The Impetuous Bride. Caroline Anderson
be moving away. She’d never see him again—
‘He’s going to stay in London—like I said, he’s hardly ever here now.’
Never here? Oh, Lord. She stood up, patting Mel on the shoulder in passing. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she said, and went blindly into the kitchen, past the place where he’d kissed her just now in the doorway of the room where he’d proposed to her just over a year ago, the room where so many of her hopes and dreams had been formed, only to come crashing down around her ears.
She ran down through the garden, over the lawn, under the rose arch and down to the wildflower meadow by the river where the marquee would be put up in just a few days.
Her willow was there, the tips of the branches trailing in the water, and she leant against the trunk and dragged in a shaky breath, and then another.
He couldn’t go.
The river swam out of focus, and she slid down the trunk and plopped on to the damp grass, dropping her head back against the rough bark and closing her eyes. The tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks, and she wished she could turn back time and change the course of the last year.
Maybe if she’d married him, given him a chance, all her doubts and fears could have been ironed out. Maybe they would have learned to talk to each other, learned to open up their hearts and dared to share their feelings.
And maybe then, instead of a dull and endless ache inside, she would have been filled with joy and contentment, like Mel.
She turned her head and looked towards Jake’s house, and then she saw him, standing by the river on his side of the fence, watching her. He was too far away to see her tears, but he lifted his hand and waved, and turned away.
She wanted to run after him, to ask him if he’d loved her, really loved her, or if he’d just allowed himself to be manoeuvred into the whole wedding thing.
She didn’t, though. She didn’t move. Instead she sat there and watched him until the tears blinded her again and he was gone.
What was she doing there? He stood for an age, watching her leaning against the tree, her face tipped up to the dappled sun, and he ached to hold her.
You’re a fool, he told himself. She’s no good for you. She’s just a beautiful butterfly, and if you trap her she’ll die as surely as if you put a pin through her heart.
He glanced at his watch. There was someone coming to see the house at four—just an hour away. He had to go and tidy the kitchen—the kitchen Lydia had designed and installed, the kitchen she’d planned as if it were her own.
She was everywhere in it. Every finishing touch, every clever little idea screamed her name. That was one reason why he was selling up. That and her return. Watching her day after day flitting about the place, hearing that beautiful tinkling laugh, watching her run to her car with those never-ending, gorgeous legs flashing in the sun—
He’d had dreams about those legs tangling with his, entwined around his waist as he buried himself deep inside her.
He growled impatiently, and she looked up, straight at him. She was too far away to read her expression, but he couldn’t stay there in case she came over and read the yearning in his eyes.
He lifted his hand in a casual salute and turned away, walking back to the house with a heavy heart. He couldn’t let her do this to him. He couldn’t wallow in self-pity like this or he just wouldn’t survive.
He had this week to get through, and the wedding next Saturday, a week today, and then he wouldn’t have to see her again. He could leave the house. Packers could clear it and bring the things he wanted to London, and the rest could be sold.
And maybe then he could move on.
‘Lydia? Tonight?’ Jake gave what he hoped was a casual shrug, and tried to ignore the sudden lurching of his heart. ‘Sure. Why should I mind?’
‘Well, that’s what I said,’ Tom replied. ‘Anyway, whatever, you’re going to have to see each other this week so you might as well get used to it.’
‘Absolutely. It’s not a problem,’ he assured Tom, hoping it was true. ‘How are the plans going?’
‘Oh, pretty smooth. There’s a lot to do, but, having just had a dry run, as it were, I don’t suppose it’s as bad as it could have been.’
Jake winced inwardly. A dry run? Was that how they viewed the disastrous mess last year had been?
‘It could have been a simpler affair,’ he pointed out, and Tom gave a rueful laugh.
‘With Mel orchestrating it? Not a chance. My darling girl wants all the bells and whistles, and that’s what she’s having. It seems to be a family failing.’
Except, of course, that Lydia had looked increasingly unhappy with it—or with him? He didn’t know. He hadn’t stopped to find out.
‘What time are we going out?’ he asked now, and Tom shrugged.
‘Seven-thirty? Table’s booked for eight-thirty, but we could go for a drink first.’
‘Fine. I’ll be ready. Right, stick that mug in the dishwasher and get out of here. I’ve got viewers coming to see the house in ten minutes and I need to check it. How’s your room?’
‘It’s fine. Lord, man, you’re such a nag.’
‘Check it.’
Tom saluted, vaulted off the edge of the worktop, dropped his mug in the dishwasher with a clatter and sauntered out into the hall. Jake shook his head, wiped down the worktop again, took a last look round and headed for the hall.
Fresh flowers stood in a huge vase on the side table, the sun was streaming into the drawing room windows and it looked good. He heard Tom coming downstairs two at a time, humming.
‘Well?’
‘Spotless. It’ll knock ’em dead.’ Tom punched him affectionately on the shoulder and headed out through the back door, just as the front doorbell rang.
They loved it. Everyone who’d looked at it loved it. There was going to be a mammoth fight over it, apparently, and the agent predicted that it would go to sealed bids, with people making their best and final offers at some time in the next week or two.
Well, at least it wouldn’t hang on, he thought heavily, closing the door behind the viewers at shortly after five. They’d wanted to look at everything several times, and he’d sent them off on their own and then had to listen to them raving about the kitchen for a good ten minutes.
Every little feature that Lydia had factored in, the woman had picked up on. The convenient way the trays slotted into units and became part of the fabric, the ingenious way the cupboards hinged out to give access to the back, the huge and practical work island with a granite area for pastry-making inset into the solid mahogany top, the butcher’s block set into another area—she’d loved them all.
She’d loved the deep butler’s sink under the window, the decorative tiling behind the Aga, the butler’s pantry with its stone shelves and floor-to-ceiling storage—all of it, each scrap of worktop and every single knob had been commented on and caressed lovingly.
She’d been particularly interested in the space under the worktop in the side of the island nearest the Aga.
‘It’s a dog bed,’ Jake had explained.
She’d blinked and looked at it, then at him. ‘It is?’
‘Potentially. I’ve had to spend more and more time in London, though, and the dog wouldn’t have fitted in,’ he’d explained economically.
‘Oh, how sad. Our dog would love it, so near the Aga. What a clever idea. Still, maybe one day you’ll be able to have your dog.’
Jake had done the only thing he could—he had smiled and nodded and tried not to grind