Claiming His Bride

She sounded almost accusing.

You’ve no need to worry, Sorrel could have told her. If Blaize had ever loved Sorrel at all, she had effectively put paid to any chance of a future with him. Instead she said, ‘I have been. But Elena is my favourite cousin.’

‘So you’re just visiting?’ Cherie persisted.

Sorrel hesitated. Her job in Melbourne was interesting and she liked the city, liked Australia, but always there was the tug of home.

When her plane had taken a sweeping turn over Cook Strait, giving a breathtaking view of the rugged Marlborough Sounds with the bush growing down to the water, and then honed in between the hills to the notoriously tricky runway at Wellington, she’d felt tears prickling at her eyes, a rush of memories entering her mind. Bush walks without fear of snakes; beaches where sharks seldom bothered the swimmers, and children ran barefoot in the sand; steep, winding streets with houses perched on impossible slopes in crazy tiers, looking down on the white wakes of the inter-island ferries as they headed out of the harbour.

‘I may stay,’ she said now, possessed by a perverse impulse, ‘if I can get a job.’ Hearing her own words, she realised that in the back of her mind she’d been considering the move ever since she’d landed, shaken by that wave of homesickness.

‘What sort of job are you looking for?’ Blaize asked, forcing her to turn to him.

‘I haven’t begun to look yet. I only arrived a couple of days ago.’ Just in time to visit Elena, join in the flurry of preparation, and satisfy herself that the younger girl knew what she was doing.

‘Your parents told me you’ve been working in a department store.’

‘I’m in charge of the women’s fashion section.’

‘A pretty high-powered job, they said.’

‘Yes, but if I’m to move up further it would be into administration, and I like having my own department—being hands-on.’ She was making conversation, plugging the awkward silence with small talk. Changing the subject, she asked, ‘How are your parents?’

‘Very well,’ Blaize answered. ‘Dad’s enjoying his retirement.’ Paul Tarnower had handed over his business partnership after a health scare some years back, leaving his son to carry on the home appliance manufacturing company with Sorrel’s father. ‘They’re on a European cruise right now.’

‘I know. My mother’s quite envious.’

Cherie tugged at Blaize’s arm. ‘Darling, shouldn’t we be congratulating the happy couple?’

The bridal party was moving down the steps into the crowd of well-wishers.

‘I guess so.’ Blaize gave Sorrel a formal nod. ‘Excuse us?’

As they moved away Sorrel became conscious of covert glances directed at her. Many of the guests had been invited to her own aborted wedding to Blaize, in this very church. She’d exchanged a word or two with some of them, braving their veiled curiosity and stiff smiles. But her cousin would understand if she reserved her congratulations for a more private time.

Sorrel was grateful that Elena had accepted her preference not to be a bridal attendant. Probably she had been aware of the potential irony.

Of all the people left in the lurch by Sorrel’s disastrously late change of heart, only Elena, still in the lavender lace bridesmaid’s dress that they had chosen along with Sorrel’s wedding gown, had at least tried to understand and sympathise. So when she’d sent an invitation along with a personal plea to be there on her special day, Sorrel had found it impossible to refuse.

Resuming her interrupted path to the car, she was joined by her parents, and with a sense of relief climbed into the back seat for the short journey to the reception lounge.

‘A pretty wedding,’ her mother said. Checking her appearance in the mirror behind the sun visor, she adjusted her hat, exclusively designed to match the equally smart aqua dress that draped her over-slim figure. ‘Thank goodness nothing went wrong, but then Elena was always a sensible girl.’

Wincing, Sorrel reminded herself not to be hypersensitive, but the comparison was implicit. Even her father had muttered something earlier about hoping this wedding would proceed without a hitch.

She wanted to ask how long Blaize had been seeing Cherie Watson, and what their relationship was. Mentally she practised inquiring in a detached, mildly interested tone. But, dreading the inevitable reproach that would accompany the information, she held her tongue. Four years ago she had forfeited any right to inquire into Blaize’s private life.

Instead, she gazed out at the harbour as the car followed the road curving around Oriental Bay.

The windy city was notorious for the southerlies that swept up from the choppy waters of the Strait and buffeted the hills. But today the air was clear and still, the sun casting a soft light over buildings huddled close together between the hills and the shimmering blue water.

No place was as beautiful as Wellington on a fine day.

At the reception lounge it was a relief to find that she and her parents had been seated two tables away from Blaize, but although he had his back to her he was within her line of sight. She couldn’t block out the view of his dark head, often bent close to the blonde one next to him.

When the speeches started she saw Blaize drape an arm along the back of Cherie’s chair, his fingers touching her shoulder, while his other hand toyed with a wineglass between toasts.

Sorrel wished she were anywhere but here. Only for Elena’s sake could she endure it. And pride would keep her here for a decent length of time. She wasn’t going to sneak off as though ashamed of being seen.

She transferred her gaze to her mother, noticing that Rhoda had eaten almost nothing. Surely she was overdoing the constant dieting that seemed to have brought her close to the point of emaciation?

The man next to Sorrel was a friend of the groom. Someone had undoubtedly seated them adjacently so they could be company for each other since he too was alone. Considerate of Elena or her mother, but also vaguely humiliating, underlining Sorrel’s lack of a partner.

He was a pleasant enough man, quite good-looking in a chunky, stolid way, and they managed to contrive the usual small talk. Once the formalities were dealt with and the three-piece orchestra began to play, other couples following the bride and groom on to the floor, he asked if she’d like to dance.

He turned out to be a good dancer, with a surprisingly dashing style. After the first sedate waltz, when the music livened up and some of the older people left the floor, he initiated some adventurous moves, and Sorrel was able to enjoy herself.

She glimpsed Blaize, Cherie’s pale arms wrapped about his neck as she gazed adoringly at him while he returned a lazy smile, his eyelids lowered. They looked like a besotted couple.

Dragging her attention back to her own partner, Sorrel forced a smile to her lips and, exaggerating the swing of her hips, concentrated on the rhythm.

They were being noticed. People gave them extra space and cast admiring looks. Sorrel caught the turn of Blaize’s head, the quick flare of seeming disapproval in his eyes.

Defiantly she laughed, giving her partner the benefit of it, and did a little improvisation of her own, lifting her arms in a teasing pirouette away, wiggling her behind, and throwing a provocative glance over her shoulder before dancing back to him.

He laughed too, grabbed her close, and twirled them round before loosening his hold, hands lightly on her waist while they continued the dance.

The music ended, and she tossed wayward curls from her eyes and tucked the unruly strands behind her ear as she and her partner returned to their seats. The other chairs were empty, her mother and father chatting with Elena’s parents at the top table.

Slightly out of breath, she said, ‘That was fun.’

‘We’re good together.’ He grinned at her. ‘Want to try again?’

‘Let me have a breather first.’

‘Drink?’ he offered. ‘What would you like?’

She asked for a dry white wine, and he went off to jostle through the crowd about the bar.

Sorrel toyed with a hibiscus flower laid among greenery in the centre of the table, a frilled pink trumpet with one proud crimson stamen growing erect from its ruby heart, the end trimmed with tiny fine filaments holding the pollen. A few yellow grains speckled the white linen cloth as she turned the flower in her fingers.

‘Are you going to tuck it behind your ear?’

Blaize’s voice startled her into looking up. He stood with one hand in the pocket of his perfectly cut trousers, the other holding a glass half filled with red wine. ‘Which side?’ he inquired idly, looking down at her, his eyes under thick black lashes gleaming, speculative.

‘I can never remember which side means what.’

‘Right for “I’m taken” and left for “I’m free and available”, I believe.’