The Princess Bride (8 page)

“No,” he said at once. He glanced down at her. “I'm not much on rings. I'm allergic to gold,” he added untruthfully, thinking fast.

“Oh. Oh, I see.” She brightened a little. It had hurt to think he didn't want to wear a visible symbol of his married status.

 

In no time at all, they were caught up in wedding arrangements. King didn't want a big society wed ding, and neither did Tiffany. They settled for a small, intimate service in the local Presbyterian church with friends and family. A minister was engaged, and although traditionally the groom was to provide the flowers, Tiffany made the arrangements for them to be delivered.

Her one regret was not being able to have the elegant wedding gown she'd always imagined that she'd have. Such a dress seemed somehow out of place at a small service. She chose to wear a modern designer suit in white, instead, with an elegant little hat and veil.

She wished that her long-time best friend hadn't married a military man and moved to Germany with him. She had no one to be maid or matron of honor. There again, in a small service it wouldn't be noticeable.

King became irritable and withdrawn as the wedding date approached. He was forever away on business or working late at the office, and Tiffany hoped this wasn't going to become a pattern for their married life. She was realistic enough to understand that his job was important to him, but she wanted a big part in his life. She hoped she was going to have one.

The night before the wedding, King had supper with Tiffany and her father. He was so remote even Harrison noticed.

“Not getting cold feet, are you?” Harrison teased, and
tensed at the look that raced across the younger man's face before he could conceal it.

“Of course not,” King said curtly. “I've had a lot on my mind lately, that's all.”

Tiffany paused with her glass in midair to glance at King. She hadn't really noticed how taut his face was, how uneasy he seemed. He'd never spoken of marriage in anyone's memory. In fact, he'd been quite honest about his mistrust of it. He'd had girlfriends for as long as Tiffany could remember, but there had never been a reason to be jealous of any of them. King never let himself become serious over a woman.

“Don't drop that,” King murmured, nodding toward the loose grip she had on the glass.

She put it down deliberately. “King, you do want to marry me, don't you?” she asked abruptly.

His eyes met hers across the table. There was no trace of expression in them. “I wouldn't have asked you if I hadn't meant to go through with it,” he replied.

The phrasing was odd. She hesitated for a few seconds, tracing patterns on her glass. “I could work for a while longer,” she suggested, “and we could put off the ceremony.”

“We're getting married Saturday,” he reminded her. “I already have tickets for a resort on Jamaica for our honeymoon. We're scheduled on a nonstop flight Saturday afternoon to Montego Bay.”

“Plans can be changed,” she replied.

He laughed humorlessly. “Now who's got cold feet?” he challenged.

“Not me,” she lied. She smiled and drained her glass. But inside, butterflies were rioting in her stomach. She'd never been more unsure of her own hopes and dreams. She wanted King, and he wanted her. But his was a physical need. Had she pushed him into this marriage after all, and now he was going to make the most of it? What if he tired of her before the honeymoon was even over?

She stopped this train of thought. It was absurd to have so little faith in her own abilities. She'd vamped him at her twenty-first birthday party, to such effect that he'd come home from his business trip out of his mind over her. If she could make him crazy once, she could do it twice. She could make him happy. She could fit in his world. It was, after all, hers, too. As for Carla, and the complications she might provoke, she could worry about that later. If she could keep King happy at home, Carla wouldn't have a prayer of splitting them up.

Her covetous eyes went over him as if they were curious hands, searching out his chiseled mouth, his straight nose, the shape of his head, the darkness of his hair, the deep-set eyes that could sparkle or stun. He was elegant, devastating to look at, a physical presence wherever he went. He had power and wealth and the arrogance that went with them. But was he capable of love, with the sort of loveless background he'd had? Could he learn it?

As she studied him, his head turned and he studied her, his eyes admiring her beauty, her grace. Something altered in the eyes that swept over her and his eyes narrowed.

“Am I slurping my soup?” she asked with an impish grin.

Caught off guard, he chuckled. “No. I was thinking what a beauty you are,” he said honestly. “You won't change much in twenty years. You may get a gray hair or two, but you'll still be a miracle.”

“What a nice thing to say,” she murmured, putting down her soup spoon. “You remember that, in about six years' time. I'll remind you, in case you forget.”

“I won't forget,” he mused.

Harrison let out a faint sigh of relief. Surely it was only prenuptial nerves eating at King. The man had known Tiffany for years, after all, there wouldn't be many surprises for them. They had things in common and they liked each other. Even if love was missing at first, he knew it would come. It would have to. Nothing short of it would hold a man like King.

Tiffany glanced at her father's somber expression and lifted an eyebrow. “It's a wedding, not a wake,” she chided.

He jerked and then laughed. “Sorry, darling, I was miles away.”

“Thinking about Lettie?” she teased.

He glared at her. “I was not,” he snapped back. “If they ever barbecue her, I'll bring the sauce.”

“You know you like her. You're just too stubborn to admit it.”

“She's a constant irritation, like a mole at the belt line.”

Tiffany's eyes widened. “What a comparison!”

“I've got a better one,” he said darkly.

“Don't say it!”

“Spoilsport,” he muttered, attacking his slice of apple pie as if it were armed.

King was listening to the byplay, not with any real interest. He was deeply thoughtful and unusually quiet. He glanced at Tiffany occasionally, but now his expression was one of vague concern and worry. Was he keeping something from her? Perhaps something was going on in his life that she didn't know about. If she could get him alone later, perhaps he'd tell her what it was.

But after they finished eating, King glanced quickly at his watch and said that he had to get back to the office to finish up some paperwork.

Tiffany got up from the table and followed him into the hallway. “I thought we might have a minute to talk,” she said worriedly. “We're getting married tomorrow.”

“Which is why I have to work late tonight,” he replied tersely. “It's been a very long time since I've given myself a week off. Ask your father.”

“I don't have to. I know how hard you work.” She looked up at him with real concern. “There's still time to back out, if you want to.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Do you want to?”

She gnawed the inside of her lip, wondering if that was what he wanted her to admit. It was so difficult trying to read his thoughts. She couldn't begin to.

“No,” she said honestly. “I don't want to. But if you do…”

“We'll go through with it,” he said. “After all, we've got plenty in common. And it will keep the business in the family.”

“Yes, it will go to our children…” she began.

“Good God,” he laughed without mirth, “don't start talking about a family! That's years away, for us.” He scowled suddenly and stared at her. “You haven't seen a doctor, have you?”

“For the blood test,” she reminded him, diverted.

“For birth control,” he stated flatly, watching her cheeks color. “I'll take care of it for now. But when we get back from our honeymoon, you make an appointment. I don't care what you choose, but I want you protected.”

She felt as if he'd knocked her down and jumped on her feetfirst. “You know a lot about birth control for a bachelor,” she faltered.

“That's why I'm still a bachelor,” he replied coldly. He searched her eyes. “Children will be a mutual decision, not yours alone. I hope we've clarified that.”

“You certainly have,” she said.

“I'll see you at the church tomorrow.” His eyes went over her quickly. “Try to get a good night's sleep. We've got a long day and a long trip ahead of us.”

“Yes, I will.”

He touched her hair, but he didn't kiss her. He laughed again, as if at some cold personal joke. He left her in the hallway without a backward glance. It was a foreboding sort of farewell for a couple on the eve of their wedding, and because of it, Tiffany didn't sleep at all.

T
he next day dawned with pouring rain. It was a gloomy morning that made Tiffany even more depressed than she had been to start with. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and hardly recognized herself. She didn't feel like the old devil-may-care Tiffany who would dare anything to get what she wanted from life. And she remembered with chilling precision the words of an old saying:
be careful what you wish for; you might get it.

She made up her face carefully, camouflaging her paleness and the shadows under her eyes. She dressed in her neat white suit and remembered belatedly that she hadn't thought to get a bouquet for the occasion. It was too late now. She put on her hat and pulled the thin veil over her eyes, picked up her purse, and went out to
join her father in the downstairs hall. The house seemed empty and unnaturally quiet, and she wondered what her late mother would have thought of this wedding.

Harrison, in an expensive dark suit with a white rose in his lapel, turned and smiled at his daughter as she came down the staircase.

“You look lovely,” he said. “Your mother would have been proud.”

“I hope so.”

He came closer, frowning as he took her hands and found them ice-cold. “Darling, are you sure this is what you want?” he asked solemnly. “It's not too late to call it off, you know, even now.”

For one mad instant, she thought about it. Panic had set in firmly. But she'd gone too far.

“It will work out,” she said doggedly, and smiled at her father. “Don't worry.”

He sighed impotently and shrugged. “I can't help it. Neither of you looked much like a happy couple over dinner last night. You seemed more like people who'd just won a chance on the guillotine.”

“Oh, Dad,” she moaned, and then burst out laughing. “Trust you to come up with something outrageous!”

He smiled, too. “That's better. You had a ghostly pallor when you came down the stairs. We wouldn't want people to mistake this ceremony for a wake.”

“God forbid!” She took his arm. “Well,” she said, taking a steadying breath, “let's get it over with.”

“Comments like that are so reassuring,” he muttered
to himself as he escorted her out the door and into the white limousine that was to take them to the small church.

Surprisingly, the parking lot was full of cars when they pulled up at the curb.

“I don't remember inviting anyone,” she ventured.

“King probably felt obliged to invite his company people,” he reminded her. “Especially his executive staff.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” She waited for the chauffeur to open the door, and she got out gingerly, keenly aware that she didn't have a bouquet. She left her purse in the limo, in which she and King would be leaving for the airport immediately after the service. A reception hadn't been possible in the time allocated. King would probably have arranged some sort of refreshments for his office staff, of course, perhaps at a local restaurant.

Tiffany entered the church on her father's arm, and they paused to greet two of King's vice presidents, whom they knew quite well.

King was standing at the altar with the minister. The decorations were unsettling. Instead of the bower of roses she'd hoped for, she found two small and rather scruffy-looking flower arrangements gracing both sides of the altar. Carelessly tied white ribbons festooned the front pews. Family would have been sitting there, if she and King had any close relatives. Neither did, although Tiffany claimed Lettie as family, and sure enough, there she sat, in a suit, and especially a hat, that would have
made fashion headlines. Tiffany smiled involuntarily at the picture her fashionable godmother made. Good thing the newspapers weren't represented, she thought, or Lettie would have overshadowed the bride and groom for splendor in that exquisite silk dress. And, of course, the hat.

The minister spotted Tiffany in the back of the church with her father and nodded to the organist who'd been hired to provide music. The familiar strains of the “Wedding March” filled the small church.

Tiffany's knees shook as she and her father made their way down the aisle. She wondered how many couples had walked this aisle, in love and with hope and joy? God knew, she was scared to death of what lay ahead.

And just when she thought she couldn't feel any worse, she spotted Carla in the front pew on King's side of the church. With disbelief, she registered that the woman was wearing a white lacy dress with a white veiled hat! As if she, not Tiffany, were the bride!

She felt her father tense as his own gaze followed hers, but neither of them were unconventional enough to make any public scene. It was unbelievable that King would invite his paramour here, to his wedding. But, then, perhaps he was making a statement. Tiffany would be his wife, but he was making no concessions in his personal life. When confronted by the pitiful floral accessories, and her lack of a bouquet, she wasn't particularly surprised that he'd invited Carla. She and her dress were the final indignity of the day.

King glanced sideways as she joined him, her father relinquishing her and going quickly to his own seat. King's eyes narrowed on her trim suit and the absence of a bouquet. He scowled.

She didn't react. She simply looked at the minister and gave him all her attention as he began the ceremony.

There was a flutter when, near the end of the service, he called for King to put the ring on Tiffany's finger. King searched his pockets, scowling fiercely, until he found it loose in his slacks' pocket, where he'd placed it earlier. He slid it onto Tiffany's finger, his face hardening when he registered how cold her hand was.

The minister finished his service, asked if the couple had any special thing they'd like to say as part of the ceremony. When they looked uneasy, he quickly pronounced them man and wife and smiled as he invited King to kiss the bride.

King turned to his new wife and stared at her with narrowed eyes for a long moment before he pulled up the thin veil and bent to kiss her carelessly with cold, firm lips.

People from the front pews surged forward to offer congratulations. Lettie was first. She hugged Tiffany warmly, acting like a mother hen. Tiffany had to fight tears, because her new status would take her away from the only surrogate mother she'd ever known. But she forced a watery smile and started to turn to her father when she saw a laughing Carla lift her arms around
King's neck and kiss him passionately, full on the mouth.

The minister looked as surprised as Tiffany and her father did. Harrison actually started forward, when Lettie took his arm.

“Walk me to my car, Harrison,” Lettie directed.

Seconds later, King extricated himself and shook hands with several of his executives. Tiffany gave Carla a look that could have fried an egg and deliberately took her father's free arm.

“Shall we go?” she said to her two elderly companions.

“Really, dear, this is most…unconventional,” Lettie faltered as Tiffany marched them out of the church.

“Not half as unconventional as forgetting which woman you married,” she said loudly enough for King, and the rest of the onlookers, to hear her.

She didn't look at him, although she could feel furious eyes stabbing her in the back.

She didn't care. He and his lover had humiliated her beyond bearing, and on her wedding day. She was tempted to go home with her father and get an annulment on the spot.

As she stood near the limousine with Harrison and Lettie, debating her next move, King caught her arm and parceled her unceremoniously into the limousine. She barely had time to wave as the driver took off.

“That was a faux pas of the highest order,” he snapped at her.

“Try saying that with less lipstick on your mouth, darling,” she drawled with pure poison.

He dug for a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, coming away with the vivid orange shade that Carla had been wearing.

“My own wedding,” she said in a choked tone, her hands mangling her small purse, “and you and that…creature…make a spectacle of the whole thing!”

“You didn't help,” he told her hotly, “showing up in a suit, without even a bouquet.”

“The bouquet should have come from you,” she said with shredded pride. “I wasn't going to beg for one. Judging by those flower arrangements you provided, if you'd ordered a bouquet for me, it would have come with dandelions and stinging nettle! As for the suit, you didn't want a big wedding, and a fancy gown would have been highly inappropriate for such a small ceremony.”

He laughed coldly, glaring at her. “You didn't say you wanted a bouquet.”

“You can give Carla one later and save her the trouble of having to catch mine.”

He cursed roundly.

“Go ahead,” she invited. “Ruin the rest of the day.”

“This whole damned thing was your idea,” he snapped at her, tugging roughly at his constricting tie. “Marriage was never in my mind, until you started throwing yourself at me! God knew, an affair was never an option.”

She searched his averted profile sadly. As she'd feared, this had been, in many ways, a shotgun wedding. She
mourned for the old days, when they were friends and enjoyed each other's company. Those days were gone forever.

“Yes. I know,” she said heavily. She leaned back against the seat and felt as if she'd been dragged behind the car. She'd lost her temper, but it wasn't really his fault. He was as much a victim as she was, at the moment. “I don't know why I should have expected you to jump with joy,” she said when she'd calmed a little. “You're right. I did force you into a marriage you didn't want. You have every right to be furious.” She turned to him with dead eyes in a face like rice paper. “There's no need to go on with this farce. We can get an annulment, right now. If you'll just have the driver take me home, I'll start it right away.”

He stared at her as if he feared for her sanity. “Are you out of your mind?” he asked shortly. “We've just been married. What the hell do you think it will say to my executives and my stockholders if I annul my marriage an hour after the ceremony?”

“No one has to know when it's done,” she said reasonably. “You can fly to Jamaica and I'll go back to New York with Lettie until this all blows over.”

“Back to modeling, I suppose?” he asked curtly.

She shrugged. “It's something to do,” she said.

“You have something to do,” he returned angrily. “You're my wife.”

“Am I?” she asked. “Not one person in that church would have thought so, after you kissed Carla. In fact,
I must say, her dress was much more appropriate than mine for the occasion, right down to the veil.”

He averted his eyes, almost as if he were embarrassed. She leaned back again and closed her own eyes, to shut him out.

“I don't care,” she said wearily. “Decide what you want, and I'll do it. Anything at all, except,” she added, turning her head to stare at him with cold eyes, “sleep with you. That I will not do. Not now.”

His eyebrows arched. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Exactly what I just said,” she replied firmly. “You can get…that…from Carla, with my blessings.” She almost bit through her lip telling the flat lie. Pride was very expensive. She closed her eyes again, to hide the fear that he might take her up on it. “I've been living in a fool's paradise, looking for happily ever after, dreaming of satin and lace and delicious nights and babies. And all I've got to show for it is a secondhand lust without even the gloss of friendship behind it and an absolute edict that I'm never to think of having a child.”

He sat back in his own seat and stared straight ahead. Yes, he'd said that. He'd been emphatic, in fact, about not having children right away. He'd withdrawn from her in the past two weeks, so deliberately that he'd given the impression of a man being forced to do something he abhorred. He'd arranged a quick ceremony, but he hadn't let his secretary—Carla—arrange the flowers. He'd left that duty to another subordinate. He wondered what the
hell had gone wrong. Only two sparse and not-very-attractive flower arrangements had graced the church and Tiffany had been denied a bouquet. He knew that it was deliberate, that Carla was somehow involved, but there was no way to undo the damage. By the time he saw the flowers it was far too late to do anything. Carla's dress and the kiss had been as much a surprise to him as it had to Tiffany. She wouldn't believe it, though. She was thinking of the things he'd denied her.

She'd been denied more than just flowers, at that. She hadn't had a photographer, a ring bearer, flower girls and attendants, a reception—she'd lacked all those as well. And to top it all off, it looked as if he'd wanted to kiss his secretary instead of his new bride, in front of the whole assembly.

His eyes sought her averted face again, with bitter regret. He'd fought marrying her from the start, hating his weakness for her, punishing her for it. This had been a travesty of a wedding, all around. She was bitter and wounded, and it was his fault. He studied her drawn countenance with haunted eyes. He remembered Tiffany all aglitter with happiness and the sheer joy of living, teasing him, laughing with him, tempting him, loving him. He could have had all that, just for himself. But he'd let his fears and misgivings cloud the occasion, and Tiffany had suffered for them.

He drew in a long breath and turned his eyes back to the window. This, he thought wearily, was going to be some honeymoon.

 

In fact, it was some honeymoon, but not at all the sort Tiffany had once dreamed about having. Montego Bay was full of life, a colorful and fascinating place with a long history and the friendliest, most welcoming people Tiffany could ever remember in her life.

They had a suite at an expensive resort on the beach, and fortunately it contained two rooms. She didn't ask King what he thought of her decision to sleep in the smaller of the two rooms; she simply moved in. She paid him the same attention she'd have paid a female roommate, and she didn't care what he thought about that, either. It was her honeymoon. She'd had no real wedding, but she was going to have a honeymoon, even if she had to spend it alone.