The French Count's Pregnant Bride. Catherine Spencer

      

      The French Count’s Pregnant Bride

      Catherine Spencer

      MILLS & BOON

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      Contents

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      Coming Next Month

      PROLOGUE

      8:00 p.m., November 4

      FOR once, Harvey arrived at the restaurant ahead of her, already settled in their favorite corner. She left her satin-lined cashmere cape with the hat-check girl, smiled at the sweet-faced, very pregnant young woman perched on a bench near the front desk and threaded her way through the maze of other diners to where he sat. Twenty-eight red roses, one for each year of her life, and a small package professionally gift-wrapped in silver foil and ribbons, occupied one end of the linen-draped table; a bottle of Taitinger Brut Reserve chilling in a silver champagne bucket and two crystal flutes, the other.

      “Am I late?” she asked, lifting her face for his kiss, when he rose to greet her.

      “No, I’m early.” Ever the perfect gentleman, he waited until she made herself comfortable on the plush velvet banquette, before reclaiming his own seat.

      “What, no last minute emergencies?” She laughed, happy to be with him. Happy that he’d made the effort not to keep her waiting on her birthday. So often, he was delayed, or called away in the middle of whatever they’d planned, be it dinner, the theater, or making love. So often, he seemed preoccupied, distant, tense. Lately he’d even paced the floor some nights, then ended up sleeping in the guest room, worried he’d disturb her with his restlessness. She supposed that was the price a wife paid for being married to such a dedicated, sought-after cardiothoracic surgeon.

      “Not tonight,” he said. “Ed Johnson’s covering for me.” He took the bottle of champagne, filled their flutes two-thirds full and raised his in a toast. “Happy birthday, Diana!”

      “Thank you, sweetheart.” The wine danced over her tongue, light and vivacious. Not too many years ago, the best they could afford when it came to celebrating special occasions was a bottle of cheap red wine and home-cooked spaghetti. Now, the only things red at the table were the long-stemmed roses, and there was nothing cheap about them.

      Lifting the damp, sweet-smelling petals to her face, she eyed her husband mischievously. “These are for me, aren’t they?”

      “Those, and this, too.” He pushed the foil-wrapped box toward her. “Open it before you order, Diana. I think you’ll like it.”

      What was there not to like about a diamond and sapphire bracelet set in platinum? Speechless with pleasure, she fastened the lobster-claw clasp around her wrist, then tilted her hand this way and that, admiring the way the lamplight caught the fire and flash of the gems. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned,” she murmured, when she could speak. “Oh, Harvey, you’ve really gone overboard, this year. How am I supposed to compete with something like this, when your birthday comes around?”

      “You won’t have to.” He smiled and gestured to the leather-bound menu in front of her. “What do you fancy for dinner?”

      She studied the list of entrées. “I’m torn between the rack of lamb and the Maine lobster.”

      “Have the lobster,” he urged. “You know it’s your favorite.”

      “Then I will. With a small salad to start.”

      He nodded to the waiter hovering discreetly in the background. “My wife will have the mesclun salad with lemon vinaigrette, followed by the broiled lobster.”

      “And you, sir?” The waiter paused, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

      Harvey lightly tapped the rim of his champagne flute. “I’m happy with the wine, thanks.”

      “You’re not going to eat?” Perplexed, Diana stared at him. “Why not, sweetheart? Aren’t you feeling well?”

      “Never felt better,” he assured her, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out a credit card. “The thing is, Diana, I’m leaving you.”

      Why a chill raced up her spine just then, she had no idea. But in less time than it took to blink, all her warm fuzzy pleasure in the moment, in the evening, evaporated. Striving to ignore it, she said, “You mean, you’re going back to the hospital? But I thought you—?”

      “No. I’m leaving you.”

      Still not understanding, she said, “Leaving me where? Here?”

      “Leaving you, period. Leaving the marriage.”

      Heaven help her, she laughed. “Oh, honestly, Harvey! For a minute there, I almost believed you.”

      There was no answering smile on his face. Rather, pity laced with just a hint of contempt. “This is no joke. And before you ask why, I might as well tell you. I’ve met someone else.”

      “Another woman?” Her voice seemed to come from very far away.

      “Well, hardly another man!”

      “I suppose not.” Very precisely, she set her champagne glass on the table, careful not to spill a drop. “And this woman…how long…?”

      “Quite some time.”

      When she was six, she’d fallen into the deep end of her family’s swimming pool and would have drowned if her father hadn’t been close by and promptly hauled her to safety. Even so, she’d never forgotten the soundless, suffocating sensation that had briefly possessed her. Twenty-two years later, it gripped her again.

      Floundering to find a lifeline in a world suddenly turned upside-down, she blurted, “But it won’t last. These things never do. You’ll get over it, over her…and I’ll get past the hurt…I will, I promise! We’ll pick up the pieces and go on, because that’s what married people do. They honor their wedding vows.”

      He reached across the table, took both her hands firmly in his and gave them a shake. “Listen to me, Diana! This isn’t a passing affair. Rita and I are deeply in love. I am committed to a future with her.”

      “No…!” She struggled to pull herself free of his hold. To shut out his words, and the cool, clinical dispassion with which he uttered