Page 62 of Expecting the Earl's Baby

Her mouth dried. All she wanted to do was press her mouth to his, forget herself, forget the wedding, the baby, her doubts in the surety of his kiss. ‘I can’t.’ She put a hand out, warding him off.

‘Daisy.’ He swallowed and she steeled herself. Steeled herself against any entreaty. Steeled herself against the knowledge that whatever he told her, however he tried to convince her there were words he would never say no matter how much she yearned to hear them.

And steeled herself not to yield regardless.

‘Will you come back with me? No—’ As she began to shake her head. ‘I don’t mean for good. I mean now. There’s something I want to show you.’

* * *

So much for all her good intentions. But she had to return at some point didn’t she? To collect her things. To help dismantle the wedding her mother had spent three weeks lovingly putting together.

To start forgetting the jolt her heart gave as the car pulled over the hill and she saw Hawksley, proud in the distance.

Or to make up her mind to make the best of it, to keep her word, to put their baby first. Trouble was she still didn’t know which way to turn.

To be true to her own heart or to be true to her child?

And in the end weren’t they the same thing?

Daisy started walking, no destination in mind; she just had to keep moving. Seb fell into step beside her, not touching her, the inches between them a chasm as she rounded the corner past the stables.

‘I was thinking that this end stable would make a great studio. They’re not listed so you could do whatever you wanted for light—glass walls, anything. I know you want to carry on photographing weddings and that’s fine but if you did want to exhibit your other work we could even add a gallery.’

Was this what he wanted to show her? A way of making her career more acceptable? Her heart plummeted. ‘A gallery?’

‘Only if you wanted to. I know how much you love weddings, but your other work is amazing too. It’s up to you.’

‘It would make a great space, it’s just...’ She faltered, unable to find the words.

‘It’s just an idea. This is your home too, Daisy. I just want you to know that I can support you too, whatever you need. The way you support me.’ He sounded sincere enough.

Yesterday those words might even have been enough.

Her heart was so heavy it felt as if it had fallen out of her chest, shrivelled into a stone in the pit of her stomach. She had to keep moving, had to try and figure out the right thing to say. The right thing to do.

The marquee had been set up at the far end of the courtyard and curiosity pulled her there; she hadn’t seen inside since it had been decorated.

‘Wow.’ Swathes of yellow and silk covered the ceiling, creating an exotic canopy over the hardwood dance floor. Buffet tables were set up at one end, covered in yellow cloths, and benches were set around the edges.

Daisy swivelled and walked back through the tent, trying to envision it full, to see it as it would be in just forty-eight hours filled with laughter and dancing—or would it be taken down unused?

A canvas canopy connected the marquee with the door to the Great Hall, a precaution against a rainy day. The heavy oak doors were open and she stepped through them, Seb still at her side. ‘Oh,’ she said softly as she looked around. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful.’

Daisy had seen the Great Hall in several guises. Empty save for the weight of history in each of the carved panels, the huge old oak beams. Set up for another wedding ceremony and, later, a busy party venue. Her mother’s workspace complete with whiteboards, elaborate floorplans and forelock-tugging minions.

But she had never seen it look as it did today.

The dais at the far end was simply furnished with a white desk and chairs for the registrar, flanked on both sides by tall white urns filled with Violet’s unmistakeable flower arrangements: classy, elegant yet with a uniquely modern twist. A heavy tapestry hung from the back wall: Seb’s coat of arms.

Facing the dais were rows of chairs, all covered in white, hand-sewn fabric daisy chains wound around their legs and backs.

A yellow carpet lay along the aisle ready for her to walk up, and more of the intricate woven daisy chains hung from the great beams.

‘Mum has worked so hard,’ she breathed.

‘The poor staff have done three dummy runs to make sure they can get the tables set up perfectly in the hour and a half your mother has allowed for drinks, canapés and photographs—on the lawn if dry and warm enough, in the marquee if not. Everything is stacked in the back in perfect order—linens, table decorations, place settings, crockery. Your mother should really run the country,’ Seb added, his mouth twisting into a half smile. ‘Her organisational skills and, ah, persuasive skills are extraordinary.’

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