The front pews were packed-on the one side with Cavours, Gregorys on the other. It was impossible to miss her mother's hat, that enormous affair in dusky pink, abundantly swathed with veiling. How she had enjoyed choosing it.
That had been something of a surprise, discovering how her mother had thrown herself into the rushed preparations with a zest which had been sorely lacking in past years. It was as if she had taken on an entirely fresh lease of life and was relishing the challenge. For example, the day they had spent hunting for the dress, she had refused to allow Leigh to settle for something entirely adequate in the first shop, had selected from a whole row the one she imagined would be perfect for her daughter.
And she had been right. Leigh knew she was wearing the perfect dress... There was no need for the muffled gasps of pleasure to reassure her that it suited her; the mirror back in her bedroom at the vicarage had done just that. She knew she was looking her absolute best, with a faintly dreamy quality which she found fascinating. So much was due to the heavy cream silk, quite gorgeous on its own, but when you added the close-fitting bodice, the scooped neckline and short puffed sleeves, both decorated with seed-pearls, and the skirt, straight and elegant in front, flowing at the back into a short train, it was... well, stunning was not too extravagant a description in this case.
Her first instinct had been against a veil-after all, they'd been aiming for a very simple country wedding-but they had come up against a very slick saleswoman who had urged her to 'try it just for the effect' and then, of course, she had been lost. Yards of sheer silk tulle, falling just as far as the elbows, were gathered into a little bandeau, perfect for the swept-back hairstyle she had had in mind, and now, as she walked slowly through the church, the sun seemed to catch in the cobwebby folds, the shimmering nimbus gathered about her adding to that dreamy air. And in her hand she held the bouquet which Patrick had had delivered that morning-roses, merging through cream and all shades of gold, backed by trails of wispy fern.
Now she was almost there. Her father was preparing to relinquish his place by her side and the elusive scent of Patrick's cologne was all about her as he turned. His eyes were on hers and her heart was behaving in its usual irrational way, was swelling with such joy that for a moment her vision blurred.
But then it cleared; their eyes met and his were tender, hers soft with the perfection of the moment. Her lips parted in what wasn't quite a smile. In his buttonhole was a rose, matching those in her bouquet, in the deepest shade of gold. He just looked, eyes searching her face, lingering for a mischievous moment on her parted lips, then his attention was caught by a glint, moved lower, and there, nestling against her creamy skin, was the beautiful silver chain given nearly six years before, and it was supporting the teardrop crystal.
His eyes were back on her face, were gleaming with that faint secret smile; his hand was reaching out for hers. Fingers linked, together they turned to face the archdeacon.
The meal was over, the speeches-with some witticisms which had made the bride blush and lower her head-made, listened to and applauded with all the uninhibited pleasure that the happy guests could achieve. While a small army of women cleared away the main tables, the cake was cut, further toasts were drunk, and meantime a trio of musicians gathered at the far end of the marquee beside the small dance-floor.
The guests, tongues loosened, formalities dispensed with, began to circulate, apparently by osmosis drifting towards the dance area where tuning up had begun.
'I think they're waiting for us.' Patrick touched his wife's elbow, relieved her of her empty champagne glass. Unseen fingers trailed down the bare skin of her inner arm while she... she had to work hard to disguise the shudder that his touch evoked.
'Darling?' She looked at him questioningly, trying to remember what she and Holly had been discussing.
'I'm sure Holly will accuse us.' And what woman could be impervious to that raised eyebrow, the look which hinted at intimacy? 'Especially when she knows that in a few weeks we'll be neighbours.'
'Yes, get on with you-your guests are waiting. Not that I excuse you for keeping me in the dark for so long, especially when I saw myself in the role of matchmaker. I shall want to know all about it when I see you in Paris.' She looked round as Paul came up, slipped her hand through his arm and sighed happily as they watched the bride and bridegroom thread their way through the crowd and on to the dance-floor.
There, for just a few moments, Patrick and Leigh stood looking at each other, the world forgotten, he with his hands on her waist, hers on his shoulders. In the background the music began softly, softly, an elusive time, which as it strengthened made them sway together till Patrick took one of her hands in his.
'Remember me?' His mouth curved upwards at the corners. 'Remember me, the guy who waited nearly six long years...?'
'I remember.' Her tone was drowsy. 'Don't forget I'm the girl who waited five years, eight months and six days, but-----' she smiled as his arm tightened menacingly '-it seemed every minute of six years.'
And, still gazing intently at each her, Patrick swept her along to the lilting, seductive sound of a Strauss waltz. One or two guests drew closer, and began to clap in time to the music. Others at once took it up, till the pair on the floor were surrounded by a host of well-wishers, but they were so absorbed in each other, they barely noticed.
'How on earth...?' Later that evening they were dancing again, but the venue had changed. Now they were in that country hotel near Oxford which Leigh remembered so well, the sight of which had made her catch her breath as he'd driven in through the gates. 'How on earth did you think of it, Patrick?' she asked him now. 'It's still the same.' She smiled innocently, dazzling the man who was strumming on the double-bass. 'Even the same trio, I swear.'
'You made him miss a note-did you hear? You ought not to smile at men like that.' 'When you stepped on my toe, do you mean?' She gasped as his arm pulled her even closer, then he whirled her through the door and out into the hall. 'No, that's not what I meant. I'm going to take you away from all this.' Hand in hand, they ran across the hallway, began to climb the curving staircase. 'In our room I've arranged for a bottle of iced champagne, a light supper, and then...'
'And then?' With the door closed behind them she leaned back, linking her hands about his neck. 'And then?' Her lips brushed against his. 'And then I'm going to ask if you're hungry.' She shook her head. 'Not for food.' 'Or thirsty?' He grinned, as if anticipating her answer.
'Not for wine.'
'But you are...particularly shameless. Confess it.' Which she did, quite willingly.
But later, sitting up in bed, she found that she was both hungry and thirsty, and reached for one of the bite-size sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, sipped at the icy wine. 'Mmm.' She burrowed a little deeper into the pillows. 'I could so easily become used to this.'
'Don't,' he warned, leaning forward to drop a swift kiss on her mouth. 'Don't get too used to it, will you?'
'Oh?' Her heart was hammering again, that wild tattoo which indicated only one thing, and who could be surprised, with that powerful body dressed in nothing but a brief fluffy towel leaning so close to her? Reaching out, she touched his silky skin. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean that-----' he caught at her hand, dropped a kiss into the palm '-besides bringing you back here to where it all began, I have other plans which won't provide the same standards of luxury.'
'Oh.' Now there was a faint frown as she tried to follow. 'But I thought it was New York, then Vermont.'
'It is. And I promise it's going to be luxury all the way to Vermont, but after that...'
'Patrick.' Sensing some drama, she put down her glass, and without thinking knelt in the tumbled bed, took his hand and held it against her. 'Please, tell me what you mean.'
'You realise-----' he moved his hand a little '-if this continues I shan't be able to tell you anything much.' He grinned. 'I shall be forced to take action.'
'Oh.' She reached for the wisp of lace masquerading as a nightdress. 'Is that better?'
'Much,' he said sardonically, then recognised signs of impatience. 'You know I've always regretted that we didn't spend those years in Ashala together.' Taking her almost imperceptible nod for agreement, he went on. 'What would you say if I told you we were going back there?'
'Patrick?' Idly she reached for the narrow strap which had slipped down her shoulder. 'Ashala?' 'Mmm.' How closely he was watching her. 'What would you say?'