The Mistress Bride

The atmosphere had a warm, festive quality to it that brought a smile to Evie’s lips as she made her way along the green carpet pathway towards the open canopy. People glanced up, smiled, said hello, brushed their lips against her cheek if they knew her well enough, shook her hand if they didn’t. Or some simply gazed upon her in curious speculation because, despite what she had promised her mother about not outshining the bride today, Evangeline Delahaye could not help but stand out as someone very special.

She was tall, she was slender, she was stunningly lovely. And she was the famous lover of an Arab prince—a man with more wealth and power at his fingertips than most people here could even imagine. He was also gorgeous—which added even more spice to the affair because it made the whole thing so deliciously romantic.

It was the love affair of the decade. The press adored it; their respective families hated it. And everyone else liked to speculate on what the future held for them. While the couple themselves ignored all and everything that was said about them—whether that be by the enthusiastic press or their disapproving families.

Which in turn placed them in the dubious position of being the curiosities at functions like this. Especially when it was so absolutely obvious that they were both here today but not as a couple.

He was here in his official capacity as representative of Behran, she in her role as sister to the groom.

‘May I take your photograph, Miss Delahaye?’

Glancing around, Evie saw the eager face of a young man who was a photographer for a well-known broadsheet He was smiling expectantly, camera at the ready and relaxed because everyone here today had been so accommodating.

But: ‘Thank you—no.’ Evie refused politely. And kept on walking until she stepped beneath the wedding canopy.

Some people were already in their places. Her brother for instance, still looking impressively at ease as he stood talking to his best man and oldest friend, Sir Robert Malvern, while her mother sat in the row of chairs behind him, listening intently to whatever Great-Aunt Celia was saying to her.

Lecturing her on how to deal with me, most probably, going by the fierce expression on the old lady’s face, Evie assumed. And moved her bland blue gaze onwards—until she reached the other side of the aisle—and inevitably, maybe, found Raschid.

Her heart stopped beating momentarily, the studied blandness softening out of her eyes as they soaked in this man who gave her life meaning.

He was standing within a group of his own people, all Arab dignitaries from different Arab states wearing traditional Arab attire. But to her there was only one man standing there. In height, in looks, in sheer masculine charisma he reigned supreme over everyone. He was wearing white, the formal white silk dishdasha of his royal office, with its gold sash wrapped around his whipcord-lean waist, and triple gold bands around the plain white gutra that covered his head.

And he seemed to sense the precise moment that her eyes came to rest on him because—despite the fact that he seemed engrossed in whatever the man beside him was saying to him—his head lifted and he looked directly at her. Their eyes clashed and for those few brief moments out of time neither moved a single muscle as their usual reaction to each other held them transfixed in a private world of their own.

They did not openly acknowledge each other, though, neither by word nor by gesture. But it was clear that there had to be some way they were communicating, because the vibrations suddenly assailing the humid air beneath the canopy had everyone else going utterly silent.

Heads swivelled, eyes growing curious as they flicked from her face to his face then back again. Julian noticed the thickening silence, glanced up, saw and grimaced ruefully. But his mother’s cheeks went pink with anger. She abruptly turned her back on what she saw as her daughter making a spectacle of them—while the Arab standing next to Raschid touched his arm and murmured something to regain his attention.

It broke the spell. Raschid lowered his eyes to listen to what his companion was saying to him and Evie slid her cool blue gaze back to where her great-aunt was now glowering at her in pursed-lipped disapproval.

After that Evie and Raschid completely ignored one another. Evie went to have a quiet word with her brother before taking her place next to her mother, while behind them the makeshift church slowly filled up as the rest of the guests began to filter in from outside.

By the time a rather flustered and watery-eyed Lady Beverley was escorted to her place by one of the ushers, the congregation had fallen into a tense, waiting silence.

Then suddenly, piped out to them from the depths of the small chapel, an organ began to play. The sound of a wedding march filled the canopy at the same time as several gasps from the back rows heralded the arrival of the bride.

And Evie couldn’t resist turning in her seat to see a vision in white come gliding slowly down the aisle on her proud father’s arm.

Christina looked utterly enchanting in a flowing off-the-shoulder gown made of the most exquisite Chantilly lace that was such a perfect foil for her dark-haired beauty. In her hair she wore a band of pale pink roses—the same pink roses that made up her bouquet and were an exact match in colour to the pretty organza dresses worn by her five bridesmaids who followed behind.

And she was smiling. Christina was so sure of her love for Julian and his love for her that there wasn’t a single sign of wedding nerves in her.

It was that which brought a lump to Evie’s throat as she turned to look at her brother to see the exact same expression of pleasure and pride written on his face as he stood there watching his bride come towards him.

I wish...she found herself thinking wistfully, and was glad that Raschid was sitting several rows back from her so he couldn’t see her expression.

Would he sense it, though? she wondered. Was he sitting there witnessing this very English marriage and comparing what Christina and Julian were doing here with what could never be for them?

They loved each other; Evie didn’t for one moment doubt that love. And in a way she and Raschid had made louder statements about that love by upholding it in the face of so much dissension.

But loving boldly and pledging oneself to that love before God held no comparison. For one was a solemn vow of commitment as legal and spiritually binding as life itself—whereas the other would always be a tenuous thing without that legal commitment, without the blessing, no matter what the God.

‘We are gathered here today to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony...’

Beside her, she felt her mother stir as she lifted a lace-edged handkerchief to dab a tear from her eye. Guilt struck a sudden blow directly at Evie’s heart. The guilt of a child who was starkly aware of what a disappointment she was to her parent because Lucinda would never feel the pride and satisfaction that Christina’s mother must be feeling right now, as she watched her daughter marry well and proudly.

Oh, damn, Evie thought, feeling utterly depressed suddenly. And on an act of impulse she reached out to grasp her mother’s hand. Lifting it to her lips, she kissed it gently—she didn’t know why—unless it was in mute apology.

Whatever, her mother rejected the gesture by firmly removing her hand.

Which hurt—hurt so badly that Evie was barely aware of what went on for the rest of the ceremony as she became lost in a bleak little world of her own faults and failures.

Her failure as a daughter being only one of them. For she had failed someone else here today—though he didn’t know that.

Yet.

Prayers, blessings, hymns, vows—Evie responded where expected of her without really knowing she was doing it. In a kind of self-defence she had blanked herself off from everything, walled herself behind a bland smile and glassy blue eyes that only a few people here today would be able to tell were hiding a worryingly unhappy woman.

Sheikh Raschid Al Kadah was one of those people. He sat several rows back and to one side of her with his head lowered for most of the service—whilst his senses were picking up the kind of vibrations that made his blood run cold.

She appeared tranquil, he observed, taking a brief glance at her under cover of coming to his feet for the singing of a hymn. Her exquisite profile looked as composed as it always was when in public. Her fingers were relaxed, her body revealing no jerky movements that could hint towards tension.

Yet every single highly tuned instinct he possessed where Evie was concerned was telling him a completely different story.

It had to be this damned wedding, he blamed. For what woman didn’t dream of joining herself in marriage to the man she loved as Christina Beverley was doing today?

What man would turn down the opportunity to legally bind himself to a woman like Evie if he had the chance to do it?

He shifted restlessly, feeling a wave of angry discontent sweep through him at his own inability to make her feel more secure in his life.

He was heartily glad when the service was over and everyone relaxed a little as the couple went off with their entourage towards the chapel itself where the register was apparently signed. It wasn’t often he found himself yearning for alcohol but this moment was surely one of them.

‘On the face of it,’ his companion observed beside him, ‘if you remove the religious inferences, a Christian marriage is not so very different from our own.’

You wouldn’t be saying that if it was me marrying Evie, Raschid thought caustically through the fixed smile he offered in wordless acknowledgment

The band suddenly struck up again, followed by the dulcet tones of a solo tenor, saving him the need to offer a polite reply.

Instead, he flicked a hooded glance back to Evie again. She was sitting straight-backed now, most definitely tense, listening to whatever the old lady in the lilac dress was saying so severely. Her mother had gone, joining the rest of the bridal party to watch the signing ceremony—from which, it seemed, Evie had been excluded.

By her own choice, he knew that, but it didn’t make him feel any better for hearing her voice in his head saying, ‘Imagine the headline beneath the wedding photograph, Raschid, if I took a major role in this wedding: “Evangeline Delahaye plays chief bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding while her Arab prince lover looks on!”’ she’d quoted caustically. ‘Not “Lady Christina Beverley marries Sir Julian Delahaye at her beautiful Berkshire home”!’ she’d concluded. ‘I refuse to steal their thunder, and that’s the end of it.’

Which was also why she had asked him not to attend today and—arrogant as always—he had treated the request with the contempt he believed it had deserved.

But now, as he sat here witnessing the way Evie had been isolated from something she should have been allowed to share, he began to realise just how selfish he had been.

The old lady in the lilac dress was scowling, he noticed. Her wizened mouth spitting words at Evie who was sitting there with her lovely head lowered as she listened. Then the head lifted suddenly and turned. She had time only to speak one single word, but whatever that word was the old lady launched herself to her feet, sent Evie one last hostile volley then she stalked angrily away to go and sit herself down several rows back. Leaving Evie entirely alone.