mind skidded away from that thought. Not this woman’s touch. She knew for a fact that she couldn’t live here.
She opened a door in the sideboard and found a pile of tablecloths—clean but un-ironed, and all of them ancient. Dull and boring. Depressing.
In a drawer, she found red tartan place mats with matching napkins and decided to use them. At least they were colourful. And the silver was clean and shining.
But despite the bright tartan the two place-settings looked rather austere on the huge dining table. She hunted about for a vase or candlesticks, anything to fill in the expanse of bare table-top.
There was nothing.
Showered and shaved, and neatly dressed in clean clothes, Mark stood in the middle of his bedroom and regarded his reflection in the mirror. He looked ridiculously nervous.
What did Sophie expect from him? Was she hoping for marriage? Surely not.
He’d never considered himself a family man, had more or less decided he was a habitual bachelor. His life was hard, and he worked long hours and took few holidays. He’d never really thought much about marriage, had never found a woman who would make a suitable wife—someone he really admired, who could take the hard life in the Outback.
Now, the irony was that just about any of the Australian girls he’d dated and parted with over the past decade would have fitted the bill better than this woman, with her milk-white English skin and high-flying, London-girl lifestyle.
Except…none of those other girls had been carrying his baby.
Mark glanced again at his reflection, saw concern and confusion, the downward slant of his mouth, and turned abruptly and marched from the room.
When Mark came into the kitchen wearing a crisp white shirt and casual chinos, with his jaw cleanly shaved, he looked so breathtaking that Sophie quickly became very busy, thrusting her hands into oven mitts and heading for the stove.
‘This smells wonderful,’ she said over her shoulder as she lifted out a pottery casserole dish. ‘Your housekeeper must be a good cook.’
‘He’s a darn sight better than the fellow we had on the mustering camp.’ Mark looked down at the bare kitchen table. ‘I’ll grab some cutlery.’
‘No need. I’ve set the table in the dining room.’
His eyebrows lifted with momentary surprise.
‘Would you rather eat in the kitchen?’
‘The dining room’s fine.’ He gave her a slow smile. ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less from the daughter of Sir Kenneth Felsham.’
She gave a flustered little shrug.
‘Perhaps I should open a bottle of wine and make it a proper occasion,’ Mark suggested as he followed her, carrying the warmed plates through to the other room.
Sophie set the casserole dish down. ‘I’m sure wine would be nice, but I’m afraid I can’t join you.’
His eyes widened with surprise, and she pointed to her stomach. ‘It’s not good for the baby.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. I—I don’t really care for wine anyway.’
She looked up quickly to see if Mark was joking, but suddenly it didn’t matter if he was speaking the truth or lying through his teeth. Their gazes met and he smiled again, and his smile seemed to reach deep inside her. She had to sit down before her knees gave way.
Goodness. Surely she wasn’t going to be all breathless and girly—just as she’d been at the wedding?
Mark sat, too, and indicated that she should help herself to the food. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she lifted the serving spoon, and she was sure he noticed.
‘You must be feeling rather jet-lagged,’ he suggested.
She nodded, glad to hide behind this excuse, spooned beef and mushrooms onto her plate, and hoped Mark was the kind of man who liked to fill his stomach before he tackled difficult discussions. But when she looked up she found his dark eyes regarding her thoughtfully.
She pointed to the food. ‘I’m sure you must be ravenous. Don’t let this lovely dinner get cold.’
Without comment, he helped himself to the food and began to eat with some enthusiasm, but it wasn’t long before he put his fork down. His throat worked, and he lifted his napkin from his lap and set it on the table.
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