Читать книгу The Beaumont Children: His Son, Her Secret - Sarah M. Anderson - Страница 12

Six

This was his life now, he realized. Proposing marriage in whispers to a woman who was crying, all so they wouldn’t wake the baby. “Why hasn’t he done it yet? Why hasn’t he taken Percy away from you?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s the only way to keep Percy safe, Leona, and you know it.”

If they weren’t married, what was to stop her father from charging in like a bull elephant at any second? Byron had been out of the picture for a year. He didn’t know the specifics of family law, but he was pretty sure his absence would count against him. He would beat Leon—he was the boy’s father—but it would be a long, exhausting battle.

Memories of his mother mixed in with all the current confusion—not just the screaming fights, but how his father had had all of her things loaded into a moving van before he’d served her with divorce papers. How his mother had never quite recovered from being kicked out, from being steamrollered in court and losing her children.

Could Byron let that happen to Leona? Could he live with himself if she was the collateral damage in yet another Beaumont-Harper legal battle?

He should. She’d lied to him—twice. And not about whether or not she’d spent too much money or hated his cooking or any of those petty things other people lied about. She’d lied about who she was and the fact that she’d given birth to Byron’s son.

And yet... He couldn’t do it. Because Leona was right about one thing—it didn’t really matter who’d done what a year ago. He couldn’t bear to think of her being destroyed like his mother had been. That was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

He could barely think right now. Babies and apartments and a wedding. A ring. And a restaurant. Couldn’t forget that.

And applesauce. He turned to the stove—yeah, it was done. He shut the burner off to let it cool. For some insane reason, he wondered if Leona had chocolate chips. If ever there was a time for cookies, this was it.

He turned back to Leona. She stood there looking as if he’d threatened her to within an inch of her life. Maybe he had. But what were his options? He could not let Leon Harper get his claws into Percy. Everything else was secondary.

“At least until we’re sure your father can’t take over,” he rationalized. “And you can still have a private bedroom. I...” He took a deep breath. “I cared for you a great deal. I hope that we can at least be friends.”

She dropped her gaze and he had the distinct feeling that he was making things worse. “Friends.”

“For Percy’s sake.”

“Can I...think about it? Tomorrow’s Friday. We probably couldn’t get an appointment to get married for a week or two anyway.”

“Sure.” He tried to sound friendly about it, but he didn’t think he made it. “But I’ll start looking for places tomorrow.” Because even if she didn’t marry him, they still needed to live together.

But she’d marry him. She had to.

He should go. He’d just asked her to move in and marry him within the space of a few minutes, and the pull to make cookies was only getting stronger. She needed to think, too. “When will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“I have to go to the office and update my boss on the project and draft a few ideas for you. I promised,” she added with a watery smile.

“Lunch, then? I’ll have something ready for us.”

“Not at the mansion, right?” Another small shudder went through her.

“No,” he readily agreed. He didn’t want another run-in with Frances. “At the restaurant.”

“All right. Tomorrow around noon.”

He transferred the applesauce into the container and sealed it. “For Percy,” he said, holding out the still-warm sauce.

“For Percy,” she agreed.

She didn’t sound happy about it.

* * *

Byron went straight to the kitchen. It was late, though—George was already gone. The normally warm, bright room was dark and quiet, except for the echo of his footsteps off the tiled floors.

He flipped on the lights and assembled ingredients. Chocolate chip cookies were a must. For lunch tomorrow, he told himself. And he could try a few sandwiches. It was reasonable to think that he’d want to have a simple lunch menu.

He fell into the familiar routine of creaming the sugar and folding in the chips while the oven preheated. He didn’t even have to think about this recipe anymore.

Had he really asked Leona to marry him? Because she’d given birth to a son—his son, the one with matching red hair?

He needed a ring. He hadn’t bought one the first time around. A ring would show her he was serious about this.

“There you are.”

Byron spun to see Frances standing in the doorway. Instead of the gown she’d been wearing earlier, she was in a pair of pajamas—thick, fleecy ones with a bright turquoise plaid pattern. She looked fifteen years younger than their twenty-nine years.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lied. “Does something have to be wrong?”

Frances gave him a knowing smile. “You’re baking cookies and God only knows what else at ten at night? You and I both know that something’s wrong.” A shadow darkened her face. “It’s Leona, isn’t it? I can’t believe you hired her, Byron. Do you enjoy getting jerked around?”

He slammed a bowl down on the island countertop.

“Jeez,” Frances said, giving him a long look. “Spill it.”

He didn’t want to but Frances was his twin. They couldn’t keep secrets from each other if they tried. “You’re going to tell me why you suddenly moved back home?”

An embarrassed blush raced over her cheeks. “I made a bad investment.”

“You’re broke?”

“Don’t tell Chadwick. You know how he is,” she pleaded. “I can’t stand to hear another ‘I told you so’ from him.”

“Frannie...”

“Whatever,” she said, brushing away his concern with a cynical shrug of her shoulders. “I’ll be fine. Just getting back on my feet. But that’s neither here nor there. Now spill it. You’re baking cookies because...”

He took a deep breath. If he did it fast... “I have a son.”

Frances’s cynicism fell away. “You what?”

“Just like our old man, huh? Get a woman pregnant and then bail on her,” he said bitterly. “Leona has a baby boy named Percy. He’s got red hair.” That probably wasn’t the most important thing to know about the boy, but Byron felt it was the thing that sealed the deal.

“Who else knows?”

“Her family.” Frances made a face of revulsion. “She lives with her sister, who watches Percy. They don’t have anything to do with their father.”

“Oh, I see. And this is what she told you? Because we all know how very trustworthy she is. Do I need to remind you that this is the woman who didn’t even see fit to tell you she was Leon Harper’s daughter, even after you’d started sleeping with her?”

“No, you do not need to remind me of that,” he snapped. “It doesn’t change the fact that Percy is my son.” He realized he was whisking the cookie batter with more force than was required. He made himself set the bowl down.

“And you’re sure,” Frances asked.

“Yes.”

She shook her head in some combination of disbelief and pity. “God only knows what she’s been saying about you. And her father? You have to get that kid away from her.”

“I told her we had to get married. Immediately.” Frances gasped in true horror.

“Are you nuts? You want to marry into that family of—vipers?”

“That’s why I have to marry her—to make sure Harper can’t take Percy away from us.”

“Listen to you. Us. There is no us. There’s you and a woman who broke your heart and then hid a baby from you.” Unexpectedly, her eyes watered. “I already lost you for a year. You weren’t here because of that woman. No one else understands me like you do. I missed having my twin here.”

The last thing he needed right now was more guilt. “I missed you, too. But I’m back now,” he told her.

Frances sniffed. “Isn’t there another way? Do you have to marry her?”

“Yes.” He got out the scoop he used for the batter and began to dish it out onto the baking mats. “It’s the only way to make things right.”

Or more right. After all, he hadn’t spoken of undying love, of treasuring her forever. This was a marriage of necessity. They would have separate rooms. Her sister was going to live with them.

“You need to be careful, Byron.”

He wanted to say, when was he not careful? But he knew what Frances would say to that—if he’d been careful the first time, he’d have realized that Leona Harper was Leon Harper’s daughter. And, of course, if he’d been careful, he wouldn’t have had a child he never knew.

But he hadn’t been careful. He’d just wanted her. It hadn’t mattered whose daughter she was. It hadn’t mattered that every time he tried to ask about her family, she changed the subject. What had mattered was that they were together.

Well. He was finally going to make that come true. They would be together—for the sake of their son, if nothing else.

“I’ll call Matthew. He’ll get the lawyers going on it.” There. That was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. After all, if he’d learned anything from his father, it was that marriages were temporary and a man with a fortune should always have a prenup.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” He scooped out the second-to-last cookie’s worth of dough and then offered the bowl to Frances. That’d always been her favorite part, licking the bowls. “Look, I just found this out tonight. I’m still trying to get my head wrapped around it.”

She took the bowl and sat on a stool, swiping her finger through the batter. “Is he cute? Your son?”

Byron thought about the pale blue eyes, the shock of red hair and the drooly smile. “Yeah. Really cute.”

Frances shook her head, but at least she was grinning as she did so. “You should see the smile on your face. Congratulations, Byron—you’re a father.”