The Accidental Bride (38 page)

‘Really? Where would we start?’

John caressed her hand, rhythmically, a kind of almost Zen, repetitive activity, as if to help him think. ‘The simplest way would be to ask Caroline when Charlie’s birth date was. She and Clara haven’t been close for a long, long
time, but at least she’d know when her grandson was born. But the trouble is, she’s holidaying with friends now, in the Caribbean, and if I contact her over all this, I know it’ll upset her.’ Lizzie met his eyes, glittering in the soft light from the open curtains. ‘I will, though, if you want me to. She’ll understand.’

‘No, don’t spoil Caroline’s holiday. She was nice to me. And the fewer people are affected by this right now, the better. I know Clara’s arrival has already upset your mother … and possibly your father.’

After much discussion, they’d agreed that John should set his London PA Willis to the task of research. ‘Martin’s a damn good researcher, but Willis is better. He’s a genius at ferreting information from the most obscure sources, when preparing dossiers on business associates, so it should be an easy task. And in the event he can’t find out, there are agencies he uses that, well, shall we say, have somewhat esoteric methods of prising facts from where they can’t usually be prised.’

Sunday at Montcalm had been tense. Everyone slightly out of sorts. Some a bit confused. Had they all simply imagined that Clara and her son had been there?

Charlie and his mother had left early, before the rest of the household had risen for breakfast and church. Apparently they’d been ‘expected’ somewhere, with friends Clara had omitted to mention the previous day.

John saw it as a good sign, and Lizzie hoped he was right. If his ex-lover had felt her position was unassailable, surely she’d have stayed to fight her corner?

After lunch, they’d set off home on the fairly short drive back to Dalethwaite.

‘Please visit us again soon,’ the Marchioness had urged,
with an intensity that spoke of her confusion and doubt. Lizzie had promised to do so, hoping, hoping.

The Marquess had been more blunt. ‘Don’t let me down, girl. I’m counting on you. I haven’t got long, and I want to see you and that sod of a son of mine down the aisle before I go, at the very least.’

Again, Lizzie had promised, still not sure, inside, that she could fulfil it.

What if Charlie was John’s son? Wasn’t it better for him to be part of a family? A proper family, with his mother … and his father?

The thought of that was agony. She’d live if it happened, of course she would. She wasn’t Clara, who only seemed to be able to function with a man to keep her.

But if she lost John, she would never love again. Ever.

‘I know what you’re thinking, love, and it will never happen.’

Lizzie’s head shot up. After another sleepless night, she’d been half nodding to sleep over the breakfast table. Her body was yearning for rest, but her mind was unable to let go of the awful concept of John marrying Clara.

‘I will never, ever marry her. How can I? I love you.’ The mauve shadows under John’s eyes reflected his lack of sleep too. By mutual agreement, they were both going to be working from Dalethwaite today – if they could keep their eyes open, that was. Lizzie’s intention was to research some designs and catch up on some sewing jobs, helped by Mary, who had proved to be a godsend with her accomplished dressmaking skills. Her fine workmanship made her the perfect assistant, and she had a great flair for detailing. She was working full-time for Lizzie now, and another daily girl had been set on to cover the vacated domestic position.

John claimed he had files and portfolios to read through, in his office, and meetings that could be Skype-conferenced.

In reality, both of them would probably sit staring into space, waiting to hear from Willis. It might indeed be as easy as discovering Charlie’s date of birth. If he wasn’t as old as Clara claimed he was, then that was that. The simple answer.

And yet, it still troubled Lizzie.

‘Shouldn’t he have a proper family? It seems so hard on him, the way Clara’s lived. Husbands … other men. Charlie living with other people. Shouldn’t he have some stability in his life?’

John reached for her hand. ‘If he’s mine, I will take responsibility for him and, regardless of what she says, I will gain joint custody.’ His blue eyes were intense and, suddenly, full of questions. ‘But only if you want that, love. It’ll mean you becoming a mother, or a part-time mother, long before we planned that to happen …’ He hesitated. ‘It’s a lot to ask, I know.’

It was. A son who was already almost a teenager?

But she didn’t hesitate. ‘Don’t worry, boss man. I’m up for it. He’s a great kid. I’m sure he and I could rub along together quite nicely.’

John leapt up from the table, came around to her side, and knelt down beside her, enclosing her in his arms.

‘You, young lady, are a miracle. It was the luckiest day of my life, that night you walked into the Lawns Bar, you know that, don’t you?’

Lizzie leant into his embrace. With John, anything was doable. They could deal with anything life threw at them. ‘Ditto,’ she said softly, ‘it was my lucky night too.’

A busy morning in the sewing room was good therapy,
and surprisingly there was no staring into space. There was a lot to do, even with Mary to help her. One or two of the alterations were quite tricky, and the two women conferred, working out the best ways to achieve a pristine result. It was far easier to frown and re-pin at the tailor’s dummy than endlessly go over the prospect of Charlie being John’s son, again and again.

Lizzie and Mary were chatting idly over their coffee break, and Lizzie was just wondering whether to call Shelley, and give her a précis of the new situation, when John walked into the sewing room.

He knows. He’s got an answer.

Lizzie scrutinised her lover’s face. He looked thoughtful, but her heart leapt. The little lines around his eyes had softened.

Charlie isn’t his.

‘Hi, Mary, how’s it going?’ he said, giving the other woman one of his devastating smiles. ‘She’s not working you too hard, is she? She can be an awful tartar sometimes.’

‘No, Mr S. No problem. I love the work. I’m glad of the opportunity,’ said Mary with a dreamy smile, still clearly not immune to John and his glamour.

‘I wonder … Would you give us a minute?’ continued John. ‘There’s just something I need to discuss with Lizzie.’

‘Rightie ho, I’ll take this into the kitchen and drink it with Mrs Thursgood.’ Mary grabbed her coffee mug, and sped from the room.

John took the seat she’d vacated, at the pattern-cutting table.

Lizzie pre-empted him. ‘He’s not yours, is he? I can tell by your face. You look sort of relieved, but a bit … well … maybe a tiny bit disappointed too?’

John smiled. ‘I can’t keep a thing from you, can I?’ He reached for her hand, folding it in his. ‘And no, Charlie can’t be my child. Willis spoke to the secretary at St Wilfred’s, my old school. Charlie’s date of birth was listed on the preregistration documents. He’s only just eleven. He would have to be at least twelve to be my son.’

So, that was indeed that. The news seemed oddly anticlimactic. It had been Clara’s last throw of the dice … and she’d failed. Lizzie felt a strange, vaguely sisterly sympathy for the other woman. There was no triumph in this new revelation at all, nothing to gloat over.

‘She couldn’t really have believed that you wouldn’t soon find out Charlie was too young to be yours, could she? I mean … I don’t know her, but she doesn’t seem, well, stupid enough.’ She rubbed her thumb lightly against John’s palm. He might still need some comfort. ‘I know she wanted me out of the way, so she could have you, but it just seems more an act of desperation than wickedness, you know?’

John sighed, staring at their joined hands, then looking up. ‘You’re right, my love. It was an impetuous act, not true badness. Not really.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Her marriage to Ernesto had failed, and before that her marriage to Hertingstall, and other relationships. I guess she thought she’d tried to go back, back to the beginning, to resume a relationship where she’d once had all the power. But the world’s changed, I’ve changed … Her expectations were unrealistic rather than out and out foolish, I guess.’

They sat for a few moments in silence, then John said, ‘Your coffee’s going cold, sweetheart,’ and released her hands. Lizzie took a sip of the strong, reviving brew then offered the cup to John. He took a long, grateful gulp.

‘So, what now, boss man?’

John shrugged. ‘I’ll have to see her again. Privately. I need to do this in a kind way, but she does need to know it was all madness and it’s all over, once and for all.’ Lizzie could see him thinking, planning. Focusing on the practical and the expedient. ‘I think, perhaps, at Caroline’s London house. You could come down with me for a few days. If Marie can spare you. You’ve never been to my London flat, and it’s about time you saw it. It’s rather nice.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe you and Caroline could do some fashion, get some ideas? While I have a sit-down with Clara. Then Caro can take care of her afterwards … she might need her mum at a time like this, even though they aren’t the closest.’

Lizzie wanted to hug him. Embrace him for his compassion. Clara had hurt him, and tried to hurt him again, but he wasn’t vindictive.

Sliding off her chair, she drew close, and she did hug him.

‘Yes, there’s this fabulous big dress agency in Knightsbridge I’d like to visit. The Pandora. I’d love to see how they operate, have a chat, get ideas for New Again. I know Caroline doesn’t have to buy clothes secondhand, but she might find it interesting too.’

‘Actually, she’s very canny. She’ll be looking for bargains.’ John’s arms tightened around Lizzie’s middle, the pressure saying much that simple words probably couldn’t.

In a part of his heart, Lizzie knew he’d wanted Charlie to be his. Not for Clara’s sake, but his own. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do, or say.

Then John smiled. ‘This is the news we wanted, love … so shall we celebrate?’ He grabbed her tighter, his hands sliding down over her bottom, grabbing her through her light cotton trousers, his touch telling her he’d banished his
what-if moment. For her sake. ‘Do you think Mary would mind if we had rather more than a minute? I desperately want to whisk you upstairs and fuck you like a maniac. What with all this upset, we haven’t made love since the folly at Montcalm, and I’m feeling a bit deprived.’

‘Mary’s a woman of the world. She’ll understand.’ Lizzie drew John to his feet, leading him forward, loving the wicked gleam in his beautiful eyes and the sudden rise of his erection in his jeans. ‘But let’s hurry, we don’t want to be flashing that thing at her, even so.’

They pelted up the stairs, pausing to kiss, pausing to grope.

But in the little passage leading to the master bedroom door, Lizzie stopped, looking into his eyes. Time for her own moment of seriousness now.

‘I think there’s a part of you that really did want him to be your son, isn’t there? I know that, and I don’t mind.’ She raised her hand, touching his thick golden hair, superficially so much like Charlie’s, but not his. ‘If … um … you don’t want to wait quite so long … I …’

John’s eyes glittered. Glittered with a hint of tears.

‘I adore you, Lizzie. That you’d make that offer … it blows me away.’ He snagged his lower lip for a moment, then smiled. ‘But I think we should stick to our plans, give you time to enjoy your work with Marie, and the business.’ He paused, and kissed her mouth with infinite tenderness. ‘And when the time comes, love, it’ll all be worth waiting for. He … or she … will be worth waiting for, just you see.’

They kissed, hard, then John threw open the bedroom, dragged her through, and backheeled it closed behind them.

‘And in the meantime, we can always get plenty of
practice!’ he announced roundly. ‘Now, come on, get your clothes off, beautiful Miss Aitchison. I’m dying here!’

‘With the greatest of pleasure, Mr Smith. I thought you’d never ask.’

She looked like a goddess, the woman at the bar. Really. The glow from the downlighter made her hair shine like black satin, and her skin glow as if illuminated from within.

He’d been watching her all day, unable to tear his gaze away from her. She wore a slim black dress now, with diamonds at her throat and ears, although earlier, she’d been clad all in white.

White, so symbolic. Not of virginity, far from that. But of the purity of heart that shone out of her; the sweet integrity he could sense, even from across this room.

He ought to stop staring, but he couldn’t. She was so his type. The only type he’d ever really had, or would have. For ever. While she was momentarily distracted, smiling at the rather brutally handsome bar manager, he grabbed a feast of her, possessive that even for a second her attention was on the other man, chatting and calling him ‘Sholto’.

She was young. Breath-takingly young, but she had presence. A confidence and composure that went far beyond her years. She was lovely too, with even features, lustrous
dark eyes, and a red-tinted mouth so sumptuous it made his cock stiffen and ache just to look at it.

Not yet able to see it properly, hidden by the bar, and by other patrons enjoying themselves, he imagined her body.

Perfection. She was as alluring as a pin-up goddess. Trim, but not skinny. Lovely breasts, shapely hips and a neat waist that looked perfect in her nipped-in vintage dress. To his great joy, someone moved away from the bar, and he could see her better, observing the way her black frock clung to the sleek lines of her thighs. His cock leapt again, imagining those gorgeous thighs clinging to him, gripping him tight.

As if she’d heard his lascivious thought, she looked his way, her eyes assessing him, cataloguing him. Did he meet her discerning standards in a mate? Knocked sideways by her beauty again, he wanted to summon the barman and buy her a drink, but it was already too late: she was heading his way, confidently prepared to claim her prize.

‘Hello. I’ll join you, then, shall I?’