The Morning After The Wedding Before (7 page)

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Panicked, Emma swiped at her mouth, then sucked in her lips and backed away. Tugged her T-shirt over her head and threw it on her bed. ‘Do you know how cold it is outside? The air … A hot bath …’

‘Emma Dilemma.’ Stella grinned. ‘You’ve just had it on with best man Jake.’

‘
No
. It’s such a cliché to get it on with the best man. I kissed him, that’s all. No. He kissed me. We kissed each other. He started it. No biggie, okay?’

Stella shook her head. ‘My sister never gets flustered when she talks about a guy.
Never
.’

Emma fumbled through her suitcase. ‘He’s not a guy, he’s Jake. And I’m not flustered. It’s nothing.’

‘It’s something.’

She yanked her pyjamas from her overnighter and blew out a breath then turned to Stella who was watching her with her chin on the back of the sofa. ‘Okay, it’s something. But it’s just a weekend something. Or not. I haven’t decided yet.’

Stella smiled. ‘You know you’ll have this room all to yourself tomorrow night …?’

‘Not another word.’ Emma flung up a hand. ‘You breathe so much as a syllable of this conversation to Jake or anyone else and I’ll sabotage your wedding night.’

And, swiping up her cosmetics bag, she fled to the bathroom.

T
HE
wedding day dawned bright and clear. And cold. Clad in her complimentary terrycloth robe, Emma took her early-morning coffee onto the balcony to admire the cotton balls of cloud that hid the valley floor. From her vantage point she could see the garden below, where even now staff were setting out chairs, toting flower arrangements, twining white ribbon and fairy lights through the trees.

A few moments later Stella stumbled out, hair wild, eyes sparkling. ‘Good morning.’ She leaned a shoulder against Emma’s. ‘It’s just perfect. Isn’t it perfect? Not a cloud in the sky. By afternoon it’ll be warm and still sunny. Hopefully … Can you believe I’m getting married in a few hours’ time?’

Emma dropped a kiss on her sister’s cheek on her way back inside. ‘And there’s a lot to get through before that happens.’ She checked her watch. ‘Breakfast is due up in ten minutes. The hairdresser will be here in half an hour.’

With less than an hour to go, the bride’s dressing room on the first floor was pandemonium. Underwear, costumes, flowers. A blur of fragrance and colour. Sunshine streamed through the window. Champagne and orange juice in tall flutes sat untouched on a sideboard, along with a plate of finger food.

Stella was with Beth, the wedding planner, and her two assistants—one aiming a video camera and catching the memories. The excitement, the laughter, the nerves.

In one of the full-length mirrors Emma caught a glimpse of her reflection in a strapless bustier. Crimson, with black ribbon laces at the front, it looked like something Scarlett O’Hara would have approved of. She yanked the ribbon tight between her breasts and tied it in a double knot, staring closer.

Wow. She actually had breasts today. Enhanced by the bustier’s support, they spilled over the top like something out of a men’s magazine. The garment pulled in her waist and flared over her hips, leaving a strip of bare belly and the tiny triangle of matching panties tantalisingly visible. A pair of sheer black stockings came to mid thigh, held up by long black suspenders.

For an instant she almost saw Jake’s reflection standing behind her, his eyes smouldering as he leaned over her to dip a finger between—

The tap on her shoulder had her spinning in a panicked one-eighty. ‘What?’ Her breath whooshed out and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Stella. Sorry. I was—’

‘A million miles away.’

Not as far as that
. ‘I’m here. Right here.’ She gave a bright smile, then forgot about her erotic meanderings as she gazed at the bride. ‘Oh, my! Gorgeous.’

Stella’s figure-hugging floor-length Guinevere gown was bottle-green crushed velvet. A dull gold panel insert in the bodice gleamed with tiny emerald beads, replicated on the wide belt cinching in her waist. Full-length sleeves flared wide at the wrist and fell in long soft folds. Her coronet of fresh freesias, tiny roses and featherlike greenery complemented her rich auburn hair.

‘You look stunning, Stell. Radiant and stunning. I can’t wait to see Lancelot’s face when he gets a load of you.’

‘Neither can I.’ She looked down at Emma, waved a hand. ‘Um … are you planning on wearing something over that? I’m sure the guys won’t mind, but this is my day and I know it’s selfish but I want all the attention.’

‘Getting there …’ With the help of Annie, one of the assistants, Emma stepped into a voluminous skirt and shimmied into the bodice. ‘I told you, Stella. You should have been Scarlett, not me.’

‘And I told you already, Scarlett’s the brunette. She’s playful and coquettish and I really, really wanted you to be that woman today. Whereas Guinevere was pale and intense and totally and unconditionally in love with Lancelot.’

‘Well, you’ll have that attention,’ Emma said, admiring her sister. ‘Ryan, not to mention the rest of the male population, won’t be able to take his eyes off you.’

Annie slipped buttons into the tiny loops at the back of Emma’s dress, then handed her black lace gloves and a parasol.

‘Don’t forget the bridal bouquet.’ Emma passed Stella a simple posy of flowers to match those in her hair. She paused with her sister at the top of the wide sweeping staircase. ‘We’re a clash of eras, aren’t we?’

‘We are. But it’s going to be fun. For both of us.’ Stella squeezed Emma’s hand. ‘Thank you for helping to make it a perfect day.’

‘It’s not over, it’s just beginning.’

The harp’s crystal clear rendition of ‘Greensleeves’ floated on the air as they arrived at the garden’s designated bride spot. At a signal from Beth, the music segued beautifully into Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.’

‘You’re up,’ Beth murmured to Emma. ‘And don’t forget to
smile
.’

She’d taken but a few steps along the petal-strewn manicured lawn when she saw Jake and Ryan up ahead. She forgot about smiling. The garden might look like a fairytale. The costumed guests might look magnificent or they might be naked for all Emma knew, because her peripheral vision had disappeared.

Rhett Butler had never looked so devastating. Black suit, dove-grey waistcoat and dark mottled cravat beneath a snowy starched shirt. His eyes met hers and he smiled. A slow, sexy, come-away-with-me smile.

‘Hi,’
he mouthed.

‘Hi,’
she mouthed back, and,
Oh, help
. Her knees went weak but she seemed to be moving forward. What was wrong with her? No man had ever captivated her this way.

Deliberately freeing her gaze, she aimed her smile at Ryan instead, looking regal in a black tunic and cowled top over silver-grey leggings and black knee-high boots. The Clifton family crest was emblazoned on his tunic—she could make out a lion and a medieval helmet in the black-and-gold embroidery.

Not that he was looking at her; his eyes were for his bride, a few steps behind. As they should be. Emma wondered for a quickened heartbeat how it would feel to have someone look at her that way, with shiny unconditional love. She rejected the thought even as it formed and concentrated on keeping her smile in place, her steps smooth and measured.

Jake’s eyes feasted on Emma. The deep colour complemented her lightly tanned complexion. A wide-brimmed hat shaded her face, and he couldn’t quite read her eyes, so he contented himself with admiring the seductive cleavage
and the way the crimson fabric hugged every delectable curve as she moved closer.

His fingers flexed in anticipation of becoming more intimately acquainted with those curves. How long would it take him to get her out of that dress? To lay her down on the grass right here in the sunshine and plunge into her while the birds sang and the cool wind blew up from the valley….

Then she moved out of his line of sight to take her place beside the bride. Probably just as well, because any longer and it might become obvious to all where his thoughts were.

He turned his attention to Ry and Stella, and watched the couple blindly promise to handcuff themselves to each other till death did them part. A life sentence, no parole. His collar itched on Ry’s behalf, and he shifted his shoulders against the tight sensation inside his shirt.

They looked happy enough. But it never lasted. There were exceptions, of course. Ry’s parents—Henry VIII with a fake red beard and Anne Boleyn—were holding hands, eyes moist.

He glanced at the girls’ mother in her white Grecian goddess robe, looking, as always, eternally constipated. Her marriage disaster had turned her into a bitter and twisted woman. Nevertheless, she was still beautiful. He imagined Emma would look as beautiful in thirty years’ time.

But he didn’t want to contemplate Emma’s lovely face marred with that same perpetually pinched expression, those sparkling sapphire eyes clouded with sadness.

Who in their right mind would take the marriage risk? Only those temporarily blinded by that eternal mystery they called love. Not him, thank God.

Formal photographs followed in the gardens, then on
to the decking overlooking the mountains as the sun lowered, turning the sky golden and the valley purple.

Emma couldn’t fault Jake’s behaviour. He was the perfect gentleman. The perfect Rhett. He only touched her when the photographer required him to do so. During the five-course meal he was seated next to Ryan at the top table, so conversation between them was limited, but there was a heated glance or two when the bridal couple’s heads didn’t block the view.

After the speeches guests chatted over music provided by a three-piece orchestra as the desserts began coming out of the kitchen. Anne Boleyn, aka the mother of the groom, made her way to the top table.

‘Beautiful ceremony, my darlings. It must be your turn next, Emma.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Emma smiled back, then lifted her champagne glass and swallowed more than she should considering her duties. ‘It’s not for me.’

‘Ah, you just have to find the right man.’

Smile still in place, Emma set her empty glass on the table with a thunk. ‘And isn’t that the killer?’

‘And Jake?’ Ryan’s mother smiled in his direction. ‘When’s some clever woman going to snap you up and make an honest man out of you?’

‘Alas for me, fair lady.’ He put his hand on his heart. ‘You’re already taken.’

Laughter from the bridal couple. ‘You never know, Em,’ Stella murmured into her ear as her new mother-in-law walked back to her chair. ‘He could be closer than you think.’

‘What I’m thinking is it’s about time you two cut that white skyscraper.’

The guests applauded as Stella and Ryan laughed into each other’s eyes and fed each other cake. Weddings,
Emma thought. They always whipped up those romantic, dreamy, nostalgic emotions. It was hard not to be caught up in the euphoria.

She deliberately veered from those too-pretty thoughts and watched Karina knock back one glass of champagne after another. Emma pursed her lips, remembering the
Pat Me
sticker she’d discovered stuck to her backside after the hens’ night. She narrowed her gaze as Karina plastered herself all over one of Ryan’s cousins up against a wall. Weddings also came with too much booze and indiscriminate physical contact.

But when Ryan and Stella took to the floor for the bridal waltz to the seductive beat of ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’, she knew her own moment of up close was imminent and her legs started to tremble.

Jake rose and held out his hand, his eyes as beguiling as the song. ‘I think it’s our turn.’ Emma caught the undertone in his voice and her whole body thrummed with its underlying message that went way beyond the dance floor and upstairs to that big soft bed.

When he grasped her fingers to lead her into the dance space there was something … different about the contact. And in the centre of the room, when he slid his hand to her back, firm and warm and possessive, she felt as if the floor tilted beneath her feet.

They’d never danced together, and his proximity released a stream of endorphins, stimulating her senses. The throb of the music echoed through her body. His cool green aftershave filled her nostrils. The sensuous brush of his thighs against hers beneath the heavy swish of her full skirt had her breath catching in her throat.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, missing a step and trying to create some space between them—she needed it to breathe, and to say, ‘I’m not a very good dancer.’

‘Lucky for you I am.’

She flicked him a look. ‘Lucky for you I’m feeling congenial enough to let you get away with that.’

Was there
anything
in the seductive sciences he wasn’t accomplished at? She sincerely doubted it as his palm rubbed a lazy circle over her back, creating a deliciously warm friction and at the same time drawing her closer and causing her to misstep—again.

‘Is it the dance, or is something else distracting you, Em?’

How typically arrogant male. But she smiled into his laughing eyes. ‘Do men always have sex on their minds?’

His answering grin was unrepentant. ‘Pretty much.’ He dipped close and lowered his voice. ‘It’s on your mind too.’

She dragged in a breath that smelled of fine fresh cotton and hot man and tried not to notice. ‘I’m finding it hard to concentrate on the steps, that’s all.’

As Ryan swept his bride past them Emma saw Stella’s eyes twinkling at her and looked away quickly. Apart from the bride and groom and Ryan’s parents they were the only couple on the floor. ‘People are watching us.’

‘And why wouldn’t they? You look amazing.’ The hand holding hers tightened, and his thumb whisked over hers as he leaned in so that his cheek touched her hair. So that his chest shifted against her breasts. ‘You feel amazing,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Forget the audience. Listen to the music.’

Forget the music. Listen to the Voice. Her head drifted towards his shoulder, the better to hear it. When other couples joined them on the dance floor he swept her towards the window with its panoramic views. Not that she was interested in any view right now except the one in front of her.

He crooned the song’s lyrics about wanting to see her beauty when everyone had gone close against her ear. She nearly melted on the spot. ‘You think I’ve changed my mind?’

‘Honey, I don’t even need to ask.’ His hand tightened around hers and then she realised that couples were swirling around them and they were standing still. And close. That the fingers of her free hand had somehow ended up clinging to the back of his neck. That the song had changed to something more upbeat.

How long had they been standing there? How long had she been showing him exactly how she felt? That those options she’d thought she had were down to one? Somehow she managed to yank herself into the present and remember her bridesmaid duties.

She let her hand slide down the smooth fabric of his jacket, slipped the other one from his grasp. ‘I need to go.’

‘Are you sure?’ He lifted the heavy mass of hair from her shoulder with the back of his fingers and stroked the side of her neck, then linked his arms loosely around her waist, trapping her against him. ‘Because I’m kind of enjoying where we are right now.’

She felt a series of little taps track up her spine.

‘How many buttons would you say this dress has?’ He slipped the top one from its tiny loop. Then another.