The Case Of The Vainshed Groom

“Pretty? Special?”

“Yes,” Dawn whispered in a sigh. “I feel so guilty and disloyal. What am I to do? I can’t marry Quentin under false pretenses.”

Connie laughed. She grasped Dawn by the shoulders and made her turn around to face a mirror. “Latebreaking news bulletin, my darling, you are both pretty and special.”

Dawn stared wide-eyed at the vision in the mirror. Appliqués of white roses and twining leaves overlaid the sleeveless, fitted bodice. Matching appliques covered the tea-length, scalloped hem, and a pair of embroidered roses fastened the narrow sash. Her hair was upswept into a French twist held by combs festooned with tiny rosebuds; a single strand of pearls encircled her neck. Cosmetics expertly applied by Connie made her eyes large and luminous.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Connie said softly. Her eyes glistened with tears. “My little mouse has blossomed. I wish you were my own daughter.” She snatched a tissue from a box and dabbed at her eyes.

Dawn wondered if Ross saw her this way when he stared so intently at her. She prayed Quentin saw her this way, too.

“Don’t worry about being attracted to another man. Despite your mother’s best efforts, you’re a perfectly normal young woman. It’s only natural to get the hots over a hunky man.”

Dawn frowned at Connie’s reflection in the mirror.

A soft knock on the door caused both women to turn. Dawn steadied herself with a deep breath. “The car must be here. I’m ready.”

Moving toward the door, Connie asked, “Are you sure? There’s still time to back out.”

Dawn clasped her trembling hands over her fluttering stomach. “Marrying Quentin is the right thing.”

“Good.” She opened the door.

Hands in his pockets, his tuxedo jacket hanging open, Ross Duke stood in the doorway. “Hi.” He extended a hand. “You must be Mrs. Haxman.”

Connie exchanged a glance with Dawn. Then she straightened her shoulders to better show off her bosom, cocked a hip, and laid her hand against Ross’s. “And you must be Ross.”

He kissed the back of her hand. Connie giggled like a girl.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make the rehearsal dinner last night. We could have gotten properly acquainted.”

“You can’t possibly be sorrier than I am.” Connie dreamily rubbed the back of her hand.

“What are you doing here, Ross?” Dawn asked. “Shouldn’t you be with Quentin at the chapel?”

“May I speak to you for a moment?”

He looked serious, even solemn, without a trace of his usual teasing sunniness. She just knew he’d come to tell her Quentin wanted to call off the wedding.

Connie looked between them. “I’ll go check on the car.”

Before Dawn could protest, Connie was gone. Ross glanced at the hallway behind him before slipping into the room and softly closing the door.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Her heart shouldn’t be pounding and she shouldn’t be thinking how devastatingly gorgeous he looked in a tuxedo, either. The summer-weight fabric draped gracefully over his broad shoulders and the stark white shirt set off his tan to perfection.

“Are you sure about all this?”

She focused on her restless feet, willing them to stay still. She didn’t dare look at Ross. The bells she longed to hear belonged to Quentin, not to this rascally playboy. “Sure about what?”

He lifted his shoulders in a quick shrug, then shifted his weight from foot to foot and smoothed a hand across the side of his head. He stared at the floor. “Marriage.” The word emerged in a rush, as if it pained him to speak. “It’s a major commitment.”

“I know about commitments,” she said coldly. “Is something wrong with Quentin?”

He looked up sharply. “You can do better than Quent.”

Dawn gasped.

Ross’s eyes widened and he clamped his hands on his hips. The action pushed back his jacket, revealing a cummerbund snug about his narrow waist. “That didn’t come out right.”

“I should say not.” The fear of Quentin deserting her faded away as she realized she’d heard about this kind of thing before. Ross must be one of those determined bachelors who considered marriage something akin to a prison sentence. Ross hated the idea of his friend falling into such a miserable fate.

“You’re not at all what Quent led me to believe. Maybe he isn’t the right guy for you.”

Emotion swelled in her throat and burned her eyes. She suddenly hated Ross for daring to speak what she felt. She especially hated him for being so attractive, for making her feel attractive, and for making her uncertain about the man she loved.

“Leave, please.”

“This is the rest of your life, Dawn.” He held out a hand and his fingertips twitched, beckoning. “You’re special. You deserve the best.”

What he possibly hoped to gain from this confrontation was beyond her comprehension. “I love Quentin, and he loves me. If you’d listen to your mother instead of fooling around all the time, you might understand what that means. Now, leave.”

His thick eyebrows lowered and his eyes narrowed. A dark flush rose on his cheeks. He turned for the door. “Guess I stepped out of line.”

She gazed upon his broad shoulders and lowered head, and suffered a pain so deep it threatened to double her over. She pressed an arm to her aching stomach. “Let’s not argue. Please. You’ve been very kind to me this week and I appreciate it more than you can know. I’d like us to be friends.”

He turned his head enough to see her over his shoulder. “Kind? You’re either stupid or completely clueless.” Shaking his head, he left the room.

He called her stupid? What did she expect from the likes of him? He’d spent the entire week undermining her confidence in Quentin. An experienced, worldly man such as he must have recognized her lack of experience with men. He was one of those predators she’d always been warned about, amusing himself at her expense—at Quentin’s expense.

She grabbed a tissue from the box and carefully dabbed at her burning eyes. She didn’t cry; she never cried. She certainly wasn’t going to start because of a man like Ross Duke.

Chapter Two (#ulink_7ff1c654-a989-558e-be62-09d93d9126c7)

“Surprise!” Connie Haxman hooted a laugh as she tugged the arm of a tiny woman.

Seated at the head table in the reception hall, Dawn tensed. She stared at the newcomer’s emerald-green satin suit and the marabou-festooned hat perched at an angle on her carroty hair. Desdemona Hunter, society reporter and author of the biweekly “Party Patter” column, was one of Connie’s dearest friends. Desdemona—called Dizzy by her friends—graced every guest list that mattered in southern Colorado. None of Connie’s countless charity balls, dinners or holiday celebrations could proceed without Desdemona’s reporting.

Next to Dawn, Quentin choked on the champagne he was in the midst of swallowing. Desdemona’s photographer snapped pictures. The popping flash blinded Dawn, and red spots danced in the air before her eyes. Quentin coughed into a napkin.

Dawn thrust a hand toward the photographer. “Please! No more photographs. Please.”

“It’s my gift to you, my darling. The wedding of Dawn Lovell-Bayliss is front-page news.” Connie looped an arm around Desdemona’s shoulders. “Don’t you agree, Dizzy?”

“Or at least, worthy of an entire column. My, my, my, just look at all these lovely people! Is that Judge Gideon? It is him! Ooh, and Elizabeth Masterson. Whatever is your connection to her?” Desdemona nodded vigorously, making her marabou feathers jiggle and bob. “Your dress is exquisite, Dawn. Is that a Karan, dear?”

“Uh, no, it’s an Angelo. It’s not an original, though, I didn’t have time to order a custom—”

Quentin pressed his mouth against Dawn’s ear. “Get rid of that idiot right now!”