How he did or didn’t feel about fatherhood—and he couldn’t allow himself to think about it—was irrelevant. He didn’t have the right to form an opinion about it either way. Whatever course of action she chose she was the one who’d have to physically go through it. He’d put her in a position he was pretty sure she’d never expected to find herself in, so all he could do was accept whatever choice she made and offer his support.
The best thing he could do now, he thought, screwing the lid on the bottle and taking it and his glass through to the kitchen—the only thing he could do, in fact, if he didn’t want to drive himself insane with speculation and impatience—would be to put it from his mind until she was ready to talk.
EIGHT
Pregnant.
Hmm.
The following morning, after what had—strangely enough, given the events of the past twelve hours—been the best night’s sleep she’d had in weeks, Celia sat at the little square table in her kitchen and stared at the pile of pregnancy tests she’d bought just in case the one last night had been as faulty as the condom they’d used.
As proven by the half a dozen pairs of blue lines dancing in front of her eyes it hadn’t, and so now she was going to have to face facts.
Heaven only knew how, but overnight she’d managed to block it out. Most probably she’d been in too great a state of shock, too overwhelmed by the enormity of the news and too knackered to process it. This morning, however, she felt refreshed. A bit calmer, at least with regards to her health. Her headache had gone, and the pain and palpitations were dwindling, as if discovering the reason for them—coupled with the sheer relief she hadn’t been suffering any of the things that Marcus had suggested—had alleviated them.
Not that she was feeling all that calm about the fact that she was pregnant. No. That was making her insides churn, the coffee she’d drunk earlier and the toast and marmalade she’d just rustled up rolling around in her stomach and from time to time threatening to reappear.
What a bloody mess.
The emotional side of her was livid at the situation. At bad luck, statistics that left room for failure, and most of all with herself for not being stronger willed in that damn vegetable garden.
The rational side of her thought there was little point in being angry or trying to apportion the blame. What was done was done and she just had to deal with it. She had to put all that to one side and figure out what the hell she was going to do about it, which meant that she now had to face options she’d never expected to have. Had never wanted to have.
She could keep it. Or she could not keep it.
What a choice.
A tiny piece of her wished she didn’t have to make it. That the law, society, religion or even her own moral stance on the subject dictated what she had to do and the decision would be out of her hands.
But she squashed that piece of her because she was lucky to live somewhere where she had the choice. The same somewhere that gave her the opportunity to have a career, independence, freedom of thought and speech and deed.
If she gave her options the kind of logical consideration she gave everything—with the exception of that one crazy afternoon of hot sex with Marcus bloody Black—she’d come to the right decision. She trusted in her ability to do that. She was intelligent, confident and had a whole world of information at her fingertips. She’d research. Weigh up the pros and cons and search the depths of her heart and
soul, if necessary. And then she’d make up her mind, and know that whatever she chose it would be the right thing to do.
For her, at least.
What Marcus’ opinion on the subject would be she had no idea. But while he was many things he wasn’t a fool and she had no doubt that he’d make up his mind about how he’d like to proceed, just as she would. If their wishes coincided, great. If they didn’t... Well, she’d cross that bridge if and when they came to it.
* * *
Ever since Celia had rung at the crack of dawn this Monday morning, Marcus had been pacing, his nerves as frayed as the carpet he was wearing to death. The past twenty-four hours hadn’t been easy for him, although he was under no illusion that they’d been anywhere near as tough as Celia’s.
After knocking his monster hangover on the head and updating Lily on Celia’s state—omitting the news of her pregnancy, naturally—he’d gone to the gym, where first he’d ploughed up and down the pool for a good couple of hours and after that had run for miles on the treadmill. When he’d got home he’d tried to work. Then he’d eyed the piles of paperwork on his desk and thought about filing. Ten minutes later he’d made an omelette and stuck a film on.
But no matter how hard he’d tried to distract himself he’d still spent every single agonisingly slow second of the day battling the desire to ring her. She’d said she’d wanted to be left alone and he had to respect that, but it had been hard. So when she’d called this morning he’d nearly fallen to his knees in gratitude because he didn’t think he would have been able to hold out much longer.
Wasn’t sure how much he—or his carpet—could, because by his reckoning an hour and a half went way beyond the ‘about an hour’ she’d told him she’d be.
Just as he was shooting a quick frustrated glance at the clock on the mantelpiece and wondering if he shouldn’t call her, the peal of the doorbell burst through the house and he stopped mid-pace, whipped round and strode to the front door. He opened it, drew it back and at the sight of her felt a great wave of relief rock through him.
She looked so much better than she had on Saturday night. Her complexion was pink instead of grey, her eyes bright instead of dull, and even though she was still way too thin, of course, she seemed to have her energy back.
And totally unexpectedly, the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and kiss the life out of her slammed into him.
He curled his fingers around the edge of the door to stop himself from reaching for her and concentrated on keeping his feet planted on the floor instead of moving towards her, because taking her into his arms and kissing her was so inappropriate given the circumstances it filled him with self-disgust.
‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling faintly, with any luck completely unaware of what was going through his head.