In Bed With...Collection

He shifted his attention back to the view. “I was looking down at that field of poppies earlier, before you came out. All those flowers growing wild and free, so vibrant with their red petals. The thought came to me that they probably wouldn’t thrive nearly so well, transplanted to a formal garden. Better to let them grow their own way. Let them shine how they will.”

She sensed melancholy and despair and inwardly railed against the darkness falling between them. He was withdrawing from her. She could feel it. He swung his gaze to her again and she saw it, the deep personal pain behind the restraint he was grimly holding.

“I’ve done everything wrong with you, Maggie. I thought I could right it. Sheer blind arrogance on my part.” He managed a travesty of a smile. “The pushing stops here. If you want us to lead separate lives...well, it’s up to you to decide on what arrangement suits you best.”

She understood then. It was she who’d been blind. Beau loved her. And she had wounded his generous heart to the point of giving up on ever winning her love. She also knew words would be meaningless, as meaningless as they’d been to her without the right actions to back them up.

She rose from her chair, her heart gripped by a panicky urgency. She had to prove to him that all his gifts of love to her had not been in vain. She had learnt. The past was not going to blight her life with him. It wasn’t going to touch them anymore.

Without a word she turned and walked away, heading straight down the hill to the field of red poppies. A feverish energy pumped through her veins. A sense of destiny pounded through her brain. Beau Prescott was her mate. She was going to spend the rest of her life with him. She was not going to be afraid of anything.

Once amongst the wildflowers, she stooped to pick a bouquet of them, gathering them up as fast as she could. When she had an armful, she took a deep breath to steady herself, then started the return journey to the villa.

It startled her to see Beau had followed her and was standing only a few metres away, watching her intently, obviously worried over her physical or mental state. She smiled to ease his concern and headed straight for him. There was puzzlement in his eyes as she offered him the bouquet of poppies.

“I give them into your keeping, Beau,” she softly explained, her eyes begging him to understand. “With them comes my absolute trust. And my love. And my life.”

“Maggie...” Hope conflicted with doubt.

“Please?”

“Dear God!” He took the flowers, though his eyes said they were no substitute for her. “I thought...”

“I think we do much better together when we stop thinking, Beau.”

He laughed and tossed the poppies aside to wrap her in his arms. “I love you, Maggie Stowe. You are where I want to be for the rest of my life.”

Her heart caught, then soared. She slid her arms around his neck, pressing closer as she kissed him, the great surge of feeling between them pouring into the swift, fierce passion they had known from the very beginning. For a long, long time, they lay amongst the wild poppies in the field, bathed in the soft mystical light of Tuscany, loving each other in the full knowledge of their love.

Not once did Maggie think of Vivian’s wishes. Nor did she think of Rosecliff or those wanting this happy outcome, nor of the child conceived before either she or Beau had considered such a possibility. She thought only of being with this man, where she would always belong. This was their chance, and she didn’t want to waste a moment of it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#ud535c0fb-8216-5cc4-a273-7d8e9771b73f)

ST. ANDREW’S Cathedral was packed for what was being called The Wedding of the Year—Beau Prescott, heir to the Prescott millions and owner of Rosecliff, marrying his grandfather’s beautiful protеge. Margaret Stowe, with the bishop performing the ceremony and the boys’ choir giving voice to songs of joy.

It was what Mr. Vivian would have wanted, Sedgewick had declared, informing Beau and Maggie in no uncertain terms, and volubly backed up by Mrs. Featherfield, Wallace and Mr. Polly, that this wedding had to be the grandest party of them all.

Beau smiled to himself as he waited at the head of the aisle for his bride to appear. He hadn’t argued with them. He wanted to give Maggie the best of everything, especially on their wedding day. And no way would he spoil the pleasure of the faithful four in contributing to the event.

Sedgewick was undoubtedly in his element, supervising all the arrangements in the ballroom at Rosecliff, getting ready to distribute oceans of the best French champagne. Feathers would have revelled in helping Maggie to dress. Wallace would be as proud as punch, chauffeuring the bride in the most brilliantly polished Rolls in the city. Mr. Polly’s roses were on prime display and would undoubtedly feature in Maggie’s bouquet.

They were all delighted with his and Maggie’s plans for the future, too, keeping Rosecliff as their home and a centre for supporting his grandfather’s charities, while taking time away each year to explore and organise a new package tour for their travel agency. Beau couldn’t help grinning as he remembered planning this with Maggie.

“We will have a child to consider,” she’d reminded him.

“Any child with our genes is bound to be a wild child,” he’d declared. “It will just be one big adventure after another.”

“You mean we take our family with us?”

“Why not? We’ll open all the windows on the world.”

To which she’d laughingly agreed.

And he’d teasingly added, “Of course we’ll need a nanny to come with us to give us time to ourselves. Or for the occasional short trip, we can leave nanny and child at home for Feathers and Sedgewick and Wallace and Mr. Polly to spoil outrageously.”

With which they had heartily agreed.

The fulsome tones of the pipe organ faded into silence. Beau’s heart kicked. This was it. He turned as the first chords of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” rang through the cathedral. And there she was, hugging Sir Roland’s arm, starting down the long aisle towards him.

At first he thought she looked like a Medieval princess. Her high-waisted ivory silk gown was embroidered in gold and rich in elegance, shimmering with each step she took. Then he focused on her radiant face, framed by her glorious hair and haloed by her bridal veil and he thought...an angel. The Angel of Life.

The dress artfully covered her four months’ pregnancy but the thought of the child she carried in her womb—their child—filled Beau with a special sense of awe as he watched her come to him. The words his grandfather had once spoken to Lionel Armstrong slid into his mind...creation...salvation...and they suddenly had meaning, beautiful magical meaning.

The family line would go on through him and Maggie. Had his grandfather foreseen that? Was his spirit somewhere close, smiling over them, giving them his blessing?

Then Maggie was beside him, giving him her hand in trust and in love, and Beau held it safe as they pledged themselves to each other, husband and wife. The cathedral filled with song, voices soaring in joyful celebration. It was a pale echo of what they felt in their hearts, what was reflected in their eyes. All the years of their lives had been leading to this moment... the mating that was meant to be...and this was their wedding.

The reception in the ballroom at Rosecliff was every bit as splendid as Sedgewick ordained it should be. It was the most glittering evening anyone could ever remember. Jeffrey cracked the whip over the caterers who served superb food. Champagne flowed. Mrs. Featherfield kept the maids on their toes. The floral arrangements were fantastic. Sir Roland led off the speeches, all of which were warm and witty and wonderful.

When it was time for the Bridal Waltz, because of certain information imparted to Beau by Wallace, the band didn’t play a waltz at all. The Bridal Dance was announced and to the opening strains of one of Abba’s hit songs, “Dancing Queen,” Beau proudly led Maggie out to the centre of the floor, parading her to the guests who spontaneously and loudly applauded. She was laughing in delight when he turned her into in his arms, the song in full swing as he took her dancing.

“Who told you it was an old favourite of mine?” she asked.

“Wallace. And what more appropriate?” He grinned at her. “I’m dancing with the queen of my heart.”

“And I with my king.”

The look in her eyes was almost Beau’s undoing, especially when the band moved into playing “I do, I do, I do, I do, I do,” but he manfully restrained himself from racing his newly wedded wife off to a private place. It was probably fortunate that Sir Roland claimed Maggie for his dance, thus removing temptation.

Lionel Armstrong took the opportunity to draw Beau aside and pass him an envelope. “It’s from your grandfather. I was instructed to give it to you in the event of your marriage to Margaret Stowe.”

Beau was astounded. “How could he possibly know it would happen?”

“He didn’t. I was given another envelope to be handed to you when the stipulated year in the will was up if you hadn’t married Margaret Stowe.”

Beau shook his head in total bemusement. “So what happens to the second envelope now?”

“It has already been destroyed as per Vivian’s instructions. He said the marriage would make it irrelevant. I was further instructed to tell you that this...” he tapped the envelope in Beau’s hands “...should be read by both of you on your wedding night.”

It gave Beau important cause to whiz Maggie off to a private place. She was as deeply intrigued as he by this extraordinary action by his grandfather and they sought brief refuge in the library. The envelope contained a letter and a set of keys which puzzled them both, making them all the more eager to read what Vivian Prescott had written.

My dear Beau,

I am delighted you’ve had the good sense to marry Maggie. She is my wedding present to you since I found her, having despaired of you ever staying still long enough to recognise a soulmate.

Beau chuckled. “The old devil. I bet he was planning this from day one of meeting you.”

“You don’t mind?’ Maggie queried.