imagined this scenario only yesterday morning. Yet how could she have imagined it? The feeling of being in Luc’s arms once again—completely, now—was beyond imagining.

She turned to look at him, let her fingers trace the faint stubble on his jaw. His eyes were closed yet she knew he was not asleep. Perhaps he wanted to be, she thought with a tinge of sorrow. Perhaps he was pretending to avoid any awkward conversation, the kind of conversation he hadn’t allowed them to have before.

And what could they say now? What was there to say? Luc had made it plain that he had no more to give. No more than this—a second night of pleasure, the completion of what had been promised so long ago.

Was it worth it?
The question echoed through her, and Abby closed her eyes, her body still vibrating with the memory of his touch, humming with satiated awareness.

Yes. It had been worth it—even if it still left her sad and always, always wanting more.

Somehow she must have drifted off to asleep, for when she awoke the room was cold and dark, and so was the bed. Luc had gone.

This was his cottage, Abby thought, rolling up to a sitting position. She slipped into her tee-shirt, leaving her legs bare as she crept from the bedroom. Surely he hadn’t hightailed it out of his own cottage? Yet hadn’t he done it before? The hotel room had been his as well. Had he actually left her a second time?

She walked slowly down the stairs, peeking around the corner. Luc sat in the little parlour, a tumbler of whisky cradled in his hands, his expression distant and bleak.

She stood there, feeling faintly ridiculous in just her shirt, and she shivered as a gust of cool air caught her.

Luc turned his head and his gaze held hers; there was an ocean of unspoken words between them. When he finally spoke his words were both a command and a plea: ‘Come here.’

And, just like that, she came. She didn’t even think about it, didn’t even consider saying no. She just went and stood before him uncertainly before Luc reached up and pulled her easily onto his lap. She curled into him all too naturally, tucking her legs under her, pressing her cheek against his chest. Luc stroked her hair, the movement gentle, repetitive, almost lulling her to sleep. Neither of them spoke.

The silence lengthened, growing more poignant and even sorrowful in the lack of words, the lack of anything they could say. Abby’s heart ached with the effort of steeling herself for Luc’s explanations, apologies:
I’m sorry. This is all I have.

Yet he didn’t say anything, and somehow that made it both better and worse. It made Abby wonder if he knew what she was thinking, if he knew all the things she didn’t want to hear.

After another long moment Luc finally stirred, his arms still around Abby. Wordlessly he scooped her up. Abby’s arms came around him as a matter of instinct, and, still without speaking, he carried her back upstairs.

He laid her on the bed, his eyes meeting hers, pleading for understanding—forgiveness. And Abby gave it, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her in an endless kiss that was apology, atonement and supplication.

If this is all Luc could give, then she would take it. Eagerly. She would make this moment—this night—last for ever; she would sear it into her memory, write it on her heart. As Luc lay on the bed with her, deepening the kiss with aching hunger, Abby knew it was also a farewell.

When she woke again Luc was sleeping next to her in the bed, one arm over his head, his face relaxed in sleep. Abby propped herself on one elbow and watched him for a moment, savouring the look of peace and happiness on his face, the slight smile of sleep, of dreams. Perhaps of memory. She let her fingertip run the length of his cheek, then his jaw, and then the curve of his eyebrow, as if by these simple touches she would remember the feel of him. He stirred slightly at the caress, and reluctantly she let her hand fall away.

Then, before her courage could fail her, she slipped from the bed and quickly put on her clothes. Luc stirred again, and before he woke Abby went hurriedly from the room. She didn’t look back.

I
T TOOK
Abby six weeks. Six weeks of regretting her decision to slip away from Luc as he slept; six weeks of knowing that had been her only choice, even as her heart cried out otherwise. Six weeks of waiting for Luc to find her, call her, write to her—something—even though she knew in her heart he wouldn’t. He never did. The silence was complete and unending.

Six weeks, she thought starkly, of being utterly miserable. And six weeks to realize their night together had resulted in more than her broken heart.

‘Have you been cooking with onions?’ she asked Grace one afternoon. The weather was drizzly and grey and matched her mood.

Grace looked up from the quiche she was taking out of the oven. ‘I sliced an onion four hours ago,’ she said, eyebrows raised. ‘Is that what you are referring to?’

Abby made a face. ‘I suppose; the smell has put me off lately, for some reason.’

Grace chuckled. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were pregnant.’ Abby froze, and the laughter died on Grace’s lips. ‘Abby…’

‘Right.’ Abby tried to smile, laugh. Both efforts were miserable failures, making her sound like some horrible, mechanical pull-toy. Grace wasn’t fooled for a minute.

‘Abby,’ she said, and then crossed the room in a few quick steps to pull her into a hug. ‘I’m sorry, that was callous of me. I just didn’t think you were seeing anyone.’

‘I’m not,’ Abby replied bleakly, and Grace’s arms tightened around her.

‘And that was callous as well. Good Lord, I’m not used to this.’ She stepped back, surveying Abby’s pale, drained face with maternal anxiety. ‘What are you going to do? There’s obviously a chance.’

‘I suppose there is,’ Abby agreed numbly. Luc had used a condom, but accidents happened. Mistakes happened. Her hands crept instinctively to her middle, as if the tiny life—if there even was one—might hear those horrible words: mistake; accident.

No.

‘We’ll buy a pregnancy test. They’re so quick these days, and reliable too.’

‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’ What an inane conversation, Abby thought, her mind still numb, frozen. They both sounded like they were starring in an advert for modern pregnancy tests. What did it matter how quick or reliable a pregnancy test was? Her mind and body were already screaming the truth: the nausea, the fatigue, the tightness of her jeans’ waistband. She hadn’t put it all together because it had never occurred to her, not even for one moment, that she might actually be pregnant. Yet, now that the possibility had been presented to her, it was all too glaringly obvious. Anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of biology, or who’d been in a highschool health class, could have confirmed her symptoms and offered the correct diagnosis.

Pregnant. With Luc’s child.

She looked up at Grace, who was gazing at her in obvious concern, and summoned a smile. ‘Yes. Right. Well, I think I’ll go the chemist’s, then.’

‘Do you want me to come?’

‘No. No, thank you. I’ll do it alone.’

And so she did, driving to the chemist’s in Helston, the tenminute trip a blur. Her mind felt permanently stuck in one gear, one loop—pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

The clerk at the till was a pimply teenaged boy, but he didn’t even bat an eyelid as Abby pushed the pregnancy test with its glaring pink writing across to him.

‘That’ll be ten pounds,’ he told her in a bored voice.

Inanely Abby found herself saying, ‘That’s quite expensive, isn’t it?’

He stared at her. ‘That’s ten quid.’

‘Right.’ She handed him the note.

She ducked into a local café’s toilet to take the test. Somehow she couldn’t bear the thought of bringing it back to Grace’s and having her hover while Abby did what was necessary.

It only took a few minutes. A few minutes, and then a lifetime of accepting the reality. Two lines on the little plastic stick; she really was pregnant.

Abby let herself out of the bathroom and drove back to Grace’s, the trip just as much a blur as it had been before. As soon as Grace saw her face—Abby couldn’t fathom what her own expression was, for she didn’t even know how she was feeling—she wrapped her in a hug.

‘Oh, love.’ They were both silent, and then Grace pulled away. ‘You know I’ll support you one-hundred percent, no matter what you do?’

Abby nodded, although even now she knew she had no choice, not really. Already that little life inside her had taken root, begun to grow. He—or she—was part of her, part of Luc. She would keep the child. She would have Luc’s baby.

Lingering over breakfast in his hotel suite in Paris, Luc turned to the arts pages of the newspaper without thinking. It was
what he always did, scanning the headlines and bylines with a distracted air, unable to voice even to himself what, or who, he was looking for.

Then he saw it.

Piano Prodigy—pregnant?

The photo was a blurry shot of Abby walking down a street in London. The newspaper had helpfully added a red circle to highlight the slight swell of her middle.

Even as realization slammed into him, Luc found himself thinking,
why is Abby in London?
What had happened? What was she doing?

He read the article in a matter of seconds; it was spurious speculation about the ‘Piano Prodigy’s sudden retirement’, her disappointing reviews last year and then her mysterious reappearance in London this week.

It only took up a few inches of space on the third page of the arts section. Abby, Luc realized, was hardly news any more.

Yet she was, it seemed, pregnant. And he knew without even a flicker of doubt that, if there was indeed a baby, then it was his.

He pushed the paper away, unfocused, unseeing, his mind spinning with thoughts he could barely articulate. The coffee at his elbow grew cold and the sun rose in the sky, casting longer and longer shadows on the floor.

Finally, as if shaking himself from a dream, Luc rose. He reached for his mobile phone, flicking it open and punching buttons. When his assistant answered, he spoke tersely. ‘I need the jet. This morning.’

‘It’s in Avignon, and it’s already noon.’

Impatience bit at him. ‘Have it brought to Paris by four o’clock. I want to be in Cornwall by six.’

‘Oui, Monsieur le Comte.’

Luc snapped his phone shut and gazed out at the River
Seine winding through the city. The cherry trees were just beginning to blossom. Then, turning away from the charming sight, he prepared to pack for his trip to England…to find Abby.

Cornwall was in the throes of early spring. The hedgerows were budding with sorrel and bluebells as Luc made his way along the narrow coast-road into Carack. He’d rented a onebedroom flat in a large Edwardian villa; Corner Cottage was already let. Perhaps that was better, Luc thought starkly, for surely the past could not be retrieved or recaptured?

What they’d had
was
past, gone. He’d felt the truth of it echo in his empty heart when Abby had left their bed six months ago. Her departure had been an eloquent, silent farewell—a choice, Luc knew, that had been best for both of them. It had to be.

Except, if she truly was pregnant with his child, then that changed everything. How, Luc could not quite yet envision or articulate. He couldn’t marry, couldn’t give, couldn’t love. Yet he also knew his responsibility was to his child, and he would not shirk it. Not this time. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He needed to find the truth. He needed to find Abby.

Dusk was falling soft and violet over the sea as Abby let herself into the cottage where she rented a bedroom. Although basic accommodation, it was cozy and picturesque. After years of living in hotels, Abby found she preferred this comfortable room in a tiny thatched-cottage, with its fluffy double-bed covered with a patchwork quilt, an old dresser and a washstand in the corner.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she let out a long, weary sigh and her hands went instinctively to her lower back, to rub the insistent dull ache that had lodged there since she’d first learned
she was pregnant over three months ago—three long, bewildering, uncertain months.

‘Hello, Abby.’

Abby let out a gasp of surprise and whirled around, her hands dropping to her sides.

Luc sat in the battered chair in the corner, one leg neatly crossed over the other, his fingers steepled under his chin. In the twilit gloom, Abby couldn’t read the expression on his face, but she knew it wasn’t anything good. His voice too was terribly neutral.

‘Luc!’ She struggled to find something to say, to make sense of the emotions coursing through her in a tangle of feeling. Then she narrowed her eyes. ‘How did you get in?’

‘The locals are very friendly, especially when I told them I was surprising you…being the father of your child, you see.’

Abby groaned aloud and reached for her bedside tablelamp, switching it on, grateful for its comforting, normal glow. Her mind was spinning, and she was torn between fury, fear and a completely unreasonable joy at seeing him again. ‘I’m sure you quite intimidated them.’

‘Perhaps,’ Luc replied with a negligent shrug. ‘I see you didn’t correct my assumption—I am the father of this child?’ He gestured towards her middle; the fabric of her tee-shirt was taut over her growing bump.

Abby let out a short laugh. ‘You mean, rather than the
other
lover I had while you were here?’

‘Don’t be sarcastic, Abby.’

‘Don’t tell me what to be,’ Abby flashed. ‘You don’t have the right.’

‘Oh?’ Luc’s voice was soft and dangerous, his eyes narrowed to blazing-blue slits. ‘And let me ask you about
your
rights—is it your right not to tell me about my own child?’

Abby laughed again, shaking her head. ‘You really have
some nerve, Luc. I don’t even know your last name, or where you live, besides “the Languedoc”…if you really do live there. I don’t know anything about you. So how,’ she finished, her voice rising in fury, ‘was I supposed to tell you about your child?’

Luc didn’t even blink. ‘I gave my name to your employer when I ordered the meals for Corner Cottage. You could have asked her.’

‘I could have,’ Abby allowed with a shrug, infuriated all the more by his refusal to apologize or explain. ‘And maybe I should have. But frankly you’ve been giving me the rather strong impression of not wanting to be found, and I don’t think I should have to be Sherlock Holmes to find you.’

Luc rose from the chair in one swift, graceful movement, crossing the small space to stand in front of Abby before she had time to react. He lowered his face close to hers, his eyes glittering, his voice low. ‘I think Sherlock Holmes is a bit of an exaggeration. And who,’ he asked softly, ‘really was the one who didn’t want to be found? Who left in the middle of the night this time, Abby?’

She raised her chin, refusing to move, to back down. ‘Doesn’t feel good, does it?’

‘So that’s what it was—some kind of revenge?’

She sighed and shook her head, suddenly weary. Her back still ached, and she desperately wanted some paracetemol. ‘No, not really,’ she said after a moment. ‘I don’t know what it was.’ She turned away from him, searching through the medicine cabinet above the sink for the much-needed tablets. ‘I just didn’t want to be there in the morning for some wretched conversation about how you couldn’t give me what I needed, blah, blah, blah,’ she finally said, and laughed, the sound sad and slightly bitter. ‘And I’d have had to nod and smile and say I completely understood because, after all, I knew what I was getting into, right?’

‘Right,’ Luc said after a moment, his voice quiet and thoughtful, and even a little sad. It seemed as if all the selfrighteous fury had drained out of them both. ‘Is that what you think would have happened?’

She turned to him, tablets in hand, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. ‘Are you saying differently?’

Slowly Luc shook his head. ‘What matters now is the fact that you are carrying my child. That changes everything.’

Abby felt something settle coldly inside her bones at the grim finality of his words. ‘I don’t see how it changes much of anything,’ she finally said, turning back to the sink to fill a glass with tap water. She took a sip and swallowed two pills, closing her eyes as fatigue threatened to overwhelm her, not for the first time that day. She’d had no idea that pregnancy would be so exhausting.

‘Why were you in London?’ Luc asked abruptly. ‘You weren’t seeking…some procedure?’

‘You mean an abortion?’ Abby gestured to her burgeoning belly. ‘Obviously not.’

‘That would be a terrible thing to do, to abort my child without telling me,’ he said quietly.

‘About as terrible as leaving me stark naked in your hotel room to be woken up by the maid?’ Abby quipped, and then added in a false French accent, ‘The gentleman checked out late last night…’

Luc had the grace to wince. ‘I’m sorry it happened that way,’ he said. ‘But we’ve gone over this already, Abby, and I’ve apologized before. Are we going to keep having this conversation?’

Abby sighed. ‘No, we’re not. We don’t need to have any conversation.’ She turned away, but Luc reached out to touch her shoulder. It was a light touch, yet it stilled her.

‘Why are you so angry with me, Abby? You are angrier now than ever before. Is it the child—?’

‘No, it is not
the child,
’ Abby snapped. ‘It’s…’ She blew out her breath, too weary even to articulate the emotions coursing through her. She didn’t really understand them herself. ‘I don’t know what it is, Luc. Pregnancy hormones? All I can say is I’m starting to dislike how you breeze in and out of my life as it suits you, and I never know if you’re coming or going, or when, or…anything.’

‘I was not the one who left last time,’ Luc reminded her.

‘It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t—’ He stopped, and Abby saw the regret darken his eyes, stiffen his shoulders. Maybe he wanted to feel more, she thought sadly, give more, but he just couldn’t.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s past is past.’

‘Yes, and it is the future we must be thinking of.’ He gestured to her bump once more.

Abby felt a chill of foreboding. Of course, it was obvious. Luc had come back because he’d somehow discovered she was pregnant, which could only mean one thing—he felt some sort of responsibility for her baby. His baby. Of course he would, she thought wearily. Luc had the biggest guilt complex of any man she’d ever met. Of course he would take on the responsibility of his own child.