A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “These should work,” he said, picking up the pair of peep-toed shoes with the stacked heel only two inches high. “Try these on.”

  “If you could just zip me up first. Please.” The last thing she wanted to do was wobble in those shoes and lose the grip she had on the front of her dress.

  He carried the shoes over to her and set them on the ground. Then he stood.

  This time, when his gaze traveled over her, it didn’t feel as if he were dismissing her, as he had the first time. Far from it. Instead, this time it was almost as if he was appreciating what he saw.

  Maybe.

  She felt him grab the edges of the dress and pull them together. Something about this felt...intimate. Almost too intimate. It blew way past possible flirting. She closed her eyes. Then, slowly, the zipper clicked up tooth by tooth.

  Heat radiated down her back, warming her from the inside out. She breathed in, then out, feeling the silk move over her bare flesh. Matthew was so close she could smell his cologne—something light, with notes of sandalwood. Heat built low in her back—warm, luxurious heat that made her want to slowly turn in his arms and stop caring whether or not the dress zipped at all.

  She could do it. She could hit on the best man and find out what had been behind that little conversation they’d had in private last night. And this time, she wouldn’t trip.

  Except...except for his first reaction to her—if she hit on him, he might assume she was out to ruin his perfect wedding or something. So she did nothing. Matthew zipped the dress all the way up. Then she felt his hands smoothing down the pleats in the back, then adjusting the sheer shoulder strap.

  She stopped breathing as his hands skimmed over her.

  This had to be nothing. This was only a control freak obsessively making sure every detail, every single pleat, was perfect. His touch had nothing to do with her.

  She felt him step around her until he was standing by her side. “Aren’t you going to look?” he asked, his voice warm and, if she didn’t know any better, inviting.

  She could feel him waiting right next to her, the heat from his body contrasting with the cool temperature of the room. So she opened her eyes. What else could she do?

  The sight that greeted her caused her to gasp. An elegant, sophisticated woman stood next to a handsome, powerful man. She knew that was her reflection in the mirror, but it didn’t look like her.

  “Almost perfect,” Matthew all but sighed in satisfaction.

  Almost. What a horrible word.

  “It’s amazing.” She fought the urge to twirl. Someone as buttoned-up as Matthew probably wouldn’t appreciate a good twirl.

  The man in the reflection grinned at her—a real grin, one that crinkled the edges of his eyes. “It’s too long on you. Let’s try the shoes.” Then, to her amazement, he knelt down and held out a shoe for her, as if this were some backward version of Cinderella.

  Whitney lifted up her skirt and gingerly stepped into the shoe. It felt solid and stable—not like the last pair of fancy shoes she’d tried to walk in.

  She stepped into the other shoe, trying not to think about how Matthew was essentially face-to-knee or how she was in significant danger of snagging these pretty shoes on the edge of the dais and going down in a blaze of glory.

  When she had both shoes firmly on, Matthew sat back. “How do those feel?”

  “Not bad,” she admitted. She took a preliminary step back. “Pretty good, actually.”

  “Can you walk in them? Or do you need a ballerina flat?”

  She gaped at him. Of all the things he might have asked her, that wasn’t even on the list. Then it hit her. “Jo told you I was a klutz, right?”

  He grinned again. It did some amazing things to his face, which, in turn, did some amazing things to the way a lazy sort of heat coiled around the base of her spine and began to pulse.

  “She might have mentioned it.”

  Whitney shouldn’t have been embarrassed, and if she was, it shouldn’t have bothered her anymore. Embarrassment was second nature for her now, as ordinary as breathing oxygen.

  But it did. “Because you thought I was drunk.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t come back with the silky smile he’d pulled out on her last night, the one that made her feel as if she was being managed.

  “In the interest of transparency, I also considered the option that you might have been stoned.”

  Four

  Whitney blinked down at him, her delicate features pulled tight. Then, without another word, she turned back to the mirror.

  What happened? Matthew stood, letting his gaze travel over her. She was, for lack of a better word, stunning. “The color suits you,” he said, hoping a compliment would help.

  It didn’t. She rolled her eyes.

  Transparency had always worked before. He’d thought that his little admission would come out as an ironic joke, something they could both chuckle over while he covertly admired the figure she cut in that dress.

  What was it about this woman that had him sticking his foot in his mouth at every available turn?

  It was just because she wasn’t what he’d been expecting, that was all. He’d been up late last night, digging into the not-sordid-at-all history of Whitney Maddox, trying to get his feet out of his mouth and back under his legs. She was a respected horse breeder. Her horses were beautiful animals and that one had won a gold medal. But there weren’t any pictures of Whitney Maddox anywhere—not on her ranch’s website, not on any social media. Whitney Maddox was like a ghost—there but not there.

  Except the woman before him was very much here. His hands still tingled from zipping her into that dress, from the glimpse of her panties right where the zipper had ended. How he itched to unzip it, to expose the bare skin he’d seen but not touched—slip those panties off her hips.

  He needed to focus on what was important here, and that was making sure that this woman—no matter what name she went by—did not pull this wedding off message. That she did not pull him off message. That was what he had to think about. Not the way the dress skimmed over her curves or the way her dark hair made her stand out.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he said, “You look beautiful in that dress.”

  This time, she didn’t roll her eyes. She gave him the kind of look that made it clear she didn’t believe him.

  “You can see that, right? You’re stunning.”

  She stared at him for a moment longer. “You’re confusing me,” she said.

  She had a sweet smell to her, something with warm vanilla notes overlaying a deeper spice. Good enough to eat, he thought, suddenly fascinated with the curve of her neck. He could press his lips against her skin and watch her reaction in the mirror. Would she blush? Pull away? Or lean into his touch?

  She looked away. “I could change my hair.”

  “What?”

  “I could try to dye it all blond, although,” she said with a rueful smile, “it didn’t turn out so well the last time I tried it. The white streak won’t take dye, for some reason. God knows I’ve tried to color it over, but it doesn’t work. It’s blond or nothing.”

  “Why on God’s green earth would you want to dye your hair?”

  He couldn’t see her as a blonde. It would be wrong on so many levels. It’d take everything that was fine and delicate about her and make it washed-out, like a painting left out in the rain.

  “If I’m blonde, no one will recognize me. No one would ever guess that Whitney Wildz is standing up there. That way, if I trip in the shoes or drop my bouquet, people will just think I’m a klutz and not assume I’m stoned. Like they always do.”

  Shame sucker punched him in the gut. “Don’t change your hair.” He reached out and brushed the edge of her bangs away from her face.

 
She didn’t lean away from him, but she didn’t lean into him, either. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

  “But...” She swallowed and tried to look tough. She didn’t make it. “I look like me. People will recognize me. I thought you didn’t want that to happen.”

  “You say that as if looking like yourself is a bad thing.”

  In the mirror’s reflection, her gaze cut to him. “Isn’t it?”

  He took a step closer to her, close enough that he could slide his fingers from the fringe of her hair down her neck, down her arm. He couldn’t help it, which was something outside of his experience entirely. He’d always been able to help himself. He’d never allowed himself to get swept up in something as temporary, as fleeting, as emotional attraction. He’d witnessed firsthand what acting on attraction could do, how it could ruin marriages, leave bastard babies behind—leave children forgotten.

  With the specter of his father hovering around him, Matthew managed to find some of the restraint that normally came so easy to him. He didn’t slide his hand down her bare arm or pull her into his chest. Instead, he held himself to arranging the shoulder of the dress. She watched him in the mirror, her eyes wide. “You are beautiful,” he said. It came out like something Phillip would say—low and seductive. It didn’t sound like Matthew talking at all.

  She sucked in a deep breath, which, from his angle, did enticing things to her chest. He wanted to sweep her into his arms. He wanted to tell her he’d had a crush on her back in the day. He wanted to get her out of that dress and into his bed.

  He did none of those things.

  Focus, damn it.

  He took a step back and tried his hardest to look at her objectively. The heels helped, but the hem of the dress still puddled around her. She’d need it hemmed, but they had to settle on the shoes first.

  “Let’s see how you walk in those.” There. That was something that wasn’t a come-on and wasn’t a condemnation. Footwear was a safe choice at this point.

  She stood for a moment, as if she was trying to decide what his motivations were. So he held out his arm for her. He could do that. She’d walk back down the aisle on his arm after the ceremony. Best they get used to it now.

  After a brief pause, she slipped her hand around his elbow and, after gathering her skirts in one hand, stepped off the dais. They moved toward the door, where he opened it for her.

  She walked ahead of him, the dress billowing around her legs just as he’d wanted it to. The salon had a bouquet of artificial flowers on a nearby table. He handed them to her. “Slow steps, big smile.”

  “Right,” she said, an odd grin pulling up at the corners of her mouth. “No skipping. Got it.”

  She walked down the aisle, then turned and came back toward him with a big fake smile on her face. Then, just as she almost reached him, the toe of her shoe caught in the too-long hem of the dress and she stumbled. The bouquet went flying.

  He caught her. He had to, right? It wasn’t about pulling her into his arms. This was a matter of personal safety.

  He had her by her upper arms. “Sorry,” she muttered as he pulled her back onto her feet.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She gave him a hard look, her body rigid under his hands. “I had to worry about it yesterday. You’re sure I’m not on anything today?”

  Okay, yes, he deserved that. That didn’t make it any less sucky to have it thrown back in his face.

  Without letting go of her, he leaned down and inhaled deeply. “No trace of alcohol on your breath,” he said, staring at her lips.

  She gasped.

  Then he removed one of his hands from her arm and used it to tilt her head back until she had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

  Years of dealing with Phillip while he was drunk had taught Matthew what the signs were. “You’re not on anything.”

  “You...can tell?”

  He should let her go. She had her balance back. She didn’t need him to hold her up and she certainly didn’t need him to keep a hand under her chin.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he let his fingers glide over her smooth skin. “When you become a Beaumont, you develop certain skills to help you survive.”

  She blinked at him. “When you become a Beaumont? What does that mean? Aren’t you a Beaumont?”

  Matthew froze. Had he really said that? Out loud? He never drew attention to his place in the family, never said anything that would cast doubt on his legitimacy. Hell, his whole life had been about proving to the whole world that he was a Beaumont through and through.

  What was it about this woman that made him stick his foot into his mouth?

  Whitney stared at him. “You’re confusing me again,” she repeated, her voice a whisper that managed to move his heart rate up several notches. Her lips parted as she ever so slightly leaned into his hand.

  “You’re the one who’s confusing me,” he whispered back as he stroked his fingertips against her skin. For a woman who was neither here nor there, she was warm and solid and so, so soft under his hands.

  “Then I guess we’re even?” She looked up at him with those pale green eyes. He was going to kiss her. Long. Hard. He was going to taste her sweetness, feel her body as it pressed against his and—

  “Whitney? Matthew?”

  Jo’s voice cut through the insanity he’d been on the brink of committing. He let go of Whitney, only to grab her immediately when she took a step back and stepped on her hem again.

  “I’ve got you,” he told her.

  “Repeatedly,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she was amused or not.

  Then Jo came around the corner, seamstresses and salon employees trailing her. She pulled up short when she saw the two of them and said, “I need to go,” as the wedding planner started unfastening the back of her dress.

  “What?” Matthew said.

  “Why?” Whitney said at the same time.

  “A mare I’m training out on the farm is having a meltdown and Richard is afraid she’s going to hurt herself.” She looked over her shoulder at the small army of women who were attempting to get her out of her dress. “Can you go any faster?”

  There were murmurs of protest from the seamstresses as the wedding planner said, “We can’t risk tearing the dress, Ms. Spears.”

  Jo sighed heavily.

  Whitney and Matthew took advantage of the distraction to separate. “I’ll come with you,” Whitney said. “I can help. You taught me what to do.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said.

  It must have come out a little harsher than he meant it to, because every woman in the room—all six of them—stopped and looked at him. “I mean,” he added, softening his tone, “we have too much to do. We have to get your dress hemmed, we have an appointment with the stylist this afternoon—everyone is set except you. We must keep your schedule.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Jo’s dress rustling as the seamstresses worked to free her from the elaborate confines.

  Whitney wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Jo. She’d do whatever Jo said, he realized. Not what he said. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned. Everyone else in the family had long ago realized that Matthew was always right.

  “Matthew is right,” Jo said. “Besides, having a new person show up will only freak out Rapunzel. I need to do this alone.”

  “Oh,” Whitney said as if Jo had just condemned her to swing from the gallows. “All right.”

  “Your dress is amazing,” Jo said, clearly trying to smooth over the ruffled feathers.

  “Yours, too,” Whitney replied. Jo’s compliment must have helped, because Whitney already sounded better.

  That was another thing Matthew wasn’t expecting from Whitney Wildz. A willingness to work? A complet
e lack of interest in throwing a diva fit when things didn’t go her way?

  She confused him, all right. He’d never met a woman who turned his head around as fast and as often as Whitney did. Not even the celebrities and socialites he’d known made him dizzy the way she did. Sure, such women made plays for him—he was a Beaumont and a good-looking man. But none of them distracted him from his goal. None of them got him off message.

  He tried telling himself it was just because he’d liked her so many years ago. This was merely the lingering effects of a crush run amok. His teenage self was screwing with his adult self. That was all. It didn’t matter that Whitney today was a vision in that dress—far more beautiful than anything he’d ever imagined back in the day. He had a job to do—a wedding to pull off, a family image to rescue, his rightful place to secure. His adult self was in charge here.

  No matter what the Beaumonts put their minds to, they would always come out on top. That’d been the way Hardwick Beaumont had run his business and his family. He’d amassed a huge personal fortune and a legacy that had permanently reshaped Denver—and, one could argue, America. He expected perfection and got it—or else.

  Even though Chadwick had sold the Beaumont Brewery, even though Phillip had crashed and burned in public, Matthew was still standing tall. He’d weathered those storms and he would pull this wedding off.

  “There,” one of the seamstresses said. “Mind the edge...”

  Jo clutched at the front of the dress. “Matthew, if you don’t mind.”

  Right. He turned his back to her so she could step out of the $15,000 dress they’d chosen because it made Jo, the tomboy cowgirl, look like a movie-star goddess, complete with the fishtail bodice and ten-foot-long train. The Beaumonts were about glamour and power. Every single detail of this wedding had to reflect that. Then no one would ever question his place in the family again.

  Not even the maid of honor.

  He looked down at Whitney out of the corner of his eye. She was right. With her fine bone structure, jet-black hair with the white stripe and those large eyes, he could dress her in a burlap sack and she’d still be instantly recognizable. The dress only made her features stand out that much more.