Page 53 of The Runaway Bridesmaid

‘You dohavea ticket, Miss…?’

‘Oh, I…’

Why on earth had she thought Charlie would be down here alone? That they would have the place to themselves as she carefully selected the right words to apologise for the way she had behaved over the last few weeks, and then, haltingly, went on to tell him that she loved him. Embarrassed by her presumptuousness and naivety, and exhausted by everything that had happened that day, she hunched forward at her waist, forcing her clenched knuckles into her mouth whilst the camera guy gawped at her in abject terror lest she would throw up on his precious equipment.

She had to get out of there; she felt lightheaded and the white canvas walls had started to close in on her. She would do this another time when she’d calmed down and had a chance to work through her speech.

Those guests that were standing nearest to her turned to stare as she stumbled in her Wellington boots towards the exit flap of the marquee, inadvertently dragging one of the cables with her. As the camera operator called after her, his voice filled with panic, the whole audience swung their gaze to her retreating presence, and she paused like a deer caught in a flashlight. She turned towards them, and her eyes met Charlie’s, their connection a moment suspended in time, and her frazzled emotions swung a full pendulum, from horror to desire.

She spun on her heels, but not before Charlie had leapt down from the podium, slinging the microphone away from his lapel and cutting his way through the avid audience.

‘Rosie! Wait!’

She ignored him, dashed from the marquee, and started to run up the lawn towards where she had ditched her bicycle, but to her dismay, her too-large-for-her Wellington boots hampered swift progress. She didn’t want to do this now, in front of a tent full of TV production crew.

‘Rosie…’

Reluctantly, she stopped and turned towards him, her hair flying wild like an untidy sheaf of corn, and her old, tattered Barbour hanging from her shoulders completing the impression of a bedraggled scarecrow. In contrast, Charlie stood before her looking immaculate in a pristine chef’s jacket and checked trousers, his ebony curls artfully tousled, his hand-made Italian leather loafers glazed to a shine.

As Charlie’s hand slid into hers, a volcano of desire erupted. She saw him grin at her, tossing his curls from his eyes, and then tighten his grip for fear she might bolt.

‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

‘Nothing; in fact, it’s the complete opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

She looked deep into his serious, coal-black eyes, unaware that the audience from the tent and one lone cameraman were creeping up the lawn in the shadow of Somersby Manor. Charlie’s smile broadened, lighting up his face, and her heart performed a somersault of attraction.

‘Roseannah Bernice Hamilton?’

‘Charlie, what’s—?’

‘I love you!’

She stared at him, flicking her hair away from her face, still holding his gaze in hers.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, I love you, you crazy, stubborn, gorgeous woman. Have done since I found you lurking behind the marquee at the village fair.’

Rosie was vaguely aware that the production crew had now completely surrounded them, silent so as not to break the charm of the unfolding drama, and yet straining their ears so they could hear every word that was being said.

Then she glanced over her shoulder and saw a couple who could only have been Charlie’s parents, walk down the stone steps from the Manor’s terrace onto the lawn, their arms draped around Amelia, and in front of an audience of fifty complete strangers, Charlie lowered himself onto one knee, grabbed both her hands into his, and met her gaze.

‘Rosie Hamilton, spinster of this parish, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

Tears sprang to her eyes as she held his gaze for a beat; a familiar glint of mischief nestled in their depths, but she knew he had never been so serious in his life, and she had never beenmore certain that she would gladly spend the rest of her life loving him – with all her heart and soul.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, kneeling down in front of him, ‘I will.’

And, as Charlie’s lips met hers, there was a thunderous eruption of applause from the gathering.

Chapter Thirty One

Six months later

Wreathed in the sun’s golden rays, Somersby Manor projected all its Georgian splendour into its buzzing grounds and the countryside beyond. It was the weekend before the Campbell-Wrights were due to fling the doors open to the public for the summer; one year to the day that Charlie and Rosie had stumbled upon each other skulking behind the Baking Bazaar marquee at the village fair.

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