including her concerns about her marriage.
“I can’t imagine any man not loving you,” her sister said, squeezing her hand.
Sorcha appreciated the sentiment, but half expected to be stood up at the altar. The entire village was holding their breath to see it, she was sure, but she went through the motions of dressing for her wedding.
The morning ceremony was held in the church Sorcha had attended growing up, and was, secretly, her most cherished dream come true.
When she saw Cesar waiting at the altar for her, she felt more than relief. Pride. Joy. The sun came out long enough to splash reds and blues and greens from the stained glass windows onto the worn, golden pews and gray stone floor. Cesar had provided all the women with corsages, which, along with her elegant bouquet, perfumed the air with the scent of lilies and roses. The moment was pure and reverent.
Cesar wore a morning coat and had shaved. He hated shaving, which was why he wore stubble most of the time. He wore stubble really well, truth be told, but with his cheeks clean, his face looked narrow and sharp, his sensual mouth more pronounced.
Perhaps it was a severe mood putting that tautness in his expression, she thought, but as her sister played her down the aisle with a pretty march, he watched her with a gaze that pulled her forward. His eyes had never looked so much like white-hot metal, the green-blue giving way to silvery heat, hammered and binding.
Emotive tears came to her eyes. Was she really marrying her boss ?
His hands were reassuringly steady as he held her trembling ones, his voice strong where hers cracked with emotion. She didn’t know if that meant he was more confident in this marriage than she was, or less emotionally invested.
Financially, dear Lord, he appeared more than willing to invest. The platinum band he put on her finger was already soldered to its matching engagement ring. The stone in the one ring was a princess-cut diamond with emerald baguettes on either side, then another pair of smaller princess diamonds. The rest of the setting, like the wedding band, was alternating diamonds and square-cut emeralds.
She could hardly speak as she pushed his simple platinum band with one winking green emerald onto his swarthy hand. Hers. He belonged to her. The knowledge quivered through her like an arrow had lodged in her heart and vibrated with the impact.
Closing her two hands over his, she silently prayed, Let him be mine .
They received their blessing and he kissed her, keeping it chaste in this house of God, but her lips burned, making her press them together to tamp down on the tingle.
They had luncheon at the village’s best hotel. The town’s seaside location meant busy summers, which sustained a few high-end establishments like this one. The rooms weren’t big, but the view overlooked the beach, the decor and amenities were top-notch, and the food and service excellent.
Well, aside from the askance look she caught from a former schoolmate as the woman poured the tea.
Despite the posh atmosphere, Sorcha had to wonder what Cesar thought of the hotel and her mother’s house and her birthplace. They would be sharing his suite as a family tonight and smart as she expected it to be—the suite was called The Royal for a reason—it was still far from the spacious luxury he was used to.
In the past, when Sorcha had indulged in fantasies of bringing him home to meet her family, they’d had time to visit all her favorite haunts: the beach, fudge from the sweet shop... Maybe cycle past the mansion to see how her mother’s roses were doing.
She didn’t know why she did that to herself, but if the weather was fine, she always went past the house where she’d grown up. It was masochistic on some level, but her father was the only member of his family who’d spent any time there. His English family had never used it. After his death, they’d sold it to an American actor, who rarely visited. The house stood empty, which
“I can’t imagine any man not loving you,” her sister said, squeezing her hand.
Sorcha appreciated the sentiment, but half expected to be stood up at the altar. The entire village was holding their breath to see it, she was sure, but she went through the motions of dressing for her wedding.
The morning ceremony was held in the church Sorcha had attended growing up, and was, secretly, her most cherished dream come true.
When she saw Cesar waiting at the altar for her, she felt more than relief. Pride. Joy. The sun came out long enough to splash reds and blues and greens from the stained glass windows onto the worn, golden pews and gray stone floor. Cesar had provided all the women with corsages, which, along with her elegant bouquet, perfumed the air with the scent of lilies and roses. The moment was pure and reverent.
Cesar wore a morning coat and had shaved. He hated shaving, which was why he wore stubble most of the time. He wore stubble really well, truth be told, but with his cheeks clean, his face looked narrow and sharp, his sensual mouth more pronounced.
Perhaps it was a severe mood putting that tautness in his expression, she thought, but as her sister played her down the aisle with a pretty march, he watched her with a gaze that pulled her forward. His eyes had never looked so much like white-hot metal, the green-blue giving way to silvery heat, hammered and binding.
Emotive tears came to her eyes. Was she really marrying her boss ?
His hands were reassuringly steady as he held her trembling ones, his voice strong where hers cracked with emotion. She didn’t know if that meant he was more confident in this marriage than she was, or less emotionally invested.
Financially, dear Lord, he appeared more than willing to invest. The platinum band he put on her finger was already soldered to its matching engagement ring. The stone in the one ring was a princess-cut diamond with emerald baguettes on either side, then another pair of smaller princess diamonds. The rest of the setting, like the wedding band, was alternating diamonds and square-cut emeralds.
She could hardly speak as she pushed his simple platinum band with one winking green emerald onto his swarthy hand. Hers. He belonged to her. The knowledge quivered through her like an arrow had lodged in her heart and vibrated with the impact.
Closing her two hands over his, she silently prayed, Let him be mine .
They received their blessing and he kissed her, keeping it chaste in this house of God, but her lips burned, making her press them together to tamp down on the tingle.
They had luncheon at the village’s best hotel. The town’s seaside location meant busy summers, which sustained a few high-end establishments like this one. The rooms weren’t big, but the view overlooked the beach, the decor and amenities were top-notch, and the food and service excellent.
Well, aside from the askance look she caught from a former schoolmate as the woman poured the tea.
Despite the posh atmosphere, Sorcha had to wonder what Cesar thought of the hotel and her mother’s house and her birthplace. They would be sharing his suite as a family tonight and smart as she expected it to be—the suite was called The Royal for a reason—it was still far from the spacious luxury he was used to.
In the past, when Sorcha had indulged in fantasies of bringing him home to meet her family, they’d had time to visit all her favorite haunts: the beach, fudge from the sweet shop... Maybe cycle past the mansion to see how her mother’s roses were doing.
She didn’t know why she did that to herself, but if the weather was fine, she always went past the house where she’d grown up. It was masochistic on some level, but her father was the only member of his family who’d spent any time there. His English family had never used it. After his death, they’d sold it to an American actor, who rarely visited. The house stood empty, which
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