Tomorrow's Bride(28)

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?'