Love at the Northern Lights
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Also by Darcie Boleyn
Copyright
Chapter 1
‘Oh my God, Frankie, we’re being arrested!’
‘What?’ Frances Ashford looked up from the flute of champagne she’d been nursing for the past hour, and peered through the dimly lit VIP section of the exclusive London club.
‘Get up! It’s the police.’
Jennifer Prescott, Frankie’s best friend, grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, causing her to spill the remains of the champagne down the front of her pink silk dress.
And sure enough, six burly police officers were heading their way.
‘But why would they arrest us?’ she asked Jen, looking first at the men in their black shirts and trousers with black baseball caps on their heads, then at the rest of her hen party.
‘Because we’ve been very naughty.’ Lorna Cartwright, another of Frankie’s bridesmaids, smoothed her sleek black hair then adjusted the low neckline of her barely there black dress. She giggled then held up her hands. ‘I’m here, officers. Please be gentle with me.’
‘This is a prank, right?’ Frankie nudged Jen as the men closed in on them.
‘Oh, Frankie, darling… just go with the flow. This is your hen night and it’s time to have some fun.’ Jen cocked a perfectly manicured blonde brow at her, then held up her hands in the same way as Lorna and the other three bridesmaids
Frankie scanned the club, wondering if she had time to make a run for it, but suddenly handcuffs were locked around her wrists. One of the officers gruffly informed her of her rights, then she was led down the stairs from the VIP area and across the dance floor, as her friends squealed and giggled around her.
Ten minutes later, Frankie found herself squashed onto a narrow bench, between two of the rather brawny police officers in the back of a transit van. Jen and Lorna were with her, but the others had been stuffed into a different van outside the club. It was clearly hen night high jinks, but even so, her pulse was racing and her mouth bone dry. She hadn’t wanted any of this, hadn’t even wanted a hen night, but Jen and the others had insisted. Frankie had agreed on the condition that it would be a quiet night of drinks at a club followed by a meal at The Ivy. However, it seemed that her friends had ignored her wishes and come up with something completely different.
The air in the van was stuffy and the heavy aroma of cheap aftershave hung around the hot, bulky bodies either side of her. Didn’t these men know that less was more when it came to cologne? How anyone could find this exciting, Frankie had no idea. The urge to stand up, kick open the back doors of the van and jump out was building, and she pressed her long French-manicured nails into her palms to try to stay calm. Surely this torture would soon be over?
She looked over at Jen who was smiling up at the officer at her side. He stared straight ahead, as if he’d been instructed to ignore the prisoners, but his lips twitched as Jen whispered something in his ear.
‘Jen?’ Frankie couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘What?’
‘How long will this last? It’s just…’ She glanced either side of her. ‘I need the loo.’ It was a lie, but if it meant this would end sooner, then she’d put on her best full bladder performance.
Jen rolled her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you go in the club?’
‘I wasn’t exactly given a chance, was I? It all happened a bit too quickly.’
‘Cross your legs, hun. We won’t be long, so try to relax and enjoy yourself.’ Jen flashed her a smile.
Each jig of the van as it drove through the London streets, made Frankie realize that her bladder was actually quite full now, and that she’d need a comfort break soon. Perhaps it was the shock – and horror – of being subjected to this. Perhaps it was the water she’d been discreetly drinking to avoid getting a headache from the bubbly.
A squeal of tyres brought the van to a sudden stop and the officers jumped up, but because Frankie had been so tightly squashed between them, she was thrust forwards. She raised her arms instinctively to cushion her fall, but the handcuffs kept her wrists together, so she was winded as she hit the carpeted floor. She lay still for a moment, her forehead resting against the itchy carpet that reeked of the adhesive that held it in place, trying to catch her breath as hell broke out around her.
‘What the f—! How is that acceptable?’ It was Jen. ‘Frankie? Are you OK, darling?’
Frankie nodded as best she could, then strong hands took hold of her arms and lifted her to her feet. She sagged, her stomach aching from her fall, as she tried to suck in breaths.
‘You absolute idiots! You’re meant to look after your clients, not beat them up. You wait until I post a review about your beastly company.’
‘Look, love, no harm meant. We weren’t to know she’d lose her balance.’ Frankie watched the officer at her side, whose squeaky voice seemed incongruous with his size, as he tried to reason with Jen. ‘We’ll do you a discount.’
Jen sniffed then flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulders. ‘You’d better and a jolly good one at that.’
The van doors swung open and the officers leapt out then helped the women down. Frankie had finally caught her breath but knew that her stomach would be tender for days, the same as when she caught a hockey stick to the gut at boarding school.
To her relief, they had stopped directly outside The Ivy Kensington.
‘Come on, Frankie, let’s get a drink.’
‘Was… that it then?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jen frowned.
‘Being arrested. You haven’t arranged for strippers or anything as well, have you?’
Jen sighed then hooked her arm through Frankie’s. ‘The night is young, darling. The night is soooo young.’
Frankie suppressed the urge to scream…
* * *
‘No! Please put the thong back on…’
Frankie bolted upright in bed and blinked. Memories of her hen night the previous weekend were still disturbing her sleep. Following a very pleasant meal at The Ivy, there had been another nightclub and a return of the fake police officers, followed by stripping and… She shuddered. It was probably a night that a lot of brides-to-be might have enjoyed, but for Frankie, it had been her worst nightmare. Shaved groins, greased pecs and gyrating strangers, all made her extremely uncomfortable. She’d always been quite shy and reserved and never really felt that she fitted in with the people of her social circle. Perhaps it was due to her early years when her family unit had taken a hit, but perhaps she was just a prude at heart. Nothing wrong with the latter, but sometimes she wished she could do as Jen had suggested and go with the fl
ow. If only she could be happy with the life she’d been given. She just had a feeling that something was missing; it had always been missing.
Her mobile buzzed on the bedside table and she reached across the king-size bed for it. Just her alarm, set to wake her in case she slept on. She’d been so tired recently and was finding it harder and harder to get up in the mornings. Of course, the fact that winter was pushing autumn aside and settling onto England with frosty mornings and dark afternoons probably didn’t help. They’d even said there could be snow this year, something that had sent Grandma reaching for a second large gin when she’d heard it on the farmers’ forecast.
Frankie flopped back on the fawn satin pillows and sighed. Winter could be such a dreary time and often made everything seem so much worse. That was why Grandma had suggested she and Rolo marry in November, to give them something to look forward to.
‘Bugger!’ She sat up again. ‘Married. Damn and blast it!’
Frankie was getting married… today…
She jumped out of bed and ran to the rear window of the double-aspect chamber, then pulled the heavy curtains apart.
Outside, on the expansive lawn, sat a huge white marquee. She knew exactly what it would look like inside: cream chair covers and tablecloths with their silver and gold place settings and crystal glasses. There would be white roses and mistletoe in the vases and the favours would be pinecone fire starters, encouraging the guests to ‘Let love warm your heart’. Twinkling fairy lights and evergreen festoons would be draped across the ceiling and around the entrance. It would be perfect, magical and Frankie should be excited.
But she wasn’t.
Not. At. All.
She backed away from the window, as if that could erase the image of the marquee from her mind. Her grandmother had organised the finer details of the wedding, like the favours and decor, and the wedding planner her prospective in-laws had hired had taken care of the rest. It had been remarkably easy for Frankie. In fact, she’d barely had to think about what was happening. Which was part of the problem. She was detached from the process, going into the marriage with blinkers on, as if pretending it wasn’t happening would make it all easier to go through with.
She was like a pawn being handed over to the highest bidder at a marriage auction, and that bidder had turned out to be Rolo Bellamy. Rolo was – on paper – the ideal match for Frankie, and although their families weren’t quite in the top one hundred of the Sunday Times Rich List, they had amassed impressive fortunes over the years through investing in property, land and farming.
It was, apparently, also the right time for her to get married. All her friends were doing it, or had done it – like Jen – and some were even on their second or third child, except for Lorna – who was younger, at twenty-five – and had sworn never to have babies because it would ruin her model physique. It wasn’t that Frankie didn’t like Rolo, because she did (at least, she thought she did) and they’d known each other a long time, but if someone had entered the bedroom at that moment and asked her if she loved the handsome, suave and very successful lawyer, Frankie knew she’d have struggled to reply.
She should love him. Wanted to love him. But for some reason, she didn’t.
Perhaps she was just incapable of love. She’d tried to speak to her grandmother about it, but Helen Ashford had pursed her thin lips and frowned, then raised a hand to silence her. Helen had spouted something about love being for poor romantics and that it was wise to marry for money – or to marry into more money in this case – then love would find a way.
‘I wish love would find a bloody way and pretty sharpish seeing as how I’m getting married in…’ she checked her mobile, ‘four hours!’
Four hours and her fate would be sealed. She would be Mrs Rolo Bellamy – she’d reluctantly agreed to take his name, as he said it looked better than her keeping her own – and they’d be jetting off to a honeymoon on the private island of Cayo Espanto in the Caribbean. Rolo had booked them a 2,100 square feet villa with a large private plunge pool, personal decks and a private dock. She rubbed at her throat, finding it hard to swallow, as she recalled the images Rolo had shown her of their honeymoon destination. Although he hadn’t interfered with the wedding details, like the marquee, bridesmaids’ dresses and the rest, he had decided where they would honeymoon and for how long. When Rolo had basically insisted she take his name, she’d wondered if he’d try to get her to quit her job – the job she didn’t need to have for financial reasons but she chose to have for her sanity. Admittedly, it wasn’t the career she’d have picked, had she been able to follow her heart, but it had been the topic of a challenging negotiation with her grandmother, and management consultancy had been one of the routes deemed suitable for a young woman of her wealth and social status. So far, Rolo hadn’t seemed interested in persuading her to relinquish that treasured independence. The tight feeling in her throat increased and she had to cough to try to dislodge it.
Rolo, though outwardly nice and respectable, was rather controlling. And Frankie knew she was a bit of an ass for letting him take charge. But she was used to relinquishing control of her life; it had always been the way.
A knock at the door dragged Frankie from her thoughts and she hurried to answer it, hoping that it would be someone who could put her mind at rest and reassure her that it would all be absolutely fine and that she was just having pre-wedding jitters.
Please let it be nothing more than that…
Chapter 2
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Jen sashayed into the bedroom. She was wearing a plush white robe and rhinestone-encrusted wedge slippers. Her face was already made up and her hair pulled into an artistic mass of shiny curls and freshwater pearl and diamanté clips. Frankie couldn’t help but admire how beautiful her friend looked. Almost as if she was the bride-to-be.
If only she was…
But Jen was already married. She’d tied the knot last year with Henry Prescott, City banker, and they’d honeymooned in Tobago. She’d told Frankie that they intended on starting a family as soon as today was done, but hadn’t started trying before as Jen wanted to look good in her maid-of-honour dress.
Frankie envied Jen because she knew exactly what she wanted; she always had done, ever since they were ten years old. Jen liked money, the prestige of having more than one property, and was looking forward to being what she described as a yummy-mummy. She was a born socialite, living happily off her family’s wealth and now her husband’s, and apart from a brief period a few years ago when she’d claimed to be an interior designer, she had never been interested in working. Her job as an interior designer had focused on shopping for imaginary clients – who happened to like Gucci bags and Louboutin heels – and how anyone was meant to use those as decor, Frankie had no idea. Jen had expressed her surprise on more than one occasion that Frankie chose to work, and didn’t seem to understand why Frankie wanted to have a career.
‘You need some bubbly, Frankie, to get you into the mood. We don’t want you blotto, but we do want you feeling rather marvellous.’
‘I don’t think I do want alcohol. I haven’t had breakfast yet.’ Frankie returned to the bed and perched on the edge.
‘Of course you do. It will perk you up no end and you need to start getting ready. You probably had a beastly night and didn’t sleep a wink, did you? What with all the excitement!’
Jen bustled about the room, speaking into her mobile as she did so, and within minutes there was a knock at the door and a stream of people entered and started fussing around Frankie.
She surrendered to the preening and primping, knowing that she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to put up a fight. Her whole life had led her to this moment, a life of submitting to her grandmother and not fighting for what she wanted because it was just too difficult. It seemed that this was her destiny, and she had no say in it whatsoever.
* * *
When Frankie was finally allowed to look in the mirror, she didn’t recognize her
self. Gone was her straight brown hair, pale face and clear skin. Someone who could give the Kardashians a run for their money had taken her place. Her dark hair was scraped back from her forehead so tightly that her eyebrows sat at least a centimetre higher than usual and the genuine diamond and pearl tiara – that had been her grandmother’s – cut into her now tender scalp. She felt sure that at any moment her hair would snap and she’d be left with a short spiky fringe.
‘Don’t you look fabulous?’ Jen squeezed her shoulder. ‘Rolo is going to want to jump your bones as soon as he sees you.’
Frankie tried to suppress the shudder that ran through her but her new bright-pink trout pout contorted of its own accord. Jen met her eyes in the mirror and held her gaze.
‘It’s going to be OK, Frankie. Married life is pretty darned good. You know… you probably won’t even see him most of the time. Much as I love my Henry, he’s either at work, playing golf or off doing funny handshakes. My life is my own and yours can be too.’
Frankie’s heart sank. That sounded like an awful way to view being a newly-wed like Jen. She was also surprised; Jen hadn’t admitted anything like this to her before and it made her wonder again at how close they actually were. There had always been something between them, a sense of understanding and compassion, but they weren’t exactly bosom buddies in a Sex and the City or Friends kind of way. Was Jen really happy with her lot, as Frankie had previously believed, or had she missed what was right in front of her because she was dealing with her own issues?
‘Come on, Frankie, have some more champagne.’
They clinked glasses and Frankie downed hers in one go. She wasn’t a big drinker, unlike Grandma, who called four in the afternoon gin o’clock, and her father, who kept the wine cellar very well stocked, and the warmth from the alcohol soon flooded her system, loosening her inhibitions. She let Jennifer refill her glass several times, then she was led to the dressing room just off the main bedroom. As well as the dressing room and bathroom, the bedroom had its own veranda and antechamber, which had, at one time, been used as a prayer room. Rolo’s ancestral home was enormous and Frankie knew that it could take an age to walk from one end of the mansion to the other, especially if you got distracted by the antiques and oil paintings of his mother’s side of the family. Frankie loved gazing at Rolo’s ancestors, mainly because she was fascinated by the changing fashions over the years, intrigued by the fabrics, styles, shoes and hats.
Love at the Northern Lights Page 1