Читать книгу His Monsoon Bride - Aastha Atray - Страница 9

IT WAS the day of her engagement, Amrita thought with a sudden sense of alarm as she sat up in her bed after a long night of no sleep. She had had weird dreams all night—that was if you could call them dreams. Nightmares, more like. All she could remember now was that Mehtab was in all of them, and he was flashing his naughty grin, and she knew this marriage was a big mistake. He just wanted a wife to make him pass as a respectable, serious businessman, someone who would help him rope in investors and charm the society. She wanted to hate her father for putting her in this position, but she knew he was in dire trouble to even suggest it.

Just yesterday, investors had knocked on their door and threatened to force an auction of their home if her father didn’t pay up soon—and she had heard her father yell, ‘Couldn’t you people just wait till I reached the office? Now that my company is floundering, do I not deserve any kind of respect?’ She knew then that this marriage was inevitable.

Blinded by his immense sorrow over his financial collapse, her father saw no wrong in her getting married to Mehtab—a man who, though she had an inexplicable lust for him, made her feel uncomfortable and very wary.

She got out of bed and saw that Meera had left her a note about setting up an appointment with the beauty parlour at the Taj hotel for her to get hair and make-up done. She had left for Pune to pick up her saree, which had been ordered specially from a young designer whose work Amrita admired. Under normal circumstances Amrita would have been thrilled at the prospect of a morning’s pampering, but there was nothing normal about her impending engagement.

Did she really want to live life with a man who thought of her as maybe the perfect wife, but didn’t even entertain the concept of, dared she say it, love? Did Mehtab even believe in love? Or did he think of it as an unnecessary emotion that only complicated things? She knew he really didn’t care if she loved him as long as she did all that a dutiful wife was supposed to do. He wanted her to be an able spouse when it came to being a power couple—being charming to the right people, saying the right things and creating the right kind of aura about them. She knew how to do that. She had been an heiress all her life—all this came naturally to her. She connected with people and put them at ease, and, though she exuded the charm that came with old money, she was also humble and gracious to the point that one could never be uncomfortable with her. She knew Mehtab saw all this, and that was why he had chosen her to be the one.

On her way to the Taj Amrita just kept saying the same thing over in her head. She was getting engaged, it was the smartest decision she could make, considering the circumstances.

The hairstylist remarked, ‘You are looking gorgeous, Amrita. Obviously anyone getting married to such a handsome man will have a glow.’

Amrita flushed. Mehtab was undoubtedly very handsome. With his tailored suits and perfectly coiffed hair, there was an Indian princely quality to him. She also noticed the way he always left that slight shadow of stubble on his jaw—maybe he knew it drove women mad? He would; he was smart that way.

She knew that he might never love her. But then, did she really expect love any more after her last relationship? She had loved Akshaye with all her heart, and had really thought that she would do anything for him—but he had upped and left her in an instant, just because she had refused to sleep with him. Maybe he was just waiting for an excuse to leave her—in this fast-paced world she lived in, was there actually any time for love? Would he have stayed if she had given in?

Maybe an arranged marriage was a practical plan—they could lead absolutely different lives, and, though it was far from being ideal, at least she could do what she wanted without the hassle of a partner who poked and prodded into her life. She would throw herself into work and not hope for a love life—things would be much more uncomplicated that way. It was perfect, really—that was if you let the romantic in you die a quick death, she thought wryly.

She looked at the finished result in the mirror and it was like a stranger staring back at her. Her hair was immaculately styled and the blusher highlighted her delicate cheekbones, but it was all a mask. The gentlest of knocks would shatter this porcelain façade. But she had made her choice. This was the mask she was going to have to wear for the rest of her life.

A few hours later, Meera pecked and cooed as she draped the saree around Amrita. ‘This is why a saree is so perfect for the Indian woman. It just shows the right amount of skin and makes all the curves look perfect. My darling Amrita, you look like a goddess—like goddess Sita herself. So beautiful. Mehtab is going to swoon tonight.’

Amrita liked how soft the chiffon felt against her skin. They had decided on chiffon for the engagement party because it was just the right amount of dressy and she really did look as if she were from a different time in the pale pink saree, and some of her mother’s kundan jewellery that they just didn’t make any more. She had an intricate challa neatly tucked in at her waist that made the look seem so much more royal. She might look like a princess, but she knew there was nothing fairy tale about this wedding, it was all business. But there was no harm looking the part she was being forced to play now.