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Her grandfather had left shortly after the father/daughter dance, hugging them both and telling them on a reedy whisper how happy he was that they had found each other. With the old man gone, Lilah and Ben stopped pretending to be having fun and retreated to the bridal table to watch as their guests got more and more drunk. Friends and acquaintances stopped by the table occasionally to make raucous jokes about wedding nights and honeymoons, but everyone largely seemed to have forgotten that Ben and Lilah even existed.
Lilah had been concerned that Blake—normally so astute—would know that something was wrong. But her friend had been flirting with Rhys all night and now the two of them were snogging on the dance floor. Shocking really, since they had very little in common and Rhys was one of those damaged men Blake tried to steer clear from.
“You want to leave?” Ben asked, his eyes running over her face in concern.
“I’m tired. It’s been a day and the asthma attack exhausted me. I just want it to be over.”
He looked back at the teeming dancing floor. Nobody else had left yet, their guests were clearly making the most of the lavish setting and the open bar.
“I think we can make our escape. I doubt anyone would notice.”
“Please.” She hated the naked note of pleading in her voice, but she was desperate. He looked strained as well. Those wickedly curved lips had been drawn into a tight line for most of the night, deep lines of stress fanning out from the corners of his beautiful cobalt eyes. His resting brood face was showing some cracks.
His normally perfect thatch of wavy hair was mussed because of the restless fingers he had tugged through the short strands all evening. His hair was thick and luxurious and such a dark brown it could be mistaken for black. Ben always looked immaculate, but this evening he was a disheveled mess. His cravat had been tugged free long ago and carelessly dropped beside his dinner plate, the top three buttons of his shirt were undone and the beautiful charcoal grey coat had been tossed over the back of his chair. He wore a pale blue vest—the same color as Blake’s bridesmaid dress—over his snow-white shirt. The sleeves of said shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, showing off his strong, ropey forearms.
At any other time, Lilah would have sighed dreamily at his messy sexiness. But tonight, she couldn’t—he didn’t belong to her. Not really. Not the way she’d believed he would. He was on loan, temporary, and once they were alone, she would make it clear that none of this was real and that they would move on from here eventually.
They made their escape without fanfare and walked purposefully toward their cottage. A normal couple would have meandered, enjoyed the tranquil, romantically lit gardens at night. The summer evening was alive with buzzing, chirping and trilling insects. Further in the distance they could hear frogs croak, the lively music from the wedding reception from which they’d just escaped faded into the background, until there was just their soft footfalls on the grass.
Lilah held her ridiculous skirt aloft, not wanting the hem to drag along the ground. In hindsight, this frothy confection of a dress had been a ludicrous choice. She’d always wanted to marry in a larger-than-life ballgown. Something a Disney princesses would envy. And she’d felt special and beautiful in it. Now she looked down at herself through jaded eyes and considered what Ben must have thought when he’d seen her in it.
Her expectation had been that he would be bowled over and breathless.
When in reality he had probably been gobsmacked and gasping in horror.
“Do you need help?” he asked, his voice quiet in the soft night. “With the skirt? The grass is wet and the hem could pick up mud and loose blades.”
“I’m fine,” Lilah muttered. She felt like such a fool and wished she could sink into the ground and disappear into a puddle of tulle and organza.
They reached the cottage in no time at all and as they walked through the beautiful, fragrant rose garden toward the front door, Lilah’s skirt snagged on a thorn. She surreptitiously tried to tug it free but Ben noticed.
“Stop tugging at it. You’ll tear the fabric,” he warned, stooping to inspect the problem.
She ignored him and continued to wrench at the skirt, uncaring if she ripped the fragile, expensive fabric. As much as she’d started out the day loving this dreamy Vera Wang creation, she now loathed it and wanted it off as soon as possible. And that wasn’t going to happen while she was caught on a rosebush.
His warm, dry palm curved around her calf and she froze and gasped in shock at the contact of his skin against hers. She was wearing silk stockings, but they were whisper thin and his hand might as well have been on her naked skin.
