The Society Groom

In fact, Olivia thought, it would have been downright cruel to force anyone to wear such a garment. With its heavily embroidered top, totally smothered in pearls and rhinestones, over a vast crinoline skirt composed of tier upon tier of heavy, brilliant white lace flounces, dotted with bows and posies of flowers—and yet more pearls and rhinestones—it had been a complete nightmare!

‘I’ll look dreadful—like some huge snowball!’ Sarah had wailed in despair. ‘Please help me, Olivia. You must try and make my mother see that I’m far too short to wear something like that And that hard, bright white is absolutely the wrong colour for my skin.’

Eventually Olivia had managed to persuade Mrs Turnbull that ‘less is more’—and to concentrate on elegance rather than magnificence. And the older woman had eventually agreed that maybe Sarah and Olivia’s choice of wedding gown wasn’t so bad, after all.

And now, as she gazed at the bride in her sophisticated, fluid sheath of pale ivory satin, a simple diamond hairband holding back her long black hair beneath the hood of her velvet cloak, Olivia realised that, despite the battles with Mrs Turnbull, it had all been worthwhile. Sarah looked not only stunningly beautiful, but also extremely elegant and thoroughly soignée.

‘It was a great idea of yours to have the twins as my bridesmaids,’ Sarah murmured, the battles she’d had with her mother all forgotten now as, wearing exactly the outfit she’d always wanted, she watched Olivia handing the tiny posies of red and pale cream roses to the two small girls.

‘Don’t they look adorable, Dad?’ she asked her father as she smiled happily down at the dark-haired, five-year-old twin daughters of Mark’s much older sister. Dressed in simple ivory velvet dresses, with wide crimson satin sashes tied at the back in a large bow, they looked enchanting.

‘Aye, they do, lass,’ Robert Turnbull agreed, nervously straightening his tie and wishing himself miles away.

Not that he didn’t love his only daughter, he told himself firmly. But he was a plain-speaking Yorkshireman, and never happier than when running his large textile business. Although he got on right well with Mark’s father, who seemed a sensible enough man, the sooner he could get back up North the happier he’d be.

‘Hey—have you had a chance to get a good look at Mark’s best man?’ Sarah asked Olivia as the other girl bent down to straighten one of the little bridesmaid’s ivory-coloured tights.

‘Er...yes...’ Olivia muttered, inwardly cursing the flush she could feel rising over her pale cheeks as she tried to concentrate on retying the bow of the little girl’s red ballet shoes.

‘Is he drop-dead gorgeous—or what?’ Sarah giggled. ‘At least half of the female guests invited to the wedding seem to be his old girlfriends, while the other half are intending to seriously chat him up at the reception!’ she added with a grin, before nervously taking her father’s arm as the organ began thumping out the first, loud chords of the ‘Wedding March’.

Waiting until the bride and her retinue had begun walking slowly up the aisle, Olivia slipped into a seat at the back of the church.

But, despite the long length of the nave between them, she was still acutely aware of the broad-shouldered, dark figure of Dominic FitzCharles, standing beside the groom as the vicar began the wedding service, joining Sarah and Mark together in holy matrimony.

Despite the many other large, prestigious London hotels which were often chosen for wedding receptions, Claridge’s Hotel was far and away Olivia’s favourite venue. Together with its wonderful Art Deco, nineteen-thirties’ style of decoration, the hotel’s vast experience in handling functions—from simple dinner parties to grand balls attended by English royalty and the few remaining crowned heads of Europe—meant that she could safely leave all arrangements in the capable hands of the hotel’s staff.

And she’d been quite right. It was now an hour since the bride and groom had arrived at the hotel following their marriage, and everything seemed to be going with a swing.

The large reception room looked magnificent. The crystal chandeliers were casting a sparkling glow over the smartly dressed guests; the many huge flower arrangements filled the air with a delicious perfume; and an army of waiters were making sure that the champagne was flowing like water. All perfect ingredients for a great party!

However, as she now stood in a far corner of the large reception room, quickly glancing down at her watch as the happy couple circulated amongst their guests, Olivia knew that there were still some hours to go before she could relax.

With the groom only returning to Britain just a few days before his marriage, it hadn’t been the easiest of weddings to arrange. Especially as Sarah had had some firm ideas about the reception.

‘I want to have some sort of dinner-dance,’ she’d said, before adding with a frown, ‘But what do we do with the all those elderly relatives and friends of my parents? They’re going to simply hate the idea of dancing, since most of them will just want to sit around, catching up on the family gossip.’

However, after carefully going through the proposed list of guests, and noting that many of Sarah and Mark’s friends worked in the City of London, Olivia had put forward a suggestion that the wedding should take place in one of the ancient City churches on a late Friday afternoon.

‘I know it’s slightly unusual,’ she’d told Mrs Turnbull and her daughter. ‘But it will make it a lot easier for busy men and women to attend the wedding at the end of a working week before going on to a reception in a hotel such as Claridge’s. And if you start with a champagne reception—including the usual speeches and cutting the wedding cake—those who wish to do so can then leave, with the younger guests staying on to enjoy a buffet dinner and dance.’

‘That’s a brilliant idea!’ Sarah had exclaimed. And even Mrs Turnbull had grudgingly agreed that it did seem to cater for just about all their guests.

However, now, despite being busily engaged in making sure that the reception was proceeding smoothly, Olivia was only too well aware that she still had a major problem on her hands.

Right from the moment he’d arrived at the hotel with the bride and groom, she’d been acutely aware that Dominic FitzCharles—clearly unused to being thwarted in any way—was still determined to find an answer to the puzzle which had been troubling him since his arrival at the church.

The damn man’s as stubborn as a mule, Olivia had told herself grimly, doing her best to ignore the granite-hard, clear grey eyes regarding her intently as she’d moved about the room, making sure that the influx of guests were being properly looked after. Luckily, Dominic had been forced to stand in the receiving line, together with Sarah and Mark and their parents—so she’d been quite safe for a while.

However, after all the guests had arrived, and Dominic had at last been able to leave the receiving line, Olivia had found herself beginning to panic. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but it had seemed that he was deliberately ‘stalking’ her through the crowded throng of guests, smoothly greeting his friends and acquaintances while all the time firmly keeping her tall, slim figure in view.

He’d almost caught up with her as she’d been checking over the timing of the speeches with the Toastmaster, hired for the occasion. Luckily, she’d managed to quickly make her escape by hurriedly taking refuge in the ladies’ powder room.

Suddenly feeling exhausted by the stress and strain engendered by Dominic’s totally unexpected appearance as Mark Ryland’s best man, she’d sunk down onto a padded stool, removing her wide-brimmed black hat and gazing helplessly at herself in the mirror.

‘Come on! For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together—and get a grip on the situation!’ she’d muttered grimly under her breath, grimacing at the sight of her pale cheeks and the tense, strained lines around the wide green eyes staring back at her, cloudy with fear and apprehension.

While she couldn’t, of course, have stayed hidden in the powder room for very long, it had at least given her the opportunity to do something about her hair. And, there was no doubt, after vigorously brushing her long hair before once again winding it into a neat coil at the back of her head, that she had felt a whole lot better.

Leaving her large hat in the care of the cloakroom lady, and confident that she was once again maintaining her normal ‘strictly business’ appearance, she’d cautiously made her way back to the reception.

Now, following her signal, the Toastmaster gathered together the chief members of the wedding party at the far end of the room, before calling for silence to enable an elderly relative of the bride to propose the health of the happy couple.

So used to wedding speeches—which could occasionally go on for an inordinate length of time!—Olivia wasn’t really listening to what was being said at the far end of the room. Until, to her complete astonishment, she caught the sound of her own name.

Quickly jerking to attention, she gazed over the heads of the crowd towards where, most unusually, she saw that the bride had seized hold of the microphone.

‘...and we’re so happy to see you all here today.’ Sarah gave the guests a broad grin. ‘I’ve already thanked my parents, and everyone else connected with our marriage, but I do want everyone to know that without the help of Olivia Johnson and her firm Society Weddings, which took all the strain out of what could have been a tense time before our wedding, Mark and I might well have run off on our own and eloped to Gretna Green!’

Oh, Lord! It looks as if Sarah has really hit the champagne bottle, more than somewhat! was the first thought to enter Olivia’s head, as a ripple of laughter and applause rang around the room.

And then, as she saw Dominic give a quick snap of his fingers—the gesture accompanied by an expression of triumph and satisfaction flickering briefly across his handsome face—Olivia realised that any hope of her remaining anonymous as far as Dominic was concerned was now a complete waste of time. A fact emphasised as, in his role of best man, he stepped forward to make the final speech of the day, before once more proposing the health of the bride and groom.

It was an accomplished, smooth performance. Although Olivia could have done without the heavily cynical, distinct emphasis in his voice when welcoming so many ‘old friends’ to the wedding.

However, it looked as though the rotten man must be able to move with the speed of light. Because, only a moment or two after the bride and groom had cut the cake, Olivia suddenly became aware that the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Dominic FitzCharles was now standing by her side.

‘Well, well, how very nice to see you again, Olivia. And after all these years!’ he drawled coolly, smiling sardonically down at the pale-faced, slim figure of the girl who’d been so clearly avoiding him for some hours.

CHAPTER TWO

‘IT’S been a long time since we last saw one another,’ Dominic drawled smoothly.

‘Yes, it has,’ Olivia agreed, thoroughly rattled by his sudden, unexpectedly swift appearance at her side.

‘So... what have you been doing with yourself all these years?’

She shrugged. ‘Not a lot.’

‘Oh, really?’ he murmured. ‘You certainly seem to have been quite busy today.’

‘Well, yes. As you can see, I run a business arranging weddings,’ she muttered, avoiding his eyes as she gazed past him at the crowded throng of guests.

He gave a short bark of dry laughter. ‘Yes—I had rather gathered that fact,’ he told her, not bothering to hide the note of hard irony in his deep voice. ‘Is it a successful business?’

She gave another shrug of her slim shoulders. ‘I make a reasonable living!’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he drawled, his lips twitching with wry amusement and clearly not at all perturbed by the girl’s obvious reluctance to continue the conversation. ‘But what about your private life?’