Expecting the Earl's Baby. Jessica GilmoreЧитать онлайн книгу.
Thoughts were whirling around in Daisy’s brain, a giant tangled skein of them. She was so tired, her limbs heavy, her shoulders slumping under the decision she was faced with.
But she was going to be a mother. What did she think that meant? All pushing swings and ice creams on the beach? She hadn’t thought beyond the birth, hadn’t got round to figuring out childcare and working long days on sleepless nights. It would be good to have someone else involved. Not someone she was dependent on but someone who was as invested in the baby as she was.
And if he didn’t marry her he would marry elsewhere. That should make it easier to turn him down. But it showed how committed he was.
What would she tell people? That she’d messed up again? She’d worked so hard to put her past behind her. The thought of confessing the truth to her family sent her stomach into complicated knots. How could she admit to her adoring parents and indulgent sisters that she was pregnant after a one-night stand—but don’t worry, she was getting married?
It wasn’t the whirlwind marriage part that would send her parents into a tailspin. After all, they had known each other for less than forty-eight hours when they had walked into that Las Vegas chapel. It was the businesslike arrangement that they would disapprove of.
But maybe they didn’t have to know...
‘How would it work?’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘Family first, Hawksley second. Discretion always. I’m a private person, no magazines invited in to coo over our lovely home, no scandalous headlines.’
That made sense. A welcome kind of sense. Publicity ran through her family’s veins; it would be nice to step away from that.
But her main question was still unvoiced, still unanswered. She steeled herself.
‘What about intimacy?’
Seb went perfectly still apart from one muscle, beating in his cheek, his eyes darkening. Daisy took another step back, reaching for the chair as support as an answering beat pounded through her body.
‘Intimacy?’ His voice was low, as if the word was forced from him. ‘That’s up to you, Daisy. We worked—’ he paused ‘—well together. It would be nice to have a full marriage. But that’s up to you.’
Worked well? Nice? She had been thinking spectacular. Could she really do this? Marry someone who substituted rules for love, discretion for affection and thought respect was the pinnacle of success?
But in the circumstances how could she not? It wasn’t as if she had an alternative plan.
Daisy swallowed, hard, a lump the size of a Kardashian engagement ring forming in her throat. This was so far from her dreams, her hopes.
‘I have a condition.’ Was that her voice? So confident?
Seb’s eyes snapped onto hers with unblinking focus. ‘Name it.’
‘We don’t tell anyone why we’re marrying like this. If we do this then we pretend. We pretend that we are head over heels ridiculously besotted. If you can do that then yes. We have a deal.’
‘HI.’
How did one greet one’s fiancé when one was a) pregnant, b) entering a marriage of convenience and c) pretending to be in love?
It should be a kiss on the cheek. Daisy greeted everyone with a kiss on the cheek, from her mother to her clients, but her stomach tumbled at the thought of pressing her lips to that stubbled cheek, inhaling the scent of leather and outdoors and soap.
Instead she stood aside, holding the door half open, her knuckles white as she clung onto the door handle as if it anchored her to the safety of her old life. ‘Come in, I’m nearly ready.’
Seb stepped through and then stopped still, his eyes narrowing as he looked around slowly.
A converted loft, all exposed brickwork and steel girders, one wall dominated by five floor-to-ceiling windows through which the midday sun came flooding in. A galley kitchen at one end, built-in shelves crammed with books, ornaments and knick-knacks running along the side wall and the rest of the ground-floor space bare except for an old blue velvet sofa, a small bistro table and chairs and the lamps she used to light her subjects. The bulk of her personal belongings were on the overhanging mezzanine, which doubled as her bedroom and relaxing space.
Daisy adored her light-filled spacious studio and yet, compared to Seb’s home, steeped in history and stuffed with antiques, her flat felt sparse and achingly trendy.
‘Nice.’ Seb looked more at home than she had thought possible, maybe because he had ditched the fleece for a long-sleeved T-shirt in a soft grey cotton and newer, cleaner jeans. Maybe because he stood there confidently, unashamedly examining the room, looking at each one of the photos hung on every available bit of wall space. He turned, slowly, taking in every detail with that cool assessing gaze. ‘Wedding photography must pay better than I realised.’
‘It’s not mine unfortunately. I rent it from a friend. An artist.’ Daisy gestured over to the massive oil seascape dominating the far wall. ‘I used to share with four other students on the floor above and it got a little cramped—physically and mentally, all those artistic temperaments in one open-plan space! It was such a relief when John decided to move to Cornwall and asked if I was interested in renting the studio from him.’
‘Mates’ rates?’
‘Not quite.’ Daisy tried to swallow back her defensiveness at the assumption. Her parents would have loved to set her up in style but she had been determined to go it alone, no matter how difficult it was to find a suitable yet affordable studio. John’s offer had been the perfect solution. ‘I do pay rent but John’s turned into a bit of a hermit so I also handle all the London side of his business for him. It works well for us both.’
‘Handy. Are you leaving all that?’ He nodded towards the studio lights.
‘I’ll still use this as my workspace.’ Daisy might have agreed to move in with Seb straight away but she wasn’t ready to break her ties to her old life. Not yet, not until she knew how this new world would work out. ‘It’s only an hour’s drive. I’m all packed up. It’s over here.’
It wasn’t much, less than her mother took for a weekend away. A case containing her favourite cameras and lenses. Her Mac. A couple of bags filled with clothes and cosmetics. If this worked out she could move the rest of her things later: the books, prints, artwork, favourite vases and bowls. Her hat collection. How they would look in the museum-like surroundings of Hawksley Castle she couldn’t begin to imagine.
Seb cast a glance at the small pile. ‘Are you sure this is all you want to take? I want you to feel at home. You can make any changes you want, redecorate, rearrange.’
‘Even the library?’
His mouth quirked. ‘As long as it stays warm.’
‘Of course.’ Daisy walked over to the hatstand at the foot of the mezzanine staircase and, after a moment’s hesitation, picked up a dark pink cloche, accessorised with a diamanté brooch. It was one of her favourite hats, a car-boot-sale find. She settled it on top of her head and tugged it into place before turning to the mirror that hung behind it and coating her lips in a layer of her favourite red lipstick.
She was ready.
‘First stop the registry office.’ Seb had picked up both bags of clothes and Daisy swung her camera bag over her shoulder before picking up her laptop bag, her chest tight with apprehension.
She swivelled and looked back at the empty space. You’ll be back tomorrow, she told herself, but stepping out of the front door still felt momentous, not just leaving her home but a huge step into the unknown.
Deep