Page 199 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

Part of him was disappointed at how easily she capitulated, his body wanting yet another chase, but he ignored that part of him. He wasn’t going to makethatmistake again, not considering the consequences of their last meeting.

Without another word, he turned and headed into the forest again, following the path back to the house.

Darkfell Manor had been built of grey stone in the late sixteenth century, and, in addition to the forest behind it, was surrounded by beautifully kept gardens, including a walled garden, a courtyard terrace, a formal parterre, a small orchard and a few fields.

Dominic had spent the majority of his early life here, and, after his father’s death, he’d spent a not so small fortune ripping the interior out and getting a designer to redo the entire place.

Gone were the tiny, dark servants’ quarters in the attic that his father had sometimes locked him into as a punishment. Gone were the hulking pieces of furniture that had crowded all the rooms, making him feel as if he were suffocating. Gone was the chill that had seemed to settle into his bones during winter because he’d failed in a negotiation with his father to keep the heating on.

Gone was the dark green wallpaper and the smell of old, damp stone, and the rooms that had felt as though they were echoing with the sound of his own loneliness.

Now, the manor’s stately interior was all white, with polished floors and thick silken rugs, and light flooding through the tall, mullioned windows. It smelled of the beeswax that Mrs Harris used on the wood half-panelling and the lemon furniture polish she used on everything else. And it was warm, the interior redone with the best central heating system money could buy, that he could turn on whenever he wanted.

It was a jewel now, and, if Dominic was honest with himself, he almost regretted his decision to sell it. But only almost. This was the last remaining piece of his father’s legacy and soon it would be gone, and good riddance to it.

After that, he’d finally be free.

He showed Maude into the formal sitting room with its view over the pretty parterre garden outside, sunlight flooding the windows and making the white walls glow. There was a deep window seat full of bright cushions, and a series of low white linen couches set in a box shape around the huge fireplace.

He gestured wordlessly to one of the couches and Maude sat on the edge of one of the cushions like a bird alighting on a windowsill, ready to take flight at any moment. There was a belligerent look in her eyes, which sent a strange thrill of anticipation through him, as if he was looking forward to whatever challenge she was going to throw in his way, and maybe he was.

The ennui he’d felt at the bacchanal had afterwards turned into an odd restlessness that he couldn’t pinpoint or satisfy. It had been bothering him, and maybe, if not for the pregnancy, he might have turned all his attention on seducing this mysterious, oddly alluring woman, but...

Well. There was the pregnancy.

You’re going to be a father.

The thought was cold and sharp, like a piece of thread edged with razor blades winding through his soul, cutting him in places he didn’t expect. Places he’d thought were invulnerable.

He’d never wanted children. Never wanted to be a father, not after the hell his own father had made for him. He wouldn’t have known how to be one even if he’d wanted to be anyway, yet it seemed now that he wasn’t going to be given a choice.

Perhaps that was why he was so angry. He hadn’t had a choice because she hadn’t given him one.

It’s not her fault. She wasn’t expecting anything like that to happen that night, but you were.

The accuracy of the thought was so painful he ignored it.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about the baby?’ he asked at last, after the silence had reached screaming point. ‘No, scratch that. Were youevergoing to tell me about the baby?’

A flush had crept into her cheeks, turning them deep pink, making her brown eyes seem lighter. ‘No,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I wasn’t.’

That turned up the heat on his already simmering temper, but he kept a tight grip on it. ‘Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t want to know.’

‘I read a few articles about you on the Internet, Mr Lancaster.’ She was sitting straight-backed, with her hands resting on her thighs, fingers gripping her knees. ‘And from what I read, you don’t strike me as the family type.’

She wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t at all the family type. Yet the way she’d decided all of this, as if he had no say in how things were going to be, slid under his skin like a shard of glass.

She didn’t know him and when she’d found out she was pregnant, she must have realised he was the father, and had clearly made some kind of judgement call based entirely on what the media wrote about him.

She hadn’t bothered to speak to him personally, not once.

Why does it matter? When you never wanted kids in the first place? Throw some money at her and let her go on her way.

That was exactly what he should do. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Something about the rounded curve of her stomach, the vulnerability of it, the knowledge that there was a little life curled there, a life he’d helped create, had hit him hard. Had woken something possessive and territorial in him that he hadn’t known was there. He was never either possessive or territorial, since he didn’t care about anything enough, but for this baby... Apparently he cared about that.

Maybe it was a primitive response to that night in the woods, with her virginity and how it had felt to be with her, sacred almost. Or maybe it was only biology kicking him in the teeth. Either way, he didn’t like the intensity of the feeling or how it messed with his control.

‘So what type am I, then?’ he asked, still struggling to control his temper.

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