The Pregnant Bride. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
to understand the hopes and expectations her family had pinned on her marriage to one of the city’s wealthiest financiers?
“We’ll finally be accepted where we belong,” her mother had crowed to her father. “Doors will open, you’ll see! We’ll be rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Mark will give our son a position in the firm, something appropriate for a young man of Glen’s ability. And with a few words dropped in the right ear, Amber’s career will be made overnight.”
“He’s marrying Jenna, not the whole family,” her father had tried to point out. “Mark doesn’t owe the rest of us any favors.”
But her mother had been undeterred. “Why not, when he can so easily afford them?”
Was that what had made Mark change his mind at the last minute? Had he felt he was nothing more than a cash cow, even though Jenna would have loved him just as dearly if he’d been dirt-poor?
The breeze picked up, tugging at the formal hairdo her stylist had created just that morning. Hugging her arms against the chill, Jenna swung back to the stranger. “I left a note at my parents’ house telling them I’d be away for a few days and not to worry about me. Satisfied?”
“I guess,” he said, “but I still don’t see why you’d want to cut yourself off from them.” He inclined his head toward The Inn perched majestically on the rocks to their right. “Or why you’d want to hole up in a place designed for couples and lovers. Seems to me that’s just rubbing salt in the wounds.”
He subjected her to another penetrating stare and she felt color stealing into her cheeks. “Oh, brother, let me guess!” he exclaimed, enlightenment dawning. “You were supposed to honeymoon here, right?”
“At least I knew I’d have a room reserved,” she said defensively. “The bridal suite, in fact, complete with champagne on ice and flowers by the bucketful.”
He circled her as if she were some rare species of sea life accidentally washed ashore. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
She stared at her feet, feeling more foolish by the minute. “At least it’s the last place anyone would think to come looking for me.”
He laughed then, a rich warm rumble of amusement borne away on the breeze. “You’re going to be okay, you know that?” he said, tipping up her chin with his finger and smiling down at her. “Any woman with the guts to face her demons in the one place she’d expected to find true love is a real survivor. What say we head back to The Inn and I buy us both a drink to celebrate?”
Well, why not? The only thing waiting for her in the suite was a bed big enough for two and no one to share it with. “All right,” she said. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Yeah,” he said, tucking her hand under his arm and towing her back the way they’d come. “But keep it under your hat, okay? I don’t want the word to get out.”
His name was Edmund Delaney and she found herself enjoying his company more than she’d have thought possible an hour before. He was an entertaining host, articulate, amusing, and unquestionably the most attractive man in the room. She sat by the fire and sipped the cognac he ordered and, for a little while, she was able to push the fiasco of her wedding day to the back of her mind. Eventually, though, the evening came to an end.
“I’ll walk you to your room,” he offered and because she dreaded being alone, she accepted.
Taller than Mark, broader across the shoulders, and more powerfully built, he loped up the stairs with the graceful ease of an athlete at the peak of fitness. “Give me your key,” he said, when they arrived at her door, and as she handed it over, she noticed his hands were lean and tanned and capable, and just a little callused as if he worked with tools. Mark had a manicure every week and wouldn’t have known one end of a hammer from the other.
“Here you are.” Edmund pushed open her door, dropped the keys into her palm and folded her fingers over them.
If he’d said, “Sleep well,” she’d probably have managed to end the evening with a modicum of dignity, but his more sensitive “Try to get some sleep,” had the tears burning behind her eyes all over again.
Mutely, she looked up at him.
His fingers grazing her cheek were gentle. “I know,” he murmured. “It isn’t going to be easy.”
He left her then and she knew a shocking urge to call him back and beg him not to make her face the night alone. It wasn’t that she wanted him to make love to her or anything like that; she just needed the warmth of human contact, the feeling that someone in the world cared—not that a two-thousand-dollar wedding dress had gone to waste, or that four hundred guests had been cheated of a seven-course dinner, but that she somehow survive the crushing blow to her self-esteem and live to face another day.
Not until his footsteps had faded into silence did she venture into the room. A fire burned in the hearth and beyond the wide windows a half-moon floated over the ocean. The maid had turned down the bed on both sides and left foil-wrapped chocolates on each pillow. Hadn’t she noticed there was only one set of luggage, only one toothbrush in the bathroom?
Unable to face the bed, Jenna sank down on the rug before the fire and because there was no longer any ignoring them, let the ghastly events of the day wash over her.
It had begun well enough, with sunshine and clear skies. There’d been no hint of impending disaster as she’d ridden with her father to the church, no sense of something amiss as her bridesmaids fussed with her veil and whispered that the groom and his family had not yet arrived. Mark and his father were often late, held up by international phone calls and such. “That’s the price of doing business,” Mark had said, when she’d once had the temerity to complain. “Money before pleasure any day of the week.”
Including their wedding day, it had seemed!
“They’ve taken a wrong turn and got lost,” her father joked. “Or been stopped for speeding.”
But as the minutes stretched and still no groom, the smiles had shrunk and the speculation had begun, rippling over the congregation like wind over a cornfield. Finally, “I have another wedding in half an hour,” the minister had said, coming out to where she waited in her wedding finery. “I’m afraid that unless Mr. Armstrong and his party arrive in the next few minutes, we’ll have to reschedule your ceremony for another time.”
By then, though, a dull certainty had taken hold and Jenna knew that Mark wasn’t going to arrive, not in the next few minutes and not ever. Instead, Paul King, his best man, had shown up, red-faced and apologetic.
“So sorry, Jenna,” he’d stammered, handing her an envelope. “Wish I didn’t have to be the one to bring you this. Wish there could have been a happier ending….”
The letter was brief and full of empty excuses aimed at softening the blow of rejection. …afraid I won’t make you happy…can’t give you what you want…you deserve better, dear Jenna…a wonderful woman who’ll make some lucky man a wonderful wife…forgive me…some day you’ll thank me…this hurts me as much as I know it will hurt you….
“What does it say?” her mother had asked in a horrified whisper, and when she hadn’t replied, had snatched the paper out of Jenna’s hand, read it for herself, and let out a squawk of outrage. “He can’t do this!” she’d cried. “We’ve got sixty pounds of smoked salmon waiting at the club! Your father had to extend his line of credit at the bank to finance this wedding!”
The bad news had spread quickly, rolling through the church like an anthem. Heads had turned, necks craned, feet shuffled. And throughout it all, Jenna had stood at the door, bouquet dangling from one limp hand, wedding veil floating in the May breeze, silk gown whispering around her ankles and a great empty hole where her heart had been.
What was the correct protocol for a bride left waiting at the altar? Throwing herself off the nearest bridge hadn’t appealed although, when she first read the letter,