A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Phillip actually threw his hands up. “There’s your problem right there. You’re so damn concerned with what happened last year, five years ago—thirty-five years ago—that you’re missing out on the now. Things change. People change. I’d have thought that hanging out with Whitney would have shown you that.”

  Matthew didn’t have a comeback to that. He didn’t have one to any of it.

  Phillip moved in for the kill. Matthew wasn’t entirely used to the new, improved, changed Phillip being this right and certainly not right about Matthew. “Even Chadwick would understand if you’ve got to do something for you. You don’t have to manage the family’s image every single minute of your life. Figure out who you are if you’re not a Beaumont.”

  Matthew let out a bark of laughter. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  If he wasn’t a Beaumont? Not happening. He’d fought too hard to earn his place at the Beaumont table. He wasn’t going to toss all that hard work to “figure out” who he was. He already knew.

  He was Matthew Beaumont. End of discussion.

  “Whatever, man. But the next time you want to cover your tracks, don’t use me as a human shield. I don’t play these games anymore.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  The rest of the drive was silent.

  Matthew was mad. He was mad at Phillip—but he wasn’t sure why. Because the man had spoken what felt uncomfortably like the truth? And Byron—he’d gotten that damn black eye. Because Matthew had asked him to do something dramatic.

  And he was—he was mad at Whitney. That was what this little verbal skirmish was about, wasn’t it? Whitney Maddox.

  Why did she have to be so—so—so not Whitney Wildz? Why couldn’t she be the kind of self-absorbed celebrity he knew how to manage—that he knew how to keep himself distant from? Why did she have to be someone soft and gentle and—yeah, he was gonna say it—innocent? She shouldn’t be so innocent. She should be jaded and hard and bitter. That way he wouldn’t be able to love her.

  They pulled up at the farmhouse. Matthew didn’t want to deal with Phillip anymore. Didn’t want to deal with any of it. He was not hiding her, damn it.

  He strode into the house as if he owned the thing, which he didn’t. Not really. But it was Beaumont Farms and he was a Beaumont, so to hell with it.

  He found Jo and Whitney on the sofas, watching what looked like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the one he’d watched back when he was a kid. Whitney was already in her pajamas. Jo’s ridiculous donkey, Betty, was curled up next to Whitney. She was petting Betty’s ears as if it were a normal everyday thing.

  Why didn’t he feel normal anymore? Why had he let her get close enough to change him?

  “Hi,” she said in surprise when she looked up. “Is everything—?”

  “I need to talk to you.” He didn’t wait for a response. Hell, he couldn’t even wait for her to get up. He scooted Betty out of the way and pulled Whitney to her feet.

  “Are you—whoa!”

  Matthew swept her legs up and, without bothering to look back at where Phillip was no doubt staring daggers at him—hell, to where the donkey was probably staring daggers at him—he carried Whitney up the stairs.

  She threw her arms around his neck as he took the steps two at a time. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t fine and she was the reason.

  But she was the only way he knew how to make things fine again.

  “Bachelor party went okay?” she asked as he kicked open the door to her room.

  “Yeah. Fine.” He threw her down on the bed and wrenched off his tie.

  Her eyes went wide. “Matthew?”

  “I—I missed you, okay? I missed you.” Why did saying it feel like such a failure? He didn’t miss people. He didn’t miss women. He didn’t let himself care enough to miss them.

  But in two damn days, he’d missed her. And it made him feel weak. He wrapped the tie around his knuckles and pulled, letting the bite of silk against his skin pull him back. Pull him away from her.

  She clambered up to her knees, which brought her face almost level with his. “I missed you, too.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded. Then she touched his face. “I...I missed waking up with you.”

  At her touch—soft and gentle and innocent, damn it all—something in him snapped. “I don’t want to talk.”

  She was the reason he was the mess he was. He had to—he didn’t know. He had to put her in her place. He had to keep himself distanced from her, for his own sanity. And he couldn’t do that while she was touching him so sweetly, while she was telling him she missed him.

  One eyebrow notched up. Too late, he remembered announcing that the whole reason he was sweeping her off her feet was to talk to her.

  But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she pushed herself up onto her feet and stripped her pajama top off. Then, still standing on the bed—not tipping over, not accidentally kicking him—she shimmied out of her bottoms, which was fine because it was damnably hard to think the lustful thoughts he was thinking about someone who was wearing pink pants covered with dogs in bow ties. Then she sank back down to her knees in front of him.

  No talking. No touching. He would keep a part of himself from her, just as he did with everyone else. No one would know what she meant to him. Not even him.

  Then he had her on her back, but that was still too much. He couldn’t look into her eyes, pale and wide and waiting for him. He couldn’t see what he meant to her. He couldn’t risk letting her see what she meant to him. So he rolled her onto her belly and, after getting the condom, buried himself in her.

  She didn’t say a word, not even when her back arched and her body tightened down on his and she grabbed the headboard as the climax rolled her body. She was silent as he grabbed her hips and drove in deep and hard until he had nothing left to give her.

  They fell onto the bed together, panting and slick with sweat. He’d done what he needed to—what a Beaumont would. This was his birthright, wasn’t it? White-hot affairs that didn’t involve feelings. His father had specialized in them. He’d never cared about anyone.

  Matthew needed to get up. He needed to walk away from Whitney. He needed to stay a Beaumont.

  Then she rolled, looped her arms over his neck and held him. No words. Just her touch. Just her not letting him go.

  How weak was he? He couldn’t even pull himself away from her. He let her hold him. Damn it all, he held her back.

  It was some time before she spoke. “After the wedding...after Christmas morning...”

  He winced. “Yes?” But it was surprisingly hard to sound as if he didn’t care when his face was buried in the crook of her neck.

  “I mean,” she hurried on, her arms tightening around his neck, “that’ll be... We’ll be...”

  It. That’ll be it. We’ll be done. That was what she was trying to say. Then—and only then—did he manage to push himself up. But he couldn’t push himself away from her. “My life is here in Denver, and you...” He swallowed, wishing he were stronger. That he could be stronger for her. “You need the sun.”

  She smiled—he could see her trying—but at the same time, her eyes began to shine and the corners of her mouth pulled down. She was trying not to cry. “Right.”

  He couldn’t watch her, not like this. So he buried his face back against her neck.

  “Right,” he agreed. Fine, he thought, knowing it wasn’t. At least that would be clean. At least there wouldn’t be a scene that he’d have to contain. He should have been relieved.

  “Anytime you want to ride the Trakehners,” she managed to get out, “you just let me know.”

  Then—just because she made him so wea
k—he kissed her. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hold himself back. Not around her.

  Fifteen

  They spent the next morning looking over the carriage that would pull Phillip and Jo from the chapel to the reception. The whole thing was bedecked with ribbons and bows of red-and-green velvet, which stood out against the deep gray paint of the carriage. Whitney wasn’t sure she’d ever really grasped what the word bedecked meant, but after seeing the Beaumont carriage, she understood completely. “It’s a beautiful rig.”

  “You like it?” Matthew said. He’d been quiet all morning, but he’d held her hand as they walked around the farm together. In fact, he had hardly stopped touching her since they’d woken up. His foot had been rubbing against her calf during their breakfast; his hands had been around her waist or on her shoulders whenever possible.

  Whitney had been worried after last night. Okay, more than worried. She’d originally thought that he was mad at her because of the picture with Frances, but there’d been something else going on.

  After the intense sex—and the part where he’d agreed that this relationship was short-term—she had decided that it wasn’t her place to figure out what that “something else” was. If he wanted to tell her, he would. She would make no other claims to him.

  She would try not to, anyway.

  “I do.” She looked at the carriage, well and truly bedecked. “It’s going to look amazing. And with Jo’s dress? Wow.”

  He trailed his hand down her arm. She leaned into his touch. “Do you have a carriage like this?”

  She grinned at him. He really didn’t know a whole lot about horses, but he was trying. For her. “Trakehners aren’t team horses, so no.”

  He brushed his gloved fingertips over her cheek. She could feel the heat of his touch despite the fabric. “Want to go for a ride?”

  She pulled up short. “What?”

  “I’ll have Richard hook up the team. Someone can drive us around.”

  “But...it’s for the wedding.”

  “I know. You’re here now.” Then he was off, hunting up a hired hand to take them on a carriage ride around Beaumont Farms.

  Now. Now was all they had. Matthew gallantly handed her up into the carriage and tucked the red-and-green-plaid blankets around her, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him. Then they were off, riding over the snow-covered hills of the farm. It was...magical.

  She tried not to overthink what was happening between them—or, more to the point, what wasn’t going to happen in a few days. What was the point of dwelling on how she was going to go back to her solitary existence, with only her animals and crazy Don to break up the monotony?

  This was what she wanted—a brief, hot Christmas-vacation romance with a gorgeous, talented man. A man who would make her feel as if Whitney Maddox was a woman who didn’t have to hide anymore, who could take lovers and have relationships. This was getting her out of the safety of her rut.

  This time with Matthew was a gift, plain and simple. She couldn’t have dreamed up a better man, a better time. He was, for lack of a better word, perfect.

  That had to be why she clung to him extra hard as they rode over the ice-kissed hills, the trees shimmering under the winter sun. This was, hands down, the most romantic thing she’d ever done—even though she knew the score. She had him now. She didn’t want to miss any of that.

  So when it was time to go to the rehearsal, she went early with Matthew. They were supposed to eat lunch, but they wound up at his palatial apartment, tangled up in the sheets of his massive bed, and missed lunch entirely. Which was fine. She could eat when she was alone. And the dinner after the rehearsal would be five-star, Matthew promised.

  They made it to the chapel for the rehearsal almost an hour ahead of everyone else—of course they did. The place was stunning. The pews were decorated with red-and-gray bows that matched the ones on the carriage perfectly atop pine garlands, making the whole place smell like a Christmas tree. The light ceilings had dark buttresses and the walls were lined with stained-glass windows.

  “We’re going to have spotlights outside the windows so the lights shine at dark,” Matthew explained. “The rest of the ceremony will be candlelit.”

  “Wow,” Whitney breathed as she studied the chapel. “How many people will be here for the wedding?”

  “Two hundred,” he said. “But it’s still an intimate space. I’ve been working with the videographers to make sure they don’t overtake the space. We don’t want anything to distract from the happy couple.”

  She took a deep breath as she held an imaginary bouquet in front of her. “I should practice, then,” she said as she took measured steps down the aisle. “Should have brought my shoes.”

  Matthew skirted around her and hurried to the altar. Then he waited for her. Her cheeks flushed warm as an image of her doing this not in a dove-gray gown but a long white one forced its way across her mind.

  Now, she thought, trying not to get ahead of herself. Stay in the now.

  That got harder to do when she made it up to the altar, where Matthew was waiting. He took her hands in his and, looking down into her eyes, he smiled. Just a simple curve of the lips. It wasn’t rakish; it wasn’t predatory—heavens, it wasn’t even overtly sexual.

  “Ms. Maddox,” he said in a voice that was as close to reverent as she’d ever heard him use.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” she replied because it seemed like the thing to do. Because she couldn’t come up with anything else, not when his gaze was deepening in its intensity.

  It was almost as if, standing here with Matthew, in this holy place...

  No. She would not hope, no matter how intense his gaze was, no matter how much his smile, his touch affected her. She would not hope, because it was pointless. She had three more days before she left for California. Tonight, Christmas Eve and maybe Christmas morning. That was it. No point in thinking about something a little more permanent with him.

  He leaned forward. “Whitney...”

  Say something, she thought. Something to give me hope.

  “Hello? Matthew?”

  To his credit, he didn’t drop Whitney’s hands. He did lean back and tuck her fingers into the crook of his arm. “Here,” he called down the aisle as the wedding planner came through the doors. Then, to Whitney, he said, “Shall we practice a few times before everyone gets here?”

  “Yes, let’s.” Which were not words of hope.

  That was fine. She didn’t want any.

  Really.

  * * *

  Against his will, Matthew sent Whitney home with Jo and took Phillip back to his place. Even though they were going to shoot photos before the ceremony, Jo had decided that she wanted to at least get ready without Phillip in the house.

  Phillip wasn’t exactly talking to Matthew, which was fine. Matthew had things to do anyway. The press was lining up, and Matthew had to make sure he was available for them before they wandered off and started sniffing around.

  This was his job, his place in this world. He had to present the very best side of the Beaumonts, contain any scandals before they did real damage and...

  His mind drifted back to the carriage ride across the farm with Whitney—to the way she’d looked standing hand in hand with him at the altar.

  For such a short time, it hadn’t mattered. Not the wedding, not the public image—not even the soft launch of Percheron Drafts. His showroom-ready apartment, his fancy cars—none of that mattered.

  What had mattered was holding a beautiful woman tight and knowing that she was there for him. Not for the family name, the fortune, the things.

  Just him.

  And now that time was over and he was back to managing the message. The good news was that Byron’s little brawl had done exactly what Matthew had inte
nded it to—no one was asking about Whitney Wildz.

  He checked the social media sites again. Whitney had insisted on keeping her hat on during the rehearsal and the following dinner and had only talked with the embedded press representatives when absolutely required. He knew he should be thankful that she was keeping her profile as low as possible, but he hated that she felt as if she had to hide.

  All was as calm as could be expected. As far as he could tell, no one in attendance had connected the quiet maid of honor with Whitney Wildz. Plus, the sudden influx of famous people eating in restaurants and partying at clubs was good press, reinforcing how valuable the Beaumont name was without Matthew being directly responsible for their actions.

  It wouldn’t last, he knew. He sent out the final instructions to the photographer and videographer, which was semipointless. Whitney was in the wedding party, after all. And he hadn’t let her change her hair. They’d have to take pictures of her. But reminding the people on his payroll what he expected made him feel better anyway.

  They just had to get through the wedding. Whitney had to make it up the aisle and back down without incident.

  Just as she’d done today. She’d been downright cute, miming the action in a sweater and jeans and that hat, of course. But tomorrow?

  Tomorrow she’d be in a gown, polished and proper and befitting a Beaumont wedding. Tomorrow she’d look perfect.

  He could take a few days after the wedding, couldn’t he? Even just two days off. This thing had swallowed his life for the past few months. He’d earned some time. Once he got Phillip and Jo safely off on their honeymoon and his siblings and stepmothers back to their respective corners, once he had Christmas dinner with his mom, he could...

  He could go see Whitney. See her in the sun. Ride her horses and meet her weird-looking dogs and her pop-singer cats.

  This didn’t change things, he told himself as he began to rearrange his schedule. This was not the beginning of something else, something more. Far from it. They’d agreed that after the wedding, they were...done.

  Except the word felt wrong. Matthew had never had a problem walking away from his lady friends before. When it was over, it was over. There were no regrets, no looking back and absolutely no taking time off to spend a long weekend together.