Chapter Seven
Eleanor was ripped out of her post-coital bliss by the roots of her hair. It had been nice drifting along there, his cock still full inside her, everything stretched deliciously, the low buzz of her orgasm still sizzling along nerve endings, the furtive knowledge that it could be roused again lying latent in every cell.
This was her in. To tell him the truth. About the baby. And hope like hell he wasn’t too mad about it or the fact that she’d chosen to seduce him—twice—in the last few hours without telling him first.
It was going to be a hell of a buzzkill.
Reluctantly, she rolled off him, her breath hitching as he slid free of her, a very gratifying groan of protest sliding from his lips. She sat, shuffling to the end of the mattress, her feet flat on the floor, conscious of his big frame stretched out behind her, the bulk of his thighs in her peripheral vision.
“Eleanor?”
His hand landed on the small of her back. She felt its warmth even through the thick fabric of the corset and she soaked in the comfort of it. “I like that you call me Eleanor.”
She was obfuscating but the truth was, after her bombshell, he might never call her anything ever again. There was some rustling behind her, the sound of a zip and then the mattress dipped and he was upright, his arm brushing hers.
“You’re freaking out about the condom?”
If only.
Surprisingly it wasn’t the pregnancy bit she was having problems with. It was the deception of not telling him about it straight up.
Getting all…jiggy with him twice before telling him.
“If you’re worried, don’t be.” The note of caring in his murmur almost undid her and, absurdly, Eleanor wanted to cry. “I can assure you, I’m clean. Until a year ago, I was in a long-term relationship and while I did go a little crazy for a while after the break up I always wore a condom. Of course, there is the matter of pregnancy—”
Eleanor snorted, cutting him off, staring at her hands, grabbing one with the other to still the tremble. It was a most inelegant noise—Queen Victoria would not have been amused.
“That’s not an issue.”
“You’re on the pill?”
“No. Just can’t get any more pregnant than I am.”
He went very, very still. “You’re…pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m the—”
“Yes.” She cut him off, quashing the quick spurt of outrage she’d felt at the question. It was fair enough. They’d had one night together, they’d used protection, and she hadn’t seen him for ten weeks.
Just because she’d been a virgin before didn’t mean she hadn’t been with every man in Bungindally since. Clearly he’d woken some kind of dormant nymphomania if the last few hours were any indication.
There was a long pause. “But I wore condoms.”
“I know.” But she doubted they were the first people it had ever happened to. Eleanor finally dared to look at him. The bronzed planes of his face had paled a shade or two and a deep frown crinkled his usually smooth forehead. She needed him to know that she wouldn’t lie about something like this.
That when it came to the paternity of the baby growing inside her, there was no doubt.
“I’ve only ever been with you.”
He nodded slowly, and she could see the dawning of belief in his twilight eyes. “Okay.” His calmness was soothing. She hoped his lack of yelling and calling her names was a good sign.
He rose from the bed and headed for the window, his back to her as he stared at the view. He shoved his hand through his hair, the action squeezing her heart. She didn’t know what he was thinking or feeling and it made her nervous but she took a deep steadying breath and waited.
He was trying to process something that she’d already processed. She was going to have to cool her heels for a bit.
“Why didn’t you…tell me sooner?” He turned to face her, his hair deliciously rumpled.
“I’m sorry.” She stared at her hands. “I planned to tell you this afternoon and then we…”
“No, I mean…why didn’t you tell me when you first found out?”
“Oh.” She glanced at him. He didn’t seem pissed off about the delay, just curious. “Well…I’m only eight weeks. If I hadn’t been coming to Sydney, I probably wouldn’t have said anything until I was twelve weeks, after the first trimester. Twenty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage and the highest risk window is the first twelve weeks, so…”
A look of alarm stiffened his features. “Shit. Did I…should we have been…” He shoved another hand through his hair. “Christ, I was banging around in there like I was drilling for fucking oil.”
Eleanor laughed at the analogy, and some of the tension left her shoulders. “It’s fine. Normal sexual activity—”
She stumbled over the words. She couldn’t believe she was saying them in front of a man that she’d just had normal sexual activity with—twice.
She’d had relations with Bodie Webb. Sydney Smoke elite. Sporting royalty. Rugby hottie.
Sex god.
“Is allowed,” she continued. She’d Googled it.
He nodded, the tension across his shoulder visibly easing. “Thank you. For telling me.”
“Of course.” She frowned. “I had to. It’s your baby, too.”
“Are you…okay? Have you been sick or…?”
A spot right in the centre of Eleanor’s chest warmed. She’d just told him he was going to be a father and he hadn’t sworn or yelled or accused her of lying or being some kind of…jezebel. He’d obviously been shocked, but he was calm and concerned about her well-being.
No wonder her brother liked him so much.
She stood because she wanted him to know she wasn’t some delicate creature that required TLC. She’d been brought up on a cattle station and, like all country people, she’d soldier on.
His gaze zeroed in on the soft pillows of her cleavage and even though it was highly inappropriate during this very serious conversation she couldn’t stop the low tug of desire.
“I’ve been fine.”
He raised his eyes and shoved his hands into the pockets at the front of his jeans. “No vomiting at all? That’s good.”
Eleanor shrugged. “Some mild nausea from time to time. I’m just usually regular as clockwork and when my period didn’t come and my boobs felt sore…”
His gaze dropped to her boobs and the tug became a yank. Yeah, she probably shouldn’t have mentioned them, but how could she want to go again?
Sure, she was new to this sex thing, and she’d read enough books and seen enough TV to know that some men and women couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She’d bet her last cent Lizzie had kept Mr Darcy in bed for a week after their nuptials.
But nothing had prepared her for the hot lick of lust turning her into some kind of wanton.
“Should you be wearing that thing?” He lifted his gaze from her corset to her face. “Aren’t they too restrictive or something?”
Eleanor, trying to drag her mind off a body that was apparently no longer under her control, looked at the garment, running her hands down the bodice as she so often did, leaving them flat against the boning low on her stomach. “It’s more the lace up ones that are restrictive.”
Although hell, if he wanted her to take the damn thing off she would. The suggestion hovered on the tip of her tongue but fortunately he chose that moment to step toward her and the words died before they got to her lips.
“Could I…?” He gestured toward her middle with a vague wave of his hand.
Eleanor’s hands flattened a little more on her stomach. Did he want to…feel the baby? A sudden surge of shyness hit her at the intimacy of the action. “I’m only eight weeks, there’s nothing to feel.”
“I know.”
But his eyes were glued to where her hands were splayed, and she could no more have denied him than played in the Smoke front row. “Okay, sure…” She dropped her hands. “If you want.”
He was with her in three strides, one arm sliding around her shoulder, tucking her in close to his side as the other hand slid onto the place where hers had been. There was no way he’d be able to feel even the shape of her belly through the fabric, but his touch, the sentiment, made her heart flutter.
The silence stretched as they stood in a shared moment, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to lay her head against his arm. She shut her eyes and imagined how nice it would be to have him by her side like this for the entire pregnancy, his hands reaching for her swelling belly at every opportunity.
“We should get married.”
Eleanor’s eyes flew open. She lifted her head from his arm and looked at him, gaping. The tempo of her heart picked up until she was sure he must be able to hear it. “What?”
Was he serious?
“You’re pregnant. With my baby. I’m the father. It’s the right thing to do.”
“If we were living in the nineteenth century, maybe.”
She gathered all her willpower and pulled away from him, pacing to the window as he had done twice tonight, uncaring who might be able to see her in her corset and pantaloons. She turned to face him, giving whatever random strangers might be down there a view of her ruffled ass.
“I thought you adored all things nineteenth century?”
“I adore the fashion. Not the lack of female agency.”
“You’re my best friend’s sister, and you’re pregnant with my baby.”
“So you want to get married because you think Ryder, who by the way has absolutely no say over my life, will bring out his shotgun?”
He shook his head. “I want to marry you because it’s the right thing to do.”
It was hard to try and make rational arguments when Bodie was making all the ones that her hopelessly romantic soul craved. How many historical romance novels had she read just like this? An honourable man doing the right thing—the responsible thing—fulfilling his duty to the woman he’d deflowered then got with child.
And falling in love with her.
But this was the twenty-first century.
She’d done a lot of Googling since their night in Bungindally. Bodie Webb was a sporting celebrity from a wealthy family. He could have anyone. How long would it take before the restrictions of a wife and a child that he took on out of a sense of duty and responsibility and honour would start to chafe?
And what about love?
“Maybe in Jane Austen’s day, Bodie, but not now. Nobody gets married these days because of a pregnancy—”
“Yes they do,” he interrupted.
She conceded his point with a nod. “And we have a divorce rate over fifty percent.” He conceded hers with an answering nod. “All I’m saying is, we don’t need to rush into anything. Society’s not going to disown me. We have options.”
“Well, you’ve obviously given it some thought?” He shoved his hands on his hips, a stubborn set to his jaw.
Eleanor had been giving the situation a lot of thought these past weeks—there’d been little else going on inside her brain—but none of the scenarios had involved Bodie wanting to be overly involved, let alone her husband.
She hadn’t even dared let her mind—or her heart—go down that path.
“I thought I’d raise the baby on the farm. It’s a great place for a kid to grow up.”
The inky blue of his eyes turned bleak. “And what about me? What I want?”
“Of course you could have access.”
“Define access?”
“I don’t know… I guess we’d have to discuss that.” She took a step toward him but he stiffened and she stayed put. He was only a few meters away but he was so distant he might as well have been in the middle of the harbour. “I’m sorry, Bodie. I just didn’t think you’d want to be overly involved.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to be involved in my kid’s life?” he demanded.
Eleanor blinked at the harsh edge to his voice. “Because I know how hard you guys work to get to where you are and stay there. Playing at such an elite level, the game becomes your whole life and distractions can be harmful to your career. I’ve grown up with Ryder, so I understand probably better than most.”
He visibly relaxed as she spoke, the white at the angle of his jaw disappearing, the tension in his neck and shoulders dissolving.
“Your work, your life is here in Sydney. And, well…let’s face it…we were just a one night stand with consequences. I don’t expect you to disrupt your whole life for me.”
She was trying to be sensible and practical. And fair. She wanted to be reasonable. Give Bodie an out. She wasn’t stupid enough to buy into some knee-jerk happily ever after with him.
“I wouldn’t think less of you because of it.”
He covered the distance between them, a hand sliding onto her face, cupping her jaw. “I’d think less of me.” He dropped his head and kissed her, soft and sweet, and her body leaped to the call of his.
He pulled away, his gaze fixed on hers, his lips wet. “I don’t want a scenario where I live here and you live there and I see my kid at the end of every footy season.”
The pad of his thumb stroked lazily along her cheekbone, and Eleanor fought the urge to shut her eyes.
“I watch Donovan do that, and even though he knows it’s the most stable thing for his kid, it kills him every time his daughter gets on a plane and heads back to New Zealand. I want to be able to kiss my kid goodnight, every night.”
The passion and intensity in his gaze and his voice slid into her heart like a stiletto. She didn’t want to deny him, she just couldn’t wrap her head around his easy acceptance of it.
“I thought this would be a bombshell,” she whispered.
He gave her a half smile. “It is.”
“A bad bombshell.”
He shrugged. “It’s done. All that remains is how we fix it. So…what do you say? Wanna get hitched?”
Eleanor blinked. Ever since she picked up her first Georgette Heyer at the age of eleven, she had been dreaming of this moment. The moment a man asked her to marry him.
It was a far cry from the romantic idyll she’d pictured. But then she hadn’t been twenty-six and knocked up in her fantasies either. She knew it was stupid in the circumstances to mourn the death of a silly childhood dream but a pang of loss caused a cramp in the centre of her chest anyway.
Not that it meant she was resigned to this fate, though.
The decision to marry shouldn’t be a snap one, particularly when the groom was a virtual stranger. “Bodie…” She slid her hand onto his palm and gently eased it off. “We hardly know each other. This is…too much.”
In twenty minutes, he’d yelled at her for being a virgin, fucked her for being an evil temptress, and proposed to her for being pregnant.
Her head was spinning, even if his wasn’t.
“Right, yes…of course.” He nodded, very businesslike all of a sudden as he stepped away from her a safe distance. “You need time to think. You’re here for five days, you said?”
Eleanor blinked at the rapid change. “Yes. I’m heading home on Monday. But I’m not sure I’ll be ready to—”
He held up his hand to silence her, and she obliged. “Just promise me you’ll think about it?”
Was he crazy? How was she going to think about anything else? “As long as you promise me you’ll think about it.”
He gave her a grudging smile, a little bit sheepish and a lot sexy. “Deal.”
He looked like a guy who was holding all the cards. Every inch the decisive rugby player weighing her up for any weaknesses just before he mowed her flat. His gaze dropped to her pantaloons and made its way slowly over the corset, his smile fading.
Maybe he didn’t hold all of them.
“I’m leaving now. While I still can.” His hungry gaze took another tour of her body and goose bumps flared from her shins all the way up to her scalp and she wanted him again. But she could hardly reject his proposal of marriage then ask him to stay.
“I’m going to ring you in a couple of days—” He held up his hands as she opened her mouth to object. “Just to check in. But if you need anything in the meantime…anything… Buttons undone. Petticoats untied. A completely, no-strings-attached, no-need-for-reciprocation-orgasm or two—” Bodie grinned. “Call me. I’m your guy.”
Eleanor choked out a laugh. She’d forgotten with the baby and the sex and the out-of-the-blue marriage proposal how fun he’d been that night in Bungindally. How they’d laughed into the night. “My hero.”
He grinned. “They don’t call me Spidey just because I look hot in a Lycra suit.”
He left then and Eleanor threw herself down on the bed, suddenly wobbly-kneed and light-headed. It was madness to be grinning like a loon, considering her predicament.
But she was.
…
Bodie knew he shouldn’t feel so happy about the pregnancy, but he couldn’t help it. If any other woman had landed a baby daddy bombshell on him, he would have freaked out.
Hell, he should be freaking out regardless.
As Eleanor had said—distractions could be deadly to a career in elite sport. But he wasn’t.
His outlook on life had been kind of dark since breaking up with his ex. He’d lost faith in the order of things—in being rewarded for good and working hard and doing right. Cynicism had started to infect his thoughts and his actions.
Rugby, his team, had been the one bright light in it all.
But now there was Eleanor. And his baby.
He’d hardly slept a wink all night thinking about it, and he was paying for it today as Griff put the Smoke through his usual punishing training regime. But Bodie didn’t care how much his body ached, he felt like fucking Spider-Man.
Sure, he wouldn’t have chosen this particular hurdle at this time of his life. But he refused to see the baby as any kind of burden. Being an only child, he’d always wanted kids—a whole tribe of them—and Eleanor’s calmness had been the prism he’d needed to see that it could work out.
It made him feel guilty for his initial reaction, though, and he was infinitely pleased she hadn’t been looking at him when she’d told him. Years of being Conrad Webb’s son had taken their toll. Growing up in an environment where everyone’s motives were suspected was a lot of baggage to overcome, and he was ashamed to admit his first thoughts had been to wonder if Eleanor had planned it all along.
To trap him for his money. Or his fame. Or whatever.
But he’d dismissed the dark whispers as they’d formed in his head and her I’ve only ever been with you had clutched a big handful of his gut and squeezed. They’d used condoms, she’d tried to absolve him of responsibility, and she’d rejected his marriage proposal.
If Eleanor Davis was some gold digger after his trust fund, then she was really bad at it.
The truth was, he was going to be a father and she was the mother of his child. A vision of Eleanor, a baby suckling at her breast, hit him square between the eyes and almost brought him to his knees.
A football to his solar plexus actually did.
“Spidey,” Griff barked. “What the fuck is your problem today?”
Bodie smiled despite not being able to fully catch his breath. “Sorry, Coach.” He rubbed his chest. “Distracted.”
Thinking about being a daddy.
“We don’t pay you to be distracted.” Griff glared at him, hands on his hips. “Go and run that shit off. Come back when you’re ready to concentrate on rugby.”
He pointed to the track circling the outside of the footy oval and Bodie, breath regained, hit it without protest. It didn’t matter. He could run around it all day. He was going to be a daddy.
He was fucking indestructible.
His father, who hadn’t yet forgiven him for breaking it off with Anna, was probably going to have a stroke. Ryder, who probably wouldn’t ever forgive him for sleeping with his sister, was definitely going to kill him. And when he was done, Ryder’s father and probably every other man in outer woop woop would no doubt send out some kind of posse to string him up to the nearest tree.
But he was going to prove them all wrong. And marrying Eleanor was step one.
Bodie had surprised even himself last night by blurting out the proposal, but once it was done it had made absolute sense and he’d gone for it. He’d learned from the best about acquisitions and mergers—strike while the iron was hot. Don’t give your opponent time to regroup.
Fortunately, Eleanor had reminded him she wasn’t a string of numbers on a spreadsheet. She wasn’t a piece of property or a tasty blue-chip stock and he’d snapped the fuck out of it, but it didn’t mean he’d given up.
If his father had taught him anything, it was to go after what you wanted. And rugby had taught him not to wait for it to come to you.