Inherited: One Nanny. Emma Darcy
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was playing hostess to him right now!
The bottom suddenly fell out of the excitement she’d stirred in him. Beau went cold all over. It made horribly perfect sense. His grandfather had always enjoyed having a pretty woman on his arm. On both arms. But having found this one, why bother with any other? She had star quality on a megascale and his grandfather would have adored parading her everywhere. And probably adored her, as well! He’d loved owning beautiful things.
Beau’s stomach started contracting, working up a nauseous feeling. Refreshments were certainly in order. He obviously needed food as well as coffee.
When they reached the informal dining room, his suspicion was further confirmed by the way she moved automatically to the foot of the table and Sedgewick held her chair for her. Clearly it was her place and taken for granted, even though his grandfather was no longer here.
Then Mr. Polly arrived on the scene, carrying a basket of freshly cut, dark red roses. His weather-beaten face was cracked into a benevolent smile. “I’m so sorry I missed you at the front doors, sir. Good to have you home.”
Beau shook the offered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Polly. The gardens look as superb as ever.”
“I keep at it, sir. I brought this basket up. Thought Nanny Stowe might like to put these roses in your room, sir.” He turned to her. “They’re the best of the Mr. Lincolns, Nanny Stowe. Lovely fragrance.”
She blushed.
Beau was once again distracted by the fascinating flow of colour lighting up her pale skin.
Mrs. Featherfield swooped. “I’ll take the basket, Mr. Polly. Let’s go out to the kitchen and put the roses in water. Nanny Stowe will see to them later. She’s having coffee with Master Beau right now.”
Yes...they all considered Nanny Stowe a cut above themselves, Beau thought, watching Mr. Polly being swept away. Arranging roses in a vase for a guest’s room was the kind of genteel occupation suited to the mistress of the house. Except he wasn’t a guest. Which probably accounted for her embarrassment. She knew, even if the others didn’t yet appreciate it, his arrival changed the status quo.
Sedgewick proceeded to serve them with coffee and a selection of freshly baked croissants. “If you’d like something more substantial, sir, Jeffrey, the cook, is standing by.”
“No, I did have breakfast on the plane, Sedgewick. This is more than enough, thank you.”
Sedgewick stationed himself by the sideboard, ready to be attentive to every need. Nanny Stowe composed herself again, adopting a waiting attitude. Beau ate a crisp croissant and drank some coffee to wash down the flaky crumbs. It didn’t really help his churning stomach but it gave him time to think.
“Did my grandfather call you Nanny Stowe?” he asked.
A wry little smile played on eminently kissable red lips. “It amused Vivian to give me that title, Mr. Prescott.”
The familiarity of Vivian hit him in the gut. “So it was a pet name,” he suggested.
She frowned. “Not exactly. It did have a sort of purpose. My job was to be with him, accompanying him wherever he wanted to go and generally looking after him. But he didn’t call me Nanny himself. I was always Maggie to Vivian.”
“Maggie...” he repeated, knowing it plucked at a chord of memory.
“Yes. My Christian name is Margaret, you see.”
Maggie, the cat. That was it! Maggie from one of his grandfather’s favourite movies, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. Elizabeth Taylor had played the role. She was married to a guy whose wealthy old father was dying and to clinch her husband’s inheritance she had pretended to be pregnant.
Pregnant!
Beau’s mind suddenly billowed in horror at the next thought that filled it. He’d more or less challenged his grandfather to beget his own heir for Rosecliff. While his grandfather hadn’t actually married Maggie Stowe, she’d lived very cosily with him for two years and she’d been given a year’s grace here after his death...which could mean his grandfather had still been hoping for a result.
“More coffee, Nanny Stowe?” Sedgewick asked, holding out the coffeepot.
She shook her head. Was she being careful of her caffeine intake?
“More coffee, sir?”
He waved it away. His heart was beating so fast he didn’t need any artificial stimulant. And thinking of hearts reminded him his grandfather had died of a heart attack...before anyone expected him to!
Doing what?
Trying to father a child?
Beau looked down the table at the blue-eyed red-haired siren who had power enough to entrance a man into attempting any reckless stupidity.
He had to know.
He had to ask.
He tried to find a way of couching the question less shockingly. Somehow the sense of urgency mashed his brain. Nothing came but the bald need to get the issue resolved. Immediately! The words shot out of his mouth...
“Are you pregnant, Maggie?”
CHAPTER FOUR
SEDGEWICK dropped the coffeepot.
The shock of this extraordinary happening momentarily distracted Maggie from the deeper shock delivered by Beau Prescott. She stared down at the broken pot and the coffee spreading across the parquet floor with a sense of disbelief. She’d never known Sedgewick to drop anything. Every one of his movements was a study in grace and dignity. Had he been as stunned as she was by the outrageous question thrown at her?
“I do beg your pardon,” he intoned, his face quite blank, as though he couldn’t believe the mishap, either.
“I’ll get one of the maids to clean it up,” Maggie said, pushing her chair back for action.
“No, no...I see I have been splashed, as well.” Distress showing now. For Sedgewick it was quite impossible to tolerate any imperfection in his dress. “I shall have this...this mess...seen to immediately. Please excuse me, sir, Nanny Stowe.”
Maggie was left to face Beau Prescott alone. She stared at him down the length of the table, her mind skittering over the wild hopes she’d been nursing. If he imagined her pregnant, to some other man...he couldn’t be feeling as overwhelmed by her as she was by him. Which put her hopelessly at odds with the feelings he’d stirred in her.
Never in her life had she been hit so forcefully by sheer male sex appeal. When he’d entered the stairhall and looked up at her on the landing, she’d been stunned into immobility by how little the photograph had represented the real man. His skin glowed with vitality. The streaks of sunshine in his hair had gleamed like gold. His face wasn’t just strongly handsome. His eyes were so magnetic they made it instantly charismatic.
His physique was no less impressive. Casually dressed in khaki shirt and trousers, he seemed almost larger than life, like a throwback to when men were hunters and survival of the fittest meant something. If his grandfather had been the ultimate sophisticate, Beau Prescott was the prime male animal, throwing out a compelling challenge to his female counterpart on some instinctive level that had nothing to do with civilisation.
She had no idea how long she’d stood on the landing, enraptured by him, but when she had finally willed her legs to move, the nylon in her tights seemed to crackle with electricity, sending little quivers of sensation through her thighs. Even more shockingly, she’d felt the hot moistness of sexual excitement as he watched her descend the stairs, his gaze travelling slowly up the length of her body until even her breasts started tingling and tightening in rampant response to the primitive charge emanating from him.
Then the mad joy of finding he was taller than she was, tall enough to make her feel they were made for each other. And his hand taking hers, like a burning brand on her skin, a claim of possession,