The Pregnant Bride. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
hand, read it for herself, and let out a squawk of outrage. “He can’t do this!” she’d cried. “We’ve got sixty pounds of smoked salmon waiting at the club! Your father had to extend his line of credit at the bank to finance this wedding!”
The bad news had spread quickly, rolling through the church like an anthem. Heads had turned, necks craned, feet shuffled. And throughout it all, Jenna had stood at the door, bouquet dangling from one limp hand, wedding veil floating in the May breeze, silk gown whispering around her ankles and a great empty hole where her heart had been.
What was the correct protocol for a bride left waiting at the altar? Throwing herself off the nearest bridge hadn’t appealed although, when she first read the letter, she had, briefly, wished the floor would open up and swallow her. But what her mother referred to as her “infernal pride” had come to her rescue. Somehow, from somewhere, she’d manufactured a kind of frozen calm to get herself through the ordeal suddenly confronting her.
Hooking her train over her arm, she made her way back to where the limousines waited and climbed into the one which had brought her to the church and had her honeymoon luggage stowed in the trunk. “There will be no wedding,” she informed the startled driver as he raced to close the door for her, and directed him to her apartment.
While he transferred her suitcases to her car, she’d changed into the first clothes she laid hands on, scribbled a note for her parents and given it to him to deliver, and within twenty minutes was speeding down the highway to the ferry terminal. What was supposed to have been the happiest day of her life had turned into a nightmare of titan proportion, witnessed by half the social elite in the province and another hundred from out of town, and she had known only that she had to escape, quickly, before the blessed numbness passed and the pain took hold.
She’d managed pretty well—or so she’d thought. Bolstered by a confidence which in reality was nothing more than a continuation of the daze which had steered her through the hours since her aborted wedding, she’d ignored the voice of caution and decided to brave The Inn’s dining room. Why should she hide away in her suite? She’d done nothing to be ashamed of!
But confronting the other diners had proved more of an ordeal than she’d expected. If she’d worn a sign plastered to her forehead, declaring her Abandoned Bride of the Year, she couldn’t have felt more exposed or vulnerable.
She owed Edmund Delaney a huge debt of gratitude….
As if they had a will of their own, her eyes swung from their contemplation of the flames in the hearth to the telephone on the little occasional table beside the fireplace.
Should she call him? Invite him to lunch, perhaps, as thanks for his having saved her from making an even bigger fool of herself at dinner?
Not a smart move, Jenna, her cautious conscience scolded. Chasing after a man you hardly know, only hours after you were jilted by the man you planned to marry, smacks more of desperation to find a replacement than gratitude!
True enough! So why was she lifting the receiver, why requesting that a call be put through to the room of one Edmund Delaney? And why, having gone that far, did she stare in horrified fascination at the telephone when he picked up on the second ring, then immediately hang up and flee to the bathroom as if he were in hot pursuit?
There was a phone in there, too. It rang before she had the door closed. “We must have been cut off,” Edmund Delaney said, when she finally found the courage to answer. “Good thing it was an in-house call and the front desk was able to reconnect us. What can I do for you?”
CHAPTER TWO
“…UM…” SHE muttered. “Er…who is this? That is, I…um…”
Duplicity didn’t come naturally to her and he clearly recognized an amateur when he heard one. Cutting short her bumbling reply, he said curtly, “It’s Edmund Delaney, Jenna. And you just phoned me, right?”
“Yes,” she admitted faintly, wishing for the second time in a day that seemed doomed never to end, that she could disappear off the face of the earth and spare everyone further grief. “I wanted to make sure I’d…thanked you. Properly, that is. For coming to my rescue at dinner.”
He sounded as if he might be having a hard time choking back a laugh when he replied, and she could scarcely blame him. Her pitiful attempt at subterfuge was as transparent as glass. “You thanked me,” he said. “And you were very proper.”
“But just saying the words doesn’t seem enough. I feel you deserve more than that.”
Dear heaven, woman, rephrase that quickly before he decides you’re making a play for him and offering more than you’re prepared to give!
“Wh…what I mean is, may I buy you breakfast in the morning? As a token of my gratitude, you understand? Say about nine, in the main dining room?”
“Afraid not,” he said cheerfully. “I won’t be here.”
Either it was just one rejection too many, or else she was courting insanity to be so crushed by his answer. Clearing her throat to dislodge the great lump of disappointment threatening to strangle her, she aimed for nonchalance. “Oh, that’s too bad. Then I guess we won’t see each other again.”
“I’ve chartered a boat to take me fishing at dawn and don’t expect to be back much before noon.”
The rush of relief she experienced at that piece of news was almost as disconcerting as hearing herself suggest, with an eagerness which could only be described as pathetic, “What about lunch, then?”
“I have a better idea,” he said, after a small, contemplative pause. “Why don’t you come fishing with me? There’s nothing like reeling in a fighting salmon to take your mind off your other troubles.”
He was being kind. Again. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”
“Only one way to learn,” he said. “I’ll be leaving here about five-thirty. Meet me in the lobby downstairs if you change your mind.”
Well, it was out of the question. For a start, all she’d brought with her was her honeymoon luggage and it didn’t include hip waders and oilskins, or whatever it was that fishing persons wore. Furthermore, she’d be lousy company and he’d already put up with enough of that. He didn’t need the aggravation of wondering if the weepy woman hanging over the side of the boat was planning to end it all by diving headfirst into the saltchuck.
But when, after a night of fitful sleep, she found herself wide-awake at five the next morning, with the beginning of another beautiful day hovering on the horizon, watching the sunrise with Edmund Delaney didn’t seem such a bad idea after all.
Because she and Mark had planned to walk on the beach, she did have a pair of jeans in her suitcase, and a lightweight jacket and a pair of rubber-soled shoes. The day stretched before her, depressingly empty. And there was nothing more enervating or unattractive than a woman so steeped in self-pity that even she was getting tired of herself. So why not take Edmund up on his offer?
She found him leaning against the front desk, thumbing through a map of the area. Dressed in jeans also, with a heavy cream sweater over a navy turtleneck and his dark hair still damp from the shower, he was an undeniably handsome sight. But it was his aura of confidence and strength that brought to her mind the shocking thought that he’d never take the easy way out by appointing someone else to do his dirty work, the way Mark had.
Edmund Delaney was made of sterner stuff.
“Well, what do you know!” he said, his smile touching the cold recesses of her heart with surprising warmth. “Looks as if I’m going to have company, after all.”
He drove a dark green Lincoln Navigator, a big and powerful vehicle to match the man who owned it. It smelled of leather and a pleasant hint of the Douglas firs which grew in such profusion along the coast.
Settling himself behind the wheel, Edmund fired up the engine