It was close to midnight when he found himself sending her a text. What are you doing? But even as he hit Send, he knew he was being foolish. She was probably in bed. He was probably waking her up. But he couldn’t help himself. It’d been a long day, longer without her. He just wanted... Well, he just wanted her.
A minute later, his phone pinged and there was a blurry photo of Whitney with a tiny donkey in her lap. He could just see the silly dogs in bow ties on her pajama pants. Jo had leaned over to grin into the frame, but there was no missing Whitney’s big smile. Watching Love Actually and eating popcorn, came the reply.
Good. Great. She was keeping a low profile and having fun at the same time.
Then his phone pinged again.
Miss you.
He could take a couple of days. Maybe a week. Chadwick would understand. As long as they made it through the wedding with no big scandals—as long as all the Beaumonts stayed out of the news while he was gone—he could spend the time with Whitney.
Miss you, too, he wrote back. Because he did.
He was pretty sure he’d never missed anyone else in his life.
* * *
The day of the wedding flew by in a blur. Manicures, pedicures, hairstylists, makeup artists—they all attacked Whitney and the rest of the wedding party with the efficiency of a long-planned military campaign. Whitney couldn’t tell if that was because Matthew had everything on a second-by-second schedule or if this was just what happened when you had the best of the best working for you.
She finally met Byron Beaumont, as he was next in the makeup artist’s chair after they finished painting Whitney’s lips scarlet-red. She winced as she looked at the bruise around his face that was settling into purples and blues like a sunset with an attitude.
“Ms. Maddox,” he said with an almost formal bow. But he didn’t touch her and he certainly didn’t hug her, not as Frances had. Heck, he didn’t even call her Whitney Wildz. “It’s an honor.”
“I’m sorry about your eye,” she heard herself say, as if she were personally responsible for the bruising. Byron looked a great deal like Matthew. Maybe a few inches shorter, and his eyes were lighter, almost gray. Byron’s hair was almost the same deep auburn color as Matthew’s, but his hair was longer with a wave to it.
Byron grinned at her then—almost the exact same grin that Matthew had and that Phillip had. “Anything in the service of a lady,” he replied as he settled into the chair, as if he had his makeup done all the time.
By four that afternoon, the ladies were nibbling on fruit slices with the greatest of care to sustain them through the rest of the evening. “We don’t want anyone to pass out,” the wedding planner said as she stuck straws into water bottles and passed them around.
Then they were at the chapel, posing for an endless series of photos. She stood next to Jo, then next to Frances, then between Frances and Serena. They took shots with Jo’s parents, her grandmother, her aunt and uncle. Since Toni Beaumont was singing a song during the wedding, they had to have every permutation of who stood where with her, too.
Then the doors to the chapel opened, and Whitney heard Matthew say, “We’re here.” The men strode down the aisle as if they owned the joint. At first she couldn’t see them clearly. The chapel wasn’t well lit and the sunlight streaming in behind them was almost blinding. But then, suddenly, Matthew was leading the Beaumont men down the aisle.
She gasped at them. At him. His tuxedo was exquisitely cut. He could have been walking a red carpet, for all the confidence and sensuality he exuded.
“We’re keeping to the schedule, right, people?” he demanded. Then their gazes met and the rest of the world—the stylists and wedding planner chatting, the photographer bossing people around—all of it fell away.
“Perfect,” he said.
“You, too,” she murmured. Beside her, Frances snickered. Oh, right—they weren’t alone. Half the Beaumont family was watching them. She dropped her gaze to her bouquet, which was suddenly very interesting.
Matthew turned his attention to the larger crowd. “Phillip’s ready for the reveal.”
“Everyone out,” the photographer announced. “I want to get the bride and groom seeing each other for the first time. Joey,” he said to Jo. He’d been calling her that for half an hour now. Whitney was pretty sure it wouldn’t be much longer before Jo cracked and beat the man senseless with his own camera. “You go back around and walk down the aisle.”
Jo glanced at Whitney and rolled her eyes, which made them both giggle. Whitney gathered up Jo’s train, and they hurried down the aisle as fast as they could in these dresses. It was only when they had themselves tucked away that Frances gave the all clear.
Whitney and Frances peeked as Jo made her way up the aisle to where Phillip was waiting for his bride. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him that happy,” Frances whispered as Phillip blinked tears of joy out of his eyes. “I hope it lasts.”
“I think it will,” Whitney decided.
“I just...” Frances sighed. “I just wish we could all stop living in our father’s shadow, you know? I wish I could believe in love. Even if it’s just for them.”
“Your time will come,” Whitney whispered as she looked at Frances. “If you want it to.”
“I don’t. I’m never getting married,” Frances announced. Then, standing up straighter, she added, “But if you want to marry Matthew, can I be your bridesmaid?”
Whitney opened her mouth and then closed it because as much as she wanted to tell Frances her head was in the clouds and that after tonight Whitney and Matthew were going their separate ways, she couldn’t dismiss the image of him standing with her at the very same altar where Jo and Phillip now stood. For that brief moment—when she’d wanted him to say something that would give her hope that they weren’t done after this. When she’d thought he was going to do just that. And then they’d been interrupted.
Finally, she got her mouth to work. “I’m not going to marry Matthew.”
“Pity,” Frances sniffed. “I saw how he looked at you. Trust me, Matthew doesn’t look at other people like that.”
So everyone had seen that look. Whitney sighed. But before she could respond, a deep voice behind them said, “Like what?”
The women spun around at Matthew’s voice. Whitney teetered in her shoes, but Matthew caught her before she could tip forward. Then his arms were around her waist, and he was almost holding her. But not quite. They managed to keep a glimmer of space between them.
“Hi,” Whitney breathed. She wanted to tell him how much she’d missed him. She wanted to ask if they could spend this last night together, after the reception, so that their Christmas morning could start off right. She wanted to tell him that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
She didn’t get the chance.
“Like that,” Frances said with obvious glee.
“Frannie.” Matthew’s voice was as clear a warning as Whitney had heard since that very first night, when he’d realized who she’d once been. The space between him and Whitney widened ever so slightly. “Go make sure Byron stays out of trouble, please.”
Frances rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m going, I’m going. But he’s not the one I’m worried about right now.” Then, with a rustle of silk, she was gone.
And they were alone in the vestibule. “You look amazing,” she managed to get out.
“So do you,” he said as his arms tightened around her.
“I’d kiss you, but...”
“Lipstick,” he agreed. “We’re going to have to go out for more photos soon.”
A quick moment. That was all they had. But she wanted more. She at least wanted tonight. One more night in his arms. Then, somehow, she’d find a way to let him go. “Matthew...” she said.
At the same time, he said, “Whitney..
.”
They paused, then laughed. But before she could ask for what she wanted, the photographer called out, “The best man and maid of honor? Where are you, people?”
“Tonight,” Matthew said as he looped his arm through hers. “We’ll talk at the reception, all right?”
All she could do was nod as they walked down the aisle together, toward the happy couple and the bossy photographer.
Whitney didn’t trip.
Sixteen
Everything went according to plan. After they finished the photos in the chapel—including a series of shots with Betty in her flower-girl-slash-ring-bearer harness—the whole party went to a nearby park and took shots with snow-covered trees and ground as the backdrop. They also did the shots of Jo and Phillip getting into and out of the carriage.
Then, just because everything was going so smoothly, Matthew asked the photographer to take pictures of each of the couples with the carriage, just so he and Whitney could have a photo of the two of them with the Percheron team. So they’d have something to remember this week by.
Serena and Chadwick didn’t mind, but Frances and Byron clearly thought he was nuts and Matthew didn’t miss the look Phillip gave him.
He wasn’t hiding how he felt about Whitney, okay? He wasn’t. That wasn’t why he had the photographer take extra shots of all the couples by themselves. He reasoned that Chadwick and Serena had had a small ceremony—absolutely no pomp and circumstance had been allowed. True, Serena had been about seven months pregnant and, yes, Chadwick had already had a big wedding for his first marriage. Serena’s parents had walked her down the aisle while Phillip, Matthew and Frances stood as witnesses. Cell phone photos didn’t count. So Matthew was really doing this for Chadwick and Serena, so they’d have beautiful photos of them at their very best. And if Matthew and Whitney got some memories out of it, so much the better.
And because he was not hiding how he felt about her, he had his arms on her while the photographer snapped away. An arm around her waist when they leaned underneath the evergreen tree, its branches heavy with glistening snow. Handing her up into the carriage. Tucking her against his waist.
For their part, his family was...okay with it. Byron had slapped him on the back and said, “Some women are worth the bruises, huh?” Matthew had ignored his baby brother.
Chadwick’s big comment was, “The situation is under control, correct?”
To which Matthew had replied, “Correct.” Because it was.
For the moment, anyway.
* * *
“You doing okay?” Matthew whispered to Phillip as they stood at the front of the chapel. He could see that Phillip had started to fidget.
“Why is everything going so slow?” Phillip whispered back as Frances did the “step, pause, step, pause” walk down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon in D. “I want Jo.”
“Suck it up and smile. Remember, the cameras are rolling.”
Matthew looked out over the full house in the chapel. Phillip’s mother had a place of honor in the front, although she had chosen not to sit with Jo’s family. Which didn’t surprise Matthew a bit. Eliza Beaumont was not a huge fan of anything that had to do with the Beaumont family, a list that started with Matthew and went on for miles.
But Phillip had wanted his mother at his wedding and Matthew had the means to make it happen, so the woman was sitting in the front row, looking as relaxed as a prisoner before a firing squad and pointedly ignoring everyone.
Serena was headed down the aisle now, although she was moving at a slightly faster clip than Frances had been. “Beautiful,” Chadwick whispered from the other side of Matthew. “I have to say, I’m impressed you pulled this off.”
“Don’t jinx it, man,” Matthew hissed through his smile.
Then Serena was standing next to Frances and everyone waited.
Matthew could see Whitney, standing just inside the doors. Come on, babe, he thought. One foot in front of the other. You can do it. It’ll be fine.
Then the music swelled and she took the first step. Paused. Second step. Paused. Each foot hit the ground squarely. She didn’t wobble and she didn’t trip on her hem. She glided down the aisle as if she’d been born with a bouquet in her hand and a smile on her face. The whole time, she kept her gaze fastened on him. As though she was walking not just to him but for him.
God, she was so beautiful. Simply perfect. But then, the woman in her doggy pajamas had been perfect, too. Even when she was klutzy and nervous and totally, completely Whitney, she was absolutely perfect.
How was he going to let her go?
She reached the altar and took her place. He could see how pleased she was with herself, and frankly, he was pretty damn happy, too.
Then there was a moment that should have been silent as the music changed to the wedding march and Jo made her big entrance.
Except it wasn’t silent. A murmur ran through the crowd—the highest of Denver’s high society, musicians and actors and people who were famous merely for being famous.
Then he heard it. “...Whitney Wildz?” Which was followed by “...that hair!” More murmurs followed. Then a click. The click of a cell phone snapping a picture.
He looked at Whitney. She was still smiling, but it wasn’t the same natural, luminous thing it’d been earlier. Her face was frozen in something that was a mockery of joy.
It’ll be okay, he wanted to tell her. He wanted to believe it.
Then the music swelled up, drowning out the whispers and the clicks. Everyone stood and turned to the entrance. Betty tottered down the aisle as the daughter of one of the brewery’s employees tossed rose petals onto the ground. Betty should have held everyone’s attention.
But she didn’t. Not even a mini donkey wearing a basket and a crown of flowers over her floppy ears could distract from Whitney Wildz. People were holding their devices high to get the best shot of her.
Jo came down the aisle on the arms of her parents. Matthew took advantage of this to get the wedding rings untied from the small pillow on Betty’s back, and then the farm manager, Richard—looking hilariously uncomfortable in a suit—led the small animal off before she started munching on the floral arrangements.
When he stood back up, Matthew caught Whitney’s eye as Jo took her place at the altar. He gave her an encouraging nod, hoping that she’d get the message. Ignore them. Don’t let them win.
When the music stopped this time, the murmuring was even louder. The preacher took his place before the happy couple. Jo handed Whitney her bouquet.
The murmuring was getting louder. People weren’t even trying to whisper now. Matthew wanted to shout at the crowd, This is a wedding, for God’s sake! Have some decency! But he’d long since learned that you didn’t feed the fire like that. Ignoring the excited whispers was the only way to make it through this.
“Matthew,” Chadwick said in the quietest of whispers, and Matthew knew what his older brother was thinking. This was having the situation under control? This was handling it?
The preacher began to talk about vows and love, but he had to stop and pitch his voice up in volume to be heard.
Matthew kept his attention on the happy couple—and on Whitney. She was blinking too fast, but her smile was locked. Her face looked as if it were going to crack in half. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t need to. He could read her well enough.
This was just like the restaurant all over again. She’d done nothing—not even tripped, much less fallen, and yet she was setting off a media firestorm. He had the sinking feeling that if he got out his phone and checked social media, Whitney would already be trending.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. Movement, in the aisle. As best he could without turning and staring, he looked.
Oh, hell. People were getting up and exiting the pews—coming int
o the aisles. Phones and cameras were raised. They were jostling—yes, jostling—for a better shot. Of Whitney. Of someone they thought was Whitney Wildz.
“If I may,” the preacher said in a tone better suited for a fire-and-brimstone Sunday sermon than a Christmas Eve wedding. “If I may have silence, please.”
That was when Whitney turned her stricken face to his. He saw the tears gathering, saw how fast she was breathing. “I’m sorry,” she said, although he couldn’t hear her over the crowd. He read her lips, though. That was enough.
“No,” he said, but she didn’t hear him. She was already turning to hand Jo’s bouquet to Serena and then she was running down the aisle, arms stiffly at her side.
Gone.
Oh, hell.
* * *
“Ms. Maddox?”
Whitney realized that she was outside.
The horse-drawn carriage was parked in front of the chapel, waiting for the happy couple. The happy couple whose wedding she’d just ruined. She vaguely recognized the driver as one of the farmhands, but he wasn’t wearing jeans and flannel. “Is everything okay?”
“Um...” No. Nothing was okay. And worse? She didn’t know when it would start being okay again. The chapel was on a college campus. She had to walk...that way to get to a main road?
Snow began to fall on her bare shoulders. She hadn’t even managed to snag her cape, but who cared. She wasn’t going back in there. She was going...
Home. That was where she was headed. Back to her solitary ranch where she could live out her solitary life. That was where she belonged. Where she wouldn’t embarrass herself, which was bad enough. She was used to that.
She’d ruined Jo’s wedding. Her best friend—hell, her only friend—and Whitney had ruined the wedding. She hadn’t fallen, hadn’t even dropped her bouquet.
A Beaumont Christmas Wedding Page 16