He seems to understand, and his arm slides around my waist, pulling me closer. “Ye have no idea, my bride. My Uncle Lachlan married Aunt Aria at gunpoint. At midnight. In our parish chapel. The stories just get worse. My cousin Logan? He got Arabella scuppered and dug up an official in Denmark to marry them at midnight before she sobered up.”
“No!” My laughter is unwinding some of the thorny ball of anxiety that’s dug itself into my heart since that night when I’d reluctantly said “I do” to the man who is currently regaling me with yet another MacTavish-related wedding disaster.
So, of course, this soft little moment can’t continue.
“Darling, there you are!”
Fucking Celia Montrose, British socialite and Michael’s spurned ex, is blocking the entry to the ballroom with a well-bred smile and eyes glittering with fury.
It’s all fun and games until the psycho ex shows up,Jordan says, not being helpful in the slightest.
Michael…
Sophie stiffens, I can feel the tense line of her body as I put my arm around her waist.
“Celia.” I look at her dispassionately, then at her date. Darren O’Donnell, that’s how she got into the Gala. I knew she wasn’t on the guest list, I’d specifically made it clear that no invitation would be issued to her. Darren, unfortunately, is one of our more enthusiastic donors. He’s blessed with all the judgement of a feckless puppy and a sizable inheritance. If Celia gave him a smile, he’d follow her anywhere.
“Hello, Michael!” Darren gives me a vigorous handshake. He’s lanky with a thinning hairline and a broad smile. Tonight, he’s chosen to favor us with a violently-colored plaid tie and jacket. “And this must be the surprise bride! A surpriseanda pleasure, lass.” He chuckles heartily at his own feeble joke as he gently shakes Sophie’s hand.
“As ye are aware, all MacTavish weddings are sudden and a bit of a surprise,” I say smoothly, retrieving my wife’s hand from his. “It’s a clan tradition.”
Celia’s watching all this with a brittle sort of fury. It’s amusing, because she’d rather be eaten by a shark than participate in the hasty ceremony that has become the MacTavish tradition. No, she’d need two years of planning and all the lavish grandiosity that my money could buy.
“A pleasure to meet you, Darren,” Sophie says sweetly. My brow rises as she ignores Celia. Sophie is traditionally, painfully, polite. “You look resplendent tonight. That tartan… it’s medieval, right? The sixteenth century?”
Darren’s face lights up and if he had a tail, his arse would be wiggling right now. “Aye! Late sixteenth century, to be exact. It was the evolution of the Falkirk original from the…”
Celia takes advantage of his medieval tartan history lesson to step closer. She’s loaded down with her family jewels tonight, even the Montrose tiara. Clearly, trying to remind me of her vastly “superior” lineage to Sophie’s. “I’d hoped you had come to your senses by now, darling.”
“I’m thinking I came to my senses,” I say, the words sharp and bright like broken glass, “the night I marriedmy wife.” Her mouth convulses into a snarl at the words, “my wife” before her expression smooths out again.
“This is ridiculous, Michael.” She looks over at Sophie, who’s nodding and smiling as Darren launches into a long explanation of the historic importance of formal tartan wear. “How can you give up what we have for her? Is she pregnant? Surely that can be handled without feeling obligated to marry her.”
“I wanted to marry her,” I say sharply. “I dinnae want to marry ye, Celia. You’re pretending an intimacy that dinnae exist. And it will be the last time ye do. I’m losing my patience.”
Sophie looks beautiful, the gleam from the golden light of the ballroom’s chandeliers is highlighting her dress and the glow it gives her skin. Her long hair down tonight in curls that brush her shoulder blades. Celia - who is apparently blissfully free from any sense of self-preservation - spots Sophie’s left hand and her snarl almost breaks free again. “That ring-”
“Isn’t it lovely?” My mother steps next to us, linking her arm with Sophie’s. “It was the Lady Elspeth’s personal gift from Queen Elizabeth in 1980.”
“It was?” Celia croaks.
“Really?” Sophie looks up at me, startled.
“Indeed,” my grandmother purrs, moving to stand on Sophie’s other side. “Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth summered at Balmoral Castle that year. We worked together on a charity project. She was a lovely woman.”
Sophie’s staring at the ring and Celia is surveying the sudden show of support from the MacTavish women. My mother is intimidating enough, but add in my grandmother and any sane person would be heading for the other side of Edinburgh right now. Even Darren, with his pleasant obliviousness, is anxiously smoothing the front of his vest and stepping back.
“It was very lovely to discuss historic textiles with ye, Sophie,” he says. “I’d like to get a look at those suits of armor ye have in the main hall…” He offers his arm to Celia, who’s locked in a tense standoff with three generations of MacTavish women.
“Celia, dear?” The Lady Elspeth says. “Move along.”
This galvanizes Celia, stepping backward and nearly tripping on the train of her gown before hastily regaining her balance. “Lovely to see you all,” she grits between her teeth before striding away, Darren anxiously trailing after her.
“A tiara, can you imagine?” My grandmother purses her lips, a sign of deep disapproval.
“I know,” Mum agrees, gently squeezing Sophie’s arm. “This is a black tie event!”
“One only dons a tiara for one’s wedding or a white tie event,” grandmother intones.
