style="font-size:15px;"> The raw sexual attraction that had been so unexpected, so new to her, had, for him, been no more than an instinctive male response to a situation charged with tension. An atavistic need to prove his masculinity in the face of rejection.
It hadn’t been personal.
If she hadn’t believed it then, had clung to that hope despite reality, he’d certainly gone out of his way to make sure she understood his feelings this morning.
I’ve had my fill of your kind …
Her kind being women like Candy Harcourt. Two of a kind. Not.
The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know a thing about her. Didn’t want to know. Wasn’t interested.
Sylvie dragged her gaze away from the familiar distant view of the old village, nestled in the valley bottom alongside the river. The square Norman tower of the church. Forced herself, instead, to look at the photographs provided by the designer who was going to pull out all the stops to provide her with her dream dress.
There was just one problem.
No dream.
Not one with a possibility of coming true, anyway.
She was going to have to be content with the one she had. The one she’d already fulfilled when she’d taken control of her own destiny, refusing ever again to allow her fate to be dictated by circumstances over which she had no control. Or thought she had. She laid a hand against her belly as her baby moved as if to remind her that fate had a way of mocking those who thought they’d beaten her, turning the pages of the album with the other, hoping for something, anything.
A gut response that said ‘this one’.
It shouldn’t matter, but stupidly it did. If she was going to lay out her fantasy for the world to judge, it had to be real. Perfect.
There’s no such thing as perfect …
The ‘gut response’ wasn’t working. It was fully occupied coping with her unexpected confrontation with Tom McFarlane. He looked thinner. Tanned, but thinner. Harder, if that was possible. His features chiselled back to the bone …
She shut her eyes in an attempt to block out the image. Concentrate on the dress. Style … She should stick with style because the wedding dress, as she always reminded her brides, should be an extension of your natural look.
Your wedding day was not a moment to experiment with a fashion statement.
Especially if the result was going to be splashed, in full colour, across the pages of Celebrity.
Geena Wagner, the designer showing at the Fayre, was incredibly talented and her gowns were all, without exception, beautiful.
Something like the flowing, beaded and embroidered silk chiffon kaftan-style dress might well have been her choice if she’d been thinking of a beach wedding.
She paused to make a note on her PDA for Josie. She had a bride who was considering that option.
Unfortunately, while the idea of a runaway wedding for two on some deserted beach might be deeply appealing, her task—and she’d had little choice but to accept it—was to include as many exhibitors as possible, which meant it would have to be a traditional wedding.
The whole village church, bells and choir job, with bridesmaids, ushers, fancy transport, a marquee fit for a maharajah and more flowers than Kew Gardens.
It should have been a piece of cake. She’d done it before. Sitting in this room, making lists, her mother offering suggestions. She wasn’t that girl any more …
At least she’d made a start with the flowers, she thought, reaching out for the tiny posy of violets that Lucy—taking her task very seriously—had gone out into the park to pick for her. Sweet-scented purple velvet flowers, heart-shaped leaves, tied with narrow purple ribbon. She lifted it to breathe in the scent and for a moment smiled.
Her bridal flowers would be a simple posy of violets. Maybe she could set a new trend for simplicity, she thought, returning to the photographs. A minimalist wedding. Very classy.
The strapless cleavage-enhancing dresses were almost too minimalist, but while perfect for a civil ceremony in some glamorous setting, wouldn’t work in the village church. Or maybe it just wouldn’t work for her.
And yet the look would have to be show-stopping.
She needed a theme, something that would tie everything together, or the feature risked being no more than a series of photographs of things …
She sighed, poked amongst the collection of goodies Lucy had found for her. Held a long amethyst earring against her neck. A scrap of smoky mauve chiffon. Ribbons, dried flower petals, invitation cards with envelopes lined with lilac tissue.
All utterly gorgeous, but she’d done all that love’s young dream, happy ever after, fairy tale thing ten years ago. Had seen it crumble to dust the minute there was trouble.
Maybe that was why she’d been hit so hard by the Candida Harcourt/Tom McFarlane debacle. It had been too close to home. Had brought back too many painful memories. Despite Tom McFarlane’s move on her, it was obvious that he hadn’t been over it, he’d just been hurting.
Her response had been to shift the hands-on wedding stuff to Josie, using her pregnancy as an excuse. Not that the clients were getting second-best. Josie was brilliant at making things run on oiled wheels behind the scenes. In fact, if she wasn’t very careful, her rivals would be headhunting her, offering her all kinds of incentives to come and work for them.
She made a note on her PDA to do something about that. Which was just another way of putting off the task in hand.
‘Come on, Sylvie,’ she muttered, taking a couple of long, slow, calming breaths. ‘You can do this.’
And then, avoiding the dresses, she picked up one of a pair of embroidered and beaded purple silk shoes.
‘Anything catch your eye?’ Geena said from the doorway.
‘These shoes?’ she offered.
‘You’re finding it difficult?’
She indicated her shape. ‘Just a bit. But I’ve definitely ruled out the vestal virgin look,’ she said, indicating the photograph in front of her. ‘Not that it isn’t lovely,’ she added quickly. ‘They’re all lovely but, to be honest, I’m finding it hard and it’s not the bump. It’s just not real, you know?’ She tried to think of someway to explain. ‘I find most of my brides are thinking about their groom when they choose their dress.’ Most of them. ‘When they find the dress of their dreams they always say something like, “He’ll just melt when he sees me in this …’“
Candy, on the other hand, had said, ‘Everyone I know will die of envy when they see me in this …’ But then that had been the standard by which she’d judged everything about her wedding. Not what Tom would think but how envious everyone else would be.
Maybe that was the difference between marrying for money and marrying for love. Candy hadn’t needed any of the trappings when she’d
