Cinderella’s Wedding Wish Read online

  This was what he had wanted, he reminded himself endlessly. He had wanted Miranda to look like the kind of woman he would marry, but she was just supposed to look attractive and serious and suitable. She wasn’t supposed to look beautiful. She wasn’t supposed to be desirable. It was incredible to think that she had once passed unnoticed through a party with a tray of canapés. Now everybody noticed her.

  But nobody noticed her as much as he did. It was torture living in the same house, trying to sleep at night knowing that she was in bed across the landing, soft sheets against her skin, silky hair tumbled over her face.

  That was his fault too, Rafe knew. He had insisted that Miranda moved in. He had insisted on all of it.

  He was a fool.

  He couldn’t even blame any of it on Miranda, who was behaving perfectly, and that just made it worse. Why couldn’t she go back to being difficult? Instead, she went quietly off to work every day in one of her old suits, as cool and crisp and capable as ever. When she came back at night, she would change into one of the outfits Octavia had chosen so cleverly, and together they would go out, to drinks, to a reception, to dinner, to a party, so that, having missed her all day, he had to share her with everyone else at night.

  She never complained, although Rafe knew that she must be bored and dreaming of Whitestones. She was keeping to her part of the bargain absolutely. No one watching her would ever guess that she wasn’t wildly in love with him, and there was no doubt that people were starting to look at him differently too, now they could see that he had settled down and chosen to marry someone so obviously not just a party girl.

  He ought to be pleased, Rafe knew that too. He ought to be delighted, but the truth was that he didn’t like the fact that Miranda was just acting when she took hold of his arm, or leant against his shoulder, or smiled as she twined her fingers round his. She showed off her ring with just the right amount of bashful pride, as if she couldn’t quite believe her luck.

  How was he supposed to concentrate on meeting a suitable bride when she was touching him like that, looking like that?

  Pretending like that.

  Because, of course, that was all she was doing. Pretending.

  Ridiculously, he found himself making excuses to go home early so that he could spend some time with her before they went out. One day, she was just going up the steps to the front door when he met her. It was still warm, and she was wearing a plain short-sleeved blouse with a neat grey skirt and serviceable shoes, and still his throat closed with desire.

  ‘You’re late back today,’ he said.

  ‘They asked me if I would stay on and finish something for a big meeting tomorrow.’

  Rafe could feel a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. It was childish, and he despised himself for it, but he hated the fact that Miranda spent her day with strangers, and was prepared to put in extra effort for them, exactly as she had done for him. He hated not being able to think of a single good reason why she shouldn’t.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said roughly. ‘Why don’t we just stay in tonight?’

  Her eyes flickered. ‘But it’s the reception at the human rights centre.’

  ‘We don’t have to go,’ said Rafe as he unlocked the door. ‘We can stay in, get a takeaway, watch television…be normal.’

  ‘I’m not here to be normal,’ she said, looking at him with those clear eyes that seemed to see right through him. ‘I’m here to change your image, so that you can meet the kind of woman you really want to marry.’

  The kind of women she insisted on finding wherever they went. She made a point of introducing them to him, and then leaving to talk to someone else, like a cat depositing a mouse at his feet.

  Rafe hated that, too.

  ‘And to earn twenty-five thousand pounds,’ he said savagely. ‘Let’s not forget that!’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Miranda, infuriatingly composed. ‘Why do you think I get dressed up every night?’

  It wasn’t for him.

  ‘There will be lots of interesting women there tonight,’ she went on after a moment. ‘I think we should go.’

  Clearly she didn’t want to stay in with him, anyway. Rafe scowled as he held the door open for her. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go?’

  How could he tell her now that he didn’t? That he wanted to stay here with her, to lie on the sofa with his head on her lap and tell her about his day? To listen to her crisp comments about the people she worked with, and make her laugh? To breathe in the fresh, clean fragrance of her and forget everything else?

  He couldn’t tell her that she was the only woman he could think about. Miranda didn’t want him. She wanted Whitestones and a dog and the sea.

  And he didn’t want her either, Rafe told himself. At least, he added fairly, he didn’t want to want her. What was the point of wanting someone determined to run away and live alone by the sea? He needed someone to share his life in London, to support him in making Knighton’s his own. He couldn’t do that in a tumbledown cottage that didn’t even have a phone line.

  Rafe could see the door to his father’s old study as he followed Miranda into the hall. He remembered his father sitting behind his desk and glowering at him.

  ‘The trouble with you, boy, is that you never stick at anything,’ he would despair.

  His father had been right, Rafe realised.

  Well, now he had changed. He was going to prove his father wrong. He had got over infatuations before, and he would get over Miranda. Maybe tonight was the night he would meet a gorgeous, intelligent, funny woman who would marry him and have his children and be there for him long after Miranda had gone.

  No, he had made a plan, and he would stick with it. He had made a deal with Miranda, and he would stick with that, too.

  ‘Of course I want to go,’ he said.

  Miranda opened the wardrobe and contemplated the array of dresses without enthusiasm. Her heart had leapt when Rafe had suggested that they stay at home, but she hadn’t dared accept. She didn’t trust herself.

  Funny, she had always thought those weeks when Fairchild’s finally collapsed would be the most difficult she ever had to face, but in some ways the last fortnight had been harder. Miranda had given up trying to convince herself that she wasn’t in love with Rafe, but the more she agonised over it, the more hopeless it seemed. Rafe had made it very clear what he wanted. He didn’t believe in the fairy tale. He wasn’t going to fall in love, and, even if he did, it wouldn’t be with someone like her, now would it?

  Get real, Miranda would tell herself dolefully. She could dress up in a few fancy dresses, but they didn’t change the person she was underneath. She was still plain Miranda Fairchild, and she still hankered for the tranquillity of Whitestones, where she had felt loved and accepted for herself.

  Where she had been happy.

  Where she longed to be happy again.

  There was no point in dreaming that Rafe would give up his billion-dollar inheritance for a tumbledown cottage by the sea. He had things to prove to himself, and to the father who had died before he could appreciate the man his son had become. Besides, there were lots of women out there who would be happy to stay in London and make him the perfect wife. Miranda knew only too well that she wasn’t what Rafe needed, and that if she let herself imagine for one minute that she was, she would only get hurt.

  She didn’t want to be hurt. She wanted to be happy, and she would be once she got to Whitestones.

  In the meantime, Miranda could only protect her heart the best she could, but it was agony being with Rafe, but not really being with him, touching him but not really touching him, kissing him, but not the way she wanted to.

  Not the way they had kissed outside Rosie’s flat. Not the way she had fantasised about kissing him at the jeweller’s. The taste of his mouth and the feel of his lean, hard body was lodged in her brain, in the very fibre of her, in every cell beneath her skin, where the memory simmered constantly, flaring the instant R
afe walked into the room or took her hand or smiled.

  Which he did a lot. They were supposed to be engaged, after all, and Rafe was doing a very good impression of being in love with her. Look at the way he had kissed her in that bar, as if she were the only person in the world for him. Miranda’s heart cracked whenever she remembered the piercing sweetness of that kiss. It had felt so real.

  But, of course, it hadn’t been real. Rafe kept his kisses for public display only. He never touched her when they were alone. He barely smiled at her. Ever since they had embarked on this pretence, in fact, he had been distant, and even brusque at times, and Miranda missed the easy friendship they had once had. Perhaps Rafe, too, was regretting that they had ever started this, but it was too late to go back now. It was only for another couple of weeks, after all, and then she would be gone.

  Squaring her shoulders, Miranda pulled a red dress that she hadn’t worn before from the wardrobe, and went into the bathroom to put on her make-up. It was surprising how quickly she had got used to getting ready every night.

  Would she get used to missing Rafe as quickly?

  He was waiting for her at the foot of the grand staircase, looking immaculate as ever in one of his designer suits and a pale blue shirt and tie. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he smelled clean and expensive. For an unguarded moment, Miranda let herself imagine what it might have been like if they had showered together, but jerked her mind away from the tantalising fantasy just in time, and put on a bright smile instead.

  ‘Sorry, have you been waiting long?’

  Something had flared in Rafe’s eyes as she came down the staircase, but by the time she reached the bottom they were shuttered once more.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, as carefully polite as Miranda.

  ‘I had a call from my grandmother today,’ he said as they went out to find a taxi. ‘She’s invited us down to spend the night this weekend. I couldn’t think of a way to refuse. I feel bad enough about deceiving her as it is. She was so delighted to hear about our supposed engagement.’

  ‘Do you think we should tell her the truth?’

  Rafe made a face. ‘Then her housekeeper would know, and the gardener, and God knows who else. I lose track of everyone who works there. I’m not entirely sure I’d trust Elvira to keep it to herself either,’ he said. ‘She’s not above a good gossip. I think we’d better leave things as they are,’ he decided, looking up and down the street for a cab. ‘She might be disappointed, but she’ll get over it.’

  ‘I’d like to see Elvira again,’ Miranda said. It was another hot, clammy evening and she lifted the hair from the back of her neck in a vain attempt to cool it. She wouldn’t have this problem if Rafe and Octavia would let her tie her hair up. ‘It’ll be lovely to get out of the city, too,’ she added with a sigh. ‘It’s been so muggy recently. Sometimes I feel as if I can’t breathe.’

  ‘You’ll be at Whitestones soon,’ Rafe reminded her as he hailed a black cab that had just turned into the square.

  ‘Yes,’ Miranda agreed, but to her horror she realised she sounded a bit mournful. Quickly she pinned on a bright smile. ‘I can’t wait!’

  In the meantime, there was at least the prospect of a weekend in the country to look forward to, and Miranda was ready bright and early on Saturday morning, feeling more cheerful than she had for some time.

  Rafe was driving his Ferrari, just as he had the first time they had driven down to Knighton Park. He tossed Miranda’s overnight bag in the boot, slammed it shut and got in beside her.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I’m looking forward to getting away from it all, even if it is just for a night.’

  The words were barely out of her mouth before her phone beeped to say that she had a text message. The trouble with mobile phones was that you never could entirely get away from it all. Miranda rummaged in her bag as Rafe waited for a bus to pass so that he could turn out of the quietness of the leafy square.

  ‘It’s Octavia.’ Miranda read the text and sighed. ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘She’s in love, but she’s not finding it easy. I had a coffee with her yesterday, and she was in a bad way. Octavia’s used to men being in love with her, but it’s not usually the other way round. She says she’s never felt like this before.’

  ‘Who’s she in love with?’ asked Rafe, easing into the traffic.

  ‘Simon.’

  ‘My Simon?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that’s how he’d choose to describe himself, but, yes, Simon your communications director.’

  Rafe whistled soundlessly. ‘He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to appeal to Octavia.’

  ‘I know, it’s odd, isn’t it?’ said Miranda. ‘He’s always seemed to disapprove of Octavia. Maybe there’s something in opposites attracting after all.’

  ‘And what does Simon think about Octavia?’

  ‘Well, that’s the question. Octavia doesn’t know. She’s afraid that he thinks she’s silly and superficial, but there must be more to it than that. They went to the ball together, if you remember.’

  ‘I didn’t notice them,’ said Rafe with a sidelong glance and a slight emphasis on the last word, and the air between them thrummed suddenly with the memory of the dance they had shared. Miranda could still feel the solidity of his body, the strength of his hands, the tantalising nearness of his throat.

  Swallowing, she made herself look away. ‘I think they’d be good together,’ she said, determinedly cheerful. ‘Simon has got the steadiness that Octavia needs, and she’d give him the fun that’s missing in his life.’

  Rafe raised his brows. ‘Do you really think Simon is Octavia’s happy ever after?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Miranda. ‘But of course you don’t,’ she went on with just a trace of bitterness ‘You don’t believe in fairy tales, do you?’

  ‘I just think you should be careful about letting love-or lust-blind you to reality. Simon’s quite a bit older than Octavia. What if she gets bored? What if he realises he’d have been better off with a sensible wife his own age?’

  ‘What if they don’t?’ she retorted, pressing the reply button on her phone. ‘What if they’ve found the one person who can make them feel complete? What if they’re not going to waste time thinking about all the reasons it might not work, but think about spending the rest of their lives being happy instead?’

  Rafe shot her a sidelong look as she began texting. ‘So what are you saying to Octavia?’

  ‘I think she should tell Simon how she feels.’

  ‘Bit of a risk, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sometimes you have to take a risk to get what you really want,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Sometimes the hard thing is knowing what it is you really want,’ said Rafe.

  ‘I know what I want,’ she said.

  She wanted to be happy. Was that too much to ask? She wanted to be at Whitestones, with someone who would love her just the way she was, not dressed up like a doll every evening. She wanted a man who was utterly necessary to her, and for whom she was utterly necessary in her turn, who wanted to spend his life with her because the thought of not being with her would leave him feeling always incomplete.

  Not a man who thought marriage was about practicalities, who could draw up a list of qualities he wanted in a bride and calmly set out to do whatever it took to find her, as if he were picking her out of a catalogue. Not a man whose dancing eyes and seductive smile made it all too easy to forget that his mind was coolly focused on what he wanted, which was absolutely not to live in a derelict cottage with a plain, bossy temp.

  It was just as well she had remembered that.

  Rafe glanced at her averted profile. ‘Ah, yes,’ he returned. ‘You want the fairy tale.’

  There was a note in his voice that Miranda couldn’t quite identify, but which she suspected was mockery, and her chin came up. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Nothing else will do.’

  I
t had been a warm but overcast day when they set off, but the sky cleared as they drove west and by the time they reached Knighton Park the sun was shining. Elvira opened the door herself, and the dogs rushed out to meet them, barking and squirming with excitement.

  Laughing, Miranda bent to greet them as they jumped up, desperate to lick her, or rolled over, begging her to pat their stomachs, tails wagging furiously.

  Lucky dogs.

  Rafe felt something unlock around his heart as he watched her crouch down to fuss over the dogs. The cool, sophisticated beauty who had been masquerading so effectively as his fiancée was gone, and she was Miranda again. He hadn’t realised until then how much he had missed her.

  Elvira was beaming from the steps. Feeling bad about deceiving her, Rafe swept her up in a hug.

  ‘So, at last you’ve done something sensible,’ she said.

  She kissed Miranda, who came up escorted by a swarm of over-excited dogs. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said, leading the way into the vast hall. ‘Lunch is nearly ready.’

  She had put the two of them in the same room, she explained as she led the way along to her sitting room. ‘I know what you’re all like,’ she said, oblivious to the look Miranda exchanged with Rafe, ‘so there’s no need for you to creep up and down the corridors, Rafe. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  There was a tiny silence. ‘I’m shocked, Elvira,’ Rafe pretended to joke, playing for time. ‘Whenever I’ve brought girlfriends down in the past, you’ve always insisted on me sleeping in a separate wing!’

  ‘You weren’t engaged before,’ she told him, as if that changed everything.

  Miranda took the dogs for a long walk after lunch while Elvira strolled slowly around the walled garden on her grandson’s arm. Later, she played Scrabble with Miranda, and then Rafe was there to keep her company while Miranda took her time having a shower and changing for the evening.

  So it wasn’t until Elvira proudly showed them to their room later that night that Miranda and Rafe were alone together. ‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ she said, kissing them both. ‘You’ve made me very happy.’