Pregnancy Proposals: The Duke's Baby

“We already have, Papa,” sounded an irascible voice that could only have come from one man. He’d just entered the bedroom. Andrea tried to smother her cry of surprise. “I discovered her by the lac.“

“Then you probably know how much this poor child has suffered, Lance.”

Lance was his real name?

Lancelot Du Lac?

“I’m afraid we didn’t do much talking,” Andrea broke in, not wanting to think about what had gone on during both private confrontations. Worse, she didn’t want Geoff hurt. Like any father, he had great hopes for his son’s future. Andrea had no desire to do anything that could bring him sadness.

“It’s obvious he’s anxious to spend time with you. Since you both have so much catching up to do, I’ll say good-night and visit you tomorrow.”

“Do you promise?”

“Of course. Keep getting better now.”

She squeezed his arm, then darted away feeling a pair of accusing blue eyes leveled on her back. As she raced to the door they seemed to say, “You can keep running from me, but I know what you’re up to. Be warned I’ll drive you out.”

By the time Andrea reached the safety of her bedroom, she’d made up her mind that tonight would be the last time she slept in this château.

Not because of Lance Du Lac’s treatment of her, which was unconscionable. Not even because of his faulty assumption that she had designs on his father. An extraordinary man like the Duc probably drew the interest of many women. One or two unscrupulous types might even be after his money and title. Naturally his son would be protective of him. But that wasn’t it.

Her need to leave stemmed from guilt.

She pulled the suitcase from the wardrobe and started to pack. In the morning she would slip down to Geoff’s room to thank him for everything and say goodbye. It was for the best.

To have become physically aware of his world-weary son—a cynical man scarred in both a physical and figurative sense from experiences she didn’t want to know about, a man who’d chosen to live life on the edge on purpose, and had probably left a trail of willing women around the globe before coming home to marry, seemed a total betrayal of Richard’s memory.

He’d barely been gone three months, yet twice this evening she’d found herself unwillingly attracted to a stranger who’d shown her nothing but primitive behavior.

She could still feel his hands on her body, could still feel his mouth devouring hers. All of it a violation, though she couldn’t say he’d hurt her. It was the brazen unexpectedness of his action that had surprised her.

And of course her involuntary response to his male appeal … That was the part that was so unforgivable.

When she’d first met her dark blond husband, she’d been working at a photography studio. She’d found it flattering that a university professor would be interested in her artwork suggestions for the current book he was writing.

He’d allowed her to see into his world. She’d been a good listener, eager to assist him any way she could. Not having had a college education herself, Andrea had put him on a pedestal, admiring the poet within. Their association had led to marriage. He’d been a gentle lover.

To fill the emptiness left by his death, she’d come back to France to finish up the artwork for his latest book. Work was all she knew. So what could explain her reaction to a forbidding ex-military man, the antithesis of Richard?

Maybe it was a case of the hormone therapy regimen she was on being out of whack.

What if all the clichés about a widow’s needs were true? If so, how embarrassing. How appalling!

The tip of Lance’s boot caught the foot of the chair Andrea Fallon had just vacated in her haste to avoid him. Guilt at being found out had been written in every move and expression of her body.

A beautiful body and face to match he acknowledged to himself with grudging honesty.

There was nothing wrong with his father’s eyesight, only with his lack of good judgment where she or any woman was concerned. They couldn’t be trusted.

He nudged the chair closer to the bed before sitting down next to his parent.

“Tell me about your guest’s suffering, Papa,” he asked without preamble.

His father looked at him with loving eyes. “When you came home on that quick trip at Easter, did you happen to meet the American professor who was working in my library?”

Lance’s thoughts flew back to those few hours when he’d stolen home to check on his father without anyone else knowing about it. “Henri mentioned you had a visitor. I recall getting a glimpse of him, but I admit I didn’t pay much attention.”

After another bout of coughing, his father continued. “Dr. Fallon taught medieval literature at Yale University in Connecticut, and came to La Bretagne over the Easter break to do research. He and his wife Andrea were staying at the Hotel Excalibur.”

The woman whose luscious mouth he could still taste on his lips was someone’s wife? Lance hadn’t seen her wearing any rings.

“Maurice rang me and asked if I wouldn’t allow his hotel guests to examine some of the manuscripts in our family’s collection. Dr. Fallon was already published and a reputed expert on Arthurian legend.”

“So of course you said yes,” Lance interjected with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The news that his father was involved with a married woman caused his stomach to clench for a variety of unpalatable reasons.

“How could I refuse when I learned he was writing a book entitled The Definitive Lancelot Du Lac?“

Lance had heard it all before. Every would-be writer was attempting to pen a definitive book on the subject of the famous knight.

“About a month after they returned to the States, Andrea sent me a note telling me that following their flight home from Paris, her husband had died suddenly of a blood clot to the brain.”

What?

“She thanked me for letting them come to the château to see the library. Her husband had said it was the highlight of his trip. Naturally I was grieved for her sake and sent flowers. I told her that if she ever wanted to come for a visit, she was welcome.

“To my delight she wrote back two weeks ago and asked if she could come and take pictures of the forest. She wants to include some extra photographs in the book her husband had written.

“I have to tell you, Lance, if I could have had a daughter, I would have wanted one exactly like Andrea.”

A daughter—

Lance’s mind had to do a complete thought reversal. Suddenly certain things seemed clear, like his father allowing her to stay in the green room. He’d never offered it to anyone else, not even Corinne.

“She has your mother’s kindness,” his father continued, unaware of Lance’s shock. “It’s a very rare trait.”

So rare in fact that Lance hadn’t seen any evidence of it during their fiery exchange in the kitchen before his baser instincts had taken over to punish her for something she hadn’t done.

In any case he’d had no right in behaving like a brute.

“As soon as she flies back, she’s going to have it published as a special tribute to him. Now that you’re home, maybe you would show her some significant spots only you and I know about? Since her arrival, I’ve been too sick to accompany her.”

Lance lowered his head, massaging the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. Considering the reprehensible way he’d treated his father’s guest up to this point, he doubted she’d speak to him again, let alone be amenable to spending any time with him.

What in the hell had caused him to react so violently to Andrea Fallon? He’d met plenty of women in his life more beautiful and exotic. Bile rose in his throat when he remembered one in particular …

Mrs. Fallon had said she’d been given permission to be on the property. When she’d first looked at him with that haunted expression as if she were miles away, why hadn’t he recognized it as grief and believed her?

How in the devil could he explain his behavior in the kitchen when he didn’t understand it himself?