Finding Forever

by Nika Rhone

  But she had changed it about having Thea as one of her bridesmaids. Or, rather, had it changed for her. Oh, Thea backed out on her own before Amelia was put in the awkward position of having to ask, but they’d both known she would have. Amelia might have had limited success in finding her backbone when it came to dealing with her mother in the past year or so, but she had yet to withstand the combined might of both her mother and future mother-in-law.

  Duck wasn’t the only thing that made her stomach miserable.

  By habit, she reached for one of the rolls of antacids she always kept handy. Only her tiny evening bag with its precious cargo was still on her dressing table upstairs, vetoed in much the same way Des’s beautiful dress had been. Even as Amelia considered an escape upstairs to go pop a few tablets like a drug addict scoring a hit, Lillian held out her hand. “Here you go, sweetie.”

  “Oh God, I love you.” Ripping open the foil wrapper, Amelia practically inhaled two of the discs. The fruit flavor didn’t mix well with champagne, but she didn’t care if it tasted like garden dirt. All she wanted was to soothe the gurgling that erupted in her belly the moment Thea mentioned leaving.

  The familiar motion of chewing had a calming effect, and after a moment her tight muscles loosened. This was good. Her stomach was settling down. Her friends wouldn’t abandon her. All was right with her world again.

  Well, not all, but enough that she had a shot at making it through the rest of the party without losing control again.

  It was only as she was slipping a third insurance tablet into her mouth that the rest of what Thea said cycled back around and repeated itself. She cocked her head at her friend in confusion.

  “What cancellation?”

  ****

  There were few things Daryl Raintree considered a worse way to spend an evening than working a security detail at a society party.

  One of the reasons he enjoyed working for the Fordham family for the past six years was that most of the parties they hosted or attended were oriented toward Frank Fordham’s business. Society held little appeal to them despite their wealth. Unfortunately, there were still times when it became necessary to venture into that glittering world, and when they did, so did their security.

  Doyle was too busy these days running his own fledgling security company to actually be the Fordham’s chief of security any longer, but the others from the staff had signed on with him and life continued at the Fordham estate with barely a hitch, with Frank as Praetorian Security’s first client. Doyle being Doyle, he’d balked at the implied nepotism involved in accepting the job until Frank being Frank bluntly asked him if Doyle was really willing to entrust the well-being of his fiancée and future mother-in-law to anyone but his own men.

  Since Doyle adored Evie Fordham and loved Thea more than life itself, it had been a no-brainer. So Red Fields moved up into the position of on-site security chief, but Doyle still kept one hand on the reins.

  Daryl adjusted his stance against the wall just outside the hallway housing more paintings than a wing at the Met, ignoring the sidelong looks from passing guests. Even dressed in a tuxedo, he knew he looked exactly like what he was: a bodyguard. At six-foot-four, with his father’s Sioux heritage stamped plainly on his bronzed features, and the slight crookedness of his nose that said he hadn’t spent his life sitting behind a desk and playing tennis at the country club on weekends, he didn’t blend into this type of crowd the way Doyle could. So instead, he played to type.

  With a quiet sigh, Daryl fought the urge to check his watch. It would be hours yet before Thea would want to leave. She’d spent the entire flight from Colorado worrying about Amelia, and judging by their sudden decampment from the ballroom a few minutes ago, and the very weird interaction with her right before that, it seemed like Thea’s fears had been justified. No, they would definitely be here a while. He just had to suck it up.

  It was his own fault he was here, after all. He could have chosen to be placed on the senior Fordhams’ detail instead, which wasn’t arriving until next week. It was only Thea who had flown in to do the pre-wedding party train. Ten days of society hell and he’d volunteered for it.

  After what happened nine months ago, he wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t much care for the senior Westlakes—the mother was an ice-cold bitch and the father a pompous blowhard—but it was the Davenports he didn’t trust. His instincts itched whenever he was around them, and that wasn’t just his aversion to society chaffing at him. Something bad was definitely going to happen.

  “Amelia, sweetie, wait!”

  Daryl straightened from his relaxed pose to alert readiness as a tiny bundle of blonde and silver stalked out of the hallway where Doyle had shepherded the Royal Court. He ignored Amelia until the other two women bolted after her, followed by Doyle, who looked annoyed but not concerned. Spotting Daryl, Doyle gave the all-clear signal. Whatever drama was going on wasn’t a danger to Thea. Not yet, anyway.

  Being half a head taller than most people in the room made it easy for Daryl to follow the three women’s progress through the crowd. Amelia Westlake led the way, looking like the prow of an ice-cutter forging its way through the North Sea, with Thea and Lillian two colorful anchors being dragged in her wake.

  It was an odd sight. In all the years he’d known them, he couldn’t remember a single other time that Amelia had taken the lead on anything the three friends had done. She was the follower, the Princess, the one the other two fussed over and protected. It was her security code name that had been picked first, back when the girls were in middle school. The other two quickly followed. Thea was the Lady, the group’s modifier and voice of reason. Lillian was the lead troublemaker, their Queen Bee. If there was a plot or plan in evidence, she was the one most likely to have thought it up and convinced the other two to join in.

  Hence the Royal Court was born.

  And while both Lillian and Thea had been known to act out of character a time or two and throw a monkey wrench into the well-oiled machinery of their security details, Amelia was the one least likely to go off script. Her entire life was run by her mother with an efficiency Patton would have envied.

  Which was why her sudden change in behavior now was disturbing.

  “Do we have a problem?” Daryl asked as he and Doyle followed the women.

  “Oh, I’d say there’s definitely a problem. I’m just not sure whose it is yet.”

  But it had something to do with Thea. Daryl could tell that by the slight growl that edged the other man’s voice. If Daryl was overly vigilant of Thea’s safety, Doyle was fanatical. Unfortunately for them both, Thea was not the type of person to sit back and let others take care of her problems for her.

  Which was why they were following the three women instead of charging ahead to slay whatever dragons stood in their way.

  When the two men caught up to where the women stopped, Daryl realized he’d been closer to the truth than he realized. In front of them were Meredith Westlake and Constance Davenport. Both of these particular dragons were elegantly gowned and coiffed, and wore identical expressions of disapproval. Daryl assumed the latter was for the belligerent expression gracing Amelia’s usually placid features.

  Yet another odd sight.

  The break from the norm was unsettling, but it also raised his interest. Any problem that could force someone who had spent twenty-three years allowing herself to be molded into the perfect little princess to break form—in public, no less—had to be one hell of a doozy.

  Sometimes he really hated it when his instincts were right.

  Chapter Two

  After listening to Thea’s explanation, Amelia had been too angry to even think about the way the acid was sloshing around in her empty-but-for-champagne stomach. Unable to utter more than a barely coherent, “They are not getting away with this,” she’d stalked away from her friends and back into the ballroom. More proof of how beyond angry she was. She didn’t stalk. Amelia didn’t think she’d ever stalked once before in her ent
ire life.

  But it was either that or run, and she had just enough control left to refrain from doing that. Of course, whether she’d be running to something or away was debatable. Away held enormous appeal at the moment, but it wouldn’t solve this newest bit of meddling. Only immediate damage control would do that.

  And while acting rashly in the heat of anger might not be the smartest move—Thea’s words before Amelia stalked off—Amelia knew herself well enough to know that if she let her temper cool and put this off until tomorrow, she’d lose any chance at winning. Forward momentum fueled by rage was all she had going for her.

  The object of her ire was holding court in the ballroom along the wall with the seventeenth-century tapestry of Saint George slaying the dragon hanging under glass on it. The first time she’d seen it, she’d had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the irony. Now, she felt a shudder of superstitious apprehension. She was about to confront not just one dragon, but two, and, unlike George, she didn’t foresee any divine intervention on her behalf.

  “Mother,” Amelia said in as polite a tone as she could manage, “may I have a word with you, please?”

  “Amelia.” Her mother’s voice held the familiar whip of reprimand. “You remember Mrs. Pendergrass and Mrs. Cates. They were just telling us how lovely the spring has been down in Washington.” Which was code for These are very important people from D.C. and you need to be extremely nice to them.

  Normally, Amelia’s Pavlovian response would have been to greet the two older women with a pretty smile and sycophancy they clearly expected as their due. Tonight, she barely glanced at them as she said, “Very nice to see you both. If you’ll excuse us, though, I need to have a private word with my mother.”

  “Amelia, I don’t think you under—”

  “What did you do to my furniture order?” If her mother wasn’t willing to do this in private, Amelia would accommodate her. She locked her gaze with the woman who had raised her to be nothing more than a pretty accessory and refused to let herself be backed down by the fury burning back at her. This was her Rubicon line. She wouldn’t let herself lose one more battle. She couldn’t.

  Unexpectedly, it was the second dragon that stepped into the breach. Waving a hand that held more gems than Amelia’s entire jewelry case, Constance Davenport gave a soft chuckle. “Just some bridal jitters over last minute wedding details,” she said, affecting a bonhomie that included the two women in the private family moment even as she gently shooed them on their way.

  There wasn’t a drop of that good nature left in evidence when she wheeled back toward Amelia. “That was unconscionably rude and unacceptable behavior from you, missy! What on earth were you thinking?”

  “What did you do to my furniture order, Mother?” Amelia repeated.

  Her lips pinched together, Meredith Westlake replied, “Obviously, you already know the answer to that, so don’t play coy, Amelia Ann. You aren’t any good at it.”

  “How dare you?” The anger was so strong Amelia vibrated with it. “Do you have any idea how many weeks Thea and I spent picking everything out, making sure it was absolutely perfect?” Her mother’s gaze flicked over her shoulder. By the disdainful twist of her mouth, Amelia knew that Thea had followed and was standing somewhere at her back.

  “No”—Amelia pulled her mother’s attention back to her—“this isn’t about Thea. This is about me. Charles left the decorating of the townhouse up to me. You had no right to interfere.” She’d wanted to reward that unexpected act of faith by being certain the end result was a true blending of their two very different tastes. With Thea’s expert eye and a lot of hard work and compromise, Amelia felt they’d achieved the desired result.

  And now it was all undone.

  “With the expectation that you would be using a professional to decorate his home,” Meredith replied. “With his position, there are certain standards that are expected to be maintained.”

  “Thea is a professional decorator, Mother, as you well know.” Her mother had never cared for either of her friends, but her animosity toward Thea had increased exponentially over the last few months. “And it’s my home, too, not just Charles’s. Even if I decided to decorate it with purple flamingos and mirrors on the ceiling, it wouldn’t give you the right to interfere!”

  Her mother’s surgically thinned nostrils flattened as she sucked in an indignant breath. Amelia braced for the next verbal volley, but to her surprise when her mother spoke, it was to Mrs. Davenport. “You were right, Constance,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “It would have been a terrible mistake.”

  “As I told you,” came the immodest reply.

  Amelia’s head whipped between the two women who were commiserating over her shortcomings before settling her gaze on her fiancé’s mother. “You played a part in this?” Silly question, really. Of course she had. There hadn’t been an area yet in Amelia and Charles’s relationship that she hadn’t somehow inserted herself into one way or another. Sometimes Amelia was afraid she would find a way to convince Charles she should come along on their honeymoon, as well.

  Then again, with the amount of interest he’d shown in her lately, it probably wouldn’t make all that much difference if she did.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Amelia said, not sure if she was talking to the dragons or to herself. With effort, she refocused. One issue at a time.

  “Of course, it doesn’t matter,” her mother said with a sniff. “I don’t know why you worked yourself up into such an unpleasant—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Amelia said a little louder, “because I will get it all back. Every single stick of furniture, every piece of artwork, every yard of drapery.” She wasn’t certain if that was possible, but she would damn well do her best. “So I don’t care what kind of furnishings you ordered in their place, but you can go ahead and cancel them first thing in the morning because I won’t be needing them.”

  There was a long, tense moment of silence where even the soft roar of hundreds of voices faded into the background. Then Mrs. Davenport shifted, and the spell was broken. “Of course, you won’t be needing them,” she said, her voice brisk and harsh. “Obviously, you don’t have all of your facts correct, missy. A dangerous mistake for someone about to become the wife of a political candidate.”

  Amelia felt the ground opening at her feet. All it would take would be one good shove to push her in. “And what facts am I missing, exactly?”

  “That the furnishings you’re so vociferously defending were not cancelled because they were found lacking, although your behavior of a few moments ago has certainly brought your judgment about what is acceptable into grave question.”

  Normally, such a verbal rebuke from Mrs. Davenport would have twisted Amelia’s stomach into a knot any sailor would be proud of. This time, there was barely a ripple. She was too focused on what hadn’t been said.

  “Then why?”

  “Because you won’t be needing it, of course. Any of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll be moving in here.”

  Like a fist, Amelia’s heart thudded hard against her breastbone. “What? No. We’re moving into the townhouse.”

  “The townhouse has been let go.”

  “No. We…you can’t…” Suspended over the long drop to hard reality, Amelia floundered for a reason, an explanation, anything to refute what she was being told. “I don’t believe you. Charles would never allow it.”

  “Charles is fully aware of the change in plans,” Mrs. Davenport said. “In fact, he approved wholeheartedly.”

  And with that last nudge, Amelia soared off into space, all sense of connection to what was going on around her lost in the terrifying sensation of free fall. Her heart pounded, wild and painful, as she fought off the sense of vertigo Constance Davenport’s bombshell had triggered.

  It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Amelia and Charles had spent weeks house-hunting, looking for the perfect place to start their new life t
ogether. Alone. Without his family or hers constantly watching over their shoulders. She’d agreed that they needed to stay in Connecticut since that was where he was planning to make his first run for public office later in the year. It made sense to stay close to where his father started his own political career and where his name was a highly recognizable commodity.

  She’d wanted a house. Charles wanted a condo. They compromised on a townhouse, and Amelia had been in love with it since the moment they signed the lease. Finally, finally, she’d have a home of her own, where the only two people in the world she had to worry about pleasing were Charles and herself.

  What a ridiculously naïve notion.

  How had she for one single minute believed that simply by getting married, her life would somehow magically become hers alone? How could she have forgotten she was marrying into a family even more politically driven and power hungry than her own?

  Voices buzzed around her as she stumbled through her internal fog. Her mother was saying something. She didn’t know what. She didn’t care. Thea’s voice joined in the fray, and Lillian’s, but it was all simply noise. It existed outside of her. Apart from her. She was too filled with this strange drumbeat in her ears, in her throat, in her chest, for anything else to get in.

  Charles was aware. Charles had approved. Those two thoughts swirled above the other chaos in her brain. Charles had approved. How could he? How could he? Without talking to her? Without asking what she wanted to do?

  She’d thought they’d been growing closer again these past few weeks, back to the way it was when he first led her on a whirlwind courtship full of romantic dinners and nights at the symphony. And flowers. No one had ever bought her flowers before him. He’d given her a dozen perfect red roses the night of the proposal she hadn’t expected but had accepted because she felt their union was inevitable. That he was “the one.” Back when she truly believed she loved him, and that he might just love her back.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Without any conscious input from her brain, her feet took her away from the voices that were sounding more than a little strident, away from the overpowering sense of doom those few simple words created. She passed people on the way. If they spoke, she didn’t hear them. She didn’t look at them. She simply walked.