Page 26 of Princess of Pride
To be honest, I would have loved a wedding gown in asofter shade of that blue. Periwinkle is universal in that way and complements me as well as anyone.
Mom waltzes over from where she was talking to the wedding planner and Pippa—it’s their wedding after all. I’m just the bride. Her buttery yellow Alexander McQueen dress with periwinkle flowers was made specifically for the event.
She had our hair styles done to match, too. Each of us has strategically set waves that cascade over the right shoulder. A tornado couldn’t undo the stiff mass falling over my breast. The only plus is it hides the massive boulder. My other boob is on semi-display thanks to the low-cut sweetheart neckline of the dress Mom chose for me—a romantic Galia Lahav gown. It had to be altered to accommodate my breast size and tiny waist. I don’t hate it, although I’m not sure I would have chosen it had I been allowed free rein.
The lace corset forms a sharp V that dips just above my navel. My boobs spill out in the most humiliating way for my taste. The long sleeves drape off the shoulders in a romantic puddle of sheer lace. The tight waist spills into a full skirt made with layers of tulle and lace. Flower appliqués cluster at the hem. The veil is made from the same and anchored to my head with a delicate diamond tiara. Mom’s way of playing up the nobility angle.
If we’re so noble, why aren’t we getting married in Lachlan’s castle? Why aren’t we all there for this celebration? Mom would have pushed for it.
I suspect she did after I teased her about it during the wedding dress fitting.
Pippa kept complaining that as the first born, she should have been married to a Scottish nobleman.
“He’s more British than Scottish,” I said, mostly because nothing about him says Scotsman.
His hair is dark. He’s tall but not bulky—perfect in size—and his English accent is just enough to be sexy. When I think of a Scot, I picture red hair, beefy, and lots of rollingRs—as cliché as it sounds. Robin Hood. William Wallace. Robert the Bruce. Jamie Frasier.
Lachlan is more like one of the English scoundrels I read about in my historical romance novels. His Celtic tattoo and muscular chest and abs didn’t say English aristocrat, my mind argued.
“A nobleman?” Gillian the boutique owner gushed as she watched her assistant fluff the skirt of the gown they special ordered for me. “What’s his title?”
“His mother was a countess. She inherited a castle from a prominent earl in Scottish history,” Mom brags.
Gillian’s chocolate eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “A wedding in a castle. How dreamy. You must be over the moon,” she said to Mom.
Mom cleared her throat and pasted on the fake smile she uses when she’s covering for something that isn’t public knowledge. “The weather in Scotland is too unpredictable for an outdoor wedding. The theme is peonies and lace, so it must be held in a garden, which is why I chose our estate.”
In that moment, I knew she had pushed for the wedding to be in the castle and Lachlan had shut her down, leaving me to wonder why. Why not show off what you own? You’d think he’d pride himself on having an ancestral castle.
Mom fluffs my veil and moves my plastered hair so the swell of my right breast is on display. “You look regal and romantic.” She gasps. “Why didn’t I think of that for the theme?”
“Does it matter?” I say with as much enthusiasm one would have before getting a cavity filled.
“Of course it matters. It all matters.” She gestures at the French doors to the garden and the ninety guests waiting forthe wedding to start. “These are our dearest friends. They expect the best from us.”
If they’re your dearest friends, they wouldn’t expect anything other than your friendship.
A fair number of the guests are from the family business. The rest are Dad’s friends, women from Mom’s book club, socialites, and some journalists and influencers to whom Mom can brag to and spill more lies.
She could have invited hundreds of guests, but they always keep their arranged weddings controlled and in small groups with people who know not to ask too many questions.
“Is Lachlan even here yet?” I ask for the tenth time.
A thin sheen of sweat forms on my forehead at the thought of him not showing. He has to be here. He’s as obligated as I am after we signed our lives away in Dad’s office three weeks ago.
“I’ll check with your father.” Mom flutters from the room as if a missing groom moments before the ceremony begins is no big deal.
Pippa shoos away the makeup artists who’s touching up her face. Her eyes connect with mine in the mirror. “Legally you’re already married. He doesn’thaveto be here. Besides, this is more for Mom and Dad than it is for either you or Lachlan.”
I know,I want to blurt, but I don’t trust myself to stop at that. It irks me how she said Lachlan’s name like she knows him personally, when they've never spoken before.
My jaw locks, and sweat forms above my upper lip. I move toward the nearby table to get a tissue but get blocked by my makeup artists.
“Uh-uh.” She swoops in and blots my skin with a tissue-paper wipe, knowing exactly where to touch up my face.
Am I glistening that badly? What a disaster. This whole ordeal. I glance at my chunky engagement ring. Lachlan hasn’t even seen it.
I knew not to expect love from him, but this lack of involvement wasn’t even a consideration.
