The Mistress Bride

Evie sucked in a deep breath of air then let it out again carefully before replying. ‘Yes.’

Disapproval was rife in the kind of expression her mother had perfected beautifully. ‘It isn’t quite what I would call appropriate, Evie. Couldn’t you have come up with something less—eye catching?’

‘I promise not to outshine Christina,’ Evie vowed with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘But you look wonderful, Mother,’ she added. ‘The epitome of grace and style in fact.’

‘Yes...’ Lucinda Delahaye drawled and walked over to her daughter’s wardrobe, leaving that single word to hang in the air between them as a cutting reference to her daughter’s lack of both.

Evie looked on mutely as her mother opened the wardrobe door then stood eyeing its few contents in silent disfavour. Evie knew what she was doing, of course; she was searching for an alternative to the red dress—which was why Evie had made sure she had nothing else with her she could wear to her brother’s wedding.

She had been through scenes similar to this before, after all.

‘There is nothing here for the grand ball tonight,’ her mother remarked finally.

Evie stared across the room at this woman who was her mother—and sadly wondered if she would ever learn to forgive her daughter for falling in love with the wrong man. She supposed not, she conceded bleakly. Especially not while her mother could blind her eyes to the exquisite length of spun gold silk hanging in the wardrobe that had Raschid and the East written all over it.

He had brought it back with him from a visit home a couple of months ago. ‘I saw this when I took Ranya shopping, and immediately thought of you,’ he’d explained.

Ranya was Raschid’s sister with whom Evie felt very intimate—though she had never so much as clapped eyes on her. But she was the same age as Evie and maybe because of that Raschid talked about her a lot. He admired Ranya’s unquestioning sense of duty—but whether Raschid also admired the way Ranya’s husband kept a mistress tucked away here in London Evie wasn’t sure. He tended to go all stiff and eastern on her when she brought up the subject—usually in the middle of a row—and their rows tended to be about their respective families’ disapproval of their relationship.

But the dress really was a sensational creation, made of gossamer-fine pure silk chiffon that seemed to drip to the floor like gold-spangled toffee. Long-sleeved, low-necked and gathered at the waist, it had a way of moving in opposition to her body that was intensely alluring.

‘Don’t be a bore, Mother,’ Evie said wearily, sighing. ‘Skirting around the subject of Raschid is not going to make him go away, you know.’

‘Then what will?’

Startled because there had been a definite note of wry sardonicism in her mother’s tone then, Evie glanced warily at her—saw the wryness was showing in her eyes as well—and matched it with a similar look of her own.

‘Nothing while I can hardly bear to be apart from him,’ she answered fatalistically.

Which made it her mother’s turn to sigh and she walked over to the window to stand, staring bleakly out at the unremarkable view much as Julian had done a few minutes before her.

And on a stab of remorse because—again like Julian—Evie did not want to see her mother looking anything but radiant today she went to brush a gentle kiss across her delicately perfumed cheek.

‘I love you, darling,’ she murmured softly.

‘But you love him more.’ Her mother grimaced.

There really was no answer to that except the truth and Evie wisely decided to keep that to herself. ‘I promise faithfully,’ she said instead, ‘that I will do nothing today that could embarrass you.’

Her mother nodded, for once taking Evie at her word, and as a gesture of gratitude for that Evie dropped another kiss on her mother’s cheek before she moved over to the bed to collect her bolero.

‘Harry’s here.’

Evie’s fingers stilled on the tiny red jacket. ‘Yes,’ she answered quietly. ‘I know.’

‘He never did get over you.’

‘He will,’ she assured her. ‘Given time and the right woman.’

‘You were the right woman,’ Lucinda turned to flash at her. ‘Have you spoken to him since you jilted him?’ she then asked curiously.

‘I didn’t jilt him!’ Evie denied. ‘He asked me to marry him. I turned him down,’ she snapped, her patience beginning to wear thin. ‘Harry graciously accepted that refusal two years ago—why can’t you do the same thing, Mother?’

‘Because I still have this picture of the two of you happy together until Sheikh Raschid came along and ruined it!’

‘He may have ruined your plans,’ Evie said impatiently, ’but he certainly didn’t ruin mine! I love Raschid!’ She declared her feelings outright. ‘I adore him! I bless each new day that I am allowed to spend in his life! Does that say it clearly enough for you?’

‘And when the day comes that he no longer wants you in his life?’ her mother challenged, undeterred. ‘What will you have left, Evie, tell me that?’

More than you can envisage right now, Evie thought tragically. ‘Why can’t you just be happy that I am happy?’ she cried.

‘Because you aren’t happy,’ her mother countered. ‘In fact, Evie,’ she added, ‘I would say that recently you have looked anything but happy! Would you like to tell me why that is, considering this wonderful love affair you’re so blissfully involved in?’ ,

It showed? ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, turning away before her mother could read her shock for exactly what it was.

‘No?’ her mother quizzed. ‘Well...’ she began walking back to the door ‘...I suppose we will soon know the truth in that. Just make sure you don’t make too much of your affair with him in front of everyone today,’ she added curtly—which was what she’d really come in here to say in the first place. ‘There will be representatives from all the Arab states present. I don’t want my daughter’s name being bandied around the Middle East as some notoriously loose woman.’

Loose woman? Oh, good grief! Evie watched the door close behind her mother’s retreating back and wanted to throw something after her!

But instead she sank down on to the end of the bed and wilted like a weary flower.

This, she predicted, was going to be one hell of a day to get through!

And not only because of her mother’s stuffy attitude, but because she knew she was going to have to run the gauntlet of all those other disapproving faces that were waiting for her out there today—and that went for Arab and English alike!

Damn you, Raschid, she thought. For being who you are and what you are. And damn herself for being who and what she was, she then added heavily. For if only one of them had been a simple nobody, their relationship wouldn’t cause a single bat of a single eyelid!

But he had to be the wonderful heir to one of the noblest families in Arabia and she had to be the daughter of one of England’s oldest names. And even those two points together were not worrying enough to excite all the trouble their relationship incited. No, it was the very disturbing fact that the relationship had been standing firm for so long that caused rumblings of discontent on all sides.

Rumblings that were in real danger of becoming major eruptions in the near future, Evie mused bleakly.

‘Damn,’ she breathed. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ And got to her feet so she could finish getting herself ready to face the day.

CHAPTER THREE

OUTSIDE the magnificent sandstone castle, the sleek lawns running down from the moat to a beautiful natural lake had been taken over by caterers. A giant marquee now obliterated the view of the lake from the castle itself, while inside the grand ballroom had been transformed into a flower-strewn love-bower—just in case the weather decided to turn inclement.

But Mother Nature was being very obliging today. The sun was shining, and the soft summer air was heavy with the scent of roses and resonant with the sound of a military brass band playing catchy medleys of popular classics from its allocated corner of the lawn.

Roll upon roll of protective green carpet had been laid out across the grass to form walkways from the house to the marquee and marquee to the separate canopy where the marriage itself was to take place in what had to be an inspired piece of forward planning.

For, because there were far too many guests to make the use of the Beverleys’ private chapel a viable proposition today, a huge white canvas canopy had been erected and extended right over the top of the old stone archway that formed the entrance to the chapel grounds. Just inside the arch a stone altar had been erected. Beyond that the brightly coloured stained-glass window of the chapel itself formed the perfect backdrop for the couple when they exchanged their vows on what would be in effect consecrated ground.

Everyone was very impressed.

Even Evie, who had deliberately left it as late as she could before coming outside, though she was not so late that everyone had taken their seats ready for the bride and her entourage to make their entrance.

People were still standing around in the sunshine talking, smiling, laughing, joking. Famous people. Important people. People from all over the world, mingling to form a myriad of colour in the bright sunlight. People who, for once, didn’t mind posing for the half dozen official photographers circulating in their midst, even though some of those photographers belonged to the press—allowed in by special invitation and warned to be unobtrusive—or else.