Falling for the Bridesmaid

Summer Weddings

A season of confetti and whirlwind romances!

You are cordially invited to attend the

Huntingdon-Cross summer weddings.

Celebrate the shotgun marriage of Daisy

Huntingdon-Cross and Sebastian Beresford in

Expecting the Earl’s Baby by Jessica Gilmore

Save the date: on sale March 2015

Raise a glass to Rose Huntingdon-Cross and

Will Carter as they finally tie the knot

in

A Bride for the Runaway Groom by Scarlet Wilson

Save the date: on sale April 2015

Join us in celebrating Violet Huntingdon-Cross

and Tom Buckley’s star-studded wedding day

in

Falling for the Bridesmaid by Sophie Pembroke

Save the date: on sale May 2015

Falling for the Bridesmaid

Sophie Pembroke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SOPHIE PEMBROKE has been reading and writing romance ever since she read her first Mills & Boon® book at university, so getting to write them for a living is a dream come true!

Sophie lives in a little Hertfordshire market town in the UK with her scientist husband and her incredibly imaginative five-year-old daughter. She writes stories about friends, family and falling in love, usually while drinking too much tea and eating homemade cakes. She also keeps a blog at www.SophiePembroke.com.

For George and Karen, for making this book possible through coffee, childcare and cheerleading! Thank you both, so much.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE SWEET SMELL of rose petals filled the evening air, giving the falling dusk a sultry warmth. Music sang out from the band on the patio, romantic with just an undertone of sexy. Fairy lights twinkled in the branches of the trees and inside the marquees, and around them leaves rustled in the still warm breeze.

The whole set-up was so perfectly loved-up Violet thought she might be physically ill if she had to suffer through it a moment longer.

Glaring down at her lavender bridesmaid’s dress, she slunk to the edge of the celebrations where she could watch the live band play in peace. She needed to make more of an effort to enjoy the evening, and maybe the music would help. Her parents’ vow renewal ceremony had been beautiful, and the party that followed a huge success. Later, she had no doubt, her dad and the boys from The Screaming Lemons would take to the stage and wow the remaining guests all over again, even though they’d finished their official set an hour ago. Knowing Dad, it would probably be a lower key, acoustic set the second time around.

Keeping Dad off the stage was always more trouble than getting him on there, and he always wanted one more encore. But for now the support act seemed to be doing well enough. The courtyard in front of the stage was filled with people dancing, or just holding each other, or kissing. Falling in love.

Violet scowled and looked away.

Of course, the situation wasn’t helped by her family. There, leaning against her new husband—Lord Sebastian Beresford, Earl of Holgate, if you please—was her youngest sister, Daisy. No, the Lady Holgate now. Hard to believe that Daisy-Waisy was an honest-to-God countess, but somehow not quite as impossible to process as the slight swell of her baby bump under her carefully chosen emerald-green bridesmaid’s dress.

Just a few more months and Violet would officially be the maiden aunt of the family. Hell, she was already doing the church flowers most weekends, and taking tea with her mother’s ‘ladies who lunch’ crowd. Maybe she should just skip straight ahead to adopting a three-legged cat and taking up crochet.

Actually, she’d quite like to learn to crochet, but that wasn’t the point.

Seb rested his hand against his wife’s stomach, and Daisy’s soft smile grew into a fully fledged grin as she tilted her face for a kiss. Violet turned away, suddenly embarrassed to be staring.

But unfortunately her gaze just landed on Rose and Will, looking equally wrapped up in each other. Her twin sister and her best friend. Violet had to admit she really hadn’t seen that one coming either. An attraction, perhaps, or maybe even a fling. Not that Will would give up his runaway groom status for good and marry into her family. But there Rose stood in her own wedding dress, after sneaking away for their own secret marriage ceremony once their parents’ vow renewal service was over.

Maybe she just had no sort of love radar at all. Or maybe it was broken. That would explain a hell of a lot, really.

Will glanced up at just the wrong moment and, this time, Violet couldn’t look away quick enough. Even staring pointedly at the band, she couldn’t miss the whispered conversation between Rose and her new husband. Probably trying to decide whose responsibility Violet’s hurt feelings were now.

Violet sighed. It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy for her sisters—she really, truly was. And she knew that their happiness shouldn’t make her own sorry situation feel so much worse. But it did.

Swallowing, she looked down at her feet, and the high heels pinching her toes. It would pass, she knew. Any day now she’d be able to look at all the happy and loved-up people around her and just smile, without the bitter tinge that threatened to colour her whole world.

That day just wasn’t yet, that was all.

‘She thinks you’re cross with her, you know. Or me, possibly,’ Will said, standing beside her with his hands in his pockets. Such a familiar sight at these events. Usually Will’s presence was a comfort, a reliable soul to help her through the amused looks, the only half-whispered comments, and the occasional drunken suggestion from guys she barely knew but who clearly thought they knew all about her—and her sexual proclivities.

Today, though, he was just a reminder that things wouldn’t ever be the same again.

‘Cross with Rose?’ Violet asked, mustering up a smile. ‘Why on earth would I be cross with her? For stealing you away from me? Good riddance, I say.’

The startled look on Will’s face told her she’d misjudged something very badly.

‘Uh, no. She thinks you’re mad because you got landed with picking up that reporter guy from the airport tonight, so you’re missing out on the good champagne. That or the whole Benefit Concert thing.’

Ah, that. Yeah, that would make more sense. Especially since she hadn’t been completely silent about her unhappiness that the reporter was coming at all.

‘I hadn’t really...you think she stole me away from you?’

Violet gave him a withering stare. ‘Yes, Will. I’ve been lusting after you, pining away for you through every one of your ridiculous engagements and runaway groom stunts. And now you’ve finally married my sister, I don’t think I will ever recover.’

Her deadpan delivery apparently sold it because Will laughed with obvious relief. ‘Good. That’s...okay, then. And you’re not mad about the reporter either?’

‘I’m mad about the champagne. Otherwise, I’ll cope.’

‘You’re sure? I know you’re a little...’

Violet tried to guess the word he was avoiding saying. Nervous? Worried? Paranoid?

Probably paranoid.

‘Apprehensive about him coming,’ Will finished.

Violet sighed. Apprehensive wasn’t the half of it. But her dad had made up his mind that he wanted to tell his story, have that official biography on the shelves, and he’d picked this guy to do it. Rose had looked at her with worried eyes when he’d announced it, but even she admitted it made sense to do it now, ahead of the new tour and album. The reporter guy would have exclusive access, in-depth interviews and enough connections to get a real buzz going in the media.

‘Rose says he’s nice,’ Will tried. ‘They met in New York before she came home.’

‘I’m sure he’s a doll,’ Violet replied. It didn’t matter who he was. He was press, and only interested in them as a story, as something he could sell.

Violet had learned that lesson the hard way.

Will frowned. ‘Maybe if you talk to your dad...’

Shaking her head, Violet gave him a gentle smile. ‘It’s fine. I promise.’ Dad had made up his mind and that was it. As always. Nothing Will, Daisy, Rose or Violet could do to change it. And so there was no point dwelling on it. She’d just stay out of his way as much as possible and hope for the best.

What else could she do?

‘And about the Benefit Concert—’ he started, but Violet cut him off.

‘Go on, Will.’ She pushed against his arm. ‘Go whisk Rose away on your honeymoon. I’ll take care of things here, I promise. Since you’ve apparently already texted the reporter guy my phone number, he’s my responsibility now, and I think I can manage one airport pick-up. You two go relax for a bit. Get used to being married for once, instead of just temporarily engaged.’

‘Okay. See you soon, kid.’ With a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, he headed back towards Rose, and Violet was alone again.

As usual.

She hadn’t exactly lied to Will, she decided. She had never thought of Will as husband material—or even one-night stand material. He was worth far more to her as a friend, and she’d never felt that spark, that flash of something more that hinted that they could be anything else.

It was just kind of weird that he obviously felt that flash with Rose of all people. Her so-identical-it-was-actually-spooky twin sister.

Although, really, she should be used to people seeing something in Rose that they never saw in her. After all, hadn’t their parents made Rose stay home instead of going back to the States after Daisy’s wedding, just so she could organise their vow renewal ceremony and party? Even though Violet had been right there, with time on her hands, happy to help?

Not that she was bitter. She knew why they hadn’t asked—because they’d been sure she wouldn’t want to do it. Wouldn’t want to have to deal with so many people, so many knowing eyes.

And they were probably right.

Will hadn’t thought about that as he’d told her where to find Rose’s black planner, though, and asked her to make sure everything kept ticking over for the annual Huntingdon Hall Benefit Concert while they were away on their honeymoon. Maybe he’d just been too caught up in the flush of true love to think about it. Or maybe he expected her to hand it over to some agency person, hired to cover Rose’s job.

Maybe she should. After all, she knew absolutely nothing about how to organise a concert for thousands of people. Will had insisted that Rose had already done all the hard work, that there’d be practically nothing left for Violet to do.

Because obviously otherwise they’d have found someone more competent to put in charge.

Violet shook her head. She was being ridiculous. She hadn’t wanted to organise the vow renewal anyway. Or the Benefit Concert, come to that. She had other obligations. But now that Rose had told their dad she’d be stepping down from her job managing the PR and events for The Screaming Lemons once she got back from her honeymoon...well, someone would have to do it. And Violet couldn’t ignore the very small part of her brain that thought that person could be her.

No. She had no experience, and no desire to deal with people who laughed at her behind her back all day long. She’d just stick to things she knew she was good at. Like arranging flowers, thank you very much.

The flower displays she’d designed for the vow renewal were, she decided, by far her best displays yet. Lots of exotic blooms in deep jewel colours. Striking and memorable, just like her parents. Her flowers rocked, everyone said so.

There you had it. Twenty-seven years on the planet, and that was all she could say about herself.

Violet Huntingdon-Cross—kick-ass flower arranger, wannabe crocheter. Potential cat lady in waiting.

No, that wasn’t all. That was just all that other people saw—and she was happy to keep it that way. She made a difference in the lives of young people and teenagers every day, even if no one ever knew it was her. After all, if word got around that Violet Huntingdon-Cross was manning the phones at the troubled teen helpline, their calls would skyrocket with people wanting to ask her about her own past, or just talk to a minor celebrity—and the kids she really wanted to help wouldn’t be able to get through at all. So she helped where she could. Even if she wished she could do more.

Her parents did the same, helping out charities anonymously when they could. The only difference was, they also did enough charity work—as well as music and the occasional modelling gig respectively—in public that everyone assumed they already knew everything there was to know about Rick and Sherry Cross.

But with Violet...well, Violet could only imagine what they were still saying about her. Probably the nicest was that she’d become a recluse.

Still, that was a hell of a lot better than what they’d been saying about her eight years ago.

Pulling her phone from her tiny clutch bag, she checked the time and then double-checked the email Will had sent her from Rose’s account with the reporter guy’s flight details. Thomas Buckley...that was his name. She must make an effort not to just call him reporter guy all the time. Although it never hurt to have a reminder that the press were press and always on the record, whatever they said. Not something she ever wanted to forget again.

Time to go. She’d get changed out of her bridesmaid’s dress, grab the ridiculous name card Rose had left for her and be at Heathrow in plenty of time to grab a coffee before his flight landed. And, best of all, she wouldn’t be stuck in romance central another minute.

Moving towards the side door to Huntingdon Hall, Violet paused as she caught sight of her parents, dancing in the light of the just risen moon. So wrapped up in each other that the couple of hundred people watching, who’d come all this way to celebrate with them, might not even be there at all. Sherry Huntingdon and Rick Cross were famously crazy about each other, but it wasn’t until Violet caught them in moments like this that she really believed the media hype.

And that, she finally admitted to herself, was the real reason all this love stuff was getting to her. Deep down, she’d always believed that she’d just fall into a perfect relationship like her parents had, like both her sisters had now found too.

Instead, she’d got something else entirely. Like anti-love. The sort of relationship that tore up your insides and made you someone else. After that, if she was honest, Violet wasn’t sure she’d ever have the courage to try again.

Her phone rang in her hand and Violet answered it automatically, glad for the distraction. ‘Hello?’

‘I was under the impression that you, whoever you are, were supposed to be meeting me at the airport about twenty minutes ago.’ The American drawl made Violet’s eyes widen. The reporter guy. Except Rose’s email had him landing in an hour and a half. Dammit!

‘I’m so sorry, Mr...’ Oh, God, what was his name?

‘Buckley.’ He bit the surname out. ‘And I could care less about apologies. Just get here, will you? I’ll be in the bar.’

And, with that, the line went dead.

Picking up her skirt, Violet dashed for the garage and prayed no one had blocked her car in. She’d have to borrow one of her dad’s if they had. No time to change now, or even pick up that specially made name card of Rose’s. If she ever wanted to be relied on for more than flowers, she needed to not screw this up. And since the bad impression she—and by extension her family—had made on the reporter guy was already done, she needed to find a way to fix it. Starting with getting to Heathrow as fast as humanly possible, before he started drafting his story. She knew journalists. The truth seldom got in the way of a good story, and once they thought they knew all about a person it was almost impossible to convince them otherwise.

And Violet had already earned the Huntingdon-Cross family enough bad press to last a lifetime.

CHAPTER TWO

TOM PUSHED HIS way to the counter, dragging his suitcase behind him like a weapon. A coffee shop. What the hell kind of use to him was that, especially at this time of night? He needed a drink—a proper one. But that was arrivals for you—never as good as the departures lounge. After so many years travelling the world, you’d think he’d remember that. Except he was usually being collected straight off a plane these days, and got whisked through arrivals to some hotel or another without even clocking his surroundings.

He’d just have to hope that whoever the ditsy woman Rose had assigned to pick him up was would check her phone and see his text telling her to meet him here instead.

Staring at the menu above the counter with bleary eyes, Tom tried to figure out his best option. He’d already consumed so much caffeine in the last two weeks that his muscles appeared to be permanently twitching. Add that to the distinct lack of sleep, and he wasn’t sure another shot of the black stuff was quite what he needed. Of course, what he needed was a big bed with cool sheets, a blackout blind and about twenty-four hours’ solid rest.

None of which was a remote possibility until his ride pitched up.

Ordering a decaf something-or-other, Tom tossed his jacket and laptop into the nearest bucket chair and hovered impatiently between it and the counter while he waited for his drink. If he’d flown first class, or even business, he could have had as many free drinks as he liked on the plane. But old habits died hard and, since this job was entirely on spec and therefore on his own dime, he’d been paying for his own flight. Something inside him still baulked at shelling out that much cash just for a better seat, even though money wasn’t really an object any more. Certainly not the way it had been growing up.

His music journalism career had taken off enough in the past few years that he could rely on his contacts for a good life and a better income. He’d come a long way from his first big, explosive story, almost ten years ago.

So yeah, he could have afforded the upgrade, easily, and without tapping those savings. And if he’d remembered about the free booze aspect of things, he probably would have done. As it was...

Snatching his coffee from the girl behind the counter, he settled at his table and prepared to hang around a while. God only knew how long it would take his ride to get there from wherever she was, but he might as well get some work done while he waited. Even if he felt as if his eyes might jump right out of his head if he didn’t close them soon.

At least the work was worth travelling all the way from New York for. A story like this, a break this big...it could make him, permanently. He’d be the go-to person for anything to do with The Screaming Lemons, and that was serious currency in the industry. It would give him access, and opportunities with the newer bands coming through. He’d have the pick of jobs.

He’d already made a pretty good name for himself with the bigger music magazines, websites and even the colour supplements. But this trip, these interviews, this was something more—it was a book in the making. That was what Rick Cross had promised him. And Tom was going to make sure the old man made good on his word.

He was annoyed to have missed all the upheaval in the Huntingdon-Cross family over the past two months, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d already been committed to another project at home in the States and, anyway, who could have predicted that one of Rick and Sherry’s famously blonde and beautiful daughters would get married and knocked up all within the space of eight weeks? And who knew what was going on with Rose now? She’d been in the press recently herself, he remembered, pictured with the famous Runaway Groom—who he’d thought was famously her sister Violet’s best friend. Maybe something had happened there—and he’d missed it, again. All he’d had was a text message when he turned his phone back on after the flight, with a contact number and the information that, due to unforeseen but brilliant circumstances, someone else would be collecting him.

Or not, as the case might be.

Tom sighed. He’d just have to make sure he got good interviews with them all when he could. And, wherever Rose might be, at least one daughter was still living at home—probably the most famous one, if you counted notorious Internet celebrity, which Tom did.

Opening his laptop, he pulled up his notes on the family. He was staying at the family home, Huntingdon Hall, so he needed to be prepared from the get-go. He’d spent weeks compiling old interviews, articles and photos of the whole family, and felt he had it pretty much down. And after speaking with Rose in New York and on the phone while planning the trip, he’d thought he had at least one ally there—until she’d decided to swan off and abandon him with no notice.

Presumably she’d got an offer too good to refuse, no matter how much it inconvenienced anyone else. Celebrity kids—always the centre of their own world, however nice and normal Rose had seemed when they met. He needed to remember that.

He’d only had one conversation with the man he was really there to see, though—Rick Cross himself. Rock star, family man, reformed wide boy. The interviews Tom had on file dated back almost thirty years, back to when The Screaming Lemons were the next big thing on the rock scene. Nowadays, they were the old standards—and they had to try harder to shock or surprise.

With his plans for a tell-all book about the band and his family’s history, it looked as if Rick had plans to do both.

Tom had asked him, ‘Why now?’ It couldn’t be money—the band still sold enough greatest hits records and got more than enough airplay that it didn’t matter if their latest album tanked. But all Rick would say was that it was time.

Scrolling through his family crib sheet, Tom reminded himself of all the most pertinent facts.

Most people in Britain and the States could pick Rick Cross out of a line-up and tell you his story. Same for his wife, the beautiful and rich mostly ex-model and now English society stalwart, Sherry Huntingdon. With his fame and her family, they made quite the impact.

Then there were the girls. The youngest, Daisy, was the newest Lady Holgate, which seemed pretty much par for the course for celebrity kids, Tom decided. After all, if you already had money and fame, surely a title was the only thing left to go for? Especially in the UK.

The twins were a few years older at twenty-seven. Rose, he knew from personal meetings with her, had been living in New York for the last few years, although she had planned to be in England until the annual benefit concert at least.