Pregnancy Proposals: The Duke's Baby. Rebecca Winters

it’s true.” In a way it was a relief to know her aunt hadn’t been blind to certain problems in Andrea’s marriage.

      Lance was a different man from a different world.

      Andrea hadn’t told her aunt anything except that she’d met a Frenchman named Lance Malbois who’d just retired from France’s elite force.

      When the family arrived in Brittany, they’d see and understand everything for themselves. At that point she’d take her aunt aside and tell her she was expecting a baby. It didn’t seem right to tell her over the phone.

      “Lance and I will make all the airline arrangements. You’ll be getting your tickets and the invitation some time next week by express mail.”

      “Andrea?”

      “Yes?”

      “I know I haven’t said it often enough, but I love you. I want only the best for you.”

      Her eyes smarted. “I know. I love you, too. Being away has made me realize how lucky I was to be raised by you. It must have been so hard at first.” When she thought of Geoff and the way he’d reached out to his troubled stepdaughter, it was humbling.

      “If it was hard, it was because I was afraid I could never be the mother my sister would have been to you. Rob says I’m anal, but he loves me anyway. Your mother was more calm and laid-back. You have that same quality. It’s one I envy.”

      “Then we’re even because I envy your courage in taking on another woman’s child.”

      “Your sweet disposition made it easy to love you.”

      Where had all this come from? Tears dripped down Andrea’s cheeks. “Thank you for saying that. I’ll call you next week to make certain you received everything.”

      “I’m getting excited. I’ve never been to Europe.”

      “It’s a whole other world, Aunt Kathy. Talk to you soon.”

      She hung up the receiver, using her arm to brush the moisture away. In her mind’s eye she could imagine their surprise as they read the invitation with the Du Lac family crest engraved at the top …

      Geoffroi Malbois, Le Duc Du Lac, requests the pleasure of your company at the marriage of his son Lancelot Malbois Du Lac to Andrea Gresham Fallon on the Thirtieth of June. Eleven a.m. at the Church of the St.Vierge, Lyseaux. A reception will follow at the Château on the Du Lac Estate, La Bretagne, France.

      “What did your aunt say to make you so emotional?”

      Andrea looked over at him. “A lot of wonderful things. If you hadn’t urged me to phone her, I might never have heard them.”

      Lance rolled on his side to face her, all six feet three inches of lean, strong male. “Even with darkness at work, are you saying I’m good for you?” His voice sounded husky.

      The time for honesty had come. “I guess I am.”

      “Then humor me and get into bed. Our baby needs rest, too.”

      Our baby. Oh, Lance—

      “Don’t turn out the light yet. I’ll take care of it after you’ve answered the question I asked you the last time we were in here.”

      Oh. He was talking about the paintings.

      She slid beneath covers. Several feet separated them. His body still lay on top while he studied her.

      “Have you decided which of the twelve months appeals to me the most?”

      “Yes.” She should have known from the beginning, but it hadn’t come to her until tonight when they’d left a scary acting Corinne sitting with Geoff.

      “How long do you plan to torture me? In case you hadn’t realized it yet, I’m not a patient man.”

      “I’m aware of that,” she murmured. “You also thrive on danger, which leads me to think June is your favorite.”

      He raised up on one elbow. “You know me well. In June Lancelot’s love was in full flower. He’d held back his feelings for Guinevere too long. Now he was on fire for her. No bars could keep him out. He would risk death for one taste of her mouth.”

      “I thought that sounded like you.”

      He flashed her a white smile so seductive, she had to look away. “Admit June’s your favorite month, too. Who else but Guinevere, queen among women, was brave enough to enter into a tryst with Lancelot and welcome him into her bed knowing evil was afoot in every corner of Camelot.”

      Somehow the conversation had become a case of art imitating life. It was all too personal. Her eyes slid to the painting in question.

      “The artist did an exceptional job of conveying their emotions. I think a woman did it.”

      “I don’t know about that. A man can paint with the same amount of feeling. When I was young and hadn’t yet understood a female’s magic, I thought they were an embarrassing oddity. Several years had to go by before I let my best friend have a look.”

      “By then you’d both discovered the lusty month of May had taken on new meaning. When June followed, your passion ripened.”

      Rich, deep laughter poured out of him. “You’re one in a million, Andrea. I wonder which painting our child will like best.”

      The conversation was getting out of hand.

      “If we have a romantic daughter, she’ll tell us right away. If it’s a boy, we’ll probably be old and tired before he admits his preference.”

      “Even then he’ll tell us there was no such thing as Camelot.” Lance was reading her mind.

      “That’s when we’ll tell him it was only a beautiful dream.”

      “I think I’m beginning to know how Arthur felt when everything fell apart. We haven’t even said our vows, yet you’re talking about us sitting around in our rocking chairs. I don’t envision us like that.”

      “That’s because you grew up in the land of dreams. The truth is, Guinevere and Lancelot lost their heads. If we haven’t learned from their mistakes, then heaven help us.”

      He moved closer, putting his chin on his bronzed arm. “You think their love was a mistake?”

      She struggled not to be affected by his proximity. “Don’t you?”

      “And miss out on the greatest love the world has ever known?” he drawled.

      Her hand plucked at the covers. “They had to pay too great a price.”

      “But while it was good, they knew indescribable rapture. I noticed you reading Chrétien de Troyes when I found you in the forest.”

      Nothing got past Lance.

      “The bedroom scene is one of the most famous passages in all literature,” he reminded her. “Wasn’t there a line about their sport being so agreeable and sweet while they kissed and fondled each other, that in truth such a marvelous joy came over them as was never heard or known?”

      Andrea’s face went hot. “Chrétien got a little carried away portraying Lancelot’s feelings. Since he wasn’t a woman, he didn’t understand Guinevere. She was married to Arthur, and was always plagued by guilt.”

      Lance sent her a seductive smile. “I think that’s the widow in you talking. Take another look at the painting,” he told her. “Do you see any guilt in her eyes or her body straining against him?

      “She’s so eager for him, her eyes are alive. You can feel them burning for each other. All the months he’s been at court they’ve dreamed of this moment. By suppressing their passion, it has only grown into a conflagration.

      “You can tell she’s completely forgotten anyone else is in the room with them. She’s begging him to touch her. Lancelot