Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress by Kate Hewitt

The hotel room had been his as well. Had he actually left her a second time?
    She walked slowly down the stairs, peeking around the corner. Luc sat in the little parlour, a tumbler of whisky cradled in his hands, his expression distant and bleak.
    She stood there, feeling faintly ridiculous in just her shirt, and she shivered as a gust of cool air caught her.
    Luc turned his head and his gaze held hers; there was an ocean of unspoken words between them. When he finally spoke his words were both a command and a plea: ‘Come here.’
    And, just like that, she came. She didn’t even think about it, didn’t even consider saying no. She just went and stood before him uncertainly before Luc reached up and pulled her easily onto his lap. She curled into him all too naturally, tucking her legs under her, pressing her cheek against his chest. Luc stroked her hair, the movement gentle, repetitive, almost lulling her to sleep. Neither of them spoke.
    The silence lengthened, growing more poignant and even sorrowful in the lack of words, the lack of anything they could say. Abby’s heart ached with the effort of steeling herself for Luc’s explanations, apologies: I’m sorry. This is all I have.
    Yet he didn’t say anything, and somehow that made it both better and worse. It made Abby wonder if he knew what she was thinking, if he knew all the things she didn’t want to hear.
    After another long moment Luc finally stirred, his arms still around Abby. Wordlessly he scooped her up. Abby’s arms came around him as a matter of instinct, and, still without speaking, he carried her back upstairs.
    He laid her on the bed, his eyes meeting hers, pleading for understanding—forgiveness. And Abby gave it, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her in an endless kiss that was apology, atonement and supplication.
    If this is all Luc could give, then she would take it. Eagerly. She would make this moment—this night—last for ever; she would sear it into her memory, write it on her heart. As Luc lay on the bed with her, deepening the kiss with aching hunger, Abby knew it was also a farewell.
    When she woke again Luc was sleeping next to her in the bed, one arm over his head, his face relaxed in sleep. Abby propped herself on one elbow and watched him for a moment, savouring the look of peace and happiness on his face, the slight smile of sleep, of dreams. Perhaps of memory. She let her fingertip run the length of his cheek, then his jaw, and then the curve of his eyebrow, as if by these simple touches she would remember the feel of him. He stirred slightly at the caress, and reluctantly she let her hand fall away.
    Then, before her courage could fail her, she slipped from the bed and quickly put on her clothes. Luc stirred again, and before he woke Abby went hurriedly from the room. She didn’t look back.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I T TOOK Abby six weeks. Six weeks of regretting her decision to slip away from Luc as he slept; six weeks of knowing that had been her only choice, even as her heart cried out otherwise. Six weeks of waiting for Luc to find her, call her, write to her—something—even though she knew in her heart he wouldn’t. He never did. The silence was complete and unending.
    Six weeks, she thought starkly, of being utterly miserable. And six weeks to realize their night together had resulted in more than her broken heart.
    ‘Have you been cooking with onions?’ she asked Grace one afternoon. The weather was drizzly and grey and matched her mood.
    Grace looked up from the quiche she was taking out of the oven. ‘I sliced an onion four hours ago,’ she said, eyebrows raised. ‘Is that what you are referring to?’
    Abby made a face. ‘I suppose; the smell has put me off lately, for some reason.’
    Grace chuckled. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were pregnant.’ Abby froze, and the laughter died on Grace’s lips. ‘Abby…’
    ‘Right.’ Abby tried to smile, laugh. Both efforts