Taken to Spite the Groom

Chapter 1

ANTONELLA

My father is smiling when I ask him to postpone my wedding, and for a moment I hope he hasn’t heard me.

“Only for a few weeks,” I add before he can answer. “I know everyone’s here, but Luca and I have hardly spent any time together. I thought by today I’d feel more certain.”

Dad closes the bridal-room door, shutting out the music and the low murmur of guests. Through the frosted glass, the man who accompanied him moves away. At last I can speak without someone adjusting my veil or telling me how happy I must be.

“Has Luca done something to upset you?” He puts his phone beside my ivory clutch beneath the lights of the dressing-table mirror.

“No. Nothing like that.” I smooth a fold of satin over my hip, wishing I had a quarrel he could settle with a phone call. “When we’re together, he doesn’t seem very interested in talking to me. I don’t know how we’re supposed to be married if we can barely manage dinner.”

Dad studies my face in the mirror before turning me gently toward him. His silver hair is neatly brushed back, and a white rose sits against his black lapel with one petal folded underneath. Even now, I want to straighten it for him.

“He’s had a great deal to arrange. We both have.” He takes my hands, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “Once all this is behind us, you’ll have time to get to know each other properly. You’re nervous, darling. That’s all.”

I look past him at the plate of little sandwiches beside my bouquet.

The bread has begun to curl at the edges, exposing thin slices of cucumber.

Someone brought them because a bride should eat, then left before finding out whether I could.

The room feels too warm, although the air-conditioning has been running since I arrived, and every breath presses the boning of my dress against my ribs.

At the fitting, I loved this gown, turning in front of three mirrors to watch the satin shine. Now, with the train filling most of the space between the dressing table and the door, I can’t even take a step away from Dad without gathering up my skirt.

“We could still have the reception,” I say. “We wouldn’t have to send everyone home. Just give us a little longer before we do the rest.”

“Antonella.” He says my name softly, with such disappointment that I almost apologize.

“This marriage joins our families. The Mancinis have made commitments to us, and I’ve made commitments to them.

Our businesses need that security. I can’t ask them to wait because you and Luca haven’t found enough to talk about over dinner. ”

Put like that, it sounds childish. Beyond the door, a woman laughs, followed by the clink of glasses.

Guests have been arriving for nearly an hour, some from out of town, some with men who stand beside their cars and watch everyone else.

I can imagine how tired he must be, how unwelcome it is to discover that the one thing he thought settled still needs his attention.

“I know you’ve worked hard,” I tell him. “I’m grateful. I just want him to be kind to me.”

The admission leaves me embarrassed. At twenty-six, I ought to be able to explain what I need without sounding as though I’m asking permission to need it.

I can live without being wildly in love on my wedding day.

What frightens me is the thought of being lonely with someone I’m supposed to belong to.

Dad lifts my chin. “He’ll look after you. I wouldn’t give you to a man who couldn’t.”

“You promise?”

“Of course I do.” His kiss is warm against my forehead. I close my eyes, careful not to lean into his shirt and leave makeup on the white collar.

He’s the person I call when something goes wrong, even when I’m afraid of what he’ll say.

With no one else in my family to turn to, it’s difficult to imagine a fear he can’t make smaller if I explain it properly.

Perhaps he’s right, and Luca will find it easier to talk to me once we’re away from all these people.

When Dad steps back, I straighten the folded petal on his lapel.

“There,” he says, smiling again. “That’s my girl.”

I smile too, relieved to have pleased him and ashamed of how much that relief helps.

A knock interrupts us. Dad opens the door to Luca Mancini, whose dark hair is swept neatly away from his forehead. His tuxedo fits without a crease, and the rose in his buttonhole is perfect. He glances at the mirror before looking at me.

“You look lovely. Are you ready?”

“I think so.” I wait for him to come closer, then gather my skirt and cross the carpet myself.

His hand settles at my waist just as a photographer appears in the doorway. Luca turns us toward the window, moving me half a step so my train spreads behind us. Sunlight through the curtains makes me blink when he asks me to lift my chin.

For the photograph, I rest my hand against his shirt.

Beneath the fabric, his body is warm. In a few hours I’ll be expected to sleep beside him, to let him see me with all these hidden fastenings undone.

I’ve kissed him enough to know the pressure of his mouth, the faint scratch of his cheek late in an evening, but I can’t imagine reaching for him in the dark without wondering whether I’m disturbing him.

I move my fingers, hoping he’ll cover them with his own. Instead, he looks toward Dad as soon as the camera clicks.

“My uncle’s here. We should get started before someone else finds a reason to keep us waiting.”

Dad assures him we’re almost ready, then retrieves his phone and follows the photographer into the corridor. Luca releases my waist. With the room briefly ours, I struggle to think of a way to ask him for reassurance that won’t turn into another conversation about nerves.

“Could we have a little time alone before dinner?” I ask. “After the ceremony, I mean. Even ten minutes would be nice.”

“We have guests who’ve traveled a long way, Antonella. We’ll need to speak to them.” He adjusts the cuff beneath his jacket sleeve, then looks up at me. “We’ll have the whole night together afterward.”

I nod, although afterward is what I’m frightened of. He seems to think I’ve asked about the schedule. I want him to offer comfort without being asked.

Luca picks up my bouquet and places it in my hands.

White roses crowd among the waxy tuberose blossoms, their sweetness filling the room.

Ribbon covers the stems so tightly that there’s no give beneath my fingers.

I’d have liked a looser arrangement, something that moved when I walked, but this is the one that looked best beside the dress.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” he says, kissing my cheek before he goes to take his place.

Left alone, I take a small bite of a sandwich.

The bread sticks against the roof of my mouth, and there’s barely enough water in my glass to help me swallow.

I put the rest down beside my clutch, with my phone still inside it, then check my reflection.

A strand of chestnut hair has escaped the pins above my ear.

I tuck it beneath the veil, keeping my fingers away from the careful makeup that has almost hidden my freckles.

When Dad returns, I tell him I’m ready.

The corridor is crowded with late arrivals being directed toward the ceremony. Perfume mingles with the flowers arranged along the walls. A woman in a pale gold dress presses her hand to her heart when she sees me, and I smile at her without knowing who she is.

Then Edith Beecham slips past the men near the doorway, wearing turquoise instead of the apron I usually see over her bright blouses. Relief comes so quickly that I nearly reach for her with the bouquet. “You made it.”

“Did you think I’d miss you in this dress?” She kisses my cheek and holds me away from her to look. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. Can you sit down?”

“If someone lowers me carefully.”

Her laugh brings out a real smile. For a moment, I can enjoy wearing the dress without wondering whether I’m standing properly or where the camera is. Edith has seen me in old jeans with wet sleeves from the flower buckets, and she’s just as pleased to see me then.

Twice a week at Mimosa Flowers, she lets me complain about delivery drivers and customers who order bouquets without knowing what the recipient likes.

She corrects my wrapping when it’s crooked.

There are mornings when I forget anyone cares who my father is.

Standing beside her now, I wish I could go to work tomorrow.

“Have you eaten anything?” Edith asks, studying my face.

“A little. I couldn’t manage much.”

She finds a wrapped peppermint in her handbag and takes the bouquet while I open it. I’m grateful for something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve holding still. The mint is sharp on my tongue, easing the stale taste of bread.

“How are you holding up?” she asks.

Dad has moved a few feet away to speak to an usher. Through the open doors beyond him, I can see rows of chairs and white flowers rising at the front of the ceremony room. So many people are waiting for me to have a wonderful day.

“I’m nervous,” I admit. “About all of it, really. I keep thinking everyone can tell.”

“You don’t have to worry about everyone.” Edith closes her fingers over mine. “Call me afterward if you’d like. Any time.”

I nod too quickly, afraid of crying if I try to thank her. She doesn’t tell me every bride feels this way, which makes me want to repeat what I told Dad. But he’s turning back toward us, offering his arm, and Edith returns the bouquet with its ribbon smoothed beneath my fingers.

“I’ll be near the front,” she says. “Look for the turquoise.”

I watch her disappear among the guests before taking Dad’s arm. The music changes as we reach the doorway, and everyone inside rises to their feet.