A Beaumont Christmas Wedding

by Sarah M. Anderson

  She’d just been herself.

  Why had she ever thought she could do that?

  She wrapped her arms around her waist to try and keep warm as she walked away from the carriage and the driver. She didn’t really have a plan at this point, but she knew she couldn’t take off in the wedding carriage. The very carriage she’d ridden in yesterday, snuggled in Matthew’s arms. She’d already messed up the wedding. She drew the line at stealing the carriage.

  “Ms. Maddox?” the driver called behind her, but she ignored him. She needed to get back to the farm so she could get her things and go—and there was no way the horse and carriage could get her there.

  She’d walk to the main road and catch a taxi. Taxis could get her to the farm and from there, she could leave. There. That was a plan.

  The snow was coming down thick and fast, each flake biting into her bare shoulders with what felt like teeth. It felt as if it were trying to punish her, which was fine. She deserved it.

  She’d tried. She’d tried so hard. She’d offered to step aside. She’d tried to convince Matthew to let her change her hair. And she damn well had on panties today. Industrial-strength Spanx in opaque black, just to be extra sure.

  But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. She would always be Whitney Wildz. And every time she got it into her foolish little head that she wasn’t—that she could be whoever she wanted to be—well, this was what would happen. If she didn’t hurt herself, she’d hurt the people she cared for. People like Jo.

  People like Matthew.

  God, she couldn’t even think of him without pain. She’d told him she was going to ruin the wedding, but the man had decided that through the sheer force of his will alone, she wouldn’t. He’d been bound and determined—literally—to have the perfect Beaumont wedding. He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. He’d given her a chance to show him—to show everyone—that she was Whitney Maddox. For a beautiful moment—a too-short moment—she’d thought they had succeeded.

  But that’d been just an illusion and they were both the poorer for indulging in it. He had to hate her now. She was living proof that he couldn’t control everything. He’d never be able to look at her and see anything but imperfection.

  She slipped but managed not to fall. The sidewalks were getting slicker by the second and these shoes weren’t suited for anything other than plush carpeting. She could hear the sounds of traffic getting closer, and she trudged on. Good. The farther she could get from the wedding, the better.

  Her stomach turned again. She hoped Jo and Phillip were still able to get married. What if the whole thing had devolved into a brawl or something? What if the preacher decided Whitney’s running was a sign from God that Jo and Phillip shouldn’t be married? It was on her head. All of it.

  She’d just come upon the main street when she heard “Whitney?” from behind her.

  Matthew. No, God, please—not him. She couldn’t look at him and see his failure and know it was hers.

  She waved her hands, hoping there was a taxi somewhere. Anywhere. And if there wasn’t, she’d keep walking until she found one.

  “Whitney, wait! Babe,” she heard him shout. Damn it, he was getting closer.

  She tried to hurry, but her foot slipped. Stupid heels on the stupid snow. The whole universe was out to get her. She thought she would keep her balance but she hit another slick spot and started to fall. Of course. Maybe someone would get a picture of it. It’d make a great headline.

  Instead of falling, though, she was in his arms. The warmth of his body pushed back against the biting cold as he held her tight. It was everything she wanted and nothing she deserved. “Let me go,” she said, shoving against him.

  “Babe,” he said, pointedly not releasing her from his grip. If anything, he held on tighter. “You’re going to freeze. You don’t even have your cape.”

  “What does it matter, Matthew? I ruined the wedding. You saw how it was. You and I both knew it was going to happen and...and we let it.” The tears she’d been trying not to cry since the first whisper had hit her ears threatened to move up again. “Why did I let it happen?”

  He came around to her front and forced her to look at him. He was not gentle about it. “Because you’re Whitney Maddox, damn it. And I don’t care about Whitney Wildz. You’re enough for me.”

  “But I’m not and we both know it. I’m not even enough for me. I can never be the perfect woman you need. I can never be perfect.” The tears stung at her eyes almost as much as the snow stung against her skin. And that, more than anything else, hurt the most.

  “You are,” he said with more force. “And you didn’t ruin the wedding. Those people—they did. This is on them. Not you.”

  She shook her head, but before she could deny it—because Matthew had never been more wrong in his life—shouts of “Whitney? Whitney!” began to filter through the snow.

  A taxi pulled up next to them and the cabbie shouted, “You need a cab, lady?”

  Matthew got a fierce look on his face. “Let me handle them,” he said as he stripped off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Follow my lead. I can fix this.”

  She wanted to believe it. She wanted him to protect her, to save her from herself.

  But she couldn’t. She couldn’t let him throw away everything he’d worked for because of her. She wasn’t worth it.

  “Don’t you see? I can’t be another mess you have to clean up. I just can’t.” She ducked under his arm and managed to get the taxi door open on the second try. “It has to be this way,” she told him.

  Before the press could swarm, she got in the taxi and slammed the door. Matthew stood there, looking as if she’d stabbed him somewhere important. It hurt to look, so she focused on the cabbie.

  “Where to, lady?” he asked.

  “Can you take me to the Beaumont Farms? Outside the city?”

  The cabbie stared at her dress, then at Matthew and the press, complete with flashing cameras and shouting. “You can pay?”

  “Yes.”

  The fare would be huge, but what did it matter?

  This evening had already cost her everything else.

  Seventeen

  Matthew was going to punch something. Someone. Several someones.

  Hard.

  Whitney’s taxi sped off, its wheels spinning for traction on the newly slick streets. Then the press—the press he had invited to the wedding—was upon him like hungry dogs fighting over the last table scrap.

  “Matthew, tell us about Whitney!”

  “Matthew! Did you see Whitney Wildz drinking before the wedding? Can you confirm that Whitney Wildz was drunk?”

  “Was she on drugs?”

  “Is there something going on, Matthew? Are you involved with Whitney Wildz?”

  “Did Whitney have a baby bump, Matthew? Who’s the father?”

  “Is Byron the father? Is that why he has a black eye? Did you two fight over her?”

  The snow picked up speed, driving into his face. It felt good, the pain. It distracted him from the gut-wrenching agony of Whitney’s face right before she ran down the aisle. Right before she got into the taxi.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his meanest sneer. There were no such people before him. Just dogs with cameras.

  No one blinked. The sarcasm was lost on them entirely. They just crowded closer, microphones in his face, cameras rolling. For a moment, he felt as if he were back in college and, at any second, someone was going to ask him what he thought about those photos of his father with his pants around his ankles.

  Panic clawed at him. No one had ever asked if he wanted to manage the Beaumont public image. It was just something he’d fallen into and, because he was good at it, he’d stuck with it. Because it earned him a place in the family
. Because defending his father, his brothers, his stepmothers—that was what made him a Beaumont.

  Figure out who you are if you’re not a Beaumont.

  Phillip’s comment came back to Matthew, insidious little words that Matthew had thought were Phillip’s attempt at chipping away at Matthew’s hard-won privilege.

  But if being a Beaumont meant he had to throw Whitney to the dogs...could he do that? Did he want to?

  No. That was not what he wanted. It’d never been, he realized. Hadn’t he asked Byron to generate some press? Hadn’t that been putting Whitney first?

  Who am I? Her voice whispered in his ear. Who am I to you?

  She’d said those words to him in the front seat of his car, right before he’d tied her to the bed.

  She was Whitney Maddox. And she was Whitney Wildz. She was both at the same time.

  Just as he was Matthew Beaumont and Matthew Billings. He’d never stopped being Matthew Billings. That lost little boy had always been standing right behind Matthew, threatening to make him a nobody again.

  Because if he wasn’t a Beaumont, who was he? He’d always thought the answer was a nobody. But now?

  Who was he to her?

  Who was he?

  He was Matthew Beaumont. And being a Beaumont was saying to hell with what people thought of you—to hell with even what your family thought of you. It was not giving a rat’s ass what the media said.

  Being a Beaumont was about doing what you wanted, whenever you wanted to do it. Wasn’t that what was behind all of those scandals he’d swept under the rug for all these years? No one else in his family ever stopped to think. They just did. Whatever—whoever—they wanted.

  He looked at the cameras still rolling, the reporters all jostling for position to hear what juicy gossip he was going to come up with. The headlines tomorrow would be vicious—but for the first time in his life, he didn’t care.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began again, “I have no comment.”

  Dead silence. Matthew smirked. He’d truly managed to stun the lot of them into silence.

  Then he turned and hailed a cab. Mercifully, one pulled right up to the curb.

  “Where to, buddy?” the cabbie asked as Matthew shut the door on the gaping faces of the press.

  Who was he? What did he want?

  Whitney.

  He had to get her. “The Beaumont Farms, south of the city.”

  The cab driver whistled. “That’s gonna cost you.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Then, with a smile, he added, “I’m a Beaumont.”

  Eighteen

  “Ms. Maddox?” The guard stepped out of the gate when Whitney climbed out of the taxi. “Is everything all right?”

  She really wished people would stop asking that question. Wasn’t the answer obvious? “I...I need to pay him and I don’t have any money. On me. I have some cash in the house...” She shivered. The cabbie had turned the heat on full blast for her, but it hadn’t helped. Matthew’s jacket wasn’t enough to fend off the elements. The snow was coming down thick and fast and the cabbie was none too happy about the prospect of making it home in this weather.

  The guard stared at her with obvious concern. Then he ushered her into the guard house. “I’ll pay the driver and then get a truck and take you to the house. Don’t move.”

  He said it as if he was afraid she might go somewhere, but she didn’t want to. There was heat in this little building.

  Plus, she was almost back to the farmhouse. This nice guard would take her the rest of the way. She’d get out of this dress and back into her own clothes. She didn’t have much. She could be packed within twenty minutes. And then...

  If she left immediately, she could be home by tomorrow afternoon. Back to the warmth and the sun and her animals and crazy Donald, none of whom would ever care that she’d ruined the Beaumont Christmas wedding. Yes. Back to the safety of solitude.

  The guard came back with a truck and helped her into the passenger seat. He didn’t tell her how much it had cost to get the cabbie to drive away. She’d pay it back, of course. She’d use the money from the royalty checks for Whitney Wildz Sings Christmas, Yo. Fitting.

  “I’m going home,” she told him when he pulled up in front of the house and got out to unlock the front door for her. “Tonight.”

  “Ms. Maddox, the snow is going to continue for some time,” he said, the worry in his voice obvious. “I don’t think—”

  “I can drive on snow,” she lied. She couldn’t stay here. That much she knew.

  “But—”

  Whitney didn’t listen. She said, “Thank you very much,” and shut the door in the man’s face. Which was a diva thing to do, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She didn’t get lost on her way back to what had been her room and Matthew’s room. Their room. Well, it wasn’t that anymore.

  She changed and started throwing things into her bags. She’d have time when she got home to shake out the wrinkles. She didn’t have that time now.

  The dress...it lay in a heap on the floor, as if she’d wounded it in the line of duty. She’d felt beautiful in the dress. Matthew had thought so. She’d felt...

  She’d felt like the woman she was supposed to be when she’d worn it. Glamorous and confident and sexy and worthy. And not scandalous. Not even a little.

  She picked it up, shook it out and laid it on the bed. Then she did the same with his tuxedo jacket. In her mind’s eye, she saw the two of them this afternoon, having their pictures taken in a park, in a carriage bedecked in Christmas bows. They hadn’t even gotten to walk down the aisle together. She’d ruined that, too.

  Her bags were heavy and, because she hadn’t packed carefully, extra bulky. Getting them both out of the door and down the hall was bad enough. She was navigating the stairs one at a time when she heard the front door slam open.

  “Whitney?”

  Matthew. Oh, no. That was all that registered before she lost her grip on one of her bags. It tangled with her feet and suddenly she was falling down the last few stairs.

  And right into his arms. He caught her just as he had before—just as he was always doing.

  Then, before she could tell him she was sorry or that she was leaving and she’d pay back the cab fare, he was kissing her. His hair was wet and his shirt was wet and he was lifting her up to him, sliding his hands around her waist and holding her.

  And he was kissing her. She was so stunned by this that she couldn’t do anything but stare at him.

  He pulled away, but he didn’t let her go. Hell, he didn’t even set her on her feet. He just held her as though his life depended on it.

  She needed to get out of his arms so she could go back to being invisible Whitney Maddox. But she couldn’t. Was it wrong to want just a few more minutes of being someone special? Was it wrong to want that hope, even if she was going to get knocked down for daring to hope almost immediately?

  Matthew spoke. “Always kiss me back,” he said, as if this were just another wild Tuesday night and not the ruination of everything. Then her bags—which had come crashing down after her—seemed to register with him. “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” she told him. She would not cry. Crying solved nothing. And really, this was everything she’d expected. “I don’t belong here. I never did.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Oh, so they were just going to deny reality? Fine. She could do that. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you at the wedding?” Then, because she couldn’t help herself— because she might never get another chance to have him in her arms—she placed her palm on his cheek.

  He leaned into her touch. “I had this revelation,” he said as he touched his forehead to hers. “It turns out that I’m not a very good Beaumont.”

  “What?” she g
asped. She’d heard him say how hard it was to earn his place at the table—at the altar. Why would he say that about himself? “But you’re an amazing man—you take care of people and you took your sister and brother to my concert and the whole wedding was amazing, right until I ruined it!”

  His grin was sad and happy and tired, all at the same time. Her feet touched the ground, but he didn’t let her go.

  “A Beaumont,” he said with quiet conviction, “wouldn’t care what anyone else thought. They wouldn’t care how it played in the media. A Beaumont would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, consequences be damned. That’s what makes a Beaumont. And I’ve never done that. Not once.” He paused, lifting her up even closer. “Not until I met you.”

  Hope. It was small and felt foreign in her mind—so foreign that she almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. “Me?”

  “You. For the first time in my life, I did something because I wanted to, regardless of how it’d play in the press.” He touched her hair, where the bejeweled clip still held her stubborn white streak in place. “I fell in love with you.”

  Her heart stopped. Everything stopped. Had he just said...that he’d fallen in love with her? “I—” But she didn’t have anything else.

  Then, to her horror, she heard herself ask, “Who am I to you?”

  He gave her a little grin, as if he’d known she was going to ask the question but had hoped she wouldn’t. “You’re a kind, thoughtful, intelligent woman who can get clumsy when you’re nervous. You’d do anything for your friends, even if it puts you in the line of fire.”

  “But—”

  He lifted her face so she had to look at him. “And,” he went on, “you’re beautiful and sexy and I can’t hold myself back when I’m around you. I can’t let you go just because of how it’ll look in a headline.”

  “But the press—tomorrow—” She shuddered. The headlines would be cruel. Possibly the worst in her life, and that was saying something. The Beaumont public image would be in tatters, thanks to her. “Your family... I ruined everything,” she whispered. Why couldn’t he see that?