Champagne with a Celebrity

‘Two weddings. That’s just greedy,’ Amber said, laughing. She stood back to look at her handiwork. ‘Oh, Allie—Xav’s going to take one look at you and then be desperate to carry you off to his lair.’

‘You look stunning,’ Gina agreed. ‘Radiant.’

Allie flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Ah, that’s what you’re supposed to say to all brides.’

‘But it’s still true,’ Amber said. She pushed back the tiny bit of wistfulness: ridiculous. Right at the moment, she didn’t even want to date anyone, let alone get married and settle down.

When Amélie, the flower-girl, arrived, Amber sat on the floor with her and taught her a counting song to make her feel less shy and more at ease, then did her hair, too.

‘I look like a princess!’ the little girl exclaimed in French when Amber showed her in the mirror.

‘You certainly do,’ Amber said, giving her a hug. ‘Absolutely beautiful. And now I’d better get ready myself. See you all in a bit!’

Guy stared as Amber walked out of the château. Yesterday, in jeans and a T-shirt, she’d been stunning enough. But, dressed up, she was unbelievably gorgeous. As elegant as Audrey Hepburn, in a gold silk dress with spaghetti straps and matching strappy sandals; and her hair was piled on top of her head, secured with pearl-headed pins.

He was glad that he’d offered to drive some of the wedding party to the Mairie. At least concentrating on the road would keep his thoughts off Amber. Her smile, warm and bright and yet with a hint of unexpected shyness, made heat coil low in his belly and desire creep all the way up his spine. Worse still, his fingers itched to take the pins out of her hair and tumble her curls over her shoulders. And then he had a thought that really stopped him in his tracks: the idea of her hair tumbled across his pillow.

Oh, hell—he really had to get a grip.

‘Bonjour, Guy.’ Her voice was soft, low-pitched, a little bit on the posh side. Sexy as hell. ‘Allie says you’re driving us. Thank you.’

‘Pleasure,’ he responded automatically. ‘Grab a seat.’

When she climbed into the front seat next to him, he really wished he’d been more specific and told her to sit in the back. It took all his concentration to drive to the village, knowing that every time he changed gear his hand was only a few centimetres away from her thigh. Especially as the hemline of her dress had already ridden up above her knee to reveal smooth, touchable skin—and she didn’t seem in the slightest bit aware of it! She was chatting happily about how this was the first time she’d ever been to a French wedding and she was dying to see the croquembouche, the wedding cake made from choux buns held together in a pyramid with caramel.

This woman had the power to drive him crazy. Which made her very, very dangerous.

The wedding service at the Mairie was short and sweet; while Allie and Xav changed, the rest of the wedding party had a glass of wine in the café in the square, a couple of doors down, while they waited. Amber opted for a coffee rather than wine, wanting to pace herself; although she was chatting with some of the other guests, something made her break off mid-conversation and turn round.

And then she realised why.

Guy had walked into the café, looking stunning in a tailcoat, sky-blue waistcoat and matching cravat. Formal dress really suited him, and Amber wasn’t surprised that all the other women in the coffee shop were staring at him, too. Guy Lefèvre was the kind of man who attracted attention, even though he didn’t seem to be aware of it. There was just something about him and, when his gaze meshed with hers for a moment, her heart gave an odd little flip.

Oh, this was bad. Even if she wasn’t officially being celibate, she couldn’t possibly fall for Guy Lefèvre. He might not be one of the rats she usually dated, but she knew it would never work between them; they were from completely different worlds.

Then Allegra and Xavier appeared at the door. Allegra’s wedding dress was simple and elegant, in pure white; she wore a simple tiara in her hair, and carried an exquisite bouquet of white roses. Gina, as chief bridesmaid, was holding Amélie the flower-girl’s hand; both wore similar dresses to Allegra’s, but in the same sky-blue as Xavier and Guy’s waistcoats, and the little girl’s dress had a deep blue velvet sash round it.

The whole wedding party walked to the tiny church on the edge of the village, led by the bride and groom; white ribbons were strewn between the hedgerows, blocking their path, until Allegra and Xavier cut them. Clearly this was some kind of French tradition; Amber made a mental note to ask Allie about it later. The church was ancient and pretty, built in pale stone; inside, it was full of light. At the altar there were two red velvet chairs placed beneath a silk canopy—clearly waiting for the bride and groom—and as they walked in Allegra’s mother played the violin, a sweet and haunting piece of Bach.

Although the service was conducted entirely in French, Amber could just about follow what was going on. As Allegra and Xavier exchanged rings Amber thought wistfully how lucky Allegra was to have found her one true love. She didn’t think she’d ever find one herself.

And then she was cross with herself for letting herself be maudlin. She loved weddings and parties. And, as Allie had claimed that French weddings went on all night and finished at breakfast, Amber had every intention of having a good time.

When the bride and groom had been showered in dried delphinium petals outside the church and had stepped over the laurel leaves strewn on the path, the champagne reception began in the churchyard. The vin d’honneur, or the toast to the bride and groom: Amber knew that the whole village was invited to this part. And when Xavier poured a glass of champagne at the base of one of the gravestones and Allegra did the same to what looked like a much newer grave without a headstone, Amber realised it was a way of including those who were no longer with them—obviously Allie’s great-uncle, and someone who presumably had been very close to Xav.

Back at the château, a huge marquee had been set up on the lawn, with tables edging a dance-floor. Time for the champagne reception. But what she hadn’t expected was the way the champagne was opened. Guy and Xavier were both wielding curved sabres. They held the bottles with the corks pointing away from them, slid the sabres towards the corks and the corks flew out of the bottles with a short burst of champagne.

Amber had never seen anything like it. It was even more impressive than watching someone do a cascade of champagne glasses. If she could persuade Guy to teach her how to do it, it would be so fantastic for next year’s midsummer ball.

Her chance to ask him came when she found herself unexpectedly seated next to him for the formal meal.

‘That thing you did with the champagne was very impressive,’ she said.

He lifted one shoulder. ‘The sabrage, you mean?’

‘It’s not something I’ve seen before,’ she said. ‘So I take it that it’s a traditional French thing?’

‘Yes. It’s from Napoleonic times—the Hussars celebrated victory by sabring the top off a bottle of champagne while they were still riding their horses at full gallop.’

And she could just imagine Guy in a Hussar officer’s uniform. He’d look stunning on horseback. Sexy as hell.

With difficulty, she dragged her mind back to what he’d said. ‘That sounds like a recipe for disaster, with glass flying all over the place—doesn’t some of the glass get in the champagne?’

‘No. The pressure of the champagne takes everything out.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Was she going to question everything he said? Guy wondered. Or was she really interested? To test her, he gave her all the facts and figures. ‘It’s a matter of holding the bottle at the right angle and hitting the lip of the bottle in the right place—at the seam, where it’s weakest. And it’s not a sharp sword—it’s a champagne sabre, modelled on the design of the Hussars’ swords.’

‘So, with training, anyone could do it?’

‘With training, yes.’ And suddenly he realised the hole he’d just dug himself. Surely she wasn’t going to ask him to let her have a go?

She smiled. ‘Any chance of you teaching me?’

‘Why would you want to learn that?’ he parried.

‘I already told you, I organise parties. And that includes a midsummer ball to raise funds for cancer research. Opening champagne like that at the ball would be spectacular—even better than the cascade of champagne glasses we did this year.’

‘Why cancer research?’ he asked.

‘Because my favourite grandmother had breast cancer.’ For a moment, a shadow crossed her face, but then she smiled. ‘She’s in remission right now, but this is my way of doing something to help.’

‘Partying.’

‘If you organise parties well and people have a good time, they’re prepared to pay a lot of money for the tickets, which means the charity makes more,’ she said. ‘Sure, I could’ve done a sponsored walk or sat in a tub of baked beans or what have you, but this is more fun. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.’ She grimaced. ‘And that wasn’t meant to be a pun on my name.’

That sounded personal, Guy thought. No doubt the press enjoyed making puns with her name.

‘Actually, I might as well be bold,’ she said. ‘As well as the money I make from the ticket sales, I hold a tombola to raise funds—big things, like a make-over, or a balloon flight, or a spa day, or a portrait by a really good photographer. I’ve managed to get dinner with a heart-throb in there too, by getting Mum to chat up one of her friends.’

‘Your mother being…?’

‘Libby Wynne, the actress.’

Oh, so that was why she looked familiar. Now he knew, he could see the resemblance. Though if pressed he’d say that Amber was even more beautiful than her mother.

‘So, as you’re this genius parfumier,’ she continued, ‘could I put you down for making a personalised scent for someone?’