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.
“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!”
Dawn recoiled from Quentin’s red face and glittering eyes. As she stared in horror at the purple splotches spreading across his cheeks and the vein pulsing in his forehead, she realized she had much to learn about her new husband.
The wedding ceremony in Sweet Pines Chapel had been accomplished without a hitch. Two dozen of Dawn’s friends had come from Colorado Springs, and the small gathering had nearly filled the tiny chapel. The only low spot had been Ross Duke. He’d performed his bestman duties exactly as he was supposed to, but he’d been grim-faced throughout the ceremony. Now everyone gathered at the Elk River lodge where Elise Duke and her daughters had arranged a sit-down reception dinner worthy of royalty. Everyone except Ross; he’d disappeared.
Despite Ross’s peculiarities, the evening reception had unfolded with the watercolored loveliness of a sweet dream. The tables were laid with snowy cloths and silver service, and draped with garlands of silk roses. Dawn had giggled throughout toasts to the happy couple. She and Quentin had fed each other wedding cake. They’d danced. They’d eaten a dinner of venison medallions and chanterelles prepared by a master chef. They drank champagne and gazed into each other’s eyes.
Now Connie had turned the dream into a nightmare by bringing in a reporter. To make matters worse, Dizzy Hunter and her photographer acted like a magnet, drawing the wedding guests near. They were the cream of Colorado Springs society: judges, high-powered attorneys, doctors and CEOs. Dainty purses unsnapped as women checked their lipstick and hair; men straightened ties and smoothed jackets. Dawn feared the quiet, dignified celebration she’d promised Quentin was about to turn into the media circus he had feared.
Dawn did not understand Quentin’s aversion to media attention, but she did realize he was serious about it. She stood abruptly, waving both hands at Connie and Desdemona.
“Stop taking photographs right now!”
Glaring suspiciously at Dawn, Desdemona made a curt hand signal. The photographer lowered his camera. People hushed, watching Dawn. Some appeared offended by her outburst, but most looked surprised.
“Excuse me.” Quentin leapt off his chair. Holding the napkin close to his face, he hurried toward the men’s room. With his hunched shoulders, shuffling walk and the napkin pressed to his face, he gave the impression of a man about to be sick.
Desdemona clamped her fists on her hips. “Well!”
“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.” Connie hurried to Dawn’s side. “I didn’t mean to make him angry. What did I do?”
“I—I’m not sure. Oh, Ms. Hunter, I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea Quentin would.” Dawn stared helplessly in the direction her husband had gone. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to apologize for what had happened, or even if an apology were required. “I believe my husband has a phobia.”
“This is my fault, Dizzy,” Connie said. “Dawn told me not to invite reporters.”
“A phobia about reporters.” Desdemona’s face was skewed by a skeptical grimace. “Oh, right.”
The photographer turned his camera over in his hands. “Maybe it’s the flash, Dizzy. He could be a war vet or something. You know, having flashbacks about mortar rounds.”
The Colonel appeared. Wearing a somber black tuxedo, with his silver hair cropped short and his back as erect as if he wore a brace, he cut an imposing figure. He glared down his nose at the photographer. The young man quailed under the Colonel’s fearsome gaze.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Bayliss?”
It took a few seconds for Dawn to realize the Colonel was addressing her. She glanced at her guests. She sensed pity mixed with censure, for Quentin Bayliss was not one of them and his actions now highlighted his not belonging in their society. She imagined the gossip that would soon be rippling along golf courses and through country clubs, and deeply regretted not following Quentin’s advice in forgoing a reception. She forced a smile to assure her guests all was well. “Uh, no, sir, Colonel, sir. No problem.”
Desdemona pressed forward. “Colonel Horace Duke! Sir, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She grabbed his right hand in both of hers and pumped it. “Desdemona Hunter. Surely you follow my column. I adore what you’ve done with the lodge. Ralphie Beerson let it go to pot, and it was a crying shame. I’d love to see this place make a comeback as the place to party.”
Connie drew Dawn away from the table. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I only meant to give a gift you could keep in your scrapbook. Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m certain Quentin is finding the humor in this by now.” She eyed the Colonel, whose crispness was fading fast under the onslaught of Desdemona’s rapid-fire compliments. A smile appeared on his craggy face.
The smile reminded her of Ross, who, in height and build, resembled his father. Ross had disappeared from the reception soon after the toasts had ended and before the dancing began. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since the confrontation in her room.
“Dawn?” Connie’s voice was low with concern.
She shook away thoughts of Ross. “I don’t think anybody approves of Quentin. Look at them whispering.”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone thinks he’s charming. They’re concerned for you, that’s all.”
Feeling pity for me, more likely, Dawn thought. She hated being the target of pity, and avoided the countryclub-golfing circuit because she knew people pitied her. Mousy, awkward and unfashionable, she’d never lived up to her mother’s beauty and flair, or her father’s intelligence and ambition. Now they probably thought she had married beneath her. They did not understand Quentin loved her for herself. “Do you think it’s