Читать книгу In Bed With...Collection - Emma Darcy - Страница 59

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ST. ANDREW’S Cathedral was packed for what was being called The Wedding of the Year—Beau Prescott, heir to the Prescott millions and owner of Rosecliff, marrying his grandfather’s beautiful protége. Margaret Stowe, with the bishop performing the ceremony and the boys’ choir giving voice to songs of joy.

It was what Mr. Vivian would have wanted, Sedgewick had declared, informing Beau and Maggie in no uncertain terms, and volubly backed up by Mrs. Featherfield, Wallace and Mr. Polly, that this wedding had to be the grandest party of them all.

Beau smiled to himself as he waited at the head of the aisle for his bride to appear. He hadn’t argued with them. He wanted to give Maggie the best of everything, especially on their wedding day. And no way would he spoil the pleasure of the faithful four in contributing to the event.

Sedgewick was undoubtedly in his element, supervising all the arrangements in the ballroom at Rosecliff, getting ready to distribute oceans of the best French champagne. Feathers would have revelled in helping Maggie to dress. Wallace would be as proud as punch, chauffeuring the bride in the most brilliantly polished Rolls in the city. Mr. Polly’s roses were on prime display and would undoubtedly feature in Maggie’s bouquet.

They were all delighted with his and Maggie’s plans for the future, too, keeping Rosecliff as their home and a centre for supporting his grandfather’s charities, while taking time away each year to explore and organise a new package tour for their travel agency. Beau couldn’t help grinning as he remembered planning this with Maggie.

“We will have a child to consider,” she’d reminded him.

“Any child with our genes is bound to be a wild child,” he’d declared. “It will just be one big adventure after another.”

“You mean we take our family with us?”

“Why not? We’ll open all the windows on the world.”

To which she’d laughingly agreed.

And he’d teasingly added, “Of course we’ll need a nanny to come with us to give us time to ourselves. Or for the occasional short trip, we can leave nanny and child at home for Feathers and Sedgewick and Wallace and Mr. Polly to spoil outrageously.”

With which they had heartily agreed.

The fulsome tones of the pipe organ faded into silence. Beau’s heart kicked. This was it. He turned as the first chords of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” rang through the cathedral. And there she was, hugging Sir Roland’s arm, starting down the long aisle towards him.

At first he thought she looked like a Medieval princess. Her high-waisted ivory silk gown was embroidered in gold and rich in elegance, shimmering with each step she took. Then he focused on her radiant face, framed by her glorious hair and haloed by her bridal veil and he thought...an angel. The Angel of Life.

The dress artfully covered her four months’ pregnancy but the thought of the child she carried in her womb—their child—filled Beau with a special sense of awe as he watched her come to him. The words his grandfather had once spoken to Lionel Armstrong slid into his mind...creation...salvation...and they suddenly had meaning, beautiful magical meaning.

The family line would go on through him and Maggie. Had his grandfather foreseen that? Was his spirit somewhere close, smiling over them, giving them his blessing?

Then Maggie was beside him, giving him her hand in trust and in love, and Beau held it safe as they pledged themselves to each other, husband and wife. The cathedral filled with song, voices soaring in joyful celebration. It was a pale echo of what they felt in their hearts, what was reflected in their eyes. All the years of their lives had been leading to this moment... the mating that was meant to be...and this was their wedding.

The reception in the ballroom at Rosecliff was every bit as splendid as Sedgewick ordained it should be. It was the most glittering evening anyone could ever remember. Jeffrey cracked the whip over the caterers who served superb food. Champagne flowed. Mrs. Featherfield kept the maids on their toes. The floral arrangements were fantastic. Sir Roland led off the speeches, all of which were warm and witty and wonderful.

When it was time for the Bridal Waltz, because of certain information imparted to Beau by Wallace, the band didn’t play a waltz at all. The Bridal Dance was announced and to the opening strains of one of Abba’s hit songs, “Dancing Queen,” Beau proudly led Maggie out to the centre of the floor, parading her to the guests who spontaneously and loudly applauded. She was laughing in delight when he turned her into in his arms, the song in full swing as he took her dancing.

“Who told you it was an old favourite of mine?” she asked.

“Wallace. And what more appropriate?” He grinned at her. “I’m dancing with the queen of my heart.”

“And I with my king.”

The look in her eyes was almost Beau’s undoing, especially when the band moved into playing “I do, I do, I do, I do, I do,” but he manfully restrained himself from racing his newly wedded wife off to a private place. It was probably fortunate that Sir Roland claimed Maggie for his dance, thus removing temptation.

Lionel Armstrong took the opportunity to draw Beau aside and pass him an envelope. “It’s from your grandfather. I was instructed to give it to you in the event of your marriage to Margaret Stowe.”

Beau was astounded. “How could he possibly know it would happen?”

“He didn’t. I was given another envelope to be handed to you when the stipulated year in the will was up if you hadn’t married Margaret Stowe.”

Beau shook his head in total bemusement. “So what happens to the second envelope now?”

“It has already been destroyed as per Vivian’s instructions. He said the marriage would make it irrelevant. I was further instructed to tell you that this...” he tapped the envelope in Beau’s hands “...should be read by both of you on your wedding night.”

It gave Beau important cause to whiz Maggie off to a private place. She was as deeply intrigued as he by this extraordinary action by his grandfather and they sought brief refuge in the library. The envelope contained a letter and a set of keys which puzzled them both, making them all the more eager to read what Vivian Prescott had written.

My dear Beau,

I am delighted you’ve had the good sense to marry Maggie. She is my wedding present to you since I found her, having despaired of you ever staying still long enough to recognise a soulmate.

Beau chuckled. “The old devil. I bet he was planning this from day one of meeting you.”

“You don’t mind?’ Maggie queried.

“Why should I mind? He got it right.”

Her smile glowed with love. “Yes, he did.”

They read on...

The keys are to open a safe-deposit box—details next page. In it is my wedding gift to Maggie. She has a need to feel free, Beau, which is a need you must understand if you are to sustain a happy marriage. To ensure this in a financial sense, I have put a million dollars in the box for her to use as she wills.

The missing million!

“Oh!” Maggie slapped her hands to flaming cheeks. “How could he? All that money!”

Beau grinned at her. The mystery was solved at last. “He could because he loved you, Maggie. And that money’s going to be yours to do whatever you like with it.”

“Well, thank heaven we’re married so I won’t feel wrong about him giving it to me.”

“You would have had to take it anyway.”

“What?”

“Look for yourself.”

If you had been foolish enough to let Maggie slip away from you, my instruction would have been to give this amount to her so she would never again feel the insecurity she was burdened with through no fault of her own. I trust you would have done that, Beau, without contesting my wish on this matter.

Beau instantly saw his grandfather’s wisdom in taking this bequest out of the will. With a year’s grace, he wouldn’t have begrudged Maggie the million, but faced with it straight away, he probably would have raised even worse hell than he had.

“He was so kind to me,” was her heartfelt murmur.

“Maggie, you did a lot for him, too,” Beau assured her, feeling fine about everything until he read the next paragraph.

I have one request to make. When my great grandson is born, I would like you to follow the tradition of the Prescott family in assigning a name which will develop strength of mind and character and lend a unique individuality to live up to. My personal fancy is Marian.

“Over my dead body!” Beau growled.

“Marian!” Maggie exclaimed. “I thought that was a girl’s name.”

“Yes! Like Vivian and Beverly and... Goddamn it! I am not going to saddle a son of mine with a name like that! Beau was bad enough.”

“I like Beau. It suits you. I liked Vivian, too. It suited him. Maybe...”

“Don’t say it! I will not consider Marian.”

“Well, maybe we’ll only have daughters.”

“Let’s hope.” He lovingly patted her stomach. “You’d better be a girl in there.”

The letter finished off with his grandfather saying he was now off on the greatest adventure of all and he wished them both the very best of this world.

It left them smiling.

“I guess you could say he came to our wedding,” Beau said with a warm glow of contentment.

“I think he’s been here all day.”

“Yes. But the night is definitely ours, Maggie.”

He drew her into his arms and their kiss excluded everyone else, a long, satisfying private celebration of a togetherness that was uniquely theirs.

Five months later a boy was born.

He was christened Marian John Richard Prescott.

Beau insisted it was up to the boy himself to choose what name he wanted to live with and that his great-grandfather couldn’t have his way about everything. In the meantime, Maggie could call him Marian. If she really, really wanted to. He wouldn’t deny her that right as long as she understood it was an act of love on his part.

Maggie smiled very lovingly at both him and their son and said she thought family tradition was nice.

Beau remembered she had come from nowhere, saw her need, understood it, and surrendered with a sigh of resignation to the inevitable.

Marian Prescott developed a lot of character.