Christine Rimmer - The Earl's Pregnant Bride

“I’ll take care of everything.” His gaze never wavered.

Her stomach lurched. “What does that mean?”

“We’ll be married.” He said it without a pause, without the slightest hesitation.

And she wanted to cry again—partly from another, stronger, wave of relief. And partly because, really, it was all wrong.

Once, she’d dreamed of marrying his brother. It had to be beyond inappropriate simply to switch brothers. And since those four magnificent days two months ago, Rafe had made something of an art form of avoiding her. A man you marry shouldn’t spend weeks dodging you—and then, at the mention of a baby, drop right to his knees and propose.

* * *

The Bravo Royales:When it comes to love, Bravos rule!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE RIMMERcame to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.

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For Tom and Ed.

I miss you both so much.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt “I’ll take care of everything.” His gaze never wavered. Her stomach lurched. “What does that mean?” “We’ll be married.” He said it without a pause, without the slightest hesitation. And she wanted to cry again—partly from another, stronger, wave of relief. And partly because, really, it was all wrong. Once, she’d dreamed of marrying his brother. It had to be beyond inappropriate simply to switch brothers. And since those four magnificent days two months ago, Rafe had made something of an art form of avoiding her. A man you marry shouldn’t spend weeks dodging you—and then, at the mention of a baby, drop right to his knees and propose. * * * The Bravo Royales: When it comes to love, Bravos rule!

Title Page The Earl’s Pregnant Bride Christine Rimmer www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oregon. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com .

Dedication For Tom and Ed. I miss you both so much.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Genevra Bravo-Calabretti, princess of Montedoro, heaved the lightweight ladder upright and braced it against the high stone wall.

The ladder instantly tilted and slid to the side, making way too much racket as it scraped along the rough old stones. Genny winced and glanced around nervously, but no trusty retainer popped up to ask her what she thought she was doing. So she grabbed the ladder firmly, righted it and lifted it, bringing it down sharply to plant it more solidly in the uneven ground.

Breathing hard, she braced her fists on her hips and glared at it, daring it to topple sideways again. The ladder didn’t move. Good. All ready to go.

But Genny wasn’t ready. Not really. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.

With a very unprincesslike “Oof,” she dropped to her bottom in the dry scrub grass at the base of the wall. Still panting hard, she wrapped her arms loosely around her spread knees and let her head droop.

Once her breathing evened out, she leaned back on her hands and stared up at the clear night sky. The crescent moon seemed to shine extrabright, though the lights from the harbor below obscured most of the stars. It was a beautiful May night in Montedoro. She could smell roses, faintly, on the air.

A low moan escaped her. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. She ought to be out with friends in a busy café or enjoying an evening stroll on her favorite beach. Not dressed all in black like a lady cat burglar, preparing to scale the wall around Villa Santorno.

Useless tears clogged her throat. She willed them away. She’d been doing that a lot lately, pulling herself back from the brink of a crying jag. The worry and frustration were getting to her. Not to mention the hormones.

She didn’t want to do this. She felt ridiculous and pushy, in addition to needy and unwanted and more than a little pathetic.

But seriously, what choice had he given her?

“I am not going to cry,” she whispered fiercely as another wave of emotion cascaded through her. “Absolutely not.” With the back of her hand, she dashed the moisture from her eyes.

Enough. She was stalling and she knew it. She’d dragged that damn ladder all the way up the hill. She wasn’t quitting now. Time to get this over with.

Gathering her legs under her, she stood and brushed the bits of dry grass and dirt from the seat of her black jeans. The ladder was waiting. It reached about two-thirds of the way up the wall, not quite as far as she might have hoped.

But too bad. No way was she turning back now.

She put her foot on the first rung and started to climb.

A minute later, with another low moan and a whimpery sigh, she curled her fingers around the ladder’s highest rung. The top of the wall seemed miles above her.

But she made herself take the next step. And the next. Until she was plastered against the wall, her hands on the broader, flatter top stones, her black Chuck Taylor All Stars perched precariously on that final rung.

“Bad idea,” she whispered to the rough stones, though there was no one but the night to hear her. “Bad, bad idea....” Right at that moment, she wished with all her heart for the superior upper body strength of a man.

Her wish was not granted. And there was nothing to do but go for it or go back. She was not going back.

With a desperate animal grunt of pure effort, she boosted herself up.

It didn’t go all that well. Her feet left the ladder and the ladder swayed sideways again, skittering along the stones, this time with no one to catch it before it fell. It landed with a clatter at the base of the wall.