Page 46 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘Doesn’t she just?’her dad had replied, and the blood running in Imogen’s veins had turned to ice.
‘I thought that was the end of it,’ she said to Dexter. ‘I was about to leave, then Dad added …’ She deepened her voice, copying his plummy tones, ‘It’ll be incredibly good for Imogen, being married to you. You’ll give her the stability she needs, and the firm will be a genuine family affair.’
‘Jesus,’ Dexter whispered.
‘And I thought – where is the love, where are the emotions here? Our wedding is an outcome, a neat solution. Being married to Edmund will begoodfor me. Give mestability.I realized how wrong I’d got it, and I spent the rest of the day panicking, trying to reassure myself I’d misheard or misinterpreted it, and it would all work out, but I knew.
Really, I had known for ages. I just waited until the worst possible moment to finally switch on the sodding lightbulb. ‘I didn’t love him, Dexter.’ She copied his pose, her elbows on her knees, her face turned to his, the two of them inches apart. ‘You asked me that, a few weeks ago, and I didn’t answer. No, I didn’t love Edmund. I didn’t want a future with him, and it took me until the actual wedding to do something about it. How awful is that?’
‘It’s not awful,’ Dexter murmured. ‘It’s much better to cause the upheaval of a cancelled wedding, than live a lie to spare somebody’s ego. I know I only have your side of things, but he’s not coming across as someone I’d like to get to know. Not the way he’s treated you.’
Imogen smiled. ‘He’s got some good qualities. But he wanted what I represented, not me, and I realized there was no love there, that I would have had to contort myself, change who I was, to fit into his neat little mould. I’d already done a lot of it, giving up acting, working for my dad, attending all the parties and smiling politely in agonizing heels.’
‘If it’s real love, you shouldn’t have to contort yourself at all,’ Dexter said. ‘Surely that’s the point.’
‘Maybe it is.’ Imogen wanted him to say something else, so she could feel the tickle of his breath against her lips. She leaned closer, and he did too, his brows lowering in a flicker of a frown, there and then gone.
‘You know,’ he whispered, and Imogen held her breath. She was a tightly coiled spring, fizzing with anticipation, desperate to feel not just Dexter’s breath, but his lips against hers. ‘I don’t think I’ve—’
‘Baaaaaaaaaah!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ They both shot up, Dexter pressing a hand to his chest. ‘Felix.’ He almost growled the goat’s name, and Imogen was a mess of raised heart rate and nervous laughter as she looked at Felix, who was standing in front of their bench.
‘He got bored of his fort, then,’ she said. ‘He probably wants us to escort him back to the party.’
‘He probably does.’ Dexter held out his hand, and Imogen took it without hesitation, loving the feel of their skin pressed together. It was probably good that they hadn’t kissed: things would have got far too complicated.
They walked back across the grass, leaving the lake behind, Felix leading the way.
‘I’d like to do a scene with you,’ Dexter said as they reached the trees. ‘If you’re happy to pick one? I can’t act, so you’ll have to do the heavy lifting, but I think it’d be fun.’
Imogen’s heart skittered as she thought of quiet rehearsals, just the two of them, and which scene would be the most romantic – or theleastromantic, if she was being sensible. ‘Are you sure you’ll have time, with Christmas plans for the bakery and Lucy? I bet she’s excited.’
‘She is, and there’s a lot to do, but that’s not an unusual state of affairs.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’d like to get involved in Mistingham’s festivities, and your book choice is ideal.’
‘Someone else chose it for me, really.’
‘They knew what they were doing.’
‘Maybe they did,’ Imogen murmured.
They strolled through the trees, back to Sophie and Harry’s reception, and she hoped that Lucy hadn’t missed them, and that there was still some crab and champagneleft, and that she hadn’t made a huge mistake, asking Dexter to perform with her. It wasn’t thegoodthing to do, considering her circumstances, and she tried very, very hard to feel guilty about it, to care that she was being a little bit reckless. All she could muster was a giddy anticipation, but it was a party, so she let herself feel it. There would be time for serious, sensible emotions tomorrow.
Chapter Seventeen
They stayed at Mistingham Manor until nine o’clock, dancing and eating and drinking, celebrating with the newly married, deliriously happy couple. Then Imogen, Birdie and Dexter sneaked out, Dexter giving a sleepy Lucy a piggyback, Imogen carrying a conked-out Artichoke. Dexter had brought a huge, duvet-like puffa coat for Lucy, which covered her almost top to toe and warded off the cold of a November’s night.
‘Have my jacket,’ Dexter said, as they stepped outside and the chill bit against Imogen’s skin so she shivered.
‘You can’t walk home in shirtsleeves. I’ve got a jacket, and I’ve already borrowed yours enough today.’
‘Have you indeed?’ Birdie wrapped her own coat around her. It looked more like a cloak, in a deep, forest-green velvet, with a hood, and a hem that skimmed along the ground.
Imogen and Dexter exchanged a furtive glance. She thought their absence had been missed in the happy chaos of the wedding reception, but Birdie missed nothing.
‘Felix took us to see his lake fort,’ Imogen explained, and Birdie nodded knowingly, as if that was a normal sentence. ‘It was cold, but not as cold as it is now.’ She tipped her head up to the sky, where a gazillion stars twinkled, the ultimate frosting to accompany Sophie and Harry’s wedding. ‘God, you don’t get this in London.’
Artichoke chirruped from inside her jacket, the two of them sharing warmth.
