Their Wicked Wedding (12 page)

“Louisa is still cooking,” I tell him.

He smiles, but there’s a wary look in his eyes. “Yeah. I tried to offer her some help earlier, but she kicked me out.”

I hope my own smile doesn’t look as forced as his. “Yes, Louisa likes to do things her own way.” She’s certainly never done anything the way
I
would, but it’s something I’ve come to expect from her.

Ward straightens his tie. “I suppose we have a few minutes then.”

“It looks like that.”

For a long moment, we stand there in silence. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say to him—trust me, there is plenty—but I’m trying to behave tonight, and I can’t think of any topic that won’t start an argument. If we speak of Louisa, I won’t be able to keep myself from confronting him about the fact that he hasn’t married her yet. For the life of me, I don’t understand it. He seems to love her, at least as far as I can see, so there’s no excuse. They’re going to have a child together, and that child needs a father. And both Louisa and the child need the security of knowing that they can’t just be kicked out of this house and left with nothing.

And the house! Ah, that’s another thing completely. It was terrible watching Edward Carolson turn this place into a luxury resort, but this—watching another man turn this place into
his
house,
his
home—is another matter. And while I respect his apparent enthusiasm for the restoration of the property, the idiot seems to believe that he and Louisa can handle the care and management of this estate all by themselves. Having one man doing all of the repairs and construction and a garden crew come out once a month isn’t going to cut it.

But as I said, I’m behaving myself, so I keep my mouth closed. I can only imagine the sort of things going on in his head that keep him equally silent.

Thankfully, we’re soon rescued by Louisa, who’s suddenly behind me, an apron still tied around her waist.

“And what sort of secrets are you two sharing?” she says. Her eyes go to Ward. “Don’t you look nice.”

He straightens his shoulders and grins. “I told you I owned a tie.”

She laughs. “All right, you win.” She turns back to me. “Where’s Lily? Dinner is ready.”

“She should be nearly dressed,” I say. “I can go get her if you like.”

“No way. If you go upstairs, you two won’t be down until dessert.”

It’s a subtle reference to this morning, but it’s a reference all the same. Her eyes shine with humor at my speechlessness.

“Go on,” she says. “Go sit down. I’ve put us in the formal dining room tonight. If Lily isn’t here by the time I’ve got the food on the table, I’ll go get her myself.”

“I’ll put the food on the table,” Ward says. “You’re not carrying any big dishes to the dining room.”

“They’re dishes, not cannonballs. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re carrying enough already.” He looks pointedly at her belly. “I’m helping. No arguments.”

She starts to argue anyway, but he pulls her toward him and kisses her instead. I look away.

“You made dinner,” he tells her softly behind me. “Let me do
something.
”

“I’m going to the dining room,” I tell them, determined to leave before things get more uncomfortable. I’m not sure they even hear me, but I’m sure they’ll come to an agreement about who’s carrying what without my help.

I run into Lily as she’s coming down the stairs.

She’s wearing her hair down, slightly curled, and it tumbles around her shoulders in a way that makes me want to reach up and tangle my fingers in it. Her dinner dress is white, and it hugs her body close enough for me to see her every curve. My eyes move almost involuntarily to her breasts, then her hips, looking for any hint of her red lingerie through the pale garment. But either the fabric of the dress is too thick or she decided against the lingerie after all, because I don’t see anything.

Until she reaches the bottom step, at least. Then the strap on her left shoulder peeks out, crimson red against her skin. And she’s smiling at me in a way that tells me she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Not yet,” she teases. She loops her arm through mine, and we head into the dining room together.

In the end, it appears that Louisa has let Ward bring up the food, but my sister fusses about the table, moving dishes around and making sure everything is exactly where she wants it to be. I take the time to look around the room. They’ve done some repainting in here. I know the far wall saw some damage during Louisa’s stay here—at her own hand, no less—but there’s little evidence of that now. And the table is new, though it’s nearly as large as the one we had here when this place still belonged to my family. Honestly, the room still looks very much like it did when I lived here, but that doesn’t alter the fact that things have changed. I tilt my head back and study the frieze up on the ceiling. That, at least, has survived this place’s many transitions.

Finally, Louisa declares that the table is ready.

She’s set places for us at one end of the table—she and Ward are on one side, while Lily and I are on the other. After helping Lily into her chair, I sit down in front of a bowl of steaming soup.

“It’s creamy basil soup,” Louisa says. “Martin’s recipe. I’ve never tried this one before, so you have to tell me what you think.”

It certainly smells delicious. I pick up my spoon, and Lily does the same beside me. Her arm brushes against mine, and even that brief contact sends a jolt of desire through me. It takes all of my effort to look down at my bowl of soup.

Lily is the first to try it. I might not have even noticed her reaction if I weren’t so attuned to her right now, but as it is I am immediately aware of the slight way she stiffens when the spoon enters her mouth. I look over at her, wondering if she’s burned her tongue. But she swallows and smiles as if nothing is wrong.

To be on the safe side, I blow on my spoon before having my own taste.

And the minute the soup is in my mouth, I understand.

The soup isn’t too hot, but it’s so salty that I’m fairly certain I’ve burned out a few taste buds. But it’s not just the seasoning that’s an issue. Beneath the salt and the milder flavor of basil, there’s another taste—something strange and soapy.

It’s an effort to swallow, but I manage it. I look over at my sister, but she hasn’t noticed my reaction. She’s too busy watching Ward take his first bite.

He, poor fellow, has no chance to hide his reaction. His eyes widen slightly when he tastes the soup, and then he coughs.

“What?” Louisa asks. “What’s wrong?”

No one says anything, and the silence is apparently answer enough. She looks over at me and Lily.

“Is something wrong with the soup?” she says.

She doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, she takes her own spoonful and shoves it in her mouth.

It’s obvious from her expression that she tastes exactly what the rest of us do. She swallows heavily and sets her spoon back delicately on the table.

“It tasted fine back in the kitchen,” she says. “It must have, I don’t know,
morphed
somehow.”

“It’s not that bad,” Ward says. To his credit, he actually takes another bite.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re the worst liar ever. It’s disgusting.”

“The texture is great,” he says around his mouthful.

She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “Oh, really? Great enough that you’re actually going to eat the rest?”

Ward looks down at his bowl as if seriously contemplating this challenge. When he looks up again, he’s grinning.

“Why not?” he says. “As I said, it’s not
that
bad.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she says. “You’re going to be up half the night vomiting or something. I don’t want to clean that up.”

“You made it, I’ll eat it,” he replies. He’s already dipped his spoon in the bowl again, and he raises his next bite toward his mouth.

“You’re not going to eat that,” she says, lunging for his arm. He grins and moves it just out of her reach. The bit of soup in the spoon sloshes over the side and onto the table, but neither of them seems to notice.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lily turn toward me. When I meet her gaze, she smiles, shakes her head, and mouths, “Kids.”

Across the table, Ward lets out a great laugh. Louisa has his spoon in her hand.

“Is that what we look like to other people?” Lily whispers. Beneath the table, she rests her hand on my knee. I’m not sure whether she means to tease me or not, but my body’s reaction is immediate. It’s been too long since I’ve had her.

My fingers close over hers, keeping her hand in place.

“I don’t care what we look like to other people,” I say, my voice low.

Her eyes gleam in response. But before she can speak, there’s a cry from across the table.

I look over just in time to see Louisa grab her belly.

In an instant, Ward is out of his chair and leaning over her. “What’s wrong?”

She’s silent for a few long seconds, and then her shoulders relax. “It’s nothing. The baby was just kicking.”

Ward’s frowning. “She’s kicked before, and you’ve never reacted like that.”

“It was stronger than usual,” she says. “It startled me, that’s all.”

Ward doesn’t look convinced. And when I look over at Lily, neither does she. There’s a furrow between her brows. I don’t know what to think. I’ve never dealt with a pregnant woman before.

“I’m fine,” Louisa assures us. “Look. I’ll show you.” She grabs Ward’s hand and presses it against her belly, presumably where he might feel the movements of the child inside.

For a moment, no one moves or says anything. But suddenly Ward jerks as if startled.

“Whoa,” he says. “You’re right.” He repositions his hand, his face breaking into a wide grin.

Louisa is smiling too. And so, I realize, is Lily. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about after all.

“Do you want to feel?” Louisa asks. I realize she’s looking across the table at me and Lily.

“Of course,” Lily says, rising without even a glance at me.

I’m not sure what to think. This is my first niece or nephew. I don’t know how to handle children—or women who are about to have children. I’m not sure I want to feel a baby moving around inside of my sister.

But Louisa is insistent. “Come on, Calder. It’s just a baby.”

My eyes lift to Lily’s face, and though I can’t quite read the expression there, I know she’s watching my reaction very carefully.

“All right,” I say, rising.

Lily’s mouth turns up in response. By the time I get to my sister, Lily has her hand splayed on Louisa’s stomach. Suddenly she lets out a laugh.

“Strong little one,” Lily says.

“He must take after his dad,” Louisa says, looking up at Ward.

“
She
,” Ward corrects her.

I find myself looking at Ward, too, and I’m shocked by the pure joy and love I see in his face. Not that I honestly didn’t expect him to be happy—if I thought he felt otherwise, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near my sister—but it’s the things I don’t see that surprise me. There’s no fear in his expression. No uncertainty.

“Here,” Lily says. Suddenly she has me by the wrist, and before I’ve even realized what’s happening, she’s placed my hand on Louisa’s round stomach.

I freeze. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to do anything. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling. But then my sister laughs, and something moves beneath my palm. At first it’s just a tremble, a shift, but then I feel what is unmistakably a bump—like a tiny foot kicking at me through my sister’s belly.

I look up at her, and she smiles at whatever she sees on my face.

Something shifts in me then, and it’s startling in its intensity. Until now, I saw my sister’s pregnancy as an unintentional souvenir from her little adventures, a mistake that she’s come to accept with maturity—but a mistake nonetheless. But the tiny thing moving beneath my hand isn’t a mistake. It’s a miracle.

Lily’s hand is still on my wrist, though her grip has loosened. I could easily pull away if I wanted to, but I don’t. I want to continue feeling the little baby Louisa carries, and I want to keep feeling it like this—with Lily’s pulse against mine. We’re experiencing this miracle together.

And someday, maybe soon, we might experience a miracle of our own.

Lily and I have spoken of children, of course, but it always seemed like a future concern. Now, though, I find myself imagining how I’d feel if Lily told me that she was pregnant. If Lily’s body were the one changing, and if it were my child kicking beneath my hand. What would our little child look like? Would it be a daughter, and take after her? Or a son, with dark Cunningham eyes?

An image of another child—one with those dark Cunningham features—flashes in my mind, and I suddenly go cold.

I’ve hardly looked at the photograph I found in the storage locker with my father’s things. I set it aside with his journal, determined not to give it another thought until absolutely necessary. But I haven’t forgotten that image. I’m afraid I’ll never forget it.