“How nice to see you again, my dear,” said the old man as he reached for a wrapped package. “You are ready to pick up this door greeter, I assume?”
Sara nodded as Lord Arlen greeted the woodcarver with a hearty handshake.
“I see you have quite a fine collection here,” Arlen told him.
Sizing up Arlen, the woodcarver cocked his head to the side where the intricately-carved pieces stood. “The lady here is getting one of our finest door greeters.”
Feeling the viscount’s eyes on her, she nodded and pulled out her wallet as her cheeks flushed.
Elrico nodded at him. “May I help you pick one out, sir?”
Arlen’s eyes scanned the row of finely-carved pieces, then said, “I’ll go ahead and take whichever one this fine lady is purchasing.” He turned to smile at Sara. “Looks like we’re getting the same gift.”
“But you haven’t yet seen the one she actually bought,” the woodcarver said.
To Sara’s surprise, Lord Arlen winked at her. “I trust her taste.”
She was about to protest—to tell him that she didn’t think it was a good idea. What if he later realized, after the recipients of the gift had opened it, the door greeter style wasn’t to the couple’s liking? But far be it for her to intervene. She barely knew him. After all, he was a British nobleman and she was—just a Moradonian country girl. Besides, she assured herself, one couldn’t possibly go wrong choosing any of these exquisite wood-carved figures.
Out of politeness, Sara remained there, tapping her foot on the floor as Elrico wrapped up the door greeter and Arlen paid for his purchase. She could have said something all this time but her tongue was tied.
“Well, it was indeed a pleasure to run into you,” the viscount said, shaking her hand when they exited the shop. “Perhaps, I’ll have the same honor again sometime soon.”
She nodded and then he flashed her a smile and a nod before sauntering away. As she stood on the sidewalk, Sara tried with all her might to peel away her gazing at him but her feet remained rooted.
Just as she was about to turn the opposite direction, she caught Lord Arlen glance back her way.
Chapter Two
“Stop fidgeting, you look lovely,” Tía Silvia said to the bride who kept stooping down to smooth out her gown instead of facing the antique standing oval full-length mirror to assess the overall effect of her bridal ensemble.
“She’s right, you know,” Sara said. “It’s my job to worry about your train.”
And just when she uttered those words, Sara snuck a peak at herself in the mirror surveying her own maid-of-honor outfit: a cotton sea mist peasant dress tied at the waistline.
Amaia surveyed the miles of fabric behind her. “I think maybe it was a mistake to drag this long train down the aisle. I was supposed to keep it simple, remember?”
Sara’s eyebrows furrowed. Her sister, Amaia, older by four years but ever the meticulous worrywart, was also every bit the Virgo, always fussing about every little detail. Despite all her sister’s worrying, Amaia still presented herself as the picture of a perfectly composed bride when she stepped out of the car aided by Sara and Silvia.
As she and her family positioned themselves at the entrance of the church, Sara observed Fernan, her father, dressed in suit and tie, sporting his Sunday best as father of the bride.
“You look handsome, Papa,” Sara said, kissing both her father’s cheeks. “If only Mama could see you, could see Amaia now.”
“Ah but my child,” Fernan said, pointing heavenward. “Your Mama is here watching out for all of us.”
Sara raised her head toward the sky, tears welling. And indeed, Mama, you are here.
To the tune of a Moradonian folk song, Sara took the cue to stoop down and gather her sister’s train in her hands as the bride and her father took their positions at the church entrance. Maintaining a steady gaze as she glided behind her sister was her prime purpose and her task as maid-of-honor seemed simple enough as she politely nodded and smiled to familiar faces seated in the pews.
Just then Sara’s eyes connected with that now all-too familiar compelling sea blue gaze she had the pleasure of drowning in a mere two days ago.
It couldn’t be and yet…it was.
Viscount Arlen Spencer-Cromwell sat in one of the pews at the groom’s designated side of the church. What was he doing here? Did he buy the door greeter because he knew the groom or the bride? Once again, her mind raced. Her sister never mentioned being acquainted with a British lord. How was it that fate had placed Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe, in the very same wedding of Sara’s sister, Amaia, to one Gael Alcántara, her future brother-in-law, a man she realized she knew very little about?
Distracted, Sara nearly tripped on an edge of the long train that managed to slip through her fingers. Thankfully, Amaia had paused long enough for Sara to gather both the train and her wits together.
During the ceremony, Sara felt the back of her head and neck heat up as though someone was watching her. And sure enough, when she turned around, Lord Arlen’s eyes were trained directly on her. Frozen in place, she couldn’t look away even if she tried. When the organ music began at the conclusion of the ceremony and the congregation stood, it gave her the opportunity to draw her attention elsewhere.
And when the bride and groom walked down the aisle as a married couple, Sara tried her best not to gaze toward the viscount’s direction as she exited the church behind them. As well wishers kissed, hugged and greeted the couple outside the church, Sara’s peripheral vision was on high alert, hoping she wouldn’t be forced into making polite conversation with Viscount Rydelthorpe. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his company. On the contrary. She recalled what a gentleman he was when, while she accompanied Princess Chantalise on a visit to his country home in England, jovial and hospitable “Lord Arlen” not only chatted with and entertained the princess but also made her ladies-in-waiting and bodyguards feel welcome.
But today, she realized, she needn’t worry. From where she stood, it seemed Lord Arlen, as she preferred to call him, was doing just fine. In fact more than fine for he was engaged in conversation with a lady of impeccable refinement and standing who no doubt was his date as well as his equal in terms of breeding and pedigree. The lady, a statuesque regal blonde, laughed at some remark he apparently made to humor her, being quite the charmer he was known to be.
Sara pivoted the other way, dismayed at how some members of the privileged class seemed only to associate with “their own kind” as this lady was apparently wont to do as her arm stayed linked to Arlen’s and she didn’t seem interested in engaging in conversation with any of the other guests. As the wedding gathering dispersed to move on to the reception—a short drive from the church— at the family’s country home, Sara thought that was the last she would see of Lord Arlen and his lady friend.
For the outdoor reception, Amaia and Silvia took the utmost care to see to it that guests truly felt welcomed by Moradonian countryside hospitality. Rustic old wooden tables were adorned with white tablecloths each with a charming marigold floral arrangement centerpiece. As a
