country church with the sweet scent of violets that even out here seemed to cling to him instead of some phoney show-piece. A commitment that was real between two people who were marrying for all the right reasons.
So real, in fact, that he’d come within a heartbeat of reaching out a hand to her.
Maybe Pam was right. He should go back to London until this was all over. Except he knew it wouldn’t help; at least here he would be forced to witness her making plans for her own wedding. The ‘blooming’ bride. Blooming, glowing …
Euphemisms.
The word was pregnant.
If nothing else did it, that fact alone should force him to get a grip on reality.
Realising that Mark was looking at him a little oddly, he turned abruptly and began to walk towards the outbuildings.
‘Let’s take a look at the coach house and stable block,’ he said briskly.
Pregnant.
‘I think we could probably get a dozen accommodation units out of the buildings grouped around the courtyard,’ Mark said, falling in beside him.
‘That sounds promising. What about the barn?’
‘There are any number of options open to you there. It’s very adaptable. In fact, I did wonder if you’d like to convert it into your own country retreat. There’s a small private road and, with a walled garden, it would be very private.’
If it had been anywhere else, he might have been tempted. But Longbourne Court was now a place he just wanted to develop for maximum profit so that he could eradicate it from his memory, along with Sylvie Smith.
The last thing Sylvie had done before she’d left Longbourne Court was to pack the wedding dress away where it belonged, in a chest in the attic containing the rest of her great-grandmother’s clothes.
Not wanted in this life.
It was going to be painful to see it again. To touch it. Feel the connection with that part of her which had been packed away with the dress.
Always supposing the chests and trunks were still there.
There was only one way to find out, but Longbourne Court was no longer her home; she couldn’t just take the back stairs that led up to the storage space under the roof and start rootling around without as much as a by-your-leave.
But as soon as she’d talked to Josie, reassured herself that everything was running smoothly in her real life, she went in search of Pam Baxter, planning to clear it with her. Get it over with while Tom McFarlane was still safely occupied with the architect.
She’d seen him from the window. Had watched him walking down to the old coach house with Mark Hilliard.
He’d shaved since their last encounter. Changed. The sweater was still cashmere, but it was black.
Like his mood.
And yet he’d had a smile for Geena. The real thing. No wonder the woman had been swept away.
It had been that kind of smile.
The dangerous kind that stirred the blood, heated the skin, brought all kinds of deep buried longings bubbling to the surface.
Not that he’d needed a smile to get that response from her. He’d done it with no more than a look.
But then there had been that look, that momentary connection across Geena’s head when, for a fleeting moment, she’d felt as if it were just the two of them against the world. When, for a precious instant, she’d been sure that everything was going to be all right.
No more than wishful thinking, she knew, as she watched a waft of breeze coming up from the river catch at his hair. He dragged his fingers through it, pushing it back off his face before glancing back at the house, at the window of the morning room, as if he felt her watching him.
Frowning briefly before he turned and walked away, leaving Mark to trail in his wake.
She slumped back in the chair, as if unexpectedly released from some crushing grip, and it took all her strength to stand up, to go and find Pam.
The library door was open and when she tapped on it, went in, she discovered the room was empty.
She glanced at her watch, deciding to give it a couple of minutes, crossing without thinking to the shelves, running her hand over the spines of worn, familiar volumes. Everything was exactly as she’d left it. Even the family bible was on its stand and she opened it to the pages that recorded their family history. Each birth, marriage, death.
The blank space beneath her own name for her marriage, her children—that would always remain empty.
The last entry, her mother’s death, written in her own hand. After all her mother had been through, that had been so cruel. So unfair. But when had life ever been fair? she thought, looking at the framed photograph standing by itself on a small shelf above the bible.
It was nothing special. Just a group of young men in tennis flannels, lounging on the lawn in front of a tea table on some long ago summer afternoon.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, hearing the distant echo of her great-grandfather’s voice as he’d repeated their names, a roll-call of heroes, when some shift in the air, a prickle at the base of her neck, warned her that she was no longer alone.
Not Pam. Pam would have spoken as soon as she’d seen her.
‘Checking up on me, Mr McFarlane?’ she asked, not looking round, even when he joined her. ‘Making sure I’m not getting too comfortable?’
‘Who are these people?’ he asked, his voice grating as, ignoring the question, he picked up the photograph and made a gesture with it which—small though it was—managed to include the portraits that lined the stairs, the upper gallery, that hung over fireplaces.
She waited, anticipating some further sarcasm, but when she didn’t answer he looked up and for a moment she saw genuine curiosity.
‘Just family,’ she said simply.
‘Family?’ He looked as if he would say something more and she held her breath.
‘Yes?’ she prompted, but his eyes snapped back to the photograph.
‘Didn’t they have anything better to do than play games?’ he demanded. ‘Laze about at tea parties?’
Her turn to frown. Something about the photograph disturbed him, she could see, but she couldn’t let him get away with that dismissive remark.
Laying a finger on the figure of a young man who was smiling, obviously saying something to whoever was taking the photograph, she said, ‘This is my great-uncle Henry. He was twenty-one when this was taken. Just down from Oxford.’ She moved to the next figure. ‘This is my great-uncle George. He was nineteen. Great-uncle Arthur was fifteen.’ She leaned closer so that her shoulder touched his arm, but she ignored the frisson of danger, too absorbed in the photograph to heed the warning. ‘That’s Bertie. And David.
