A Beaumont Christmas Wedding (14 page)

Fifteen

T
hey spent the next morning looking over the carriage that would pull Phillip and Jo from the chapel to the reception. The whole thing was bedecked with ribbons and bows of red-and-green velvet, which stood out against the deep gray paint of the carriage. Whitney wasn’t sure she’d ever really grasped what the word
bedecked
meant, but after seeing the Beaumont carriage, she understood completely. “It’s a beautiful rig.”

“You like it?” Matthew said. He’d been quiet all morning, but he’d held her hand as they walked around the farm together. In fact, he had hardly stopped touching her since they’d woken up. His foot had been rubbing against her calf during their breakfast; his hands had been around her waist or on her shoulders whenever possible.

Whitney had been worried after last night. Okay, more than worried. She’d originally thought that he was mad at her because of the picture with Frances, but there’d been something else going on.

After the intense sex—and the part where he’d agreed that this relationship was short-term—she had decided that it wasn’t her place to figure out what that “something else” was. If he wanted to tell her, he would. She would make no other claims to him.

She would try not to, anyway.

“I do.” She looked at the carriage, well and truly bedecked. “It’s going to look amazing. And with Jo’s dress?
Wow
.”

He trailed his hand down her arm. She leaned into his touch. “Do you have a carriage like this?”

She grinned at him. He really didn’t know a whole lot about horses, but he was trying. For her. “Trakehners aren’t team horses, so no.”

He brushed his gloved fingertips over her cheek. She could feel the heat of his touch despite the fabric. “Want to go for a ride?”

She pulled up short. “What?”

“I’ll have Richard hook up the team. Someone can drive us around.”

“But...it’s for the wedding.”

“I know. You’re here
now
.” Then he was off, hunting up a hired hand to take them on a carriage ride around Beaumont Farms.

Now.
Now was all they had. Matthew gallantly handed her up into the carriage and tucked the red-and-green-plaid blankets around her, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him. Then they were off, riding over the snow-covered hills of the farm. It was...magical.

She tried not to overthink what was happening between them—or, more to the point, what wasn’t going to happen in a few days. What was the point of dwelling on how she was going to go back to her solitary existence, with only her animals and crazy Don to break up the monotony?

This was what she wanted—a brief, hot Christmas-vacation romance with a gorgeous, talented man. A man who would make her feel as if Whitney Maddox was a woman who didn’t have to hide anymore, who could take lovers and have relationships. This was getting her out of the safety of her rut.

This time with Matthew was a gift, plain and simple. She couldn’t have dreamed up a better man, a better time. He was, for lack of a better word,
perfect.

That had to be why she clung to him extra hard as they rode over the ice-kissed hills, the trees shimmering under the winter sun. This was, hands down, the most romantic thing she’d ever done—even though she knew the score. She had him now. She didn’t want to miss any of that.

So when it was time to go to the rehearsal, she went early with Matthew. They were supposed to eat lunch, but they wound up at his palatial apartment, tangled up in the sheets of his massive bed, and missed lunch entirely. Which was fine. She could eat when she was alone. And the dinner after the rehearsal would be five-star, Matthew promised.

They made it to the chapel for the rehearsal almost an hour ahead of everyone else—of course they did. The place was stunning. The pews were decorated with red-and-gray bows that matched the ones on the carriage perfectly atop pine garlands, making the whole place smell like a Christmas tree. The light ceilings had dark buttresses and the walls were lined with stained-glass windows.

“We’re going to have spotlights outside the windows so the lights shine at dark,” Matthew explained. “The rest of the ceremony will be candlelit.”

“Wow,” Whitney breathed as she studied the chapel. “How many people will be here for the wedding?”

“Two hundred,” he said. “But it’s still an intimate space. I’ve been working with the videographers to make sure they don’t overtake the space. We don’t want anything to distract from the happy couple.”

She took a deep breath as she held an imaginary bouquet in front of her. “I should practice, then,” she said as she took measured steps down the aisle. “Should have brought my shoes.”

Matthew skirted around her and hurried to the altar. Then he waited for her. Her cheeks flushed warm as an image of her doing this not in a dove-gray gown but a long white one forced its way across her mind.

Now
, she thought, trying not to get ahead of herself.
Stay in the now.

That got harder to do when she made it up to the altar, where Matthew was waiting. He took her hands in his and, looking down into her eyes, he smiled. Just a simple curve of the lips. It wasn’t rakish; it wasn’t predatory—heavens, it wasn’t even overtly sexual.

“Ms. Maddox,” he said in a voice that was as close to reverent as she’d ever heard him use.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she replied because it seemed like the thing to do. Because she couldn’t come up with anything else, not when his gaze was deepening in its intensity.

It was almost as if, standing here with Matthew, in this holy place...

No. She would not hope, no matter how intense his gaze was, no matter how much his smile, his touch affected her. She would not hope, because it was pointless. She had three more days before she left for California. Tonight, Christmas Eve and maybe Christmas morning. That was it. No point in thinking about something a little more permanent with him.

He leaned forward. “Whitney...”

Say something
, she thought.
Something to give me hope.

“Hello? Matthew?”

To his credit, he didn’t drop Whitney’s hands. He did lean back and tuck her fingers into the crook of his arm. “Here,” he called down the aisle as the wedding planner came through the doors. Then, to Whitney, he said, “Shall we practice a few times before everyone gets here?”

“Yes, let’s.” Which were not words of hope.

That was fine. She didn’t want any.

Really.

* * *

Against his will, Matthew sent Whitney home with Jo and took Phillip back to his place. Even though they were going to shoot photos before the ceremony, Jo had decided that she wanted to at least get ready without Phillip in the house.

Phillip wasn’t exactly talking to Matthew, which was fine. Matthew had things to do anyway. The press was lining up, and Matthew had to make sure he was available for them before they wandered off and started sniffing around.

This was his job, his place in this world. He had to present the very best side of the Beaumonts, contain any scandals before they did real damage and...

His mind drifted back to the carriage ride across the farm with Whitney—to the way she’d looked standing hand in hand with him at the altar.

For such a short time, it hadn’t mattered. Not the wedding, not the public image—not even the soft launch of Percheron Drafts. His showroom-ready apartment, his fancy cars—none of that mattered.

What had mattered was holding a beautiful woman tight and knowing that she was there for him. Not for the family name, the fortune, the things.

Just him.

And now that time was over and he was back to managing the message. The good news was that Byron’s little brawl had done exactly what Matthew had intended it to—no one was asking about Whitney Wildz.

He checked the social media sites again. Whitney had insisted on keeping her hat on during the rehearsal and the following dinner and had only talked with the embedded press representatives when absolutely required. He knew he should be thankful that she was keeping her profile as low as possible, but he hated that she felt as if she had to hide.

All was as calm as could be expected. As far as he could tell, no one in attendance had connected the quiet maid of honor with Whitney Wildz. Plus, the sudden influx of famous people eating in restaurants and partying at clubs was good press, reinforcing how valuable the Beaumont name was without Matthew being directly responsible for their actions.

It wouldn’t last, he knew. He sent out the final instructions to the photographer and videographer, which was semipointless. Whitney was in the wedding party, after all. And he hadn’t let her change her hair. They’d have to take pictures of her. But reminding the people on his payroll what he expected made him feel better anyway.

They just had to get through the wedding. Whitney had to make it up the aisle and back down without incident.

Just as she’d done today. She’d been downright cute, miming the action in a sweater and jeans and that hat, of course. But tomorrow?

Tomorrow she’d be in a gown, polished and proper and befitting a Beaumont wedding. Tomorrow she’d look perfect.

He could take a few days after the wedding, couldn’t he? Even just two days off. This thing had swallowed his life for the past few months. He’d earned some time. Once he got Phillip and Jo safely off on their honeymoon and his siblings and stepmothers back to their respective corners, once he had Christmas dinner with his mom, he could...

He could go see Whitney. See her in the sun. Ride her horses and meet her weird-looking dogs and her pop-singer cats.

This didn’t change things, he told himself as he began to rearrange his schedule. This was not the beginning of something else, something
more
. Far from it. They’d agreed that after the wedding, they were...done.

Except the word felt wrong. Matthew had never had a problem walking away from his lady friends before. When it was over, it was over. There were no regrets, no looking back and absolutely no taking time off to spend a long weekend together.

It was close to midnight when he found himself sending her a text.
What are you doing?
But even as he hit Send, he knew he was being foolish. She was probably in bed. He was probably waking her up. But he couldn’t help himself. It’d been a long day, longer without her. He just wanted... Well, he just wanted her.

A minute later, his phone pinged and there was a blurry photo of Whitney with a tiny donkey in her lap. He could just see the silly dogs in bow ties on her pajama pants. Jo had leaned over to grin into the frame, but there was no missing Whitney’s big smile.
Watching
Love Actually
and eating popcorn,
came the reply.

Good. Great. She was keeping a low profile and having fun at the same time.

Then his phone pinged again.

Miss you.

He could take a couple of days. Maybe a week. Chadwick would understand. As long as they made it through the wedding with no big scandals—as long as all the Beaumonts stayed out of the news while he was gone—he could spend the time with Whitney.

Miss you, too,
he wrote back. Because he did.

He was pretty sure he’d never missed anyone else in his life.

* * *

The day of the wedding flew by in a blur. Manicures, pedicures, hairstylists, makeup artists—they all attacked Whitney and the rest of the wedding party with the efficiency of a long-planned military campaign. Whitney couldn’t tell if that was because Matthew had everything on a second-by-second schedule or if this was just what happened when you had the best of the best working for you.

She finally met Byron Beaumont, as he was next in the makeup artist’s chair after they finished painting Whitney’s lips scarlet-red. She winced as she looked at the bruise around his face that was settling into purples and blues like a sunset with an attitude.

“Ms. Maddox,” he said with an almost formal bow. But he didn’t touch her and he certainly didn’t hug her, not as Frances had. Heck, he didn’t even call her Whitney Wildz. “It’s an honor.”

“I’m sorry about your eye,” she heard herself say, as if she were personally responsible for the bruising. Byron looked a great deal like Matthew. Maybe a few inches shorter, and his eyes were lighter, almost gray. Byron’s hair was almost the same deep auburn color as Matthew’s, but his hair was longer with a wave to it.

Byron grinned at her then—almost the exact same grin that Matthew had and that Phillip had. “Anything in the service of a lady,” he replied as he settled into the chair, as if he had his makeup done all the time.

By four that afternoon, the ladies were nibbling on fruit slices with the greatest of care to sustain them through the rest of the evening. “We don’t want anyone to pass out,” the wedding planner said as she stuck straws into water bottles and passed them around.

Then they were at the chapel, posing for an endless series of photos. She stood next to Jo, then next to Frances, then between Frances and Serena. They took shots with Jo’s parents, her grandmother, her aunt and uncle. Since Toni Beaumont was singing a song during the wedding, they had to have every permutation of who stood where with her, too.

Then the doors to the chapel opened, and Whitney heard Matthew say, “We’re here.” The men strode down the aisle as if they owned the joint. At first she couldn’t see them clearly. The chapel wasn’t well lit and the sunlight streaming in behind them was almost blinding. But then, suddenly, Matthew was leading the Beaumont men down the aisle.

She gasped at them. At him. His tuxedo was exquisitely cut. He could have been walking a red carpet, for all the confidence and sensuality he exuded.

“We’re keeping to the schedule, right, people?” he demanded. Then their gazes met and the rest of the world—the stylists and wedding planner chatting, the photographer bossing people around—all of it fell away.

“Perfect,” he said.

“You, too,” she murmured. Beside her, Frances snickered. Oh, right—they weren’t alone. Half the Beaumont family was watching them. She dropped her gaze to her bouquet, which was suddenly very interesting.