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Her eyes burned at the memory. When they had been good, they had been very, very good. And when they had been bad, it had been unbearable.
Coburn raked a scathing gaze over her from where he stood, talking to Rory. She squared her shoulders, turned her back to him and did what the proud, perhaps foolish Taylor women had perfected as a family art. She turned a blind eye to the humiliation blanketing her and moved on.
To be among such happiness when her heart was so bleak was torturous. The only thing that made it bearable was the thought that in three weeks she’d be following her heart for the first time. Just her. Just Diana.
She wondered what she was going to find when she discovered who she really was.
* * *
Coburn’s third Scotch had his blood humming through his veins in a heated pull that tempted him to engage with the long-legged thing of beauty who’d once convinced him he needed no other. It was almost irresistible the force that drew him to her, that had always drawn him to her, despite the bitter recrimination he knew she could dish out with that stiff, superior manner of hers. But he resisted. His speech was happening in minutes and he needed all his composure to do it.
He watched Diana circulate through the crowd, her exquisite manners easing every interaction into the perfect sixty seconds of social repartee no matter what the partygoer’s background. Diana always knew what to say, even when bent on sticking a dagger into his back.
She was tall for a woman, five foot nine, downplaying her height as usual with a lower heel than most of the females in the room. Her slim boyish figure was the same lithe silhouette, her sensual, exotic features still utterly arresting, but the hair she used to wear well past her shoulders was shorter now, skimming her collarbone. He’d never let her cut it. He’d loved the feel of it sliding against his skin when she’d leaned down to kiss him as she’d taken him inside the tight sheath of her body, always in tune with him at that moment when he filled her completely and wiped any barriers from between them.
As far as makeup sex had gone, and there’d been a lot of it, he and Diana had perfected the art. Hot and filled with a dozen unspoken emotions, it had been a ride he’d become addicted to, until it had destroyed them.
His body reacted to the memory with a tightening his anger could not prevent. Every man at that party in Chelsea the night they’d met had pinpointed his wife as the ultimate conquest. The ice princess who had swept them all with a disdainful look that had said, “Don’t bother.”
It had been like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He hadn’t been able to resist. Diana’s quick comebacks and complete lack of awe when it came to him had entranced him. She’d known she was deserving. She’d been born deserving. And he’d been up to the challenge. What he wasn’t to know at the time was the extent to which her innocence would enslave him with a far greater power than his sexual prowess had claimed her. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of her with another man after he’d taken her, and had put a ring big enough to sink a ship on her finger shortly thereafter to make sure it never happened.
How foolish to think a ring could ever command her complete attention. He hadn’t been enough for her. He suspected no man ever would be.
“You ready?” Tony appeared at his side.
He nodded. A lifetime of happiness. He was going to wish his friends the best, then shut his mouth. It wasn’t that hard.
He waited with Rory and Tony at the front of the room while Annabelle’s maid of honor made sure everyone had a glass of Veuve in their hands, courtesy of the Grants. Then he strolled to the center of the room at Tony’s nod. The crowd stood gathered around him, a festive cheer in the air at an occasion full of such promise. His eyes picked out Diana in the second row, her gaze carefully averted from his. His blood fizzled in his veins, his prepared speech flying out the window.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the joke that love is temporary insanity, cured by marriage.” He paused as scattered laughter filled the room. “While I think that is hardly the case with Tony and Annabelle, who are two of the most perfectly matched people I have ever encountered, make no mistake about it,” he underscored harshly, “marriage is hard.”
The room went so silent you could hear the clinking of swizzle sticks as the bartenders mixed drinks. “Marriage isn’t just about finding a person you love,” he continued, oblivious to the agitated stare Rory was throwing him, “because I think that does happen. I do think falling in love is possible. What’s far harder is staying in love. Finding someone you can live with. Finding someone whose hopes and dreams, whose ideologies, mirror yours so when the going gets tough, when the inevitable realities of life intrude, that bond has the strength to support you both past the attraction that drew you together.”
