engulfing it in his heat and steadiness. “And Genevra has done me the honor of consenting to be my wife. We’re here today to ask for your blessing.”
Genny stared across the coffee table at her parents. They both looked surprised. But not in a bad way, really—or was that just desperate wishful thinking on her part? The two of them shared a long, speaking glance. What exactly that glance said, well, she just couldn’t tell.
And her mother said, “We had no idea.”
Rafe squeezed her hand. She knew she really had to say something. But she couldn’t for the life of her think what. Once again, poor Rafe had to answer for her. “It’s sudden, I know. And we’re...” He seemed to seek the right word. “We’re eager to get on with our lives together. So eager that we’re planning to marry in Saint Ann’s Chapel at Hartmore on Saturday.”
Her father frowned. “Saturday is four days away.”
“Um, five if you count today,” Genny put in helpfully.
“So quickly,” said her mother, drawing her slim hand to her throat. She looked at her father again.
Her father didn’t catch that glance. He was busy watching Genny, frowning. “Genevra, are you ill?”
And Genny knew she couldn’t just keep sitting there like a lump, trying not to throw up and letting poor Rafe lie for her. It wasn’t right, wasn’t fair. So she opened her mouth—and the truth fell out. “We were together for four days in March, when Rafe came to arrange renovations at Villa Santorno. I, um, well, I’m pregnant. And, er, Rafe insists on doing the right thing and marrying me.”
Rafe corrected stiffly, “We both feel it’s the right thing. And of course, I want to marry your daughter.”
There was a silence then. An endless one.
Finally, her mother said softly, “Oh. I see.”
Her father turned his gaze on Rafe and said in a carefully controlled tone, “You know we think the world of you, Rafael.” He went on, with growing heat, “But what in the hell were you—?”
Her mother cut him off by gently murmuring his name. “Evan.”
Her father shot her mother a furious glance—and then sighed. “Yes. Fine.”
Genny just ached for them—all three of them. Her mother and father because they’d already been through this with two of her siblings. Genny hated that she was putting them through it again. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to practice proper contraception in this day and age.
And she had practiced it. They’d used a condom every time.
But then, there had been a lot of times....
And poor Rafe. He thought so highly of her parents. It had to be awful for him, to have to face them with this news.
“Of course, you’re both adults and this is your decision, between the two of you,” said her mother, and went on to add exactly what Genny had known she would say. “We only want you to be sure this is the right choice for you.”
“It is,” Rafe said in low growl, not missing a beat.
Her mother’s legendary dark eyes were focused solely on Genny. “Darling? Is it the right choice for you?”
The right choice...
Genny went through her list of reasons in her mind again: the baby, who deserved the right to claim his inheritance. And her fondness for Rafe. Surely they should have a good chance to make a successful marriage together, with friendship as a basis. And being intimate with him wouldn’t be a hardship—oh, who was she kidding? Sex with Rafe was amazing.
And Hartmore.
Yes. She would have Hartmore. And, fair enough, she was a little ashamed that Hartmore mattered so much.
But the plain fact was that it did.
“Genevra?” her father prompted gruffly.
She wove her fingers more tightly with Rafe’s. “Yes,” she said. It came out firm and wonderfully sure sounding. “Marrying Rafe is the right choice for me.”
* * *
After three days jam-packed with shopping and preparations and endless visits with lawyers to hammer out all the legal and financial agreements, they flew to East Midlands Airport on Friday. There was Genny, Rafe, her mother and father and Aurora, whom they all called Rory. The wedding would be very small and private, only family members, just the bride and groom in the wedding party, with Genny’s father to give her away.
Rory would be taking the pictures. She was the baby of the family, a year younger than Genny—and everything Genny wasn’t.
There was nothing ordinary about Rory. Rory loved the great outdoors. She thrived on adventure. She had a bachelor of fine arts in photography from the School of the Arts Institute of Chicago and she’d already had her pictures published in National Geographic, Country Digest and Birds & Blooms. Genny found her baby sister a little intimidating.
But then, Genny found all of her siblings intimidating. They seemed larger than life to her, somehow, each of them not only knowing what they wanted, but also going after it with passion and grace. True, Genny had always known what she wanted: to be a DeValery and mistress of Hartmore. But her sisters’ ambitions were so much grander than hers. Compared to them, Genny sometimes felt like a plain gray pigeon raised in a family of swans.
At East Midlands, two cars were waiting to take them to Hartmore. Genny, Rafe and Rory rode together. Genny’s and Rory’s bodyguards sat in front, one of them at the wheel. The ride took about an hour. Rafe was mostly silent and Genny didn’t feel much like talking, either. Rory, always full of energy and plans, tried to keep the conversation going, but eventually gave up. They rode in silence through the English countryside and Genny drifted off to sleep.
She woke suddenly, her head on Rafe’s shoulder, as they pulled to a stop at Hartmore, the North Entrance, so stark and spectacular. Open parkland, designed two hundred years before by Capability Brown, rolled away into the distance dotted with giant old oaks and beeches. A masterpiece of Georgian perfection in its day, the house was composed of a central block joined by single-story links to three-story wings on either side. Six Corinthian columns supported the central pediment.
The façade remained magnificent. But inside, Genny knew, more than a few of the two hundred rooms had been water damaged due to roof leaks. So much needed doing in the months and years to come. But right now, all she could think of was the first time she’d seen the house. Her mother had brought her and her four sisters, Arabella, Rhiannon, Alice and Rory, for a visit when Genny was five.
For Genny, that visit had been a revelation; at the tender age of five, she’d suddenly known what she wanted, known where she fit in. Now, twenty years later, she felt exactly the same. She was coming home—home to stay, at last.
“We’re home,” said Rafe so softly, echoing her thoughts.
She smoothed her sleep-flattened hair and gave him a smile that only trembled a little.
* * *
An
