She stopped on the stairs and gulped. “I thought your parents were dead.”
He smiled. “Why, no, Alanna, why would you think that?”
Not dead? But he’d brought that antique wedding dress to her and asked her to wear it. He said it was his grandmother’s, and his mother had worn it too. It would make him so happy to see her in it, he’d pleaded. But he’d never actually said she was dead. Maybe it was her fault. Her grief had blurred so many things.
“Then why didn’t we wait for their return before the wedding?” she asked, still confused.
He sighed. “Let’s not get into this now, sugar. It’s not important.”
She stopped at the landing halfway up the stairs. “How can you say that? It’s very important.” The more she thought about it, the more upset she became.
He ran his hand over his blond hair and sighed. “My mother . . . is difficult.” His pointed gaze went to her protruding belly. “She would object to my raising another man’s baby, and I didn’t trust her not to make a scene. Besides, she can be rather overpowering, and I wanted to spare you her meddling.”
Alanna cupped her hands around her belly, which clearly showed her condition. She would have to defend what she cared about most to Barry’s mother. She’d thought the next few months would be easier with Barry to lean on, but the thought of a confrontation with his mother dried her mouth.
She finally choked out a response past her disappointment. “I would have been glad to have had her input.” In truth, she’d been overwhelmed by the trappings of a society wedding. Today she’d wished a family of her own were present, though her mates were as close as sisters.
“This way,” Barry said, obviously not willing to discuss his parents any longer. He took two more steps.
Alanna started to follow him, then her gaze went to a large portrait on the landing. The brilliant hues of the picture hanging on the wall at eye level mesmerized her. The woman in the painting stared back with eyes as turquoise as Alanna’s own. The full lips parted as though she were about to speak. A circle of red curls lay piled atop her head.
“She looks like me,” she whispered.
His eyes wide and unblinking, Barry stared up at the painting. He took a step closer to it and placed his hand over the woman’s hand on the canvas. “Yes, she does.” His voice was hoarse. “I noticed the first time we met.”
Alanna stepped closer, staring in fascination. Even the heart-shaped face could have been her reflection. “Who is she?”
“An Irish woman my grandfather loved and wanted to marry. She refused him though, and he never got over her.”
Alanna couldn’t tear her gaze from the woman’s secretive expression. “What was her name?”
“I don’t remember.” His tone ended the conversation, and he took her elbow and guided her up the last flight of stairs.
She eyed his set face. Strange he didn’t know. She let him lead her down the wide hall, papered with a green acanthus leaf pattern, to the first door on the right. The rest of the hall rambled on out of sight. How large was this place?
He pushed open the heavy wooden door. “Here we are. I had it redone especially for you. What do you think?”
She gasped at the opulence of the room, such a sharp contrast to what she’d seen so far. “I’m gobsmacked!”
Luxurious silk bedding in a pale moss color drew her gaze first. She walked across polished wood floors until she stepped onto the plush area rug where the high bed rested. She reached past the mosquito netting that draped the white poster bed so she could touch the bedspread. “It’s real silk.”
Barry stepped to the bed and draped his arm around her. “Of course. Nothing but the best for my bride. If there’s anything you need—anything at all—just tell me and I’ll get it. I want you to be comfortable.”
Alanna’s instinctive reaction to the weight of his arm around her was to step away. She wasn’t ready to confront any expectations from Barry yet. “It was jolly good of you.” She avoided his gaze and kept her attention on the bedding.
Pillows lay heaped on the plush bed. It was so high she’d need to jump into it, and it would be as fun as leaping into warm Atlantic waves. The furniture gleamed with newness, and she could smell the fresh paint. The walls glowed with a pale lavender paint. The gentle colors drained the tension from her shoulders, and she sank into the welcoming embrace of an overstuffed rocker by the window.
She touched the soft fabric of the chair arms. “I quite adore it—all of it!” She gazed at the touches a woman could appreciate: candles, a mirrored dresser with pots of face cream, even a silver-plated hairbrush and comb. A light, fresh scent hung in the air, and she realized the bouquet of primroses on the dresser was real.