Page 44 of Expecting the Earl's Baby

Right now it didn’t feel as if there was any chance at all. The gap between them was too wide and she had no idea if she even wanted to bridge it—let alone work out how to do it.

* * *

‘Table decorations, seating plans, favours, flowers, outfits. We’ve done it all, Vi. There can’t be anything left to plan.’ Daisy tucked the phone between her ear and her chin as she continued to browse on her laptop. The wedding was feeling less and less real as it got nearer. It was one day, that was all.

And it felt increasingly irrelevant. The real issue was how the marriage was going to work, not whether Great-aunt Beryl was speaking to Great-uncle Stanley or what to feed the vegetarians during the hog roast.

Seb was right. The marriage was the thing. Not that she was going to tell him that, of course.

Less than a week to go. This was it. Was she prepared to spend the foreseeable part of her future with a man who was still in so many ways a complete stranger?

It wasn’t that the nights weren’t wonderful. Incredible actually. But was sex enough to base a marriage on?

But it wasn’t just sex, was it? There was the baby too. The sex was a bonus and she needed to remember that. Stop being greedy, stop wanting more.

Seb definitely found her desirable. Had promised to respect her. That was a hell of a lot more than many women had at the start of their marriages. So she wasn’t sure where she fitted in his professional life or at Hawksley? They didn’t have to live in each other’s pockets after all.

She was completely and utterly lucky—and that was before you factored in the fact she would be living in a castle and, improbable as it seemed, would be a countess. She just had to start feeling it and stop clinging onto the shattered remnants of her romantic dreams. Start carving out a place for herself at Hawksley, turn it into a home. Into her home.

If only she could help Seb work out how to make it pay. Other estates managed it, even without an eminent historian occupying the master bedroom...

Her sister’s exasperated voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘Daisy, Rose isn’t getting here until the day of the wedding itself so as the only bridesmaid on the same continent it’s down to me. I’ve hinted, Mum’s hinted and you have been no help so I am asking you outright. Hen night. What are you wanting?’

Daisy straightened, the phone nearly falling out of her hand as she registered her sister’s words. ‘I forgot all about the hen night.’

‘Sure you did.’ Vi sounded sceptical. ‘I’ve seen your scrapbooks, Daise, remember? And lived through twenty-four years of your birthday treats. You’ve left it too late for the Barcelona weekend or the spa in Ischia. So spa day near here? Night out clubbing in London? We could manage a night in Paris if we book today. You’re cutting it awfully fine though. We should have gone yesterday.’

Daisy managed to interrupt her sister. ‘Nothing, honestly, Vi. I’m not expecting anything.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nope.’

‘This isn’t a test?’ Vi sounded suspicious. ‘Like the time you said you didn’t want a birthday treat but we were supposed to know that you wanted us to surprise you with tickets to see Busted?’

‘I was twelve!’ Violet had to wheel that one out.

‘Seriously, Daisy. Mum will be so disappointed. She’s planned matching tracksuits with our names spelled out in diamanté.’

‘Mother wouldn’t be seen dead in matching tracksuits!’

‘But she will be disappointed. You’ll be telling me you’re not going on some exotic honeymoon next!’

Daisy stopped dead. Honeymoon? She hadn’t even thought about what would happen after the wedding and Seb hadn’t mentioned it.

The Maldives, Venice, a small secluded island in the Caribbean, a chateau in the south of France; the destinations of the brides and grooms she had photographed over the last couple of years floated through her mind.

They all sounded perfect—for a couple in love.

It was probably a good thing they had forgotten all about it. A week or two holed up together would be excruciating. Wouldn’t it? ‘It’s all been so quick, we haven’t actually thought about a honeymoon yet.’

There was an incredulous pause. ‘No hen night, no honeymoon. Daisy, what’s going on?’

Daisy thought rapidly. She couldn’t have a hen night. She couldn’t be around her friends and family pretending to be crazy in love, she couldn’t drink and her abstinence might have escaped their sharp eyes so far but nobody was going to believe that she wasn’t going to indulge in at least one glass of champagne on her own hen night.

Her eyes fell on the copy of Seb’s birth certificate lying on her desk; she’d put it in her bag after their visit to the register office and forgotten to return it to him. Name: Sebastian Adolphus Charles Beresford. How on earth had the Adolphus slipped past her attention? She hoped it wasn’t a family name he’d want for their son.

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