“No,” Rafe interjected. “Nothing ‘good enough’ is good enough. Not for this wedding. An orchestra it is.”
“Ready, then? Bridesmaids first.” Bruiser began humming a processional.
Daphne joined in the humming, leading Phoebe down the aisle.
“Now the bride.” When Clio hesitated, Bruiser nudged Rafe. “Hum along, will you?”
“I’m not humming. I don’t hum.”
His trainer jabbed him in the kidney. “Do you want to sell her on this wedding or not?”
Damnation.
Rafe started to hum, too.
Clio gave in, walking down the aisle of the chapel—toward a bulldog, in time with the strains of tuneless humming, draped in a tablecloth and clutching a handful of wilting, dripping flowers. Halfway down, she started to giggle. By the time she reached Rafe at the altar, she was laughing aloud.
“I’m telling you, Miss Whitmore,” Bruiser said. “The guests will rise to their feet in awe.”
“Oh, yes.” She was still laughing as she lifted the tablecloth from her face. “I’m sure they will. With a bride like this before them, how could they not?”
Curse it, Rafe should have known this wouldn’t work. She wasn’t dazzled. She was only amused. It had gone all wrong.
Except, in a strange way, it felt rather right. If he were ever to be married, this was just how he’d want his bride to look as she walked down the aisle to meet him.
Happy. Joyful. Even laughing. Having the time of her life.
But Rafe wasn’t getting married.
And Clio was not going to be his bride.
“What time is it?” Phoebe asked. “Mr. Montague, will you check your pocket watch?”
“I . . . er . . .”
Bruiser looked down at the flashy watch fob where it disappeared into his pocket. Rafe would wager it wasn’t attached to a timepiece of any sort.
Rafe pulled out his own watch and opened it. “It’s seventeen minutes past two.”
Phoebe nodded. “You should have the wedding at eighteen minutes past two.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, kitten.” Daphne gave her younger sister a pinch. “No one has a wedding at two o’clock, much less eighteen minutes past. Whyever would they do that?”
“Wait a minute,” Phoebe replied. “You’ll see.”
No sooner had she said this than a shaft of light pierced the stained-glass window above the altar. A column of luminous, breathtaking gold enveloped Clio in its warmth. Her fair hair gleamed. Her skin glowed. Her blue eyes had the depth and richness of lapis. Even the stupid lace tablecloth was transformed into a thing of delicate beauty.
“Cor,” Bruiser said, forgetting his Montague role completely. “I did promise dazzle, didn’t I?”
Rafe didn’t know about Clio, but he was dazzled.
He was dazzled to his bones.
“What is it?” Clio looked around at them. “You’re all staring. Have I grown a second head?”
“No,” Daphne said, sounding uncharacteristically genuine and kind. “Not at all. Oh, Clio, you’re lovely.”
“Lovelier,” Bruiser corrected.
“Loveliest.” The word was out before Rafe had time to consider it.
He wouldn’t take it back if he could. She was, quite simply, the loveliest thing he’d seen in years. Perhaps in all his life.
“Me?” She laughed and touched her tablecloth veil. “In this?”
Everyone hastened to assure her it was the truth.
“You should see yourself,” Rafe said. “You’re . . .”
He couldn’t find any words to describe it. He hoped the look in his eyes would convey the message. When a man admired a woman this intensely . . . surely it must be palpable.
Her eyes warmed. One corner of her lips lifted. And then, as if he’d called it into being, a wash of pink touched her cheeks.
Thank God. He hadn’t seen that blush since yesterday. He’d missed it.
“Really?” she whispered.
“Found it!” Cambourne came jogging into the chapel, breathless and looking smug. As always. “I knew there had to be one in this place somewhere. Took me all morning searching, and even straight through luncheon, but I finally found one.”