I Only Want To Be With You Page 2

  “Maybe we’ll meet at the reception.” Marcella sighed wistfully. “Maybe I’ll make a point of meeting him. Who is he, I wonder?” She wondered a little too long because suddenly a disturbing thought occurred. “Oh-no, Sallie. You don’t suppose?”

  “Nah. Much too young. Even for Lynne.”

  Marcella couldn’t believe the relief that washed over her. Already, she was beginning to fall for this guy. She’d be heartbroken if he were about to be married. Or worse, married to her boss.

  He set the top hat upon his glorious head at a rakish angle.

  “Do you believe this? This tall, handsome stranger appears from nowhere, and in minutes transforms from biker to aristocrat right before our unsuspecting eyes.”

  “It was quite the show.” Sallie gave a seductive growl. “A modern day Mr. Darcy.”

  Yes, Marcella was turned on, she had to admit. She lingered over her last glimpse of him as he headed for a side entrance with long, quickened strides, looking for all the world like some nineteenth-century Regency lord. His royal hotness.

  “He never even noticed us,” Sallie said.

  “He’s in a hurry. And good thing, too, or he’d have cause to suspect he was being stalked. As it is, I feel like a peeping tom. Speaking of which, I want those photos when we get back to New York.”

  “Oh yeah? And what do you intend to do with them?”

  “Sleep with them under my pillow and hopefully improve the quality of my dream life.”

  Sallie linked her arm with Marcella’s. “You know, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good motorcycle must be in want of an American fox. As opposed to an English bird, that is.”

  Marcella fanned herself with her hand. “Do we know he’s single?”

  “Okay, let’s review the facts. He arrives late for a wedding, on a motorcycle, half-dressed, and with no date. What do you think?” Sallie spun her towards the door. “Let’s grab a seat, shall we? Before you combust and Jane Austen rolls over in her grave.”

  Inside, Sallie scooted into an empty pew, dragging Marcella in behind her. A fresh herb scent filled the air. The church had been decorated with garlands of greenery and herbs — mint, purple sage, thyme, and rosemary. Henry had taken his place at the altar by the vicar. He was a distinguished, white-haired gentleman with half-moon-shaped glasses. A white rose filled the buttonhole of his frock coat.

  The vicar and the vicar, Marcella thought, hee-hee. “I think I’m getting giddy.”

  “What?”

  “I think we’re sitting on the wrong side,” she whispered to Sallie as the organist began to play the processional music. “Family and friends of the bride are supposed to sit on the left.”

  Sallie rolled her eyes.

  The congregation rose to its feet, and Marcella rose with them. She turned to face the back of the church. There, at the door, stood Lynne in a white silk column dress with a bouquet of white roses, her newest shade of ash blonde hair swept up in an elegant, classic, Grace Kelly style.

  She took the right arm of the gentleman beside her and together they entered the church. Whoa. It was the guy from the parking lot. Adrenaline shot through Marcella in a rush, setting her libido on fire.

  Then it hit her. Lynne’s nephew. The guy from the parking lot was Lynne’s nephew. Yes, she remembered now. With her father deceased, Lynne had mentioned she’d asked her nephew to give her away.

  Lynne and her nephew proceeded down the aisle together.

  Sallie’s description fit. He was gorgeous, intense and elegant all at the same time, and he was about to pass right by her.

  Keep your focus on Lynne, she reminded herself. Happy, gracious smile for the bride. This is her moment. This is not a nightclub. Do not give her nephew the eye.

  As they approached her pew, Marcella smiled at Lynne, then stole a quick glance at the nephew. His aquamarine blue eyes had already found her and held a meaningful glint that was more than casual. Marcella exchanged smiles with him. His gaze lowered to the cleavage peeking from between the lapels of her tailored black pantsuit then returned to her face, where he cocked a brow, gave her an approving nod, and continued down the aisle.

  Marcella stared after him, speechless for once in her life. The tables had been turned. He’d just checked her out.

  Sallie nudged her in the ribs and sing-songed, “I saw that.”

  As a trail of six little bridesmaids, ranging in ages from four to twelve, followed them down the aisle, Marcella tried to recall anything and everything Lynne had told her about this hottie nephew of hers.

  His name? What was his name? She didn’t know, but Marcella did recall Lynne mentioning he was an Oxford grad. He was acquainted with Henry because Henry taught at Oxford. In his day, her nephew had been a popular oarsman on the University’s rowing club.

  Must be where those shoulders came from.

  *

  Bugger him, she nearly took his eye out, she was so beautiful.

  Henry stepped forward as they approached the altar, and William handed him his bride, then moved to the left.

  His gloved hands folded before him, William stared up into the stained glass and wondered, who is she? One of Aunt Lynne’s friends from the States? Yes, of course. Who but a cheeky American would wear her bosom to church as a fashion accessory? He’d always found them a big distraction during service. Breasts, that was. Nearly as tall as he, she was obviously of Italian descent with her short black waves, dark deep-set eyes, and full, expressive mouth that reminded him of a young Sophia Loren.

  Aunt Lynne waved her bouquet, jostling William from his musings. First, late for the wedding, now slacking in his duties. He wasn’t used to being on this side of the altar.

  He took Aunt Lynne’s roses and turned round to set them on the front pew. As he did, he glanced down the row of pews and across the aisle, looking for the exotic giantess. Her dark head appeared above the crowd because she was straining her neck to watch him. Their eyes met across the congregation.

  “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you,” the vicar greeted everyone.

  William quickly turned back round and joined with the others in answering, “And also with you.”

  He had committed his life to taking the tedium out of the Church of England and replacing it with fun, but a posh, impertinent American with a career in New York was a little too much fun for even this bloke. As the bishop and his mother had lately reminded him, it was time he got married.

  William agreed, but a long-distance relationship and separate careers … not bloody likely he’d be going that route again.

  The dark-eyed beauty in the back was no choice for a vicar.

  Chapter 2

  After the ceremony, the Reverend and Mrs. Henry Swann marched out the doors of St. Cross through an arch of oars hoisted by Oxford University oarsmen wearing striped suit jackets of Oxford blue.

  Marcella exited her pew and melded into the throng of guests following the wedding procession outside. When she reached the foyer, she was handed a little brown envelope. Tucking her organizer under one arm, she broke the embossed seal and emptied a handful of petal confetti into her palm.

  Cheers went up along with a shower of dark purple petals. Well-wishers gathered around the couple to offer congratulations. Marcella searched the crowd, waving when she spotted Sallie, who had slipped out early for photographs.

  Farther away, among a group of college students gathered on the courtyard lawn, stood Lynne’s nephew. The handsome biker in Regency attire was speaking with a petite brunette in a silky bob. The girl reached up to snatch the top hat from his head and placed it on her own, while a few of the oarsmen made obscene gestures with their oars, everyone laughing and generally having a good time.

  Immature, Marcella thought, though she was still very much intrigued. She unzipped her organizer.

  Sallie joined her at the bottom of the church steps and held up her Leica. “I go
t the most fantastic shot of the bride and groom under the oars. What’s next on your list?”

  Marcella flipped through the pages, distracted. “That’s all for now, Sallie. Great job. Thank you. We’ll get Lynne to pose with her bridesmaids in the gardens once we get to Rousham House. Oh, no. I don’t believe this. I’m chronically thorough. I jot down everything. How could I have nothing in my notes about the man who gave away the bride?”

  “Ah, Mr. Darcy on a motorcycle. The obsession continues.” Sallie slipped an arm around Marcella’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Brace up, old girl. Cheerio.” She gestured to the surrounding crowd. “If Lynne’s nephew gave her away, he’s likely one of her dearest and most popular relatives. Who needs notes when any one of these two hundred guests could give you the scoop? No problem, right? Part of what makes you such a good editor is your ability to talk to strangers, to meet people up and down the social scale.”

  Marcella beamed.

  “Look, that woman seems pleasant enough.” Sallie pointed, directing Marcella’s attention to a statuesque older woman in knee-length chiffon and matching hat, the dark purple of the delphinium petals. Definitely upper-class. She was helping one of the little bridesmaids into a lilac cardigan.

  Marcella gave Sallie a thumbs up, then casually strolled towards the pair. She gazed overhead at the day — the green English countryside, the church steeple against a clear blue sky — and sighed. “Beautiful wedding,” she offered to no one in particular, but the woman glanced up and agreed. “Yes, lovely.”

  She gave Marcella a slow, elegant smile.

  Marcella needed no further invitation. “Hi. My name’s Marcella and this is Sallie. We’re friends of the bride. We work with Lynne at Gracious Living in New York. I’ve seen family photos in her office, but I’m not familiar with the gentleman who gave her away. Do you know who he is?”

  “William? Yes. Of course, I know him.”

  William. Marcella replayed the name in her head. Not casual-guy Bill or Billy, but William. Sophisticated, charming William. Handsome, refined William. Royal, as in Prince William. Romantic, as in William Shakespeare. As in Will, for short. Or long Willy. Oh, don’t get me started.

  “Handsome, isn’t he?” The woman straightened to assess Marcella from beneath the wide brim of her hat, jostling Marcella away from her naughty imagination.

  Marcella tittered in feigned innocence. “Oh-no, don’t misunderstand me. It’s nothing like that. I’m producing an article for the magazine featuring Lynne’s wedding, and I’ve just been trying to orient myself with who’s who before Sallie starts clicking away.”

  “I’m the photographer,” Sallie explained, holding up her Leica.

  “Fabulous photographer,” Marcella confirmed. “Speaking of which, don’t you just love those frock coats? They’re going to make for some great photos.”

  The woman smiled down at the child by her side. “Yes, I suspect they’ll be quite smart.”

  These Brits. So tight-lipped. “William, you said?” Marcella repeated, writing the name in her notes even though it was already implanted in her consciousness. “Such a dignified, noble name. William. Makes one think of royalty.”

  “Indeed, William is, in fact, descended from the peerage. The Honorable William John Anthony Grafton Stafford, third son of Lord Wiltshire, the Eighteenth Viscount of Wiltshire. Not only is he Lynne’s favorite nephew and godson, he is a man of extraordinary principle and wit, an accomplished sportsman and gardener, educated at Eton and Oxford.” As she sang William’s praises, her voice rose with authority. Then much quieter, on a more wistful note, she added, “He lives in the village of Bramble Moor in a beautiful stone cottage with no wife.”

  Marcella scribbled furiously, trying to contain her glee.

  Sallie stepped closer to the woman. “You seem to know a lot about him.”

  “I should, dear. I’m his mother.”

  Marcella dropped her pen.

  “Oh … ah … his mother,” Sallie twittered. “How nice.”

  Marcella chuckled. “I’m hardly surprised, Lady Wiltshire. I could hear the pride in your voice.” She affected a composed smile before Will’s mum caught on that the heightened glow to her cheeks was not the result of a heavy-handed application of shimmery cream blush, but mortification.

  The little bridesmaid picked up the pen. “Here you go, miss.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.”

  “This is my granddaughter, Mae.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Mae.” Marcella gave the child a wink. “You look very pretty in your linen dress with paper butterflies in your hair. Sallie take her picture. That face belongs in a magazine if ever I saw one.”

  Sallie crouched down for the shot, then thanked Mae for being such a good model.

  The girl blushed then tugged on Lady Wiltshire’s skirt. “Gran?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, let’s go find Mummy, shall we?” Lady Wiltshire took the child’s hand. As she turned to go, she smiled into Marcella’s eyes with an amused expression. “Lovely to meet you.” She moved past. “You also, Sallie.”

  “Hope to see you at the reception,” Marcella called. She turned to Sallie and mouthed, “His mother!”

  Sallie shrugged. “Sorry. But look at it this way. You’ve survived the scariest part of the relationship. You’ve already met his mother.”

  “Mother, aunt. It’s a nightmare. This party is going to be crawling with relatives.”

  “Less competition for you.”

  “I wonder what he does. He does work, I assume. She didn’t say.”

  “Ah, but she did say he was honorable,” Sallie quipped.

  “Technically, the third son of a viscount is a commoner just like you and me.” Marcella raised a brow and whispered in a seductive voice. “But we’ll see just how ‘honorable’ once we’re better acquainted.”

  Sallie laughed. “Look, the crowd is thinning. Let’s go congratulate the bride and groom.”

  They maneuvered over to the newlyweds, where they were immediately introduced to the soft-spoken, even-tempered Henry. Quite a contrast from Lynne, Marcella thought, but then opposites attract … or so they say.

  Marcella ooh-ed and aah-ed over Lynne’s dress, her radiant glow, her handsome new husband. She squealed and kissed and congratulated, never once mentioning Lynne’s fake tan or new hair color, and generally sucked up in all the ways expected at such a momentous occasion. So Lynne’s curt dismissal came as a shock, especially when compared to the attention she seemed to be lavishing on Sallie.

  “My nephew William has insisted on traveling by motorbike, so we now have an empty seat in the wedding car. We’ve a lovely old Bentley. You’re welcome to join us, Sallie, if you need a lift to the reception.”

  “Me? Well… ,” Sallie glanced helplessly at Marcella. “That’s generous of you, Lynne, but I don’t think—”

  “Oh, forgive my rudeness.” Lynne turned to Marcella, and with a haughty expression, explained, “We only have room for one, I’m afraid.”

  Ouch, Marcella thought. Lynne knew she and Sallie traveled as a pair. What was up? Why the slight? She tried to recall if she had unknowingly done something to offend Lynne. Nothing came to mind. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to help with preparations for the wedding. This just better not have anything to do with her promotion.

  “Go with the Bentley, Sallie,” Marcella encouraged, hiding her hurt feelings behind a smile. “You need to be at the reception early to take pictures.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Lynne agreed.

  Sallie wasn’t buying it. “Thanks just the same, Lynne, but Marcella and I will find a ride together.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, love,” Lynne argued, “Marcella’s quite capable of finding her own transport.”

  “Sure, I can bum a ride. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Excuse me, Aunt Lynne, but aren’t you going to introduce me to your American friends?”

  That proper, British-accented baritone came from dir
ectly behind Marcella and sent a warm, fuzzy shiver down her spine. She turned and found herself staring into the dazzling aquamarine eyes of the Honorable William.

  They twinkled with that unassuming expression Sallie had spoken of earlier. He touched the brim of his top hat to her and grinned before returning his attention once again to Lynne. “Not still cross with me, are you, Auntie?” His voice was rich with warmth and laughter.

  Lynne pouted at him. She set her blonde head at a tilt while she regarded him, then threw up her hands and sighed. “William, darling, where were you? You had us all worried, wondering why you were so late. Whatever made you take that awful motorbike when you drive such a smart little Fiat?”

  “Terribly sorry ‘bout that, Aunt Lynne. Babette refused to get out of bed this morning. You know how I depend on her to wake me. Wasn’t pleased with the fact I was going to leave her behind, I suspect. I’d arranged to borrow Angus Harsley’s Land Rover for the drive, but it lost an axle on the A-Four-Twenty-Nine. Too late by then to ring up one of the family. I had no choice but to go back for my bike.”

  “But your Fiat, William! Where is your Fiat?”

  “The Fiat. Right. Babette was quite disappointed, actually. She loved our long drives. I traded it in only last month, you see, to help purchase a minibus for Bramble Moor’s seniors. Bit difficult to get around once you reach a certain age, and you know how cranky seniors get come Sunday morning when they’ve missed their Saturday evening of bingo and tea. Or you will know soon enough, won’t she, Henry?”

  Henry and William enjoyed a private chuckle.

  Lynne scoffed. “Stop it, both of you. Trading decent transport for a minibus. Absolutely ridiculous. I don’t want to hear another word.” She drew herself up and assumed a happy wedding face. “William Stafford, my godson, please meet Sallie Madigan, a photographer friend of mine from Gracious Living magazine.”

  William offered his hand and exchanged greetings with Sallie.

  “And this is my assistant, Marcella Tartaglia.”

  “Associate Editor,” Marcella corrected, extending her hand while her poor confused brain was still trying to process Babette and the senior bingo players.