The Duke's Baby

The Duke’s Baby

Rebecca Winters

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

…LANCELOT possesses all he wants, when the queen voluntarily seeks his company and love, and when he holds her in his arms, and she holds him in hers. Their sport is so agreeable and sweet, as they kiss and fondle each other, that in truth such a marvelous joy comes over them as was never heard or known.

With an aching groan, Andrea Fallon closed the book she was reading, unable to see any more words in the fading light. It was just as well since she couldn’t bear to go on reading the hauntingly beautiful story.

Maybe never again.

Though the French poet Chrétien de Troyes might have written the story of Lancelot in 1171, his description of the famous knight’s love for Guinevere was as stirring now as then.

What woman wasn’t envious of the queen who inspired such love in the first Knight of the Round Table?

Wouldn’t any woman wish to be loved with a love so all-consuming and powerful.

Cross at herself over her preoccupation with the greatest Knight in Christendom, Andrea’s thoughts returned to Richard, the husband she’d buried three months ago.

“Would you have loved me more if I’d been able to give you a child?” her heart cried.

Since the funeral she’d gone over and over their troubled marriage in her mind, wondering if her unexpected barren condition had been so painful for him, some of his feelings for her had simply turned off.

Only twenty-one to his thirty-one when they’d exchanged vows, who would have dreamed she would develop a child-bearing problem so early in their married life?

Her aunt’s cousin hadn’t been able to have children, but that didn’t seem to have affected the love between her and her husband. They went on to adopt two children. But Richard refused to talk about adoption. He wanted a child from his own body, not someone else’s.

Knowing he felt that way, Andrea hadn’t pressed him about it. But from then on their relationship underwent subtle changes. He grew more distant and threw himself into his work, either unaware of Andrea’s pain, or unwilling to deal with it because his own was too great.

Their lovemaking seemed to have become an afterthought for him. In the last year he’d behaved more like a friend than a lover with only an occasional coming together she’d been forced to initiate.

She’d hoped they would get past their sorrow, that it was temporary. Surely in time he would ache for a child and be willing to consider adoption.

Andrea was convinced that if they’d taken the steps to start adoption proceedings right away, the anticipation of becoming parents would have brought joy and helped the physical side of their marriage get back on track. But that time never came. Now it was too late.

Oh, Richard…

Hot tears formed rivulets down her cheeks.

Her aunt had promised her this period of mourning would pass. “One day you’ll meet that special someone who will want to marry you and adopt children.”

Andrea didn’t believe it, not when she remembered the other things in their marriage that hadn’t happened. With ten years difference between them, she suffered over the possibility that she simply hadn’t measured up.

Richard’s academic world had been filled with brilliant men and women. What had she been able to offer if she couldn’t give him a child they both wanted?

Why had he even married her?

The second she asked the question she realized grief was causing her to lose her perspective. She’d lost her appetite weeks ago.

Thirty-seven years of age was too young for him to die. Devastated by his early passing, which cut off all hope of their making a family, Andrea got up wearily from her resting place against a tree trunk.

A good night’s sleep was what she needed to restore her long enough to finish her husband’s latest project on Arthurian legend. Another couple of days to capture a stag or a wild boar on film—the kind you saw woven in tapestries—and her collection of pictures would be complete. Unfortunately she would have to return to New Haven without any sightings of the damsel of the lake.

Andrea had been in Brittany close to a week. Already she’d discovered that the Forêt de Broceliande became an enchanted world after the sun went down. In awe of the forest’s almost seven-hundred-foot high canopy, she found the place secretive and quiet except for the forest creatures ambling among birch and chestnut trees.

Any minute now she expected the characters from Camelot to steal from their hiding places in this magical setting and whisper their stories.

As Andrea put the strap of her camera case over her shoulder, she thought she heard the rustle of underbrush caused by the breeze. Or possibly it was a forest creature, but her imagination had been playing overtime for the last few hours.

A little spooked she looked around, causing her hair to swish around her face.

“Oh—” she cried out.

From behind the fir trees at the end of the pear-shaped lake, simply called Le Lac, a lean, solitary figure in military camouflage emerged. He almost startled her out of her skin with his raw male, twenty-first century presence.

Every inch of this modern man’s rip cord strong body radiated an animal-like energy. It wouldn’t surprise her if he carried a knife and a gun, but she sensed his tall body was a lethal weapon. No doubt when he slept, one eye remained open.

If he’d been tracking her, he moved with a built-in radar. Andrea shivered. His enemy wouldn’t be aware of him until it was too late.

The skin stretched over his hard-boned aquiline features had been burnished to teak by an equatorial sun you didn’t feel in France. In the twilight she made out burning-blue eyes. They were scrutinizing her beneath black brows and a head of short-cropped black hair.

She’d never met a more fiercely handsome man.

For an insane moment she could visualize him in shining armor as he knelt before Guinevere with the heavens shining down on him. Then he spoke in a deep, grating voice, shattering the illusion into a thousand pieces.

“You’re trespassing,” he said, first in French then in heavily accented English.

His underlying note of hostility caught Andrea off guard. This was no young disguised prince who’d mastered the art of chivalry. There was no “Bonsoir,” or “Je m’excuse,” or “Je regrette,” that he’d frightened her.

This dangerous man, probably in his mid-thirties and aggressively male, glared at her as if he had something personal against her.

Unless he’d been able to make out the title on the front of her book, she couldn’t understand how he knew to speak English to her. She gripped it tighter. “Actually I have permission to be here,” she explained in a low tone.

His eyes narrowed to slits before he relieved her of her camera case. The action had been too lightning quick for her to prevent it. He wound the strap around one masculine wrist with its sprinkling of dark hair, making it impossible for her to take it from him. Not that she would have tried. Instinct told her he knew moves she’d never dreamed of.

“No one has permission to be here. Whoever you are, I suggest you be on your way.”

“The groundskeeper told me where I could take pictures of the wildlife.”

His jaw hardened. “You can redeem your camera from the security guard at the gate in the morning. If you’re lying, then I wouldn’t come around here again if I were you.”

He raked a brazen gaze over the mold of her face and body one more time, reminding her she was a woman, with feminine curves. But unlike other men, he seemed to find no pleasure in the fact. Indeed, quite the opposite.

“Remember you’ve been warned,” he added before moving with stealthlike grace until he’d disappeared in the foliage.

Still trembling from the combination of his chilling tone and intimate appraisal that missed nothing, it took a minute for her to find her legs before heading back to the Château Du Lac. She shouldn’t have stayed out here so long. Night was fast closing in, making it difficult to see her way through the dense undergrowth.

The groundskeeper of the château who’d provided her with a quickly drawn layout of the vast Du Lac estate, hadn’t indicated he’d hired another man to patrol the area at night. In fairness to him, he probably wouldn’t have imagined her staying out after sunset to take photographs.

But of course that wasn’t what she’d been doing just now. There was something about reading Lancelot’s story in the very forest where he’d grown up that had appealed to the fanciful side of her nature. That is until the poet’s words had struck a chord, disturbing her at her deepest level where she hated to admit her marriage wasn’t all it should have been.

Adrenaline from her unexpected encounter with the forbidding stranger kept her heart rate accelerated. By the time she reached the gravel driveway leading up to the front entrance of the early thirteenth century château, weakness had attacked her. She’d been forced to stop to catch her breath.

After running through the thick forest in her haste to return, the imposing three-story structure with its rounded towers came as an enchanting surprise. The lights from inside brought out the deep red of the garnets embedded in the schist rock from which it had been constructed. It was like stumbling upon a rare treasure glowing in the heart of a dark wood.

A large, well-trained staff kept the château and gardens immaculate, yet she saw no cars. If it weren’t for the gleam radiating from the windows you wouldn’t know anyone was about.

Tonight nothing seemed real. Maybe her head was too full of Lancelot and broken dreams. It was possible she’d only imagined her confrontation with the audacious man whose unforgettable looks had managed to jolt her body to react.

His unexpected presence had jerked her senses awake from their frozen prison where a plethora of emotions had lain dormant these past few months. Andrea didn’t appreciate being forced to deal with her feelings yet. In fact she resented him for intruding on her already precarious state of mind.

Before this incident she’d been able to remain in her temporary comfort zone, carried along by the plan that had brought her back to this mystical province. Taking pictures didn’t require thinking, only doing.

After letting herself inside the ornate entrance hall, she hurried up the grand staircase to her apartment on the third floor. Henri, the head of the house staff, had told her the front door would remain unlocked until 10:00 p.m. every night. Till then she could come and go as she pleased by orders of Geoffroi Malbois, the Duc Du Lac, who’d been born and raised in this château.

At present the trim, distinguished looking owner was battling pneumonia. He’d come down with it following a nasty case of the flu, yet he’d been kind enough to insist she stay on.

Through his housekeeper Brigitte, Andrea learned he’d instructed his guest be put in the rarely used green room. The second the older woman unlocked the door, its special significance became apparent.

Against the light green background of the ceiling and walls, the life-size figures of Lancelot and Guinevere had been immortalized. A fourteenth century artist had depicted their secret trysts for each month of the year. The glorious colors were still vibrant, as if he’d just painted them.

The first night Andrea lay down on the massive round bed, she kept moving in different positions to study the two beautiful lovers. She remembered thinking no living man could match Lancelot’s splendor.

But as she walked in the bedroom tonight, she carried the image of the intrusive stranger with her. It was an image she couldn’t seem to get out of her head despite the epitome of manhood staring her in the face everywhere she looked.

First she would change, then go downstairs for a roll or something. The thought of a meal didn’t appeal. If the Duc’s condition hadn’t worsened, she’d check in on him to say good-night. He’d urged her to visit him in the evenings, but she’d have done it anyway.

Andrea had never met a kinder, more accommodating person. Miserable as he felt, he exuded exceptional warmth. To an extent that particular quality had been missing from her marriage, but she hadn’t realized it so much until she’d spent a little time in the presence of her host.

He didn’t stand on ceremony and had insisted Andrea call him Geoff. Having taken particular interest in her husband’s project at Easter, he’d wanted to help her any way he could. Even though the Duc was ill right now, he’d told her to make herself at home for as long as she wanted.

From their talks she’d learned he led a busy social life and was active in civic and ecological affairs. He had a son from his first marriage who lived away. The stepdaughter from his second marriage, which had failed, lived with him when she wasn’t traveling. Evidently he didn’t suffer from lack of company. According to Henri there were always visitors coming and going, proof of how well he was regarded by his friends.

In return for his generosity of spirit, not to mention everything else, Andrea couldn’t help but gravitate to him and was worried about his physical condition. Since her arrival at the château he’d been forced to remain in bed. The last three days his symptoms had grown worse. There’d been nurses around the clock and the doctor had come by twice.

If there was anything she could do to help, she would. After losing her husband to a blood clot in his prime, she would always take another person’s illness seriously.

It felt good to get out of the clothes she’d been wearing all day, especially her jeans, which felt tight. While reading earlier, she’d undone the metal button to make herself more comfortable. Since she’d only worn them once before packing them for this trip, she decided they must have shrunk a little bit too much in the wash.

Once she’d picked out a cream colored blouse and brown wraparound skirt to wear, she grabbed fresh underwear and hurried into the modernized en-suite bathroom to shower and wash the pine needles out of her hair.

Later, on her way down to the Duc’s suite on the second floor, she would find Henri and tell him what happened in the forest. He would take care of the problem and arrange for the return of her camera.

For the next few days she would confine her picture taking to the mornings in order to avoid another confrontation with the rough, unfeeling man who’d warned her off.

Lance Malbois gave his father’s dog Percy a good scratch behind the ears before approaching the bed. “Papa? Are you awake?”

His father’s eyelids opened, revealing dull gray eyes. This illness had drained them of their normal sparkle. As he stared at his son in disbelief, they took on life. “Mon fils—”

Lance’s heart lurched. His father’s voice was weak. Without the oxygen helping him breathe—

He fought not to show his concern in front of him. The father he loved was too young a man to be this sick. His pallor alarmed Lance.

“When did you arrive?” the older man asked with effort.

“A little while ago. You were asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I took a walk.”

After suffering one shock that his father’s flu had turned into something worse, he hadn’t been prepared for another one—that of coming across anyone on their private property.

“Father?” he squeezed his hand. “Why didn’t you let me know your illness was this serious? How come I had to hear it from Henri? You know I would have flown home sooner.”

“The pneumonia barely came on. It took me by surprise, but I’m better than I was last night.” After a coughing spell he asked, “How long will you be here this time?”

Lance sucked in his breath. “I’m home for good.”

At that unexpected news, joy illuminated his father’s face. “You mean it?” He tried to raise his head off the pillow, but Lance restrained him gently.

“I’ve left the service. It’s over.”

“I’ve hoped for this day, Lance.” He struggled through another coughing spasm. “I’ve prayed you would return healthy in mind and body. Le bon Dieu heard me.”

What his parent saw was a shell of the man he once was. Lance wouldn’t want him to know what lay beneath.

“Now that I’m back, we’re going to work on your getting well. Anything you’re worrying about, I’ll take care of.”

His father smiled through his tears. “Am I dreaming?”

Lance had trouble clearing the lump in his throat. “Non, mon père.”

It was long past time he started helping his remarkable father who needed Lance to shoulder more of the responsibilities. His parent had not only raised him from birth, ten years ago he’d been wise enough to give Lance his freedom without making him feel guilty. In the end, that freedom had brought Lance back home of his own free will.

The reason that had driven him away in the first place no longer mattered. Since that time life had delivered him a blow from which he would never recover whether he lived at the far ends of the earth or at home. At least here he could be of use to his father.

“The nurse is making signs you need to rest. She says you’ve had too many friends come by and they’ve worn you out, so I’m going to let you sleep now.”

“Don’t go.”

“I just want to have a word with the staff, but I promise I’ll be back to stay in here with you tonight. Percy will stand guard, won’t you.”

The dog moaned in response.

“Do you know he won’t leave me? Henri has to force him to go out when it’s necessary.”

Percy’s love for his master was touching. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

A couple of years before Lance had joined the military, his father had found a stray puppy of mixed breed near to death in the forest. Some cruel person must have dropped it off to die, but his father brought him back to the château to nurse him. They’d been inseparable ever since.

“Are you settled in your suite down the hall?”

“Oui.”

“We—” He stopped long enough to cough again. “We have a visitor.”

A frown marred Lance’s features. “Someone’s staying at the château?”

“Yes.” He would have said more, but another coughing spell took over.

As far as Lance was concerned, whoever it was needed to leave. His gracious father didn’t know how to say no to anyone. His second marriage was proof in point. Right now he was too ill to realize what was good for him. Lance hadn’t come home any too soon to take charge.

Kissing his father on either cheek, he nodded to the nurse then left his father’s suite to go in search of Henri who was devoted to his parent. He found him in the foyer closing up the château for the night.

Lance approached him from the right since the head of the staff couldn’t hear out of his left ear. Years earlier Henri had been a young groomsman at the stable when a hunting accident had occurred. After being released from the hospital, Lance’s father had brought him into the château to take care of him. He’d been in his household employ ever since.

“I understand there’s a guest staying at the château, Henri.”

The older man turned and nodded. “Oui. A Madame Fallon.”

His shuttered gaze searched Henri’s. “Someone ‘special’?”

“Your father insisted I put her in la chambre verte.”

Lance was stunned. The green room had always been off-limits to guests in order to preserve its treasures. This meant his sixty-seven-year-old father could have become romantically involved.

Even if this woman was worthy of him, which Lance knew wasn’t possible, his father had gone too far. Lance had to admit to being surprised his parent hadn’t mentioned her before now. But after the disaster of his second marriage, maybe he was too worried over his son’s reaction to tell him anything on that score.

“Has he known her long?”

“He met her at Easter, but she’s only been at the château a week.”

Lance had come home for that holiday on a chance twelve-hour leave, but there’d been no mention of her then.

A week was long enough for his parent to have become infatuated. He ground his teeth. What hold did this woman have over his father? He’d buried his heart with Lance’s mother and had waited until his mid-forties before marrying a second time.

That travesty of a union had lasted less than a year. Long enough to scar his father, or so Lance had thought…

A blackness swept through him. “What’s your opinion of her, Henri?”

“She’s been good for your father.”

Such praise coming from Henri, the soul of discretion, was unprecedented. Evidently she’d deceived Henri, too.

“When was the last time Corinne was home?”

“Last month. She’s on holiday in Australia right now.”

That meant she wasn’t privy to this latest information about his father’s interest in another woman. He could only imagine her reaction when she found out. As for her knowing Lance had returned…

He patted Henri’s shoulder. “Thanks for all your care of him. Now that I’m home on a permanent basis, bring any concerns to me.”

The other man smiled. “It’s good to have you back. Your father has been living for the day.”

If Brigitte hadn’t already gone to bed, she’d volunteer certain details about his father’s relationship with this latest predator. Unlike her husband, Henri, the housekeeper had no qualms when it came to expressing her opinions.

Any feelings of guilt Lance suffered for having been away this long were overshadowed by anger that another toxic female was already sleeping under their roof, counting the seconds until his father made her his third wife.

In need of a drink, he went to the kitchen for coffee first. Much as he’d like something stronger, he would opt for pain-killers in lieu of alcohol to tamp down the pain of a recent injury. However there was no medicine, no drink to wipe out the agony of shattered dreams.

From the first day of her arrival, Andrea had been told she could help herself to anything from the modernized kitchen no matter the hour. Brigitte insisted the cook wouldn’t mind.

Taking her at her word, Andrea found some fresh brioche under a glass cover and ate one over the sink so she wouldn’t spill crumbs on the stone floor. Since neither coffee nor fruit juice sounded good, she ended up drinking potable water from the faucet.

As she was standing on tiptoe to put the glass back on the baker’s rack, someone pushed open the kitchen door and came in. She assumed it was Brigitte about to make hot tea with honey for the Duc.

“I hope Geoff’s better tonight,” she called over her shoulder.

“We’re all hoping for that miracle.”

Andrea stilled for a moment.

That deep voice with the heavy French accent—she’d heard it before. Just a little while ago in fact.

Her heart began to thud before she spun around to face the man she’d met in the forest. The quick motion caused her golden-brown hair to float about her shoulders before settling.

His searching gaze watched her, taking in every inch of curves before it looked into the dark velvety-brown of her eyes. Like scorching blue flames, his flared in recognition.

He needed a shave and was still dressed in fatigues. The collar couldn’t hide a thin white scar that ran up the side of his bronzed neck. She hadn’t noticed it in the semidark of the forest. At the mere thought of how he came by it, a shudder ran through her body.