Royal Pain (30 page)

Exactly!
Bronte wanted to shout.

“He… has that quality… yes.” Bronte looked up at Abby and, thankfully, saw a friend. “It’s not always easy since I, well, I don’t always even
know
my own feelings. But he is so
sure
. Do you know what I mean?”

Abigail merely laughed, got up from the small sofa, and walked over to the dresser in the corner. As she brushed her hair, she turned to Bronte and continued, “He is a belligerent seeker of the truth. Don’t let him bully you into rushing.”

Bronte looked at her knees, then up at Abigail with a smile.

Abby continued, “The thing is, he’s so totally
genius
. I mean, he’s so
right
about so much, so much of the time, that it’s hard to contradict him. But the truth is, deep down, he knows that he needs a good set down. And you are clearly the one to give it to him. He certainly won’t take it from me. I’m just the little hippie-chick sister who doesn’t know the first thing about personal responsibility. The thing he doesn’t get is the thing he needs most of all: a little ambiguity.”

Bronte looked up as Abby put the beautiful silver-backed brush down onto the antique armoire. Didn’t these people realize that everything they touched emanated a historical, familial imperative? Everything about Dunlear Castle was steeped in centuries of it. Not for the first time that day, Bronte pushed away the subtle, corroding thoughts that skewed her vision of the very familiar, lovable Max into the vaguely threatening nineteenth Duke of Northrop.

Bronte stood up and Abby slid an arm into hers, patting Bronte’s forearm in sisterly affection as the two headed back to the drawing room. “You can handle him.”

***

The following day offered a glorious midsummer backdrop for the unveiling of Martin Ellsworth’s folly. Everyone, even an appropriately somber duchess, trudged the exact mile from the castle to the site.

The slight rise where the structure had been built afforded a wonderful view of the surrounding hills and nearly to the sea, five miles to the south. Ellsworth had built a dovecote of sorts that incorporated a fantastic array of ironwork over six arched openings. Max was simultaneously pleased with the outcome and overwhelmed with the sense of loss that it evoked.

Rather than solidifying some idea of his father as he had anticipated, the folly seemed to stir up endless memories of careening through the woods of Yorkshire on his father’s back or being thrown in piles of leaves or simply following him around for hours as he checked on various parts of this property.

Max’s arm was firmly around Bronte’s waist, his head leaning toward hers. They stood for many minutes that way, silently taking it all in. There was no service or organized speech of any kind. Max simply wanted everyone together, and as the sun started to wane, casting lovely crimson light through the lush, speckled cover of leaves, he felt he had done right.

Bronte stayed as long as she could, but after an hour, she had to go. She whispered into Max’s ear that the Virgin Atlantic limo was going to be there in about twenty minutes, and she needed to throw the rest of her stuff into her bag.

Abby, Tully, and Devon waved them on, the three of them preferring to remain under the dappled canopy of trees until the indigo darkness came. All the others had already headed back to prepare for their own returns to London, the duchess even taking a moment to wish Bronte a safe journey. Max was going to meet with several of the Dunlear staff in the morning, so he was staying on an extra night.

When she was packed and standing by the limo, Bronte gave Max a warm kiss good-bye, then hugged him with possessive ardor. She was trying to let him know, beyond words, that very soon, she would always be there to alleviate some of that indefinable weight and to share in all of the new joys that awaited the two of them.

“I’ll see you in three weeks,” she said in a low voice as her lips trailed along his ear and down his neck. They were standing in the spectacular forecourt of the castle. She felt completely out of scale, like a speck on the map of someone else’s life.

“I love you,” Max whispered. Bronte wasn’t sure, but she thought his hand may have lightly trailed across her abdomen when they pulled away from one another.

As the black limousine drove away and Max stood with his hands in his pockets watching her go, she looked out the back window until her neck cramped. When the long driveway turned and she could no longer see Max standing there, Bronte looked down absently to see that her hand was resting unconsciously across her womb.

Totally
implausible
, she thought again.

***

Two weeks later, when Bronte found herself standing alone and barefoot in her bathroom in New York City, staring dumbly at the very dark blue plus sign that indicated she was, in fact—however
implausibly
—pregnant, she was absurdly reminded of that line from
The
Princess
Bride
. Apparently the word
implausible
did not mean what Bronte thought it meant.

Had she purposely waited until ten at night to take the test so she could pretend that calling Max at that hour, three in the morning London time, would be inconsiderate? She didn’t know what the fuck she was doing or why. She threw the offending plastic wand into the little garbage can to the right of the toilet and crawled into bed.

Tomorrow was Saturday, thankfully. She was exhausted.

And pregnant.

Brilliant.

***

Max knew it was impetuous to fly back to New York to see Bronte. They had only been apart for two weeks—and he was already planning on going to New York next week anyway—but his negotiations had finally come to a close, every last document signed, and all he wanted to do to celebrate was get ahold of Bronte and roll around in bed for a couple of days.

He had managed to go standby on the Saturday morning flight, which got him into JFK around one thirty local time. He had flown with only a small overnight bag as his carry-on, so he whipped through customs after he landed. Within twenty minutes of deplaning, he was in a taxi and making his way to Bronte’s apartment.

Exhausted from the lengthy meetings with his tenants, the investment advisory board, and the irrigation engineers, Max was feeling satisfied and more than a little proud about the final outcome. After nine months of intense preparation, weeks of arbitration, and numerous sleepless nights, Max honestly believed he had structured the deal in a way that benefited everyone concerned. The current technology and attention to environmental responsibility offered a real opportunity to prove that it was possible to be green
and
profitable.

Max’s mind started to clear and he was mesmerized by the arched, white tile walls of the Midtown Tunnel as the glowing reflections of the passing cars threw a repetitive pattern of strobed light across the curved surface. He smiled, anticipating Bronte’s reaction to his stealthy, unexpected entrance into her tidy little apartment.

She had given him a spare key in early June, so if she wasn’t there when he arrived, he could hang out and wait for her until she came back.

In the event, he made his way silently into the apartment, set his bag down near the front door, removed his shoes, and padded across the living room into the bedroom. He was surprised, then thrilled, to see Bronte still in bed at two thirty in the afternoon, a sleepy, sultry mess of sheets, bare shoulders, punched pillows, silky chestnut hair, and soft, even breath. His heart faltered for a second, then accelerated as he stood there, taking her in. Then he headed quietly into the bathroom to clean up and join her in bed.

***

As Bronte rolled over, she pulled the comforter down slightly from her upper arms and had the odd feeling that Max was nearby. She could almost smell him. Even though her sleep-addled brain wanted to believe it, she was starting to wake up enough to remember that she was back in her own apartment in New York, and he was far away in his own sweet mews house in London.

Her first incoherent morning thoughts floated through her murky brain. Seemed like a quick wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all, she mused, letting a sleepy smile cross her lips. As corny as it sounded to her jaded ears, she was starting to believe in antiquated phrases like “my place is with him,” wherever that might be. In the week she’d spent with him in England, she had become perfectly accustomed to their homey routine, his brief touches in passing or as they sat together reading or talking. She closed her eyes and savored those memories, of the two of them winding themselves into each other’s dreams on that velvet couch in the library or holding hands as they fell asleep in London.

A few seconds later, she rubbed her eyes and tried to force herself to wake up a little bit more, stretching her legs toward the foot of the bed and reaching for her cell phone on the bedside table.

No messages. Small wonders.

Then she saw the time. Half past two in the afternoon? This pregnancy was going to knock her flat on her ass.

She put her phone back down, then stretched her neck, turning it first toward the window to her left, then right, toward the bathroom door. She screamed and almost had a heart attack when she saw a man standing there, then caught her feverish breath when she realized it was Max.

It was Max all right, standing there in the flesh, holding the white pregnancy-test plastic wand between thumb and index fingers in pincer fashion, and staring at her with a look that somehow managed to combine rage and tenderness in a terrifying mix.

“Bron?”

“Oh my God, Max, you fucking terrified me.” She scrambled to sit up, wrestling with the sheets. “What the hell are you doing here? I mean”—she smiled seductively—“I’m so glad you are here—”

“Bronte.”

It wasn’t a question. He raised the plastic test a few inches.

“I just took it a couple of hours ago. I swear. I had no idea, for sure, until this morning.” And why was he making her feel all defensive? Why wasn’t he hugging her and loving her up?

“Then why didn’t you call me right then? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Max. Please. That’s such a ridiculous thing to say.” But she felt the tiniest flash of guilt as she thought of her relief the night before, that she wouldn’t have to tell him right away.

“You text me when you see a ripe avocado at the store for chrissake, Bron! Why wouldn’t you—”

“Max, please!” Her voice was sharp.

She felt justified.

About something.

She hoped it wasn’t merely postfeminist indignation. If she wanted to have a few hours, or days even, to herself to contemplate a decision that would have an infinite effect on the rest of her existence—not to mention on the existence of an entirely new being—then she was damn well going to take a day or two to be alone with her thoughts. She thought of Abby having to go to another country for months at a time to avoid that penetrating look from her brother that was skewering Bronte at that very moment. Why did he have to be so… so… formidable?!

He half-turned and threw the pregnancy test into the bathroom garbage can. The hollow sound of it hitting the metal bin resounded with a pathetic ping through the silent air. Max left the bathroom and crossed into the bedroom.

Bronte tried to think: if she stayed in bed, she may have a better chance of luring him in there with her. If she got up and put on her robe and made coffee and debated every last ramification of her… her what? What he considered her momentary duplicity? What she considered her right to a day or two of solitary contemplation? It had been mere hours since she’d discovered the fact—was that so criminal? She tried to staunch the flow of that righteous indignation again.

Max sat down on the opposite side of the bed. Bronte mistook his nearness as an olive branch and rolled toward him—wanting to smell him if nothing else—but he stiffened as she got close, and it made her feel like some sort of serpentine, biblical villainess.

“Enough!” she barked as she threw off the sheets, stepped stark-naked out of bed, and slipped into her kimono robe. She spun to face him while she tied the belt overroughly around her waist.

He winced.

“What
is
your problem?”

“Problem?
Problem
?!” He stood up but kept the bed between them. He wasn’t just irritated; he was livid. His handsome cheeks were gaunt and pale, his eyes furious. Or tormented.

She wanted to reach out to him, to crawl across the bed and purr up against his length, to console him… but for what? For misunderstanding her? For judging her harshly? For being a bully? Bronte had misread so many signals, had questioned her judgment for so long, but in this, she absolutely would not budge. She had done nothing wrong. A few moments before, she had been lying in bed thinking how her place really was by his side, always, and how she would probably spend the day packing and surprise
him
with an unexpected visit to London.

“You are making this into a big deal and it really isn’t—”

“I know you don’t mean that.” His voice was ice.

“Of course I don’t mean the baby’s not a big deal!” She was flabbergasted. “What is with you? Obviously the baby is a huge deal, but this”—she gestured impatiently between them—“this is just a misunderstanding.”

Please
let
him
see
this. Please.

He looked down at her left hand, looking for the ring. She followed his eyes, then waved her bare hand in his face. “Fuck you. This is so fucked up. I was cleaning the goddamn bathroom last night, with bleach, and didn’t think the fucking heirloom should be subjected to my mundane housework. What is this really about, Max?” She wanted to reach out and… what? Kiss him? More like beat the crap out of him. It would have been so much easier if they could have had some physical battle to strip away all the confusion and anger. His confusion about her supposed ambivalence, and her anger about his supposed need to control her.

Instead, his look said it all: as far as he was concerned, she had become an unreliable witness. Nothing she said was going to ring true.