Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom

Gorgeous Grooms
Jackie Braun
Liz Fielding
Natasha Oakley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Her Stand-In Groom

By

Jackie Braun

Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA® finalist, three-time National Readers Choice Award finalist and past winner of the Rising Star Award. She worked as a copy-editor and editorial writer for a daily newspaper before quitting her day job in 2004 to write fiction full time. She lives in Michigan with her family. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www. jackiebraun.com

Is he the man of her dreams?

Gorgeous Grooms

Three dreamy and feel-good romances from

three beloved Mills & Boon authors!

To Mom and Dad:

Thanks for passing on your love of reading.

Chapter One

THWACK!

Catherine Canton had made a career of opposing domestic violence, but that didn’t keep her from using a bouquet of white roses to smack her prospective groom upside his philandering blond head.

Cursing amid a snowstorm of fragrant petals, Derek Danbury stopped his intimate exploration of the wedding planner’s lacy black bra.

“What the—” he began, before turning around completely. Once he had, his expression shifted from irritated to uh-oh.

In an instant he was slicking on the charm, as well as the boyish smile Catherine had once found so irresistible. How could she have been so naïve?

All but shoving the other woman aside, he said, “Sweetheart, I can explain this.”

If she hadn’t wanted to cry Catherine might have laughed at that absurd proposition. And if the situation hadn’t been so wretchedly pathetic she might even have let him try, for the sheer entertainment value such an exercise would provide. Derek was a master at coming up with perfectly innocent reasons for doing the outrageous. She’d often found his justifications amusing, if exasperating. But this wasn’t the same as showing up late for dinner with her parents or failing to meet her at some charity function.

No, he’d been helping another woman out of her clothes in the choir loft of a church. The same church where, in less than fifteen minutes, he was supposed to swear before God and their guests to forsake all others.

Catherine had never been blind to his flirtatious nature, but she had foolishly believed that flirtation was all he’d ever engaged in. Oh, there had been tabloid speculation to the contrary, but, as her mother had preached on more than one occasion, those rancid scandal sheets’ attempts to sell more papers were hardly a valid enough reason for Catherine to question her engagement to one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. This was especially the case, her mother had insisted, since she and Catherine’s father had already plunked down so much of their dwindling fortune to give their daughter a memorable society wedding.

And so Catherine, ever the dutiful daughter, had brushed aside her nagging concerns as silly pre-wedding jitters. She didn’t doubt for a minute her mother would be ruing the day she’d insisted on hiring a professional wedding planner.

“I don’t need an explanation,” Catherine said, as the wedding planner buttoned her blouse and wisely slinked away.

“It’s really not what it looked like,” Derek replied.

She might have been naïve to believe a notorious playboy like Derek, heir to the venerable Danbury Department Store chain, was ready to settle down, but with the evidence of his infidelity now made so obvious she would not be thought stupid as well.

Holding up a hand, she said, “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Come on, Cath. You have to listen to me.”

“Listen to you? What can you say to make this somehow less sordid than it actually is? I won’t tolerate lies.”

“I love you. That’s not a lie.” He reached out, caressed her arms through the white silk of her gown. Mere minutes ago she would have believed him. But how could he love her—truly love her—and do this?

She pulled away, her breath hitching. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I made a mistake.”

“Would you still think so if you hadn’t gotten caught?” Her voice hiked up an octave, pushed there by pain and disbelief. “My God, Derek, you’re in a church. It’s our wedding day. And you were…” She shook her head, the image still revoltingly fresh.

“Let’s keep our voices down, sweetheart,” he urged, casting a nervous glance toward the railing, no doubt thinking about the multitude of guests already assembled below. “In fact, let’s discuss this later.”

“Later? When later? After we’re married?” She crossed her arms and tapped the battered bouquet against one hip, her emotions swinging wildly from hurt to anger again. “I don’t think so.”

Alarm widened his eyes. “You’re overreacting, Cath. Don’t blow this out of proportion.”

“Oh, that’s rich. You almost had sex in the church with our wedding planner minutes before the ceremony. I don’t see how I could blow this out of proportion. As offenses go, Derek, what you did is gargantuan already.”

“You know, technically I didn’t do anything.”

Catherine closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to summon up some of the control for which she was legendary. Ice Princess, some called her, but she was fuming now, a volcano ready to blow. She preferred that. Hurt and embarrassment could come later, and settle over her like suffocating ash. She dropped her hands to her sides. Her fingers fisted around the bouquet handle as if were a Louisville Slugger, and she was seriously thinking about taking another swing at him when someone said, “Excuse me, please.”

Derek’s cousin Stephen stood not five feet behind them in the choir loft. Despite similar heights and builds, and the fact their birthdays fell just one day apart, she couldn’t imagine two men more different in either appearance or disposition. Derek was fair and always joking. Stephen was dark and brooding.

He stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Derek, your mother asked me to come and mention that the guests can hear this conversation. She suggests you move to a more discreet location.”

Whatever he thought of the situation, none of it was reflected in the deep brown of his eyes.

Privacy. Catherine longed for it at this moment—that and something far more comfortable than the beaded pumps that were crushing the toes on each foot into a single digit. But both would have to wait until she’d dealt with the situation at hand. Picking up the heavy train of the designer gown her mother had insisted Catherine had to have, she walked to the railing of the balcony.

“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

“What are you doing?” Derek whispered, rushing up from behind her. He grabbed her arm none too gently, hauling her around. The act so surprised Catherine that she dropped her bouquet over the rail’s edge. Its sterling silver handle struck the tiled aisle below, echoing in the church like a shotgun blast. Guests shifted in their seats to see what was going on, some of them pointing, all of them murmuring.

Catherine gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

In an instant Stephen was beside them.

“Don’t be an idiot, Derek. Let go of her arm.” He never raised his voice, in fact he lowered it, and he seemed all the more menacing because of it.

“This isn’t your concern, cousin. It’s a simple misunderstanding between Catherine and me. We don’t require your interference.”

“I’ll be the one to decide that.”

Stephen stepped between them, forcing Derek to break his hold on her arm.

Catherine expelled a breath, still too stunned to believe what had just occurred. Over Stephen’s shoulder she stared at Derek, feeling as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. There was no denying he was a beautiful man, with sun-kissed hair and eyes a clear crystal-blue. Had all that physical perfection and his considerable charm somehow blinded her to the ugliness she now saw in his sneering visage?

He glared first at Stephen and then at her, and she could not help but recall the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, for he seemed so different from the man who had swept her off her feet with words of love and eyes full of adoration.

At last something—manners? breeding?—resurrected itself. His tone hushed, he said, “Have it your way, cousin. I don’t really need her anyway.”

Need? What an odd way to put it. Before Catherine could puzzle through what he meant by that strange and hurtful statement, he was calling out, “The wedding is off. Catherine and I regret the inconvenience to you all and thank you for your understanding. Please accept our apologies.”

The church erupted in full-fledged conversations now. The talk was no longer library-quiet but ball-game-loud, as guests traded speculation about the doomed couple.

Stephen lingered beside Catherine after Derek had stalked away, although he looked uncomfortable to be there.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded stiffly, even as her heart seemed to shatter into a million jagged pieces.

“I got a note telling me to meet Derek here for a surprise. I thought maybe he’d bought me a gift, something he wanted me to wear down the aisle. Instead, I found him…”

She sucked in a breath, still not quite able to believe what she had witnessed. All that passion, and for a virtual stranger. Had she ever inspired that kind of excitement in her prospective groom? Had she ever felt it in return? Those questions as much as Derek’s infidelity forced a sob from her lips. She covered her mouth, muffling another.

“Can I get someone for you? Your mother, perhaps?”

“Dear God!” It came out half-sob, half-hysterical laugh. “Why don’t you just dump me over the rail along with my bouquet?”

Her mother was probably hyperventilating at this point. And her poor father had probably fainted dead away after realizing they’d just blown hundreds of thousands of dollars, much of it non-refundable, on a wedding that would never take place. At least he would have all that twelve-year-old Scotch to commiserate with. For a daughter who had spent a lifetime trying to please her difficult parents, she’d certainly made a mess of things.

“I’ll take that as a no.” A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.

They were nice lips, a little fuller than most men’s, softening the otherwise hard lines of his face. Catherine could only recall having half a dozen conversations with Stephen, all of them about polite, neutral topics. The cousins didn’t share the same interests or circle of friends, but whenever she did spend time in his company, or whenever she ran into him while visiting Derek at the Danbury building, she found herself undeniably drawn to Stephen.

She sensed a sadness about him, a loneliness that she always assumed resulted from losing his mother and father as a boy and being raised by his stodgy grandparents. It was in Catherine’s nature to soothe, to nurture, to comfort. That was the source of the odd attraction, she’d told herself when she’d first begun to feel it. Now, with her emotions reeling, she wasn’t so sure. In fact, she wasn’t sure of anything.

He cleared his throat, and she realized she had been staring at him.

Summoning up her manners, Catherine said, “Thank you for what you did just now. I don’t know what came over Derek, grabbing my arm that way.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Her arm ached, but she resisted the urge to rub it. “No, not really,” she lied. “I hope there won’t be a strain between the two of you because of this?”

Again that enigmatic smile lurked, although this time she thought he seemed a little resigned. “I’m sure this won’t change a thing.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

Stephen watched her leave, spilling out the train of white silk as she walked down the stairs. He knew from his aunt’s endless chatter that the gown was an original, designed especially for this bride. The small pearl buttons that ran the length of Catherine’s slender spine were the real thing, as were the tiny pearls that edged the neckline. He wondered if it disappointed Catherine that no one would see its beauty this day as she glided down the aisle on her father’s arm. He knew it would most women of her sort.

Debutante. The word alone left a sour taste in his mouth. Admittedly, his opinion of Catherine was colored by his opinion of his cousin. Any woman who would consent to marry Derek surely had to be as shallow and self-centered as he. Still, Stephen was glad she’d discovered what kind of man her prospective groom really was before making a lifetime commitment. Stephen’s regard for her had jumped several notches, watching her dump Derek just before the “I dos” were exchanged. She had literally lost a fortune by doing so, regardless of the prenuptial agreement she had signed.

Downstairs, people were already streaming from the pews, many of them heading straight for her, with pity pinching their mouths into thin smiles. Stephen felt a twinge of it for her as well. No one should be forced to listen graciously to trite and in some cases insincere condolences right after what Catherine had been through. But as he watched her summon up what he thought of as her serene society expression he knew she would handle this with her usual cool grace. That was what debs did, and Catherine Canton did it better than most.

Turning, he saw his aunt heading in his direction, high heels clicking on the tile floor. If not for the Botox injections Marguerite Bledsoe Danbury had had to reduce the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes, he knew she would be scowling. But the injections had frozen her face into an eerie mask of youthful blankness. Add to that the signature red hair, which she wore longer than most women her age, and a figure that had been liposuctioned and tucked to trimness, and she appeared a good fifteen years younger than her fifty-nine years.

“A word with you, please,” she said when she reached him. Snagging Stephen’s sleeve, she led him to a corner, which provided a modicum of privacy.

“Where is Derek?” Despite that bland expression, her eyes burned with fury.

“I haven’t seen him since he left the choir loft,” Stephen replied. He’d bet his inheritance his cousin was long gone, leaving it to others to clean up his latest mess. His aunt must have reached that conclusion, too.

“There are a dozen reporters and photographers, most of them tabloid, hanging around outside, waiting for a shot of the new Mrs. Danbury. I want Catherine out of here. Now.”

Her first concern, as always, was herself. The young woman who would have become her daughter-in-law was now merely a liability to be dealt with.

“I’m sure her parents will take her home.”

“See that they do.”

It was not a request but a command. Marguerite never asked Stephen for anything. She made demands and expected her demands to be met without question or complaint. Stephen acceded to her wishes, even though he thought Catherine might have had enough of the Danburys for one day. Still, he’d rather she had to face him than his aunt.

He heard Catherine’s voice as he approached the bride’s room. The emotion he’d detected earlier, when he’d overheard her conversation with Derek, had been carefully edited out. “I’m fine, Mother, really.”

“It’s too bad about the wedding,” her younger sister Felicity said. “You look stunning in that dress.”

Stephen rapped his knuckles on the semi-open door. “Excuse me,” he said. “May I come in?”

Catherine glanced over at him and he witnessed for a brief instant the strain she otherwise hid so well. She smiled, revealing an odd little dimple just to the left of her chin, a small bit of imperfection that somehow only enhanced the beauty of her classical Grace Kelly features.

“Of course.”

He stepped into the room, closing the door.

“Stephen, dear, I was just telling Catherine not to let this little indiscretion ruin things,” her mother said. “She and Derek can put this behind them.”

In their social sphere, he knew, infidelity was often brushed under the rug. Wives weren’t supposed to make waves, at least not publicly, and husbands were supposed to be discreet in their dalliances. Times might have changed, but obviously that was the pabulum still being force-fed to each new batch of old-money debs.

“I hope she doesn’t share your opinion,” he said, his gaze never leaving Catherine’s.

“Well, I do,” Felicity said. “I’d marry him, and keep this incident as leverage.”

Catherine’s sister was eighteen years old, and though he’d only met her on a couple of occasions just before the wedding, she appeared to be as spoiled as she was outspoken.

Catherine sent Stephen a bemused smile, but said nothing as her sister and mother continued to chatter on about the mistake she was making.

“My aunt sent me to tell you there is a limousine outside when you are ready to leave. The tabloid photographers are lining up, and surely more are on the way.”

“Oh, dear,” her mother said, fanning her face. “This is such an embarrassment.”

Catherine looked embarrassed, all right, but Stephen didn’t think it had anything to do with Derek at that moment. She reached up, as if to take off her veil.

“I wouldn’t take the time to change,” Stephen advised, knowing full well that a woman in shorts and a tank top could require half an hour. Who knew how long a woman in full wedding regalia would need to undress?

“He’s right, Catherine. Gather up your things. You can change at the house. Felicity, go find your father.”

“The house?” A pair of finely arched brows shot up in question. “I’d like to go back to my apartment, Mother. I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to be alone.”

“Nonsense. You’ll come to the house.”

It was if she hadn’t spoken at all, Stephen thought. Worse, it was as if she were a child, rather than a grown woman of twenty-eight. He watched as she turned and began to gather up her belongings, but then she dumped them back onto the vanity and marched to the door.

“Where are you going?” Deirdra Canton called.

Catherine’s gaze never strayed from Stephen’s. “I’m leaving. Now. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Stephen didn’t say a word. He simply opened the door, took Catherine by the arm and led her away.

“Thank you,” she said a moment later. “That’s twice you’ve come to my rescue today.”

He shrugged off her appreciation. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to outwit the paparazzi.”

He hustled her out the rectory door, but the photographers, as if scenting blood, were already there. Stephen blocked as much of their view of her as possible, holding her close and hovering around her like a bodyguard.

“Get in the limo,” he said, all but pushing her inside the door he’d already opened. Behind them flashes popped and people shouted out their names.

Inside, even with the tinted windows, she huddled low on the seat opposite his, looking shell-shocked and shaken.

“I never dreamed this would be how I left the church on my wedding day. I feel like some hideous car crash, gawked at and then gossiped over.”

“Hideous” was hardly the word that came to his mind as he looked at her lovely oval face, with its finely arched eyebrows and dark-fringed eyes the color of sapphires. A man could drown in those eyes. He glanced away. Perhaps Derek had, and that was why he’d considered trading in bachelorhood for permanent couple status when monogamy had never been his strong suit.

“Don’t worry. It won’t last forever. Next week some major star will go into rehab and that pack of vultures will be waiting outside the Betty Ford.”

She let out a startled laugh. “Is that supposed to be the bright side?”

“Only if you’re a desperate optimist. Where do you want to go? I don’t suggest returning to your apartment for a while.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m open to ideas.”

To the chauffeur he said, “Drive around for a while, but start heading toward the Belmont Yacht Club.”

“The yacht club?”

“Trust me.”

“Why not? What else have I got to do this evening?” she said, her tone dry, her eyes suddenly starting to mist.

He fished a white handkerchief from one of his pockets and handed it to her. “Here.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, sounding slightly offended. But she didn’t look at him, and even in profile he could see a tear slip down her pale cheek.

An hour later they arrived at the Belmont Yacht Club, a small and exclusive marina just north of the city. Catherine had been to the club a number of times with Derek, who docked his fifty-four-foot cabin cruiser there, and her own family retained a membership, even though their yacht had been sold when the stock market plummeted, taking a good portion of their heavily invested fortune with it. But she hadn’t realized Stephen also boated. He corrected her immediately when she made the observation aloud.

“I sail.”

That surprised her even more. Of course, sailing would suit someone as quiet and self-contained as Stephen, but his parents, as well as Derek’s father, had died in a sailing accident on this very lake when the boys were barely out of diapers.

He helped her from the limo, and then spoke to the driver as she tried to smooth out the crumpled silk of her dress.

“Meet us back here around one.” Handing the man a sizable tip, he added, “And if anyone asks, you never saw us.”

He grabbed the champagne that had been chilling in an ice bucket in the back of the limo and started for the waterfront, leaving her with little choice but to follow him. Along the way they passed a couple of bikini-clad young women, coming in from a lazy day spent out on the lake.

“Congratulations!” one called. To her companion she murmured, “I wonder which boat they’re going to be rocking?”

And Catherine realized how it must look: Stephen in a tuxedo; she wearing her wedding finery. It was as if they were a couple, setting out for a romantic sunset cruise on Lake Michigan to toast their nuptials and kick off their honeymoon in style.

He must have realized it, too. His gaze swerved to hers, held for a lingering moment, but he said nothing.

Several slips down from Derek’s luxurious cruiser, he swung aboard a graceful sailboat. It was much smaller than Derek’s yacht, which took a five-man crew to operate. But at thirty-eight feet, it could hardly be considered little.

Standing on the dock, Catherine said, “What do you call her?”

“La Libertad.”

The foreign name rolled from his tongue, sounding like poetry, and he stared at her afterward. His gaze seemed defiant, although she couldn’t have said why.

“That’s Spanish for freedom, right?”

“Freedom.” He nodded.

“She’s a beauty. Do you take her out often?”

“As often as I can, which isn’t as often as I like. And the season seems to get shorter every year.”

“Are we going for a sail?”

“That’s my plan.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know a mast from a jib.”

“I’ve got it covered. Don’t worry.” He motioned for her to step closer. “Here, let me help you board. We wouldn’t want you to wind up bobbing around in Lake Michigan in that gown.”

He surprised her with a smile as he said it, reaching out for her waist to help her aboard. She rested her hands on his shoulders, transfixed by the rare smile and offering one of her own in return. Neither of them saw the photographer until they heard the unmistakable whirring of a camera’s motor.

“Oh, no! Stop!” Catherine cried, bringing up her hands to shield her face.

Stephen’s exclamation was far more graphic. And from his murderous expression she thought he might hop back onto the deck and dump the guy in Lake Michigan, camera and all.

“Get below,” he called, pushing her in the direction of the cabin.

The man snapped off several more frames before Stephen managed to shove off from the dock. But Catherine had a feeling the first shot, the one of Stephen smiling as his hands spanned her waist, would be the one that graced the cover of whatever publication the guy worked for. She could only imagine what the accompanying copy would say, especially if the camera angle had also caught her smiling back.

Stephen might prefer sailing, but he used the boat’s motor to take them out to open waters. Lake Michigan’s vastness was the perfect place to hide in plain sight from the paparazzi. They could hear and see any approaching watercraft long before anyone aboard could click their picture.

She came above deck when she was sure they were safely out of range of even a telephoto lens, and settled onto one of the white padded benches near the wheel where Stephen stood. Just for a moment he reminded her of a pirate. He had shed his suit coat and black tie, and opened the collar of his white shirt, exposing more golden-brown skin. His cuffs were rolled to the forearm. The look on his face was one of relaxed satisfaction. Where he had looked debonair in a tuxedo, now he simply looked dangerous.

Arranging the folds of her gown around her on the bench, she thought it a pity that her own clothing was not so easily converted to casual. She had taken off the veil and tried to bustle her gown without much success. But at least she had finally shed those crippling shoes.

They were still using the boat’s low-horsepower motor, which made their progress relatively slow. The motor was only intended for days when the wind failed to co-operate. That wasn’t a problem on this evening. She had little doubt that if they had hoisted the sails they would have been halfway to Michigan by now. The wind was strong, breaking small white-caps in the water around them. It ruffled Stephen’s dark hair, and it was probably wreaking havoc with the intricate style she’d spent the better part of the morning with a hairdresser to achieve.

“Ever sail before?” he asked.

“Once, as a child, in a small boat my uncle owned. I remember watching the sail tilt almost parallel to the water.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

She recalled only terror and an upset stomach. “I thought I was going to die.”

“Well, it’s not for everyone.”

“But it suits you,” she said. And it did. He didn’t look quite so remote with the wind making his hair dance and excitement lighting up his dark eyes.

“I opened the champagne.” He motioned to the small table in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what they had to toast, and she said as much, but he merely shrugged. “There are glasses in the galley, first cupboard on the right, if you wouldn’t mind getting them.”

When she stood to fetch them she stumbled on her dress. Even as her fingers curled around the rail she felt his hands grip her waist, spanning it as he had when he’d helped her board. He turned her slowly and she caught the subtle scent of his aftershave.

“Steady now.”

“If only Vera Wang would make a gown suitable for sailing,” she quipped, suddenly ill at ease.

“If you want to take it off, I have something a little more comfortable you can wear.”

Had the line come from Derek’s mouth it would have been accompanied by a wolfish grin. Stephen merely waited patiently for her reply, no ulterior motive seeming to lurk in his steady gaze. Yet none of her discomfort left.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

He cut the motor and lowered the anchor before following her below deck, where he gave her the grand tour in under a minute. The cabin had two sleeping quarters, a tiny stall of a bathroom, and a main area that functioned as both kitchen and living room.

“It’s small, but efficient,” he said as if reading her mind. “And, unlike Derek, I don’t need an entire crew to take her out.”

That distinction would be important to him, she decided.

He opened the door to the bathroom and pulled a white terry-cloth robe from a hook on the wall. Handing it to her, he said, “I don’t think my clothes will fit you. But this should do, even though it’s bound to be too big, too.”

When he started to leave, she cleared her throat. “Stephen. I…need your help.”

He turned slowly, and her breath caught. Limned in the light that streamed from above deck, he seemed otherworldly. And she was about to ask him to help her out of her clothes.

“The buttons.” She motioned over her shoulder. “I can’t undo them by myself.” With a rueful laugh that she hoped would lighten the mood, she admitted, “It took the assistance of two of my bridesmaids to get into this thing.”

He said nothing, merely nodded. She turned as he approached, glad to present him with her back, since she felt suddenly awkward and shy. Perhaps that was because her groom should have been the one to help her out of the dress. Indeed, the exercise could have been considered foreplay.

Stephen obviously didn’t consider it to be any such thing. He worked in silence, and swiftly, considering his hands were large and the pearls small and slippery.

At the base of her spine, however, he paused, lingered. And she thought she understood why.

“It’s a birthmark.” The words were barely above a whisper. With a self-conscious laugh, she admitted, “And the reason I’ve never worn a bikini in my life.”

She could have sworn she felt a fingertip gently trace the large heart-shaped freckle that marred her lower back. But then he was handing her the robe.

“Come up when you’re ready.”

He stopped to retrieve two wineglasses from one of the cupboards in the small galley and then he was gone. Alone, Catherine expelled a breath and tried to find a rational explanation for her shaking hands and pounding heart.

He was sipping champagne when she came above deck, wearing his robe. As he had predicted, it was much too large for her. At five-seven, she hardly considered herself petite, but it dwarfed her frame, hanging nearly to her ankles. Beneath its hem, her bare feet peeked out.