will,’ she assured her. ‘Given time and the right woman.’
‘You were the right woman,’ Lucinda turned to flash at her. ‘Have you spoken to him since you jilted him?’ she then asked curiously.
‘I didn’t jilt him!’ Evie denied. ‘He asked me to marry him. I turned him down,’ she snapped, her patience beginning to wear thin. ‘Harry graciously accepted that refusal two years ago—why can’t you do the same thing, Mother?’
‘Because I still have this picture of the two of you happy together until Sheikh Raschid came along and ruined it!’
‘He may have ruined your plans,’ Evie said impatiently, ‘but he certainly didn’t ruin mine! I love Raschid!’ She declared her feelings outright. ‘I adore him! I bless each new day that I am allowed to spend in his life! Does that say it clearly enough for you?’
‘And when the day comes that he no longer wants you in his life?’ her mother challenged, undeterred. ‘What will you have left, Evie, tell me that?’
More than you can envisage right now, Evie thought tragically. ‘Why can’t you just be happy that I am happy?’ she cried.
‘Because you aren’t happy,’ her mother countered. ‘In fact, Evie,’ she added, ‘I would say that recently you have looked anything but happy! Would you like to tell me why that is, considering this wonderful love affair you’re so blissfully involved in?’
It showed? ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, turning away before her mother could read her shock for exactly what it was.
‘No?’ her mother quizzed. ‘Well…’ she began walking back to the door ‘… I suppose we will soon know the truth in that. Just make sure you don’t make too much of your affair with him in front of everyone today,’ she added curtly—which was what she’d really come in here to say in the first place. ‘There will be representatives from all the Arab states present. I don’t want my daughter’s name being bandied around the Middle East as some notoriously loose woman.’
Loose woman? Oh, good grief! Evie watched the door close behind her mother’s retreating back and wanted to throw something after her!
But instead she sank down on to the end of the bed and wilted like a weary flower.
This, she predicted, was going to be one hell of a day to get through!
And not only because of her mother’s stuffy attitude, but because she knew she was going to have to run the gauntlet of all those other disapproving faces that were waiting for her out there today—and that went for Arab and English alike!
Damn you, Raschid, she thought. For being who you are and what you are. And damn herself for being who and what she was, she then added heavily. For if only one of them had been a simple nobody, their relationship wouldn’t cause a single bat of a single eyelid!
But he had to be the wonderful heir to one of the noblest families in Arabia and she had to be the daughter of one of England’s oldest names. And even those two points together were not worrying enough to excite all the trouble their relationship incited. No, it was the very disturbing fact that the relationship had been standing firm for so long that caused rumblings of discontent on all sides.
Rumblings that were in real danger of becoming major eruptions in the near future, Evie mused bleakly.
‘Damn,’ she breathed. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ And got to her feet so she could finish getting herself ready to face the day.
CHAPTER THREE
OUTSIDE the magnificent sandstone castle, the sleek lawns running down from the moat to a beautiful natural lake had been taken over by caterers. A giant marquee now obliterated the view of the lake from the castle itself, while inside the grand ballroom had been transformed into a flower-strewn love-bower—just in case the weather decided to turn inclement.
But Mother Nature was being very obliging today. The sun was shining, and the soft summer air was heavy with the scent of roses and resonant with the sound of a military brass band playing catchy medleys of popular classics from its allocated corner of the lawn.
Roll upon roll of protective green carpet had been laid out across the grass to form walkways from the house to the marquee and marquee to the separate canopy where the marriage itself was to take place in what had to be an inspired piece of forward planning.
For, because there were far too many guests to make the use of the Beverleys’ private chapel a viable proposition today, a huge white canvas canopy had been erected and extended right over the top of the old stone archway that formed the entrance to the chapel grounds. Just inside the arch a stone altar had been erected. Beyond that the brightly coloured stained-glass window of the chapel itself formed the perfect backdrop for the couple when they exchanged their vows on what would be in effect consecrated ground.
Everyone was very impressed.
Even Evie, who had deliberately left it as late as she could before coming outside, though she was not so late that everyone had taken their seats ready for the bride and her entourage to make their entrance.
People were still standing around in the sunshine talking, smiling, laughing, joking. Famous people. Important people. People from all over the world, mingling to form a myriad of colour in the bright sunlight. People who, for once, didn’t mind posing for the half dozen official photographers circulating in their midst, even though some of those photographers belonged to the press—allowed in by special invitation and warned to be unobtrusive—or else.
The atmosphere had a warm, festive quality to it that brought a smile to Evie’s lips as she made her way along the green carpet pathway towards the open canopy. People glanced up, smiled, said hello, brushed their lips against her cheek if they knew her well enough, shook her hand if they didn’t. Or some simply gazed upon her in curious speculation because, despite what she had promised her mother about not outshining the bride today, Evangeline Delahaye could not help but stand out as someone very special.
She was tall, she was slender, she was stunningly lovely. And she was the famous lover of an Arab prince—a man with more wealth and power at his fingertips than most people here could even imagine. He was also gorgeous—which added even more spice to the affair because it made the whole thing so deliciously romantic.
It was the love affair of the decade. The press adored it; their respective families hated it. And everyone else liked to speculate on what the future held for them. While the couple themselves ignored all and everything that was said about them—whether that be by the enthusiastic press or their disapproving families.
Which in turn placed them in the dubious position of being the curiosities at functions like this. Especially when it was so absolutely obvious that they were both here today but not as a couple.
He was here in his official capacity as representative of Behran, she in her role as sister to the groom.
‘May I take your photograph, Miss Delahaye?’
Glancing around, Evie saw the eager face of a young man who was a photographer for a well-known broadsheet. He was smiling expectantly, camera at the ready and relaxed because everyone here today had been so accommodating.
But: ‘Thank you—no.’ Evie refused politely. And kept on walking until she stepped beneath
