He took his seat. Whitney sat to his left, Phillip to his right. Jo’s ridiculous little donkey sat on the floor in between him and Whitney. Good. Fine. At least he didn’t have to look at Whitney, he reasoned. Just at Jo.
Who was not exactly thrilled with him. Phillip was right—Matthew was in no mood to have Jo turned loose on him. So he forced his best fake smile—the one he used when he was defusing some ticking time bomb created by one of his siblings. It always worked when he was talking to reporters.
He glanced at Phillip and then at Jo. Damn. The smile wasn’t working on them.
He could feel Whitney sitting next to him. He didn’t like that. He didn’t want to be aware of her like that. He wasn’t some teenager anymore, crushing in secret. He was a grown man with real problems.
Her.
But Phillip was staring daggers at him, and Jo looked as though she was going to stab him with the butter knife. So Matthew dug deep. He could be a gentleman. He could put on the Beaumont face no matter what. Being able to talk to a woman was part of the Beaumont legacy—a legacy he’d worked too hard to make his own. He wasn’t about to let an unexpected blast from his past undermine everything he’d worked for. This wedding was about proving his legitimacy and that was that.
Phillip glared at him. Right. The wedding was about Phillip and Jo, too. And now their maid of honor.
God, what a mess.
“So, Whitney,” Matthew began. She flinched when he said her name. He kept his voice pleasant and level. “What are you doing these days?”
Jo notched an eyebrow at him as she served the lasagna. Hey, he wanted to tell her. I’m trying.
Whitney smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I raise horses.” She took a piece of bread and passed the basket to him. She made sure not to touch him when she did it.
“Ah.” That wasn’t exactly a lot to go on, but it did explain how she and Jo knew each other, he guessed.
When Whitney didn’t offer any other information, he asked, “What kind of horses?”
“Trakehners.”
Matthew waited, but she didn’t elaborate.
“One of her horses won gold in the World Equestrian Games,” Phillip said. He followed up this observation with a swift kick to Matthew’s shin.
Ow. Matthew grunted in pain but he managed not to curse out loud. “That’s interesting.”
“It’s amazing,” Phillip said. “Not even Dad could breed or buy a horse that took home gold.” He leaned forward, turned on the Beaumont smile and aimed it squarely at Whitney.
Something flared in Matthew. He didn’t like it when Phillip smiled at her like that.
“Trust me,” Phillip continued, “he tried. Not winning gold was one of his few failures as a horseman. That and not winning a Triple Crown.”
Whitney cut Matthew a look out of the corner of her eye that hit him funny. Then she turned her attention to Phillip. “No one’s perfect, right?”
“Not even Hardwick Beaumont,” he agreed with a twinkle in his eye. “It turns out there are just some things money can’t buy.”
Whitney grinned. Suddenly, Matthew wanted to punch his brother—hard. This was normal enough—this was how Phillip talked to women. But seeing Whitney warm to him?
Phillip glanced at Matthew. Be a gentleman, he seemed to be saying. “Whitney’s Trakehners are beautiful, highly trained animals. She’s quite well-known in horse circles.”
Whitney Wildz was well-known in horse circles? Matthew didn’t remember any mention of that from the last article he’d read about her. Only that she’d made a spectacle of herself.
“How long have you been raising horses?”
“I bought my ranch eleven years ago.” She focused her attention on her food. “After I left Hollywood.”
So she really was Whitney Wildz. But...eleven years? That didn’t seem right. It couldn’t have been more than two years since the last headline.
“Where is your ranch?”
If Matthew had known who she really was, he would have done more digging. Be Prepared wasn’t just a good Boy Scout motto—it was vital to succeeding in public relations.
One thing was abundantly clear. Matthew was not prepared for Whitney, whatever her last name was.
“Not too far from Bakersfield. It’s very...quiet there.”
Then she gazed up at him again. The look in her eyes stunned him—desperate for approval. He knew that look—he saw it in the mirror every morning.
Why would she want his approval? She was Whitney Wildz, for crying out loud. She’d always done what she wanted, when she wanted—consequences be damned.
Except...nothing about her said she was out of control—except for the way she’d fallen into his arms.
His first instinct had been to hold her—to protect her. To claim her as his. What if...?
No.
There was no “what if” about this. His first duty was to his family—to making sure this wedding went off without a hitch. To making sure everyone knew that the Beaumonts were still in a position of power. To making sure he proved himself worthy of his father’s legacy.
At the very least, he could be a gentleman about it.
“That’s beautiful country,” he said. Compliments were an important part of setting a woman at ease. If he were smart, he would have remembered that in the first place. “Your ranch must be lovely.”
A touch of color brightened her cheeks. His stomach tensed. She was beautiful, he realized. Not the punk-rock hot she’d been back when he’d watched her show, but something delicate and ethereal.
Mine.
The word kept popping up in his head, completely unbidden. Which was ridiculous because the only thing Whitney was to him was a roadblock.
Phillip kicked him again. Stop staring, he mouthed at Matthew.
Matthew shook his head. He hadn’t realized he was staring.
“Matthew, maybe we should discuss some of the wedding plans?” Jo said it nicely enough but there was no mistaking that question for an order.
“Of course,” he agreed. The wedding. He needed to stay on track here. “We have an appointment with the seamstress tomorrow at ten. Jo, it’s your final fitting. Whitney, we ordered your dress according to the measurements you sent in, but we’ve blocked out some additional time in case it requires additional fittings.”
“That sounds fine,” she said in a voice that almost sounded casual.
“Saturday night is the bachelorette party. I have a list of places that would be an appropriate location for you to choose from.”
“I see,” she said. She brushed her hand through her hair.
He fought the urge to do the same.
What was wrong with him? Seriously—what was wrong with him? He went from attracted to her to furious at everyone in the room and now he wanted to, what—stroke her hair? Claim her? Jesus, these were exactly the sort of impulses he’d always figured had ruled Phillip. The ones that had ruled their father. See a beautiful woman, act on the urge to sweep her off her feet. To hell with anything else.
Matthew needed to regain control of the situation—of himself—and fast.
“We’ll