Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

LAURA

I sabelle swoops in, mic in hand and camera crew in tow. She looks at Antoine and me with simulated delight, like we’re the hottest thing since reality TV marriages were invented.

Henri and Gigi make a break for it under the guise of thirst.

“Well, well, how are our newlyweds?” Isabelle gushes.

“We’re doing great.” I force a smile, well aware my voice sounds just as fake as hers.

Antoine adds, “It’s been an interesting day.”

“Dear viewers, let me tell you something,” Isabelle says to the camera. “The chemistry between these two is electric!”

Dear viewers, here’s what I can tell you. There are people who embellish the truth. There are folks who make shit up. And then there’s Isabelle.

“Ooh!” She rubs her arms, as if she had goosebumps. “I’m sure everyone at home can feel it, too.”

I throw up a little in my mouth.

She leans closer to the camera and stage-whispers, “I should go, shouldn’t I, and let the happy couple enjoy some alone time?”

No! Stay!

As fake as she is, I’d rather listen to her than be left alone with Antoine. I have no idea what to do with this stranger, and I’m afraid I might admit I regret saying “I do.” But Isabelle is already tiptoeing away. The production assistant waves us to a cozy corner of the room, decorated with flowers and fairy lights. Antoine and I head over with two cameras following close behind.

When she said “alone” she meant “alone with the cameras.” I better get used to that.

Antoine motions me to the pretty love seat. “After you.”

I perch on the edge, ready to slide right off and flee. He sits next to me, making sure his knee doesn’t touch mine.

“So,” I begin, because someone has to. “Surreal, right?”

He leans back and watches me for a moment with those sharp, unreadable eyes. “That’s one word for it.”

OK. That’s helpful.

I try again. “What made you sign up for Wed at First Sight ? Was it a whim? Or are you a hopeless romantic?”

He shakes his head.

“Perhaps you believe in fate?” I soldier on. “Or maybe you’re lonely?”

“No and no.”

“Then what brought you here?”

“Purpose.”

I stare at him, searching for something—anything—to grab onto. He stares back, his expression neutral but intense, like he’s studying me. It’s unnerving. The cameras linger, zooming in like they expect us to confess our deepest secrets.

“And you?” he asks, breaking the silence. “What made you sign up?”

Spite. “It’s complicated. Let’s say I was suffocating and needed a change.”

“I see.”

We say nothing for a few beats, Antoine’s gaze never leaving mine.

“Are your parents always this…” He searches for the right word.

“Judgmental? You haven’t seen the half of it.”

“That’s encouraging.”

We fall silent again. I fidget with my embroidered clutch. The awkwardness between us swells and stretches. I’m hyperaware of the cameras. Thankfully, the sound guy signals the end of our “private” moment. The cameras move on to the guests and leave us alone for now.

“You can head back to the party,” the producer says. “We’ll grab some extra footage later.”

“Great!” I spring up from the love seat so fast my head spins. “Thanks.”

Antoine stands slower. “See you in a bit, then.”

I mumble something polite and bolt toward the crowd, scanning it for Denise. I spot her near the bar and beeline toward her.

She turns around. “There you are. How’s Monsieur Sunshine?”

“Terrible,” I groan.

She grabs a glass and hands it to me. “You need this.”

“That was the most awkward ten minutes of my life.” Hooking my arm through hers, I drag her to a quieter corner. “I’d rather do my taxes than go back to him.”

She eyes me with concern. “Was it that bad?”

“He’s like a wall. I can’t tell if he hates me or if he was born like that.”

Denise laughs and clinks her glass against mine. “Welcome to marriage, hon.”

I sink into a chair, cursing myself for this idiotic revenge plan. I was so focused on punishing my parents and Mike that I neglected to consider I might come out of this worse off than them.

“He’s handsome,” Denise says, sitting next to me.

I cross my arms. “That’s not the point of this marriage.”

“Still, you should give him a chance.”

I stare at her like she said something so inane it doesn’t deserve a verbalized answer.

“Here’s a test you can give him,” she persists, looking far too amused for my liking. “Tell him you designed a necklace you think is really cool. If he asks to see it, that’s a good sign. It means he’s worth a try.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what would be a bad sign?”

“If he reacts by bringing up an achievement of his own, and then keeps talking about it.” She raises her forefinger. “That would mean he’s a self-centered jerk.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re referring to Mike, aren’t you?”

“Not specifically.”

“Denise,” I press, “be honest.”

“Fine. Fine. Maybe I had Mike in mind—among other men.”

I huff and look away, pretending to study the guests on the dance floor.

She touches my arm. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Mike isn’t like that,” I say, perhaps a little too defensive. “OK, maybe sometimes, but not always.”

Denise faces me fully. “Are you still in love with him?”

I don’t answer that.

“This whole blind marriage thing,” she says, “was it just to make him regret the break and come crawling back to you?”

“No,” I say quickly.

“Are you certain?”

I hesitate.

She tilts her head, waiting for more.

The truth spills out before I can stop it. “Most of all, it was to get my parents off my back. And maybe, deep down, I wanted Mike to see the light and grovel.”

“So basically, this was your way of yelling, ‘Look at me now, Mike!’”

I hang my head. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Nah.” Her tone softens. “Just… complicated.”

The live band strikes up a new tune. Suddenly the buzz in the room shifts. Conversations die down, and all eyes turn to either Antoine or me.

Isabelle’s voice cuts through the air. “And now, the bride and groom’s first dance!”

Just what I needed—another awkward moment broadcast on national TV.

Antoine walks up to me, his hand extended. “Shall we?”

Do I have a choice?

I glance at the dance floor where the crowd has opened a path for us.

Nope, I don’t.

I take his hand, and he leads me to the center of the room. I brace myself for an ordeal. My only consolation is that the song being played is rhythmic enough that we don’t have to slow dance.

“Can you dance LeRoc?” Antoine asks.

“Yes. Can you?”

He smiles. “You’ll find out.”

Before I can reply, he spins me into position. We begin to move in a rather unexpectedly harmonious way. The four-beat LeRoc, still popular in France, is not a sensual dance—not even close. It’s all quick steps, sharp turns, and precise movements. Antoine leads with confidence, his hand firm on my back, as he guides me through each twist and spin. I can’t believe how easy it is to do this technical dance with him like we’ve practiced it a hundred times before.

“Not bad,” I breathe out after he catches my hand and spins me under his arm.

“Likewise.”

The crowd claps in rhythm, cheering as we pick up speed. I focus on the steps, trying not to trip over my dress. Antoine keeps me on track, his hand brushing my waist now and then as he steadies me. His touch is gentle. Not lingering, not invasive. Just enough to guide me. And every time his hand meets mine or lightly presses against my back, I feel a tingle of something… strange.

Comfort? Confidence? Whatever it is, it’s unsettling.

“You’re really good at this,” I admit as he spins me again.

He catches me and pulls me back into step. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

The rhythm picks up again, and we fall back into the dance, moving in sync as the crowd claps louder. For a moment, I forget the cameras, the awkwardness, the tension. Antoine’s piercings glint in the bright light of the chandeliers. He leads without hesitation, his sharp eyes fixed on mine.

On the last notes of the song, Antoine dips me low. Normally, I’d tense up, afraid of falling, but his hand is so firm on my back that I just laugh and enjoy the stunt. He holds me like this for a brief moment. I hold my breath, his face close enough that his stubble grazes my cheek. The crowd erupts in cheers and applause. I’m so caught up in our feat I barely register it.

“Still surprised?” Antoine pulls me upright.

My heart racing, I draw back. “Yes, but don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never.” He steps aside and gestures toward the edge of the dance floor. “Shall we flee before they demand an encore?”

“Gladly.”

As we make our way to the bar, I do my best to ignore that I lied. I was having too much fun, and what I really wanted was to stay and dance another, and another, and another. Until exhausted.