And she had been right. Leigh knew she was wearing the perfect dress... There was no need for the muffled gasps of pleasure to reassure her that it suited her; the mirror back in her bedroom at the vicarage had done just that. She knew she was looking her absolute best, with a faintly dreamy quality which she found fascinating. So much was due to the heavy cream silk, quite gorgeous on its own, but when you added the close-fitting bodice, the scooped neckline and short puffed sleeves, both decorated with seed-pearls, and the skirt, straight and elegant in front, flowing at the back into a short train, it was... well, stunning was not too extravagant a description in this case.
Her first instinct had been against a veil—after all, they'd been aiming for a very simple country wedding—but they had come up against a very slick saleswoman who had urged her to 'try it just for the effect' and then, of course, she had been lost. Yards of sheer silk tulle, falling just as far as the elbows, were gathered into a little bandeau, perfect for the swept-back hairstyle she had had in mind, and now, as she walked slowly through the church, the sun seemed to catch in the cobwebby folds, the shimmering nimbus gathered about her adding to that dreamy air. And in her hand she held the bouquet which Patrick had had delivered that morning—roses, merging through cream and all shades of gold, backed by trails of wispy fern.
Now she was almost there. Her father was preparing to relinquish his place by her side and the elusive scent of Patrick's cologne was all about her as he turned. His eyes were on hers and her heart was behaving in its usual irrational way, was swelling with such joy that for a moment her vision blurred.
But then it cleared; their eyes met and his were tender, hers soft with the perfection of the moment. Her lips parted in what wasn't quite a smile. In his buttonhole was a rose, matching those in her bouquet, in the deepest shade of gold. He just looked, eyes searching her face, lingering for a mischievous moment on her parted lips, then his attention was caught by a glint, moved lower, and there, nestling against her creamy skin, was the beautiful silver chain given nearly six years before, and it was supporting the teardrop crystal.
His eyes were back on her face, were gleaming with that faint secret smile; his hand was reaching out for hers. Fingers linked, together they turned to face the archdeacon.
The meal was over, the speeches—with some witticisms which had made the bride blush and lower her head—made, listened to and applauded with all the uninhibited pleasure that the happy guests could achieve. While a small army of women cleared away the main tables, the cake was cut, further toasts were drunk, and meantime a trio of musicians gathered at the far end of the marquee beside the small dance-floor.
The guests, tongues loosened, formalities dispensed with, began to circulate, apparently by osmosis drifting towards the dance area where tuning up had begun.
'I think they're waiting for us.' Patrick touched his wife's elbow, relieved her of her empty champagne glass. Unseen fingers trailed down the bare skin of her inner arm while she... she had to work hard to disguise the shudder that his touch evoked.
'Darling?' She looked at him questioningly, trying to remember what she and Holly had been discussing.
‘I’m sure Holly will accuse us.' And what woman could be impervious to that raised eyebrow, the look which hinted at intimacy? 'Especially when she knows that in a few weeks we'll be neighbours.'
'Yes, get on with you—your guests are waiting. Not that I excuse you for keeping me in the dark for so long, especially when I saw myself in the role of matchmaker. I shall want to know all about it when I see you in Paris.' She looked round as Paul came up, slipped her hand through his arm and sighed happily as they watched the bride and bridegroom thread their way through the crowd and on to the dance-floor.
There, for just a few moments, Patrick and Leigh stood looking at each other, the world forgotten, he with his hands on her waist, hers on his shoulders. In the background the music began softly, softly, an elusive time, which as it strengthened made them sway together till Patrick took one of her hands in his.
'Remember me?' His mouth curved upwards at the corners. 'Remember me, the guy who waited nearly six long years...?'
'I remember.' Her tone was drowsy. 'Don't forget I'm the girl who waited five years, eight months and six days, but-----' she smiled as his arm tightened menacingly '—it seemed every minute of six years.'
And, still gazing intently at each her, Patrick swept her along to the lilting, seductive sound of a Strauss waltz. One or two guests drew closer, and began to clap in time to the music. Others at once took it up, till the pair on the floor were surrounded by a host of well-wishers, but they were so absorbed in each other, they barely noticed.
'How on earth...?' Later that evening they were dancing again, but the venue had changed. Now they were in that country hotel near Oxford which Leigh remembered so well, the sight of which had made her catch her breath as he'd driven in through the gates. 'How on earth did you think of it, Patrick?' she asked him now. 'It's still the same.' She smiled innocently, dazzling the man who was strumming on the double-bass. 'Even the same trio, I swear.'
'You made him miss a note—did you hear? You ought not to smile at men like that.' 'When you stepped on my toe, do you mean?' She gasped as his arm pulled her even closer, then he whirled her through the door and out into the hall. 'No, that's not what I meant. I'm going to take you away from all this.' Hand in hand, they ran across the hallway, began to climb the curving staircase. 'In our room I've arranged for a bottle of iced champagne, a light supper, and then...'
'And then?' With the door closed behind them she leaned back, linking her hands about his neck. 'And then?' Her lips brushed against his. 'And then I'm going to ask if you're hungry.' She shook her head. 'Not for food.' 'Or thirsty?' He grinned, as if anticipating her answer.
'Not for wine.'
'But you are...particularly shameless. Confess it.' Which she did, quite willingly.
But later, sitting up in bed, she found that she was both hungry and thirsty, and reached for one of the bite-size sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, sipped at the icy wine. 'Mmm.' She burrowed a little deeper into the pillows. 'I could so easily become used to this.'
'Don't,' he warned, leaning forward to drop a swift kiss on her mouth. 'Don't get too used to it, will you?'
'Oh?' Her heart was hammering again, that wild tattoo which indicated only one thing, and who could be surprised, with that powerful body dressed in nothing but a brief fluffy towel leaning so close to her? Reaching out, she touched his silky skin. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean that-----' he caught at her hand, dropped a kiss into the palm '—besides bringing you back here to where it all began, I have other plans which won't provide the same standards of luxury.'
'Oh.' Now there was a faint frown as she tried to follow. 'But I thought it was New York, then Vermont.'
'It is. And I promise it's going to be luxury all the way to Vermont, but after that...'
'Patrick.' Sensing some drama, she put down her glass, and without thinking knelt in the tumbled bed, took his hand and held it against her. 'Please, tell me what you mean.'
'You realise-----' he moved his hand a little '—if this continues I shan't be able to tell you anything much.' He grinned. 'I shall be forced to take action.'
'Oh.' She reached for the wisp of lace masquerading as a nightdress. 'Is that better?'
'Much,' he said sardonically, then recognised signs of impatience. 'You know I've always regretted that we didn't spend those years in Ashala together.' Taking her almost imperceptible nod for agreement, he went on. 'What would you say if I told you we were going back there?'
'Patrick?' Idly she reached for the narrow strap which had slipped down her shoulder. 'Ashala?' 'Mmm.' How closely he was watching her. 'What would you say?'
'I'd say...how wonderful. I want to see the sun setting on the Ganges, bathing it in a golden haze.' She was gently mocking. 'So long as I see it with you.'
'Impudence.' He grinned. 'But I don
't think I said the Ganges, just one of the tributaries, and I promise I'll be there with you. And it's just for a few days. When I left they made me promise I would take my wife there one day. And, since I didn't imagine I would ever marry, it was easy enough to make that promise. But... you're sure you don't mind?'
'I'm quite sure. Rather the reverse, in fact.' 'Good. You see, I still haven't quite recovered from the shock of your refusal first time round. You've no idea what it did to my ego.'
'Mmm, strange—I've never noticed the least thing lacking in your ego.' She giggled when he made a threatening move, uncurled herself from the bed and strolled across the expanse of pale carpet to study her reflection, blushing at the skimpiness of the garment she was wearing.
'What-----' her face was burning '—do you think of this...? Do you prefer it to the wedding-dress?' Their eyes met in the mirror as he came to stand behind her; he was smiling and it was hard not to respond.
'Well.' His fingers touched the narrow strap, skimmed over the lacy top. 'I suppose each has its place.' He appeared to consider. Tut it this way; if you had come up the aisle dressed as you are right now, I should have been surprised, maybe even a little bit... embarrassed.'
'Would you, now?' She turned and was immediately imprisoned. 'And if I had found you waiting for me dressed like that, do you know what I would have done?' All at once her control lapsed; she was smiling, then they were both laughing and he was carrying her back to the bed.
'Go on,' he challenged, his mouth very close to hers. 'Tell me what you would have done. Surprise me.'
'I think...' She raked her fingers through his hair. 'I think I might have done something very much like... this.' Her lips parted, her breath mingling with his.
'Right there?' It was a moment later, and he sounded as if he had been running. 'In front of the congregation?'
'No.' She shook her head and the dark, silky mass of hair spread out over the pillow. 'No, I should have asked the archdeacon if he would excuse us for just a few moments.'
'Not enough.' He slipped one arm beneath her, raising her body towards his. 'Not nearly enough. You see... it's going to take the rest of our lives.'
Tomorrow's Bride Page 14
