Sharon Kendrick
THE wedding dress gleamed indistinctly through its heavy shrouding of plastic.
It was an exquisite gown—simple and striking and fashioned with care from ivory silk-satin. Organza whispered softly beneath the skirt and the matching veil was made of gossamer-fine tulle.
At a little over twenty years old, it was ageless and timeless, a future heirloom—to be passed down from bride to bride, each woman adapting it and making it uniquely hers.
But for now it remained locked in a wardrobe, hidden and protected and unworn.
And waiting...
LUKE GOODWIN stood in front of the big, Georgian window and gave a sigh of satisfaction which not even the bleak November day could dispel. He stared at the unfamiliar landscape before him. It was a loveless time of year in England, once the last of the leaves had fallen.
The sky was as grey as slush and the clouds had an ominous bulge which spoke of heavy rains to come. It was as unlike the golden and blue African skies he had left behind as it was possible to be.
Yet the green chequerboard of fields which stretched as far as his eye could see was now his. As was this graceful old house with enough bedrooms to sleep a football team. His hard mouth softened into a smile as he tried to take it all in, but it was hard to believe that this, all this beauty, now belonged to him.
Oh, a different type of beauty from the one he was used to, that was for sure. His beauty had been searing heat and blazing cerulean skies. The scent of lemons and the puff of fragrant smoke wafting from the barbecue. There had been bare rooms where giant fans cast their flickering circles across bleached ceilings—so different from the elegant Georgian drawing room in which he now stood.
He had been here only eight hours and yet felt he knew the house as intimately as any lover. He had arnved in the middle of the night, but had walked the echoing floors in silence, examining each room and reacquainting himself with each chair, each moulding. Running his long fingers along their pure, clean surfaces with the awe of a mother studying her newborn.
His heart sang with possession—not for the house’s worth, but for its link with the past, and the future. Like a rudderless boat, Luke had finally found the mooring of his dreams.
He let his eyes grow accustomed to the view. Through an arched yew hedge was a clutch of thatched cottages, a pub, a few tasteful and essential shops—as well as the added bonus of a village green with accompanying duck pond. England at its most picture-perfect. His senses were stretched with fatigue, and the soft beauty of his childhood home had never seemed quite so poignant.
Next month Caroline would arrive from Africa, in time for Christmas. Caroline who, despite her associations with that country, was the epitome of an English rose. Caroline with her soft, understated beauty and her unflappability and her resourcefulness. Not his usual kind of woman at all...
Somehow, God only knew how, she had arranged for a woman to come and clean the house for him. She hadn’t let the matter of a few thousand miles affect her organisational skills!
He guessed it was yet another indication of how much his tastes had matured. Luke’s wild and rollicking adventuring days were over, and he was ready to take on all the responsibilities which his inheritance had brought. Sometimes your life changed and there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it.
Luke smiled the contented smile of a man who had found what he was looking for.
Life, he decided, was just like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and the last piece had just slotted effortlessly into place.
Holly clicked off the ignition key just before the engine cut out of its own accord in the middle of the narrow village street. Number ninety-nine on her list of things to do, she thought with dark humour—change her car.
If only she didn’t love it so much! An ancient old Beetle which she had lovingly painted herself, because that was the kind of thing that students did. It was just that she wasn’t a student any more..
She slowly got out of the car and stood on the pavement, staring up at the empty building with eyes which half refused to believe that this shop was now hers.
Lovelace Brides. The place where every bride-to-be would want to buy the wedding outfit of her wildest and most wonderful dreams. Where she, Holly Lovelace, intended to transform each woman who set foot over that threshold into the most amazing bride imaginable!
Holly shivered. She should have worn her thermals. The November air had a really hungry bite to it and the gauzy shirt she was wearing would be better suited to a summer’s day.
Still, now was the time to open up the shop, and then just haul her stuff inside and unpack the basics—like vests and tea bags! She could risk moving the car later.
She was just fishing around in her shoulder bag for the great clump of keys which seemed to have got lost among all the clutter at the bottom, when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
Holly looked up sharply and her hair tumbled in copper-curled disarray all over her shoulders. She felt her mouth fall open in slow motion as she focussed on the man walking towards her, then blinked, as if her eyes were playing tricks on her. She blinked again. No, they weren’t. Holly stared, then swallowed.
He was quite the most gorgeous man she had ever seen, and yet somehow he looked kind of wrong walking down the sleepy village street. Holly frowned. It wasn’t just that he was tall, or tanned, or lean where it counted—though he was all of these, and more. Or that his broad shoulders and rugged frame spoke of a man you didn’t mess with. Holly looked a little closer. His hair was dark—dark as muscovado sugar—and the ends were tipped with gold.
He