Exotic Affairs(12)

Roll upon roll of protective green carpet had been laid out across the grass to form walkways from the house to the marquee and marquee to the separate canopy where the marriage itself was to take place in what had to be an inspired piece of forward planning.

For, because there were far too many guests to make the use of the Beverleys’ private chapel a viable proposition today, a huge white canvas canopy had been erected and extended right over the top of the old stone archway that formed the entrance to the chapel grounds. Just inside the arch a stone altar had been erected. Beyond that the brightly coloured stained-glass window of the chapel itself formed the perfect backdrop for the couple when they exchanged their vows on what would be in effect consecrated ground.

Everyone was very impressed.

Even Evie, who had deliberately left it as late as she could before coming outside, though she was not so late that everyone had taken their seats ready for the bride and her entourage to make their entrance.

People were still standing around in the sunshine talking, smiling, laughing, joking. Famous people. Important people. People from all over the world, mingling to form a myriad of colour in the bright sunlight. People who, for once, didn’t mind posing for the half dozen official photographers circulating in their midst, even though some of those photographers belonged to the press—allowed in by special invitation and warned to be unobtrusive—or else.

The atmosphere had a warm, festive quality to it that brought a smile to Evie’s lips as she made her way along the green carpet pathway towards the open canopy. People glanced up, smiled, said hello, brushed their lips against her cheek if they knew her well enough, shook her hand if they didn’t. Or some simply gazed upon her in curious speculation because, despite what she had promised her mother about not outshining the bride today, Evangeline Delahaye could not help but stand out as someone very special.

She was tall, she was slender, she was stunningly lovely. And she was the famous lover of an Arab prince—a man with more wealth and power at his fingertips than most people here could even imagine. He was also gorgeous—which added even more spice to the affair because it made the whole thing so deliciously romantic.

It was the love affair of the decade. The press adored it; their respective families hated it. And everyone else liked to speculate on what the future held for them. While the couple themselves ignored all and everything that was said about them—whether that be by the enthusiastic press or their disapproving families.

Which in turn placed them in the dubious position of being the curiosities at functions like this. Especially when it was so absolutely obvious that they were both here today but not as a couple.

He was here in his official capacity as representative of Behran, she in her role as sister to the groom.

‘May I take your photograph, Miss Delahaye?’

Glancing around, Evie saw the eager face of a young man who was a photographer for a well-known broadsheet. He was smiling expectantly, camera at the ready and relaxed because everyone here today had been so accommodating.

But: ‘Thank you—no.’ Evie refused politely. And kept on walking until she stepped beneath the wedding canopy.

Some people were already in their places. Her brother for instance, still looking impressively at ease as he stood talking to his best man and oldest friend, Sir Robert Malvern, while her mother sat in the row of chairs behind him, listening intently to whatever Great-Aunt Celia was saying to her.

Lecturing her on how to deal with me, most probably, going by the fierce expression on the old lady’s face, Evie assumed. And moved her bland blue gaze onwards—until she reached the other side of the aisle—and inevitably, maybe, found Raschid.

Her heart stopped beating momentarily, the studied blandness softening out of her eyes as they soaked in this man who gave her life meaning.

He was standing within a group of his own people, all Arab dignitaries from different Arab states wearing traditional Arab attire. But to her there was only one man standing there. In height, in looks, in sheer masculine charisma he reigned supreme over everyone. He was wearing white, the formal white silk dishdasha of his royal office, with its gold sash wrapped around his whipcord-lean waist, and triple gold bands around the plain white gutra that covered his head.

And he seemed to sense the precise moment that her eyes came to rest on him because—despite the fact that he seemed engrossed in whatever the man beside him was saying to him—his head lifted and he looked directly at her. Their eyes clashed and for those few brief moments out of time neither moved a single muscle as their usual reaction to each other held them transfixed in a private world of their own.