Some Enchanted Waltz (10 page)

Tara shook her head, as if to clear it.
How is it I know this stuff?

A cluster of men were gathered near the white marble fireplace. Adrian, Dr. Magnus and she assumed the third to be the clergyman, judging by his black suit. Lady Dillon and another woman were seated on the gold and white striped sofa.

“Tara, this is Mrs. Willoughby.” Adrian’s mother rose with a smile to make the introductions. “Reverend Willoughby and as you know, our Dr. Magnus.”

Tara gazed about at the gathering wondered once more if she were doing the right thing. Maybe she should take Adrian up on his offer and stay at the Inn for time, sort this all out. Leaving the relative safety of this place, however, to be thrust rudely once more into a group of strangers in a public inn was not a comforting thought.

The dashing man across the room gazed at her with adoration. Tara returned his heated gaze. Delicious warmth kindled within her as she concentrated on her bridegroom’s handsome face.

“You are stunning, my dear.” Adrian’s velvet voice whispered with emotion.

“Shall we begin?” The minister intoned in a staccato tone.

Adrian extended his hand. Tara came to him and took his outstretched hand. Yes,
Carpe Diem
, seize the day, someone had wisely said. She didn’t remember who.    

The Reverend Willoughby took his place in front of them, his prayer book in hand.

As the minister pronounced them man and wife, he gave Adrian permission to kiss her. Tara gazed up at him, waiting for the inevitable to happen, waiting for the magic.

Lord Dillon gazed down at her for a long moment, seeming unwilling to proceed.

A rush of indignation rose up.
Seriously, dude? You’re going to just stand there!  
Wild questions about his motives and sexual orientation arose in those halting seconds as her new husband hesitated, seeming reluctant to claim his kiss.

Why did he need to marry her so swiftly?

Why did she agree to this folly? 

Was she making the mistake of a lifetime? 

The statue moved, a reluctant Adonis slowly stirring to life. Tara held her breath, feeling at once exhilaration and fear. Fear because she knew the gathering was watching this little drama; fear at seeming too gauche, a phony among these noble people.

Tara didn’t close her eyes as his lips descended. She wanted to be swept up into his arms in a deeply satisfying, erotic kiss that would make her toes curl; a legendary kiss that would put to death all those tortuous questions his hesitancy raised.

The feather-light peck against her cheek was a sad disappointment, a trifling homage amid her towering expectations. It was nice. And chaste, far too chaste.

The gathering clapped in automatic approval, cooing and murmuring their pleasure. The minister took both their hands and sandwiched them together before holding them aloft. Tara winced at such a brutal seizure, the pain of having her hand seized, and then squeezed so abruptly was nearly unbearable.

The proud minister didn’t appear to notice her distress as he addressed their audience. “Ladies, Dr. Magnus, I give you Lord and Lady Dillon.”

Lord Dillon released her hand quickly, dropping his hold to her wrist, noting the agony marring Tara’s countenance. He lifted her wrist to his lips, turned it, and kissed the back of her hand as if in apology for the minister’s rough treatment that under normal circumstances would not have caused such pain. Restrained cheers went up from the others at Reverend Willoughby’s comment. Lady Dillon sniffed delicately into a handkerchief, Mrs. Willoughby giggled and Dr. Magnus smiled and nodded approval. 

It was done.
Fait Accompli
, Tara thought, startled by the Latin phrases that kept jumping from her mind, feeling an odd sense of foreboding and doom instead of the expected exhilaration. She was married--to a man she didn’t really know.

Married.
Why did it feel as if a noose had been about her neck?

She was Lady Dillon now.

For better or worse.

Hours later, Maggie was bending over Tara in her room, pleading for her to awaken. The guests were waiting for the bride again, in the dining room this time.

Ah, yes, the bridal dinner.
Tara yawned and rubbed her eyes.

After their awkward kiss, if one could call it that, the gathering watched the couple sign the marriage certificate, and then they all shared a toast to the newlyweds. Tara tried to smile and pretend she was ecstatic. The effort was exhausting. Deep down, she knew she did not belong here, with these people. She knew it, and she suspected they knew it, too. Everyone was pretending otherwise, and the underlying strain in the room was as tangible as a guitar string that had been wound too tight and was ready to snap.

Adrian seemed to take note of her discomfort and made excuses to the others, citing her recent ordeal; the shipwreck and her injuries. He took charge by summoning a maid and instructing her to escort Mrs. Dillon upstairs to rest before the bridal dinner.

Tara rejoiced at the opportunity of escape. There was no true joy here, only the pretense of it as two complete strangers wedded hastily in the wake of monstrous disaster and amid great personal loss. As she stood beside Adrian, being congratulated at becoming Lady Adrian Dillon, she was struck by the absurdity of it all.

To his credit, her new husband paved the way for her escape by providing a gallant excuse, which she took without remorse. Indeed. It was relief to leave the surreal gathering and retreat to the solitude of her room. Tara fell asleep quickly.

The maid’s attempt to wake her was an unwelcome intrusion. Tara slept so deeply she now felt groggy, in need of an espresso to clear the fog from her brain. She rose and went to gaze out the window. It was twilight. The setting sun was reflected on the still waters of the bay. The day was over. At least the incessant rain had stopped.

She would have preferred to eat alone in her room as she had every night during her stay. She couldn’t, they were waiting for her.
He
was waiting, her hot Irish lord. The thought of kissing him again made Tara’s heart lighten and her stomach do a queer little flip-flop that was so tragically cliché, yet so primal, just the same. A smile burst forth as she imagined kissing him with more passion than he’d exhibited in the parlor earlier. Once they were alone, she’d show him a thing or two about kissing.  

“Oh, your gown is wrinkled, my lady.” Maggie startled Tara as she spoke behind her. She had forgotten the girl was still in the room with her.

Tara looked down at the white muslin gown she had worn for the ceremony. It was a mess. Why hadn’t she thought of that before lying down earlier? Well, she wasn’t accustomed to wearing fragile garments--that was why. She looked to the wardrobe, now filled with the dead girl’s cloths, recalling her khaki cargo pants and sturdy denim jacket--practical, serviceable clothing. Forbidden here. Women didn’t wear pants yet.  

There it was; the constant thorn, the constant prick that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried. She didn’t belong here. She sensed it, even without Adrian’s constant reminders. He thought she was from another realm. He thought she was a fairy.

And yet, he told everyone else she had come from America. Strangely, that sounded more true to her than the idea of having come from some enchanted realm.  

Where exactly
was
home? The scary part was not knowing. She didn’t appear to belong anywhere or to anyone. She was alone here.
Abandoned
.

The ugly word brought an instant gut reaction. She had been abandoned, at some point in her life. When, where and by whom, Tara couldn’t fathom, yet the sick feeling inside of her at the mere word told her such had been a potent reality in her life.

An icy chill slithered over her skin and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She’d been trying not to think about it too much because when she did, she panicked. It was easier to accept Adrian’s explanation: to embrace it. She’d been sent to him from another realm. A faraway place with wonders they lacked here; cell phones, coffee makers, electricity, indoor plumbing, computers and even television.

“Which dress, Mum?” Maggie asked, drawing Tara out of her panic as the girl held out two different choices for her.

Okay. Don’t panic. Just choose a dress and go eat dinner. Deal with the matter at hand. Worry about the rest later. Sapphire blue silk or Crimson velvet
? Tara chose the crimson velvet with as it was made of heavier material and had long sleeves. It was cold in this damn castle and central heating seemed to be another invention the inhabitants of this realm were missing.

When she could delay no longer, Tara made her way down the corridor and descended the stone stairs in search of the dining room. After several false starts, she was directed by a footman to the proper door. Adrian rose from the head of the table when she entered the elegant dining room. He crossed the room, eagerly offered her his arm and escorted her to the opposite end of the table, the place reserved for the mistress. Tara gave a quick glance in the direction of Lady Dillon to find that one deeply engrossed in a conversation with Mrs. Willoughby, unconcerned regarding Tara’s placement as the new mistress of the home. Okay, one hurdle overcome without difficulty.

Tara took her seat and gazed at the bridal table. Candelabra were spaced evenly down the long expanse. A centerpiece made of hothouse flowers and greenery lent a festive air to the room. Candlelight reflected in the crystal goblets and cast interesting swirled patterns on the tablecloth beneath the ridged goblet rims. Rich oil paintings of fruits and flowers surrounded them on the oak panel walls, and a cheerful fire sizzled in the marble fireplace, chasing away the winter chill.

During the meal, Tara watched Lady Dillon’s movements to make certain she was using the proper utensils at the proper time. The courses were served by footmen with white gloves who were dressed in black livery with gold braids on their shoulders.

Definitely not making a run for the border tonight.

Tara giggled as the peculiar thought entered her head. Ah, yes, Taco Bell. A Baja Chalupa and a Carmel apple thingy was her standard order, along with . . .

“What is so amusing?” Mrs. Dillon queried as she, Adrian and Dr. Magnus and the Willougbys turned to gaze at Tara with serious expressions.

Tara hadn’t realized she’d laughed aloud. She looked at the somber faces, all studying her with curiosity. Trying to explain fast food, albeit of foreign origin, to these people would be a lost cause. “Nothing.” She mumbled, reminding herself to be more careful in the future and behave with decorum.

“May I propose a toast.” Dr. Magnus rose with his glass lifted. “To Viscountess Dillon, bride of Lord Dillon and Mistress of Glengarra Castle.”

All drank to the doctor’s toast. Mrs. Dillon lifted her glass of sherry with a twinkle in her eyes. “And to the next generation of Dillons, may the nursery be full again.”

Adrian looked down at his plate at his mother’s remark. Tara found his discomfort amusing. Leave it to Mom to embarrass the groom. It was a tradition at weddings.  

“Amen.” Reverend Willoughby agreed, either ignoring his host’s mortification or oblivious to it, Tara wasn’t certain which. The minister had enjoyed an ample volume of champagne that evening. “May the next generation of Dillons prosper.”

Tara lifted her glass with the rest, as did Adrian. He cast a look of bewilderment at her, as if questioning Tara as to the prospect of having a child together. His look, fraught with yearning, made her blood simmer.
Oh, yes, Lord Dillon. Please do come to my bed
, she wanted to say and thankfully had enough sense to merely think in his direction.

“I’m certain Adrian hasn’t mentioned that he is the last Dillon.” His mother continued. “If our illustrious family is to continue into the nineteenth century and beyond, we must have an heir.”

Tara giggled. The woman was drunk. Typical event at a bridal dinner. Everyone got drunk and made ridiculous speeches about the bride or groom. As was the dance afterward, complete with a DJ and plenty of flashing lights.
Such things were impossible here
. The thought frightened Tara momentarily as she gazed around the formal dining room that had grown strangely silent when moments before it had been overflowing with jubilant chatter.

A perverse silence reigned as Adrian glared at his mother. “If you cannot find anything appropriate to say at the dinner table, kindly keep your remarks to the weather, is that not what you told me as a lad?”

Fiona Dillon’s cheeks flared with color. The lady cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Dear Tara. I’m afraid I was overzealous in voicing my hopes for you and my son.”

“No problem.” Tara offered, only to find they all looked at her as if her words were strange. “I mean, I understand, Madame. No offense taken.” She corrected, finding herself at odds with their manner of speech and their reactions to her own.

Thankfully, the conversation continued between Adrian and their guests.

As the evening wore on, Tara was feeling the effects of the many toasts she been forced to partake in. The room became too warm. She was tired and slightly dizzy.

She didn’t want to excuse herself, as that might be taken as an invitation by the man at the head of the table. She wasn’t ready for it, for him. Not tonight. Not when she was feeling ill, lightheaded and slightly panicked about her peculiar situation.