Ford was officially Stanford Elliott Wentworth Smythe, Eighth Baron Wickshire. Had he married Teddy, she would have signed her name Theodora Wickshire and been addressed as Lady Wickshire.
TW.
Was it some kind of sick joke that she’d sent him this package? Ford stuffed the negligee back in the box and pushed it under his bed. What was she thinking? Did she want him to regret their split? It wasn’t his fault. In fact, he was the innocent party, the one betrayed. Why would she taunt him?
It seemed too hard to believe, which made him consider that perhaps someone else had sent it as some kind of prank.
He pulled it back out, examined the return address. No, it was from Teddy’s office in Notting Hill. She tended to do all her personal correspondence on the job. She worked seventy hours a week, and she felt it was no skin off her employer’s teeth to take a few moments here and there to pay bills or mail things, or run out to do a little shopping, especially as she was such a success in the commercial real estate world. She brought the company new clients all the time, high fliers impressed by her sales numbers and social cachet.
Teddy was Theodora Dunhill, daughter of Rosemary Dunhill, the Oscar-winning actress beloved by the British people for her many roles highlighting the best of British culture—she’d played Queen Elizabeth I, Elizabeth Bennett, and Virginia Woolf—and Lawrence Bridgeton, who wrote award-winning spy thrillers often turned into award-winning films. The debut actor Rosemary had met Lawrence on the set of his very first novel-turned-into-film—he’d been called in as a consultant to the director. They’d both been in their late twenties, had a whirlwind romance, produced Theodora aka Teddy, and split up before she was two, each going on to madly successful careers.
But Teddy had refused to go into the family business. “The entertainment industry is not for me,” she had told Ford the first time she met him. “I’m much more fascinated by concrete, glass, and bricks. Hard things.” And then she’d squeezed the top of his thigh, almost at the crease of his groin—they were sitting on a sofa at a loud party—which didn’t help him leave, as he’d planned to do.
He should have run.
It would be a million years before he got into a serious relationship again. It would have to be with a woman who offered no surprises. And there would be a polygraph test at some point, no matter what.
No. Even a polygraph wasn’t enough to salvage his romantic life. He’d rather buy a fleet of motorcycles and be Uncle Ford to his nieces and nephews than put his heart on the line again. He had better things to do.
Teddy’s teddy.
She used to say, “Shall I wear a teddy tonight?” every time she was feeling frisky, and he’d throw back an awful pun, usually something like, “Don’t bother. I’ll be wearing Teddy tonight,” and she’d laugh with delight.
After the first time, it was never funny, actually. But he went along with it because she so rarely engaged with him that way. Once he wondered if she actually scheduled sex with him into her calendar. He’d never sneak into her phone to confirm that suspicion. But the fact that he’d wondered had set off warning bells in his head about their relationship, which he’d conveniently ignored. To his detriment.
Obviously. Finding out at the altar that one’s fiancée was having an affair with one of your groomsmen wasn’t exactly life-enhancing.
He had to call her, of course. He was a guy who liked to let things go, but he wasn’t a wimp, and he wasn’t simply going to accept this act of aggression through the international post without standing up for himself.
He dialed.
“You,” Teddy said when she picked up. She had a hopeful lilt to her voice.
Uh-oh. “Why’d you send me a package,” Ford said. He refused to call it a teddy, and he didn’t want it to sound like a question.
“Because I wanted to,” she replied.
“Leave me alone, Teddy.”
She sighed. “I made a mistake. It’s been a wretched month.”
“Not as bad as mine.”
“Can I come see you?”
“Absolutely not. We’re done.”
“I got cold feet. Ford, please.”
“That wasn’t cold feet. That was an outright, premeditated setup, and if you had been a better actor, you’d have got away with it. We’d be married now.”
She started to cry.
“I’m done,” he said. “Sorry, but it’s your problem.”
“I was an idiot,” she said, and gave a gulping sob. “I’m through pretending life is a game. Love is real. I’ve grown up this past month. I truly have. I know what’s important.”
“I’m glad. Maybe someday you’ll find someone right for you. Alastair’s not anymore?”
“He never was.”
“You had plans to abandon me, take half my assets, and marry him. He told me. I had his head in the toilet.”
“I lied to him. Stupid of me. Forgive me, darling. He means nothing to me.”
“If I didn’t hate him, I’d think he was a poor bastard. So his heart is broken, too.”
“He didn’t love me.”
“Could’ve fooled me. He betrayed one of his best friends to win you.”
“He’s too narcissistic to see the big picture,” she said. “He means well, and he’ll be fine.”
“I don’t care anymore, honestly,” Ford said. “I only called to say, don’t do senseless things like sending me your negligee. You say you’re done playing games. So am I. From now on, I’m not going to respond. At all. We’re finished, and you need to move on.”
“Fooooord,” she said, and started crying hard. “I’m pregnant.”
The blood in Ford’s head whooshed to his feet, but he stayed standing. The tick-tick-tick of the clock on the kitchen counter seemed louder than ever. “You are?”
“Y-yes,” she whispered. “I’ve never been pregnant. I’m scared. Really scared.”
His chest tightened. “Is Alastair the father?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You could be.”
“How?” He jetted a quiet breath and vowed to remain calm.
“Don’t you remember?”
“What?”
“That night you didn’t wear protection. At our wedding shower at the Davises’ house. In their bathroom.”
“Yes, but you reassured me—”
“I was protected. Or so I thought.” She paused, and he refused to fill the silence. “But I got pregnant anyway. I think … I think I needed a new IUD. I know I did, but I was told I had at least a year left on this one.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s you or him. I’m not sure. Not yet.”
His insides felt cold. “When can you get a paternity test?”
She groaned. “Usually early on. But we have a problem.…”
“What kind of problem?” His heart ratcheted about his chest.
“Twins,” she said, and started to cry again.
“Good lord,” he said. Twins? “They can tell already?”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s not typical to know this early, but they saw two hearts on the ultrasound three weeks ago.”
Two hearts. His eyes stung. What if those babies were his children? And what if they weren’t? Either way, it was like being run over by a double-decker bus. He cleared his throat. “Why is it a problem to do the test?”
She sighed. “With twins, they can’t determine paternity until after the babies are born. It’s a long and complicated medical reason, darling, having to do with whether they’re fraternal or identical, and their DNA … and actually—”
“What?”
“There’s the slightest possibility they could have two dads.”
Dear God. “When?” he asked her. “When will they be born?” There was a bit of static. “Teddy?”
“I’m here,” she said, sounding more far away. “I’m three and a half months along. So sometime around October.”
“You were with Alastair that long ago?” He couldn’t believe it.
Another silence. “Yes. I felt … ignored.”
Ignored? That was such—such utter bollocks! Ford’s entire body heated with resentment. “I never ignored you, Teddy,” he said. “Ever. I won’t discuss this further, however, because you’re pregnant, and I don’t want to cause you or the babies any upset.”
“Too late,” she said. “I’m very upset.” And she set off crying again. “How can I have twins? I can’t take care of babies! But when will I ever have a chance to get pregnant again? Maybe never! My clock’s ticking. Mummy thinks this is a blessing in disguise.”
“Babies are always a blessing,” Ford said gruffly.
“It’s easy for you to say,” she said. “I’ll need a nanny, of course. I can’t take care of them alone.”
“You will take care of them. You’re strong. You can do it with a nanny, but you will rise to the occasion.”
“An eighteen-year occasion!” She sobbed even more. “I need you, Ford! I need you to help me, even if they’re not yours.…”
The despair in her voice killed him. The panic, too.
“You’re my only friend,” she said in the quietest, most serious voice she’d ever used with him. “My only true friend. And I threw you away.”
He couldn’t argue with that. It was a very sad situation. His pride had been dented, but he’d get over that. It was more difficult to get past the sheer banality of it all: She’d cheated on him. She’d gotten pregnant. They weren’t together.
How many times was this exact same situation happening around the world at that very moment? He wasn’t special. He was, in fact, nothing more than a statistic—a predictable one at that.
He’d always thought his life would add up to something more.…
“Listen,” he said. “I’m not going to discuss us. It’s off the table. Permanently. But I can listen if you need an ear. And if either of these children—or both—are mine, I will do right by all of you.”
“And-and if they’re not? If they’re Alastair’s?”
“Then you’ll make sure he carries his weight as well.” He hadn’t realized it, but he’d sweated through his shirt.
“Okay,” she said in a ragged whisper. “I believe in time. Time heals. I can’t give up on us yet.”
“Stop,” he said. “This is the time to think about your own health, and your babies’. Not us. Try to be at peace, as much as is possible.” And with a few more soothing words, he was able to get her to stop crying. By the end of their conversation, she’d even laughed about a joke he made about her mother. Only a little one, about Rosemary’s tendency to walk slightly sideways, like a crab, when she had too much to drink—but it was something.
Teddy always liked when he joked about her mother. The world took Rosemary way too seriously, according to her daughter, especially now that she was a madly successful women’s wear entrepreneur with high-end shops popping up around the U.K.
When Ford hung up, he was drained. The clock said it was happy hour. He could use that drink and cigar. But he really didn’t want to have them with Wesley anymore. He texted him that something had come up.
And then he went to FIG, his favorite restaurant, where you could walk in alone and never feel alone at their long bar. It was situated right next to the front door, the kitchen, and the hostess stand. He’d start there with a scotch, then go to his favorite cigar shop on East Bay Street, Charlestowne Tobacco and Wine, grab a chair on the sidewalk, smoke a cigar with like-minded strangers, maybe get a glass of his new favorite Spanish cabernet recommended by the manager there, and watch Charleston walk by.
It was better than moping at home, wondering if he was a father—
Or not. Twice over, at that. Or once, which meant he’d share Daddy duties with Alastair. Good God.
He made the scotch at FIG a double.