by Lisa Norato
*
At one of the back tables, seated between Sallie and Gracious Living’s art director, Nicole Sterns, Marcella hung on William’s every word. She’d been jotting down a reminder to balance the vibrant garden photographs with some black and whites, when William’s refined voice reached out to the crowd and all thoughts of her article disappeared.
“I’ve always known Aunt Lynne to be a beautiful woman,” William was saying. “An independent woman who’s always known her own mind and what she wants out of life, but I have never seen her look more radiant or confident than she does today. We are all very proud of her. You see, our family was a bit surprised when Aunt Lynne announced her engagement. She claimed she would never marry. None of us ever imagined she’d change her mind. It’s been said — though I have no firsthand knowledge of this myself, mind you — that our dear Auntie Lynne is possessed of a rather uncompromising nature.”
“A diva,” Nicole summarized.
She said it; I didn’t, Marcella thought as she exchanged grins with Sallie.
“But Henry wasn’t intimidated,” William continued. “Certainly not. Why, I heard the night before his wedding he wasn’t a’tall nervous about marrying Aunt Lynne. Slept like a baby. Right, woke up every half hour crying for his mummy.”
Laughter arose, especially from the front tables, which Marcella knew to be occupied by Lynne’s and Henry’s families.
Meanwhile, up at the top table, Henry blushed, while the diva herself pouted with faux insult. William smiled at her with a look of total adoration and Lynne melted.
William gestured to his aunt and announced, “All joking aside, my point, as you can see, is that not even our dear, headstrong Aunt Lynne could withstand the power of love.”
The crowd applauded. Sallie nudged Marcella from beneath the table, which Marcella knew was meant to remind her of their conversation on the plane.
All right, she’d made a mistake. She’d overreacted. What had she accomplished by blowing William off? Nothing. She’d never be able to give full attention to her work when her libido jumped into overdrive at a mere glimpse of him.
William went on to explain that he wished to recite a short poem, which he believed expressed the nature of Lynne’s and Henry’s love. He slipped on a pair of round, wire-framed spectacles.
“Just when I thought he couldn’t get any hotter,” Marcella groaned.
Nicole nodded. “He is a dish, as they say here in England.”
Marcella listened attentively to his skillful recital, enhanced all the more by his British accent. He looked thoroughly at ease, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for William to be the center of attention. Marcella wondered whether speaking to the masses wasn’t something William did on a regular basis.
She sat back and processed this new information, then flipped a page in her organizer and wrote “Natural public speaker” next to William’s full titled name and the rest of his bio. As she tapped her pen on the page, she ran down the list. Born of a royal family, well-groomed, well-educated Oxford grad, team athlete, good sense of humor, strong moral character.
Marcella leaned into Sallie and whispered. “Look at him, Sallie. The glasses, his ease before a crowd. I’ll bet you anything William is a professor.”
Sallie considered for a moment before countering, “Lots of professions require public speaking. William used to bartend in school, remember? I bet he’s real good at listening to other people’s problems. Why couldn’t he be an attorney? Can’t you imagine him in a courtroom fighting for justice?”
“Get real, Sal. A lawyer who donates his car to senior citizens?”
“Point taken. I suppose he could very well be a professor. I’d take the bet, Marcella, but there’s no chance we’ll find out now, will we?”
Marcella frowned. Perhaps she could figure out some way to apologize to William and rekindle his interest.
She turned her attention back to his toast.
William was now addressing the groom. “Henry, in you, Aunt Lynne has found her perfect partner, and I know I speak for us all when I say I’m delighted to have you join our family. Your loyalty, honor and sense of humor have never failed, and I know you will make a truly loving and dedicated husband to my aunt. I wish you both every happiness.”
William raised his champagne flute and told the guests, “Ladies and gentlemen, please charge your glasses, I give you the Reverend and Mrs. Henry Swann, the bride and groom.”
*
After a traditional dinner of roast of beef with Yorkshire pudding — a lovely mushroom and asparagus risotto for Sallie — served in an elegant presentation on white china with fine linen, the dancing began.
The bride and groom shared their first dance then the rest of the wedding party joined them on the dance floor in an exchange of waltzes. Finally, the floor opened to guests. The music switched to the beat of Sixties British pop. As “Love Potion Number Nine” rocked out the sound system, the Oxford oarsmen shed their striped jackets in search of a partner. One in particular, tall and ruddy-cheeked with a shock of pale blonde hair, asked Sallie to dance.
Nicole wandered off to the shade trees for a cigarette. Left to her own devices, Marcella took her organizer and headed for the bar. All this crooning over potions put her in the mood for one.
As she sipped her Potion for Passion, Marcella checked out Darcey, who was on her way to the dance floor walking hand-in-hand with her so-called sex god.
Just as she’d guessed. So this was Bertie. Marcella figured him for about five-ten. Much shorter than William, but with his wavy chestnut hair and British good looks, he bore a remarkable resemblance to his older brother. Of course, Bertie’s unsophisticated youth left him slightly rounder in the face, a touch gangly. He lacked William’s grace, even on the dance floor.
Marcella nursed her drink as she watched William boogie with Lynne. After having debated her options all through dinner, she still hadn’t come up with a workable plan for restoring herself back into his good graces.
The obvious, most direct approach would be to apologize and offer to buy him a drink. “Care for a taste of Passion?” she would cleverly ask. But no, apologizing would only draw attention to the fact she’d been rude in the first place.
She thought of asking Sallie to take photos of the entire wedding party and then use the opportunity to engage William in conversation. Unfortunately, Lynne was part of that wedding party, and her disapproving presence was bound to put a damper on Marcella’s rusty pickup lines. Strike that.
Maybe she’d casually stroll over and ask William to dance. No groveling, no apology. Just, “Care to dance?” Simple, right? Problem was, William’s dance card appeared to be full.
After getting down with Lynne, William danced with his mother, followed by Darcey, one of the junior bridesmaids, and a continuous stream of women of varying ages and sizes whom Marcella chose to believe were relatives. Between dances, he held court on the lawn where he inevitably picked up another partner from amongst the many guests.
The more she watched, the more vulnerable Marcella felt. Didn’t it just stink, caring about someone? Someone who, by the way, she did not need, nor had she desired, to come into her life. Someone so dashing and handsome he obviously didn’t need or desire her.
Defeated, she set her empty glass on the bar and opened her organizer to double check she had everything she’d need to produce a finished article.
She was scanning her list of photographs when a tiny voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Please, miss.”
Marcella peered over her organizer and looked down in the direction of the voice. There in her linen bridesmaid dress, arms bare now that she had discarded the lilac cardigan, was Mae, the tiny attendant Marcella had met outside the church along with William’s mother.
Mae’s face was flushed from dancing. A single paper butterfly clung to a few loose strands of her baby soft, mink brown hair. She held a white rose, obviously scoffed from one of the floral
arrangements inside the reception tent.
“Hi, Mae. What do have there, honey?”
Mae offered up the rose, then extended her right arm, pointing to some location yonder in the garden. “Please, miss, that man would like a dance. Shall I tell him yes?”
Chapter 5
Adorable, Marcella thought as she smiled down at Mae. Absolutely adorable. Could anyone refuse such a charming offer? Still, as a single woman, her instincts of self-preservation demanded she have a look-see before accepting the rose.
She glanced about the garden, attempting to identify the man who had sent Mae, but not one face sought her out. She noticed several guests had gathered beneath the shade trees. Nicole was still sucking poison into her lungs while she gossiped with two other Gracious Living staff members. A few elderly ladies admired the flower beds. A young couple locked lips beneath the rose arbor. Everyone seemed otherwise socially engaged except … that man … across the green, gazing into the goldfish pond … turning towards her … was that? Yes.
Looking her way, William stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his black tux trousers and shrugged. Slowly, one corner of his lips curled in a mischievous, sexy grin.
Her heart began to race. Gone was the frock coat. His winged-collar shirt shone stark white in the bright sunshine, its sleeves rolled past his forearms. With his excellent posture, William made for one fine, broad-shouldered, aristocratic biker dude.
Marcella waved, pointed to Mae, then mouthed, “From you?”
He nodded.
Marcella burst into a big, goofy smile she was certain broadcast her excitement and left no doubt she was up for a dance. Up for more than a dance, if everything went her way. All she could think was, Yes! yes! yes!
She returned her attention once again to Mae, who waited patiently with the rose. Marcella reached down to claim it. “Thank you, Mae, honey. Tell your Uncle William I said yes. Yes, I’ll dance with him.”
Mae beamed. “Thank you, miss, thank you.”
She gave Marcella a curtsey before skipping off to deliver the news. Enthusiastic kid, Marcella thought. Probably just excited for her uncle. Probably just another devotee in the Honorable William fan club.
Speaking of which, Marcella fully intended to become a groupie herself. Her new strategy was to gorge herself until she regurgitated William Stafford right out of her system. Excess and enjoyment. Yup. Uh-huh.
As Mae approached William, Marcella watched their exchange. William offered the girl what Marcella recognized as a pound coin. Mae refused and stomped her foot. William squatted before the child and tried again with the coin. They debated for a few moments, then William straightened, and with a shake of his head, reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He slipped out a note, which he presented to Mae.
The kid snatched the money and split.
Marcella hid her laughter behind the rose. William spied her and returned the smile. His gaze never left her face as he pocketed his wallet and began to bridge the distance between them with long strides.
Her anticipation increased with his every step. The scent of rose petals stirred her senses.
The moment was so perfectly romantic, she could hardly believe it. So perfect, in fact, paranoia set in. A white rose signified innocence and purity. Had William meant to deliver a message? Was he trying to explain his interest was purely innocent? Maybe he’d noticed her drinking by herself, scribbling in her organizer like some workaholic geek when she should have been socializing, and took pity. Maybe he was just being polite in asking her to dance.
If that were the case, Marcella would just have to make the most of this opportunity. Besides, William was wonderfully articulate. He didn’t need the language of flowers to express himself. He’d swiped the rose off a floral arrangement, and white was, after all, the color du jour. Nah, she reconsidered, no hidden message. Except, when you got right down to it, didn’t all flowers convey thoughtfulness and affection?
She was psyched. Marcella nestled the rose in the spine of her opened organizer. As William approached, she lowered them both and zeroed in on his gorgeous face.
“Hi,” she welcomed.
He smiled warmly into her eyes. “Hello, Marcella,” he greeted in a slow exhalation of British-accented breath. His damp chestnut hair curled over his forehead. His cravat hung loose around his neck, yet the top button of his shirt remained fastened.
“I hope you’ve managed to enjoy the reception despite your work,” he said.
“Well, now that I’ve gotten everything I need for my article, I’m hoping to enjoy it a lot more with you here.”
William’s aristocratic face brightened in a bashful, totally adorable sort of way. “Yes, well, I thought I’d have another go.”
“I’m glad you did. As a matter of fact, I was waiting for an opportunity to ask you to dance, but unfortunately for me you’ve been quite the busy socialite.”
He grinned. “Lots of family I haven’t seen in a bit, you understand. So, you say you were thinking of asking me to dance, were you?” With a jerk of his head, he gestured in the direction Mae had disappeared. “You mean, I’ve just let that little kipper talk me out of a fiver for nothing?”
Marcella twittered. “Absolutely not. Loosen up that collar and I’ll show you.” She stepped closer, and in a bold overture, breached his personal space by unclasping the top button of his dress shirt.
His aquamarine eyes widened with pleasant surprise. He breathed, then slowly his gaze narrowed to devour her with an intensity that left Marcella oblivious to everything except the fact she was here with William in the gardens of Rousham Park on this perfect summer’s day.
He leaned forward and softly said, “That’s much better, yes. Thank you.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I’m so used to a collar I hadn’t noticed.”
Marcella smiled and strained upwards. “You’re welcome.”
What were these references to a collar? Must be a British term for a suit and tie. So William was a businessman? Guess that ruled out professor. Right now, he could be a chimney sweep and she wouldn’t care.
His lids grew heavy, his eyes glazing as though he’d fallen into a drugged haze.
Tilting her face up in invitation, Marcella’s lips relaxed into a soft pucker, her own lids preparing to close—
At once, they simultaneously bumped into the organizer Marcella still held between them and sprang apart.
“Oops.” Marcella offered William a sheepish smile by way of apology. She’d mourn that near kiss the rest of her life. Or at least until another opportunity presented itself. “What do you know? Work gets in the way again.”
“Oh, right. Work.” William’s smile was marked by disappointment. “Let’s do something about that, shall we?” He took her organizer. “Here, shall I find a safe place for this while we dance?”
Marcella agreed. “The key word there being safe,” she warned him. “That’s my career in your hands.” Career perhaps, but that organizer had been coming between her and a good time all day. Her rose lay on the ground between them, crushed. C’est la vie.
William didn’t seem to notice. He glanced instead at the opened page, where something had caught his eye. He began to read her notes.
“John Anthony,” he said, without looking up.
“Uh, excuse me?” Marcella didn’t understand what in the world he was talking about, but found it an invasion of privacy, and frankly, presumptuous that he should continue to linger over her personal thoughts and writings.
“You have the names reversed.” Lifting his head, he met her gaze. “My name. It’s William John Anthony. Not Anthony John.”
What on earth? Oh, his name. Oh! Before Mae’s interruption, Marcella had been doodling hearts while pondering a few more updates to the info she’d gathered on William. That was the page he was reading. His page. She’d just handed over her own private rundown of his dating profile.
She felt like a teenager who’d just discovered her diary in the hands of the cutest guy
in school. Could anything be worse?
“Please don’t read that,” she said, making a desperate grab for the organizer.
William stepped back, lifting it out of reach. “Tell me, is this the ‘business’ you needed to take care of?”
Between his wise-guy expression and the amused glint in his eye, Marcella prepared herself to be teased for all she was worth.
He lowered the organizer to eye level for another peek at her notes. “This is what you’ve been slogging away at all afternoon, is it? Third son of an English viscount,” he read aloud. “Rides a three-cylinder Triumph Thunderbird motorcycle. Oxford graduate. Stone cottage residence in Bramble Moor.”
He queried her with a raised brow. “It’s all rather impersonal now, isn’t it? I mean, in Bramble Moor, even the Village surgery’s a stone dwelling. But there is this bit which I find intriguing.” He cracked up with laughter, and between guffaws, managed, “ ‘NO WIFE.’ It’s underlined three times.”
He had an infectious laugh which Marcella couldn’t help but enjoy. Still, pride demanded she not encourage him further. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh-no, I’m quite flattered, actually.” He blinked back a tear, and with another glance at her list, resumed reading. “Perfect gentleman. Natural public speaker. Compassionate eyes.” His brows shot up suddenly and he sobered, then cleared his throat. “Potential sex god?”
“Hey, that’s my personal and professional journal. Whatever’s written there was meant for my eyes alone. You really have no business reading it. But hey, while you’re at it, why don’t you do me a favor by crossing out the ‘perfect gentleman’ part. I was mistaken, obviously. And as for your ‘potential’ … well, that was just me being optimistic.”
He narrowed his gaze at her. Then slowly, one side of his mouth rose in a crooked grin. “Bloody cheek.” Marking the page with a finger, he snapped her organizer shut. “Is this part of your article? Judging the potential of male guests attending Aunt Lynne’s wedding? If I turned the page, would I find your comments on Uncle Roy’s untidy eating habits, perhaps? Have you been watching him pick his teeth? Or listening to the maiden aunts boast of Cousin Jeffrey’s boyish charm?”