The Impetuous Bride

“Did I miss something?” she said.

Jake let out his breath in a ragged sigh.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—watching you like that—you don’t make it easy. You’re a beautiful woman, Lydia. I can’t just switch off my feelings simply because it’s all over between us.”

“Is it?” she said softly.

He stopped dead. “Is what?” he asked, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Is it all over? The way you kissed me last night—I rather thought it might not be.”

Almost at the altar—will these nearlyweds become newlyweds?

Welcome to Nearlyweds, our miniseries featuring the ultimate romantic occasion—weddings! Yet these are no ordinary weddings: our beautiful brides and gorgeous grooms only nearly make it to the altar—before fate intervenes and the wedding’s…off!

But the story doesn’t end there…. Find out what happens in these tantalizingly emotional novels by some of your best-loved Harlequin Romance® authors.

The Impetuous Bride

Caroline Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With thanks to Mike and Jessamy, Tamsin and Will for an inspirational setting and for “lending” me your wedding.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

‘I CAN’T do this.’

‘What? Lydia, don’t be so silly. All you have to do is stand there, looking beautiful, and kiss everyone and say it’s lovely to see them. Of course you can do it,’ her mother said flatly. ‘Now, Melanie, you’ll be standing here, and Tom, you’ll be here—’

‘Mum!’

Her mother sighed and turned back. ‘What is it, darling? What on earth is the problem?’

Lydia took a deep, steadying breath, and said loudly, ‘I can’t do this. Not the reception line thing, the marriage thing. I can’t do it.’

There was a second of shocked silence, and everyone turned to look at her—her mother, clutching her clipboard like a ruffled hen hanging on to a perch; her father, jerked out of his boredom into confusion; her sister, Melanie, aghast and fascinated; Tom, the best man, his jaw dropping slightly in astonishment—and Jake. Her dear, darling Jake, who was marrying her on a whim.

She met his eyes—his beautiful, stunningly blue eyes, so full of fun and teasing laughter usually, now shuttered and expressionless, his mouth a grim line in his stony face.

‘Jake, I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘Can we talk about this?’

‘I think that would be a good idea,’ her mother rushed in, and hustled them out of the marquee. ‘You go and talk it over, and come back when you’re ready.’

Lydia didn’t think she’d ever be ready. The heat was closing in on her, and yet she felt chilled to the bone. Hot and cold, like a baked Alaska. Oh, God.

Jake’s hand was firm on the small of her back, and he wheeled her out into the sunshine and turned to face her.

‘OK, let’s have it,’ he said tightly.

He was angry. She should have expected it, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t had time to work out her own feelings, never mind anyone else’s. She’d just felt this huge pressure on her, and her mouth had just opened and spoken.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I just feel—I don’t know, railroaded. I think we’ve rushed into this and don’t know how we feel, and it’s all sort of happening to us. I feel acted on, and I shouldn’t. I should feel as if it’s our wedding, but I feel like we’re actors, and I don’t know if we’re really doing it or just playing a part—going through the motions, you know? I just don’t feel sure any more.’

He scanned her face, his eyes still expressionless, and then looked down, his toe idly scuffing the edge of the matting laid down for the endless guests that were expected in just forty-eight hours.

Guests for a wedding that might not now take place.

Oh, Lord, talk to me, she thought. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s rubbish. Tell me you love me, that you want to marry me. Tell me not to worry. ‘Jake?’ she whispered, agonised.

He looked back at her, and for a moment she thought she saw a flicker of emotion, but then it was gone. ‘If that’s what you feel, then you’re probably right,’ he said, and his voice sounded strangely distant. ‘Goodbye, Lydia. Take care of yourself.’

And he turned on his heel and strode away, up the sloping lawn towards the house. Away from her.

She stared at him, shocked. She wanted to run after him, beg and plead and reason, but it was pointless. He didn’t want her. If he’d wanted her, he would have said so.

‘Darling?’

She turned and fell into her father’s arms, huge racking sobs tearing her chest apart, and then after a moment she turned and ran away, up to the house. She wasn’t following Jake. There was no point. She just had to get away, to distance herself from the sympathy and curiosity and absolute pandemonium that would ensue.

Her bag was almost packed ready for her honeymoon in Bermuda. She tipped it out, threw back the swimming things and one or two nice outfits, grabbed her shorts and T-shirts from the drawer and hastily packed a few lightweight things. Her passport was ready—in her maiden name, still, because they hadn’t thought about it until it was too late.

Good job, too, she thought, and scrubbed her eyes again so she could see. Shoes—walking shoes, comfy shoes, sandals. She didn’t know where she was going, but somewhere. Somewhere far away.

‘Lydia? Darling, what on earth is the matter?’

‘Not now, Mum. I’ll ring you.’

‘Ring me? Darling, what are you doing? Where are you going?’

Her voice was rising, verging on hysteria, and Lydia just had to get out.

‘I don’t know. I’ll ring you and let you know. I’ll get a standby flight—’

‘Flight?’

The word was laced with panic, and it was too much for Lydia. She scooped up her car keys, her case and her bag, checked for her passport again and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m sorry. I just—

‘Couldn’t do it.’ Melanie spoke from the doorway, her face sad. ‘I’m sorry, love. Want to talk?’

She shook her head, blinking back the tears. ‘No. Just let me go. I’m fine.’

She pushed past them, ran downstairs and bumped into Tom in the hall. ‘Where’s Jake?’ he asked softly, and she shrugged.

‘Pass. Gone home, I suppose.’ She pulled off her engagement ring and held it out, her hand shaking like a leaf. ‘Could you give him this, please? And, Tom—tell him I’m sorry.’

She ran past him, her eyes flooding again, smack into her father’s broad and comforting chest. ‘Don’t do anything rash. Have you got enough money?’ he asked her, and she nodded.

‘I’ll get by. I’m going to Heathrow Airport to start with. I don’t know where after that.’

He took the keys gently out of her hand and put them on the hook on the wall. ‘I’ll drive you,’ he said, in that quiet voice that brooked no argument.

It took two hours. He turned off the mobile phone, turned on the radio and didn’t once try to talk her out of it. It was just as well; he would have been wasting his breath.

He dropped her at one of the terminals, tucked a handful of notes into her handbag and kissed her goodbye, his brown eyes gentle with understanding. ‘Keep in touch, darling. Love you.’

She swallowed hard and kissed him back. ‘Love you, too. I’m sorry.’

She walked into the terminal without looking back, checked out the standby situation at the first desk that caught her eye, and within an hour she was on a flight for Thailand.

She’d never felt more alone in her life.

CHAPTER ONE

‘THANKS.’

Lydia shut the door of the taxi, hitched her backpack up on to one shoulder and turned towards the house, a mixture of dread and eager anticipation tangling in her chest.

It hadn’t changed at all. The roses tumbled in cheerful profusion over the Georgian façade, and the windowframes gleamed brilliant white against the soft old-rose of the bricks. A light wind from the river drifted across the sweeping lawns and caressed her skin with the scent of wild honeysuckle, and she looked down towards the soft blue-green haze of the willows on the riverbank and sighed.

Home, sweet home.

It was June—just a year since she’d left without a backward glance, and now she was back for Melanie’s wedding. The irony brought a twisted little smile to her lips as she headed down towards the house, her backpack bumping against her thighs.

Only one thing was different. There was no Labrador bouncing round her, butting her hand for attention and smiling up at her, tongue lolling, because two months ago their beloved Molly had fallen asleep one night and failed to wake. It seemed strange without her—strange and empty.

The kitchen door was hanging open—just as well, really, as she didn’t have her keys, but the house was usually open and if not there was always a key on the shelf in the old milking parlour.

She went in through the open door, dropped her backpack by the fridge and pulled open the door. She needed a drink. Everything else could wait.

He’d known it was going to happen, of course. Known she’d come back for Melanie’s wedding, if nothing else. He’d been prepared for that, been prepared for seeing her again and steeled himself against it.

Or at least he thought he had. Now, though, his body ground to a halt for an endless moment, then went into overdrive. His heart pounded, his mouth dried, his gut clenched, and need, deep and hot and urgent, ripped through him.

She was wearing shorts—little skimpy cut-off jeans above skinny brown legs and bare feet in leather sandals. Well, maybe not skinny, but impossibly slender. Thinner than they had been, anyway. Fragile. Her T-shirt was loose and baggy, but even so he could tell she’d lost weight. Had she been ill?

Concern for her overtook the raging need, and the complex mix of emotions threatened to choke him.

She’d taken a carton of orange juice from the fridge and was draining the glass when she noticed him. Her hand trembled, and she set it down abruptly. ‘Jake,’ she said simply, and a tentative and rather forlorn smile tugged at her lips. ‘How are you?’

Not ready for this. Not ready for that voice, soft and low and sexy, that had haunted his dreams.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘How are you? Good journey? We were wondering when you’d arrive.’

She shrugged, picking up the empty glass, toying with it. ‘OK journey, I suppose. Long flight, delays, and so on. It’s nice to be home.’

‘Your parents are in the drawing room with Melanie and Tom. They’ll have my guts if I keep you talking out here. You’d better go and see them.’

She nodded, put down the glass and headed towards him. He was standing in the doorway, and she hesitated for a moment because he didn’t move.

He didn’t know why he didn’t move, just that he didn’t—couldn’t, really, until he’d done this one, foolish thing.

He reached out and cupped her chin, bent his head and brushed a feather-soft kiss across her moist, dewy lips.

‘Welcome home, Lydia,’ he said softly, and then dropping her as if she might burn him he pushed past her and went out of the back door and into the sunlight. He dragged in a lungful of the fresh clean air, and closed his eyes. He could taste the sweet citrus tang of the orange juice on her lips, and the white heat of his response shocked him.

He’d really, really thought he was over her, but he wasn’t. He still wanted her every bit as much as he ever had—maybe more. There was nothing like a bit of abstinence to make the heart grow fonder, he mocked himself. Still, she was back, and he was going to have to deal with it.

Well, fine. He could. Just so long as he remembered she’d walked away before, and she’d do it again. She was trouble—big trouble, with a capital T, and he wasn’t going to fall for her charms again.

Ever.

Lydia stood rooted to the spot for an age, her fingers pressed to her lips, her eyes wide with surprise. She should have expected him to be here, should have expected that he would still have this effect on her.

She’d known he’d be at the wedding, of course, but it had never occurred to her that he’d be here in her parents’ house—just sitting around chatting, for heaven’s sake!

Even if he did live just next door.

Oh, damn.

Of course he’d be here. He was Tom’s oldest friend. They’d known each other from birth, practically. Of course he was about.

‘Jake, can’t you find it—? Darling!’

She found herself engulfed in her mother’s hug, and the next second the others were there, laughing and crying and hugging, and then there was Tom, looking over Melanie’s shoulder towards the door.

‘Has Jake gone?’ he asked, sounding surprised.

She nodded. ‘Yes. He bumped into me on the way out.’ She looked towards the door, puzzled. Well, she’d assumed he’d been on the way out—or had he left because of her?

There was a moment of awkward silence, then her father hugged her again. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to have you back, poppet. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, her eyes still lingering on the door. She dragged her attention back to her family, and linked arms with her father and sister. ‘Absolutely fine. It’s lovely to be home. Now, come on, I want to hear about the wedding plans. Tell me all.’

Melanie laughed self-consciously. ‘It’ll all be horribly familiar,’ she said with a wry grimace, and Lydia’s heart sank.

Of course. Mel had thrown herself into planning Lydia’s wedding last year, and throughout Lydia had been acutely aware that it was not really the wedding she’d wanted. The marquee by the river, the elaborate flowers, the little gilt chairs, the round tables with their snowy cloths and sparkling tableware—it had always been Mel’s wedding.

Lydia had wanted to get married under the willow with just a very few immediate family, and have a picnic by the river with champagne and soft, ripe cheeses and sweet, juicy grapes.

Instead Melanie had gone into a huddle with her mother and come up with a three-course meal and elaborate seating plans and a guest list that left no one out.

Jake had smiled tolerantly, and Lydia had felt powerless to resist.

Until the very end.

And now, like some kind of awful joke, it was all going to be re-enacted, but this time the cast would change places and the curtain wouldn’t come down until after the final act.

And she and Jake would have to endure the parody of their wedding, and pretend enthusiasm and delight for the benefit of their loved ones.

Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d stayed away for another month and come home when it was all over.

‘So, tell us all about your travels,’ her mother said, settling back with an expectant smile. ‘We’ve had such brief contact, you naughty girl.’

Lydia grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I just needed to get right away.’

‘We understand. So—tell all. Where have you come from now? We could hardly keep up with you.’

‘Australia—well, via Singapore. I stopped off to see a few friends.’

‘So tell us all about it,’ her father instructed. ‘You went to Thailand first when I dropped you off at the airport, is that right?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, and I just bummed around for a month and tried to sort myself out, then I had to leave because I didn’t have a visa, so I went to India and worked in a hotel as a courier, then I went to Singapore, and Bali, then over to Australia, on to New Zealand and back to Australia, just doing anything I could find for cash and a roof over my head.’

Her mother closed her eyes. ‘It sounds so dangerous.’

It had been, of course, but there was no way she was telling her mother about the foreign tourist who’d tried to rape her in India, or the girl in New Zealand who’d stolen everything except her photos, her passport and the clothes she’d had on.

‘It was fun,’ she said, ignoring the hard work and the hunger pangs and the dysentery. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, she decided, and anyway, she’d survived and learned a few vital lessons.

‘You’re skinny,’ her father said bluntly, scanning her legs.

She curled them tighter under her and laughed lightly. ‘Nonsense. It’s just because I’m brown. So, tell, me, how’s business?’ she asked her mother, deftly switching the subject.

‘Brilliant. We’ve done several new projects—Dunham Hall, the Priory at Whitfield—loads. You would have loved Dunham. We did a stunning authentic kitchen and a fabulous butler’s pantry. It’s like a time warp. I’ve got all the photos; I’ll show you later. I just need to ring the florist before I forget, and give her some answers. Raymond, could you go through it with me again, please, darling? It’s only a week; we really must sort it out.’

Which brought Lydia back to the reason for her return. As her parents went out, she looked at Melanie and Tom, sprawled comfortably on the sofa together, Tom’s arm draped possessively around Mel’s shoulders, and she gave an inward sigh. She couldn’t envy them their happiness. It had been within reach, and she’d walked away.

‘So, lovebirds, when did you decide to tie the knot?’ she asked, striving for a light tone.

‘About a year ago,’ Tom confessed with a smile. ‘When I first met her in the run-up to your wedding. I took one look at her, and I thought, That’s my woman.’

‘Caveman stuff, eh?’ Lydia teased, wishing she’d been anything like as sure of Jake as Mel clearly was of Tom—because, of course, if she had been, she would have stayed and married him.

‘Oh, I like caveman tactics,’ Mel said with a chuckle, laughing up at him. ‘I love it when he gets all masterful. Makes him think he’s boss, and he enjoys that.’

Lydia laughed at Tom’s resigned smile. She guessed her quicksilver high-spirited sister ran rings round the straightforward and honest man she’d chosen, but he was generous enough to indulge her.

If only she’d had so open a relationship with Jake, but for some reason they’d never really broken through the surface and shared anything on a really deep level. Perhaps that was the problem.

Perhaps, she thought, that was the only problem. Maybe if they’d really talked to each other, got to know each other better, she would have known if he’d loved her.

Tom was getting to his feet. ‘I have to go—things to sort out with Jake. I’ll be back later. Lydia, come out with us for dinner. We’re going to a new trattoria in town.’

‘We?’

‘Us and Jake.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know. He might not want me there.’

Tom blinked. ‘Don’t be silly. That’s all water under the bridge now. He won’t mind.’

Lydia wasn’t so sure, but then she’d never been sure of Jake. ‘I’ll see,’ she compromised.

He bent and gave Mel a lingering and tender kiss, and then went out, leaving the two sisters alone for the first time.

Mel, direct as ever, looked across at her and said bluntly, ‘You look like hell. You’re too thin, your eyes are tired and you look sad. Has it really been that bloody a year?’

And, for no very good reason that she could think of, Lydia burst into tears. In an instant Mel was perched on the arm of the chair and her arms were round Lydia, and she was being hugged and comforted by someone who really loved her. Lord, how she’d missed that! She slid her arms round Mel’s waist and hugged her back.

‘It’s good to be home,’ she said a little damply, and Mel shoved a tissue in her hand and smoothed her hair back off her brow.

‘Are you going to be OK about Jake?’ she asked gently, and Lydia shrugged.

‘I don’t know. I thought so, but seeing him just now—I don’t know any more. Has he said anything about me coming back?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really—not to me, and not to Tom, if what he just said is anything to go by. I don’t suppose you have to see that much of him, really, if you don’t want to.’

‘Mmm.’ If she didn’t. The trouble was, she wasn’t at all sure that not seeing him was what she did want. She’d missed him endlessly this last year, and seeing him now had brought it all back. She blinked back another wave of tears and straightened up.

‘Has he—um—you know—?’

‘Got another woman?’ Mel smiled understandingly. ‘No. Not that I’ve heard about, and Tom would have told me if he’d known. He’s been in London a lot, of course. He’s hardly here at all—well, nor’s Tom, of course, but I spend a lot of time in London with him when Mum can spare me, which isn’t that often. The business has really taken off in the last year—she’s delighted you’re back, by the way.’ Mel shot her a keen look. ‘I take it you are back?’

Lydia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably, but I don’t know if I’ll stay here. Not with Jake next door.’

‘Well, that’s not a problem; the house is up for sale. He’s moving away.’

‘What?’ Lydia felt as if the bottom had fallen out of her world. ‘He’s what?’ she repeated, shocked, and then realised just how much her feelings about coming home had been to do with Jake. He couldn’t be moving away. She’d never see him again—

‘He’s going to stay in London—like I said, he’s hardly ever here now.’

Never here? Oh, Lord. She stood up, patting Mel on the shoulder in passing. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she said, and went blindly into the kitchen, past the place where he’d kissed her just now in the doorway of the room where he’d proposed to her just over a year ago, the room where so many of her hopes and dreams had been formed, only to come crashing down around her ears.

She ran down through the garden, over the lawn, under the rose arch and down to the wildflower meadow by the river where the marquee would be put up in just a few days.

Her willow was there, the tips of the branches trailing in the water, and she leant against the trunk and dragged in a shaky breath, and then another.

He couldn’t go.

The river swam out of focus, and she slid down the trunk and plopped on to the damp grass, dropping her head back against the rough bark and closing her eyes. The tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks, and she wished she could turn back time and change the course of the last year.

Maybe if she’d married him, given him a chance, all her doubts and fears could have been ironed out. Maybe they would have learned to talk to each other, learned to open up their hearts and dared to share their feelings.

And maybe then, instead of a dull and endless ache inside, she would have been filled with joy and contentment, like Mel.

She turned her head and looked towards Jake’s house, and then she saw him, standing by the river on his side of the fence, watching her. He was too far away to see her tears, but he lifted his hand and waved, and turned away.

She wanted to run after him, to ask him if he’d loved her, really loved her, or if he’d just allowed himself to be manoeuvred into the whole wedding thing.

She didn’t, though. She didn’t move. Instead she sat there and watched him until the tears blinded her again and he was gone.

What was she doing there? He stood for an age, watching her leaning against the tree, her face tipped up to the dappled sun, and he ached to hold her.

You’re a fool, he told himself. She’s no good for you. She’s just a beautiful butterfly, and if you trap her she’ll die as surely as if you put a pin through her heart.