Free The Bride's Baby by Liz Fielding Page B

morning.’
    ‘I could put him off until next week.’
    ‘No,’ he said, hauling himself out of the chair and heading for the door. ‘I want to get started.’ He wanted to subject the house to his will; making it entirely his would draw a line under the whole affair. ‘Give me twenty minutes to take a shower and you can bring me up to date. There is hot water, I take it?’
    ‘Plenty. I’ll get Mrs Kennedy to make up the bed in the master suite.’
    ‘Thanks. And if you were serious about the coffee, that would be good too.’
    ‘I’ll get on to it.’ Then, as he opened the door, she called, ‘Oh, Tom! Wait! Before you go, I should warn you—’
    ‘Twenty minutes,’ he repeated, closing it behind him, then stood back as two men manhandled a large sheet of plywood through the hall and into the ballroom.
    He’d been away for months; there wasn’t a thing that wouldn’t wait another twenty minutes.
    He fetched his overnight bag from the car, then headed for the stairs.
    His foot was on the first step when the sound of a woman’s voice drifting from the drawing room riveted him to the spot.
    ‘I like to start with the colours, Lucy.’
    He dropped the bag, moved closer. Heard someone else say, ‘This is going to be a spring wedding, so…what? Primroses, daffodils…Yellow?’
    ‘No.’ The word was snapped out. Then, more gently, ‘Not yellow. April is getting late for daffodils. I did see violets as I drove in through the wood, though. Why don’t you take a tour of the exhibitors and bring me anything and everything you can find from deepest violet through to palest mauve? With just a touch of green, I think.’
    ‘Anything special?’
    ‘Ribbons, jewellery, accessories. Ask the florist what he’ll have available. And don’t forget to make a note of where everything came from…’
    She had her back to him, standing shadowed by the deep embrasure of the door as she quietly absorbed everything that was going on but, long before she turned, stepped forward into the sunlight streaming in through front doors propped wide open for workmen carrying in a load of steel trestles, he knew exactly who that voice belonged to.
    He’d spent an entire afternoon listening to it as they’d gone, item by item, through her account. Watching her unbutton her jacket. Moisten her lips.
    All the time he’d been away it hadn’t been Candy’s last-minute change of heart that had kept him from sleeping.
    It had been the flush on Sylvie Smith’s cheeks. The memory of long legs, a glimpse of lace.
    Her hot body moulded to his.
    Her pitiful tears.
    Her tears had haunted him, plaguing him with guilt, but now he understand that her tears had not been for what he’d done to her, but because she’d just risked everything she had in a momentary rush of lust. No wonder she couldn’t wait to get away…
     
    Sylvie smiled encouragingly at the youthful journalist, the advance guard from Celebrity whose job it was to research background and photo opportunities so that when the photographer arrived on Sunday there would be no waiting. And to encourage her to give her imagination free rein when it came to the fantasy wedding.
    Full of enthusiasm, the girl immediately set about hunting down anything she could find in the chosen colour scheme.
    Sylvie, not in the least bit enthusiastic, dropped the face-aching smile that seemed to have been fixed ever since she’d arrived at Longbourne Court and looked around at the chaos in what had once been her mother’s drawing room.
    The furniture had been moved out, stored somewhere to leave room for the exhibitors. But it wasn’t the emptiness that tore at her. It was the unexpected discovery that, despite the passing of ten years, so little had changed. It was not the difference but the familiarity that caught at the back of her throat. Tugged at her heart.
    The pictures that had once been part of her life were still hanging where they had always been. Velvet curtains, still blue in the