The Earl's Pregnant Bride

“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 hour later, after her mother, her father and Rory had been properly greeted and shown to their rooms, Genny and Rafe met privately in one of the East Wing drawing rooms with Rafe’s grandmother, the dowager countess, Eloise.

Tall, with the proud posture of a much younger woman, Eloise had a long, heavily lined face, pale blue eyes and wiry, almost-white hair that she braided and pinned close to her head. She lived in old trousers and wellies, her tricolor rough collies, Moe and Mable, trailing in her wake.

Genny loved Eloise—absolutely and unconditionally. An amateur botanist, Rafe’s grandmother ruled the grounds and gardens. And she ruled well. Overall, the estate lands were in much better shape than the house—especially the West Wing, where roof leaks had necessitated the removal of many of the furnishings.

“Moe. Mable. Go.” Eloise pointed to a spot by the fireplace and the collies trotted right over there. “Sit.” They sat. She lowered her hand, palm down, toward the floor. “Down.” The dogs stretched out obediently. Then she turned a glowing smile on Genny. “My dearest girl.”

With a low cry, Genny ran to her.

Chuckling, Eloise gathered her up in those long, capable arms. She smelled of lavender and lemons. Genny took comfort from the beloved, familiar scents. “So. We shall have you as our own after all.”

Genny hugged the old woman closer. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Let me have a look at you.” Eloise took Genny by the shoulders and held her away. “A little pale, perhaps.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“That’s the spirit. We’ll soon put pink in those cheeks and fatten you up.” She pressed a rough, heavily veined hand to Genny’s cheek. “I’m deeply gratified that you will be my own granddaughter at last.”

Genny bit her lip and nodded and didn’t really know what to say. “It’s all a little overwhelming....”

There was a noise in the hallway. The dogs perked up their ears and the door flew open. “Genny!” Dressed in his school uniform, complete with blue vest and striped tie, eight-year-old Geoffrey came flying into the room. “You’re here! You’re really here!”

“Slow down, young man,” Eloise commanded, hiding a grin.

Genny held out her arms.

He landed against her and hugged her good and hard. “They let me come from school because of the wedding,” he said. “And Great-Granny says you will be my aunt Genny.”

“Oh, yes, I will.”

Then he scowled. “Mum’s sending me back on Sunday.”

Genny smoothed his tousled sandy hair. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

He beamed her a big smile and she saw that he’d lost two baby teeth in front. “I’m so glad to be home.” Then he turned and flung himself at Rafe. “Uncle Rafe!” Rafe chuckled and lifted him high.

“Put him down, Rafe.” Brooke DeValery Landers, Rafe’s sister and Geoffrey’s mother, stood in the open doorway looking stunning as always in turquoise silk leggings, a big-collared white tunic, ballet flats and a look of disapproval. “He’s way too excited, behaving like a savage. No manners at all.” She raked her long sable hair back from her forehead and turned her angry sapphire eyes on Genny. “Lovely to see you, Genevra.” Her tone said it wasn’t lovely at all. Brooke was divorced from an American, Derrick Landers. Her ex lived in the States. He’d remarried and had two more children.

“Hello, Brooke.” Genny and Brooke had never really gotten along. The best they ever did together was a kind of cool civility. Genny put on a smile and went to her. They air-kissed each other’s cheeks. “You look well.”

Brooke stared past her at Rafe. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“It’s true,” Rafe answered without missing a beat. “Gen has made me the happiest man on earth.”

“Genny.” Geoffrey tugged on her hand. “Samson had kittens, did you know?” He gave her his jack-o’-lantern grin.

Genny widened her eyes. “But how is that possible?”

“Because Samson turned out to be a girl!” He chortled with glee.

“Geoffrey, come along now,” Brooke cut in sharply. She held out her hand, snapping her fingers. “I want you out of that uniform before you get something on it.”

His laughter died. He slumped his small shoulders. “But I want to take Genny out to the stables and show her—”

“Geoffrey. Now.”