No Conventional Miss by Eleanor Webster

Author:Eleanor Webster
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2015-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The viscount looked across the pews of the pint-sized country church. Parishioners watched him, their faces unknown but with the universal appearance of the English farmer or shopkeeper: strong, sensible and kindly in a no-nonsense way.

The organ’s volume rose, played by a nervous, spinsterish woman who stared at him like a frightened rabbit and hummed several beats behind her own music.

Sunlight filtered through the single stained-glass window, splashing blobs of colour on to the pews and upturned faces. Grass, flowers and the mustiness of an old building scented the air.

Then the murmur of voices hushed and the wooden pews creaked as the parishioners turned, angling their bodies towards the rear of the church.

She had come.

The back doors were swung wide. Sunlight splashed in, dappling the floor gold. The music grew louder and more jubilant as though competing with the fast, rhythmic beat of his heart.

His bride stood silhouetted briefly against the brightness outside. Her body swayed as she stepped forward and the doors shut behind her. Her father stood beside her. He wore his best coat, cut in the fashion of ten years previous, and looked faintly puzzled.

Paul’s lips twitched. Rilla had no such look. She walked steadily, not fast exactly, but with a businesslike determination which seemed typical.

And she looked beautiful—no, nothing as bland as beautiful. She looked resplendent. The ivory dress clung to her slim form. The cream veil softened the red of her hair, while the unusual square neckline exposed creamy skin and the tantalising swell of her breasts.

He was glad now that she hadn’t worn the diamonds. They wouldn’t have fitted with the warm simplicity of this country church. The locket, nested between her breasts, suited her far better.

Then he frowned because he saw that, despite her brisk movements, she was scared. He could see it in the tilt of her chin, the angular straightness of her carriage, the way one white-gloved hand gripped the fabric of her father’s arm, squishing the cloth into folds. She held a posy of wild roses, the sort that grow on hedgerows. He saw them tremble.

The music ended. A thick silence filled the church, well remembered from childhood services and his mother’s funeral.

But he must not—would not—think of that.

Rilla stood beside him. Her father had gone to the pew. Paul heard the quickened intake of her breath and the rustling movement of the veil. Their eyes met and she smiled, a tentative twist of moist lips.

He smiled back, conscious of a tender warmth, a need to comfort, and to promise a happily ever after even when he knew it could not be.

She made that breathy gasp.

The warmth turned to heat.

* * *

The ceremony blurred for Rilla into a series of vibrant but strangely disconnected moments—the strength of her father’s arm, the sheen of moisture in Mrs Marriot’s eyes, her sister’s hug, tight and fierce.

She remembered the scent of the flowers decorating the church, sweet peas in honour or her mother, the organ music, jerky under Miss Plimco’s

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