The Groom Said Maybe!. Sandra Marton

I’m Honoria,” his wife said, smiling. “And you folks are?”

      “David Chambers,” David said when Stephanie remained silent. He looked at her, and the grim set of his mouth softened. Okay. Maybe he was overreacting to what had happened when he’d first seen her, and to her reaction to it.

      Actually, when you came down to it, nothing had happened—nothing that was her fault, or his. A man looked at a woman, sometimes the moment or the chemistry was just right, and that was that—although now that he was seated next to the widow Willingham, he thought wryly, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why his hormones had gone crazy back in that church. She was a looker, but so were half a dozen other women in the room. It was time to stop being an ass, remember his manners and get through the next few hours with something approaching civility.

      “And the lady with me,” he said pleasantly, “is—”

      “Stephanie Willingham. Mrs. Avery Willingham,” Stephanie blurted. “And I can assure all of you that I am not here with Mr. Chambers, nor would I ever choose to be.”

      Bobbi Blum looked at her husband. Hayden Crowder looked at his wife. All four of them looked at Stephanie, who was trying not to look at any of them.

      Ohmygod!

      What on earth had possessed her? It was such an incredibly stupid thing to have said, especially after the man seated beside her had made an attempt, however late and unwanted, at showing he had, at least, some semblance of good manners.

      “Do tell,” Bobbi Blum said with a bright smile. She sat back as the waiter set glasses of champagne before them. “Well, that’s certainly very, ah, interesting.”

      Honoria Crowder shot a brilliant smile across the table. “Champagne,” she said briskly. “Isn’t that nice? I always say champagne’s the only thing to serve at weddings, isn’t that right, Hayden?”

      Hayden Crowder swallowed hard. Stephanie could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his long, skinny neck.

      “Indeed you do, my dear.”

      “Oh, I agree.” Jeff Blum, eager to do his part, nodded vigorously. “Don’t I always say that, too, Bobbi?”

      Bobbi Blum turned a perplexed smile on her husband. “Don’t you always say what, dear?”

      “That champagne is—that it’s whatever Mrs. Crowder just said it was.”

      “Do call me Honoria,” Honoria said.

      Silence settled over the table again.

      Stephanie’s hands were knotted together in her lap. Everyone had said something in an attempt to ease the tension—everyone but David Chambers.

      He was looking at her. She could feel the weight of his gaze. Why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t she say something? A witty remark, to take the edge off. A clever one, to turn her awful words into a joke.

      When was the band going to start playing?

      As if on cue, the trumpet player rose to his feet and sent a shattering tattoo of sound out into the room.

      “And now,” the bandleader said, “let’s give a warm welcome to Dawn and Nicholas!”

      The Crowders, then the Blums, looked toward the dance floor as the introductions rolled on. Stephanie breathed a small sigh of relief. Perhaps David Chambers’s attention was on the newlyweds, too. Her hand closed around her small, apricot-silk purse. Carefully, she moved back her chair. Now might be the perfect time to make another strategic retreat to the ladies’ room...

      “Leaving so soon, Mrs. Willingham?”

      Stephanie froze. Then, with as much hauteur as she could manage, she turned her head toward David Chambers. His expression was polite and courteous; she was sure he looked the picture of civility—unless you were sitting as close to him as she was, and you could see the ridicule in his eyes.

      Okay. It was time to take a bite, however small, of humble pie.

      “Mr. Chambers.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Chambers, I suppose—what I said before—I didn’t mean...”

      He smiled coolly and bent toward her, his eyes on hers.

      “An apology?”

      “An explanation.” Stephanie sat up straight. “I was rude, and I didn’t intend to be.”

      “Ah. What did you intend to be, then?” His smile tilted and he moved closer, near enough to make her heartbeat quicken. For one foolish instant, she’d thought he was going to kiss her.

      “I simply meant to make it clear that you and I were not together.”

      “You certainly did that.”

      “I’m sure Annie meant well, when she seated us this way, but—”

      “Annie?”

      “Annie Cooper. Surely, you know—”

      “You were seated on the groom’s side.”

      “I know both the bride and the groom, Mr. Chambers.”

      “But you’re Annie’s guest.”

      “I can’t see of what possible interest it could be to you, sir.”

      Neither could David—except that it had occurred to him. as he’d gone down the receiving line, that word had it that the groom’s uncle, Damian Skouras, had a mistress in attendance at the wedding. Perhaps Stephanie Willingham was she. Or perhaps she was a former mistress. Or a future one. It was a crazy world out there; there was no telling what complications you got into when you drew up guest lists. He’d avoided the problem, his one time in the matrimonial sweepstakes. You didn’t draw up a guest list when you said “I do” at city hall.

      “Humor me, Mrs. Willingham,” David said with a chilly smile. “Why did you choose to sit on the groom’s side?”

      “What do you do for a living, Mr. Chambers?”

      “I don’t see what that has to do with my question.”

      “Suppose you humor me, and answer it.”

      David’s frown deepened. “I’m an attorney.”

      “Ah. Well, I suppose that explains it.”

      “Explains what?” David said, his eyes narrowing.

      “Your tendency to interrogate.”

      “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Willingham. I did not—”

      “I must admit, I find it preferable to your tendency to strip a woman naked with your eyes.”

      The band segued from a bouncy rendition of “My Girl” to a soft, sighing “Stardust.” Stephanie’s words rose clearly over the plaintive opening notes.

      A strangled gasp burst from Honoria Crowder’s lips. Her champagne glass tipped over and a puddle of pale golden wine spread across the white tablecloth.

      “Oh, my,” Honoria twittered, “how clumsy of me!”

      Bobbi Blum snatched at a napkin. “Here,” she said, “let me get that.”

      Saved by the spill, Stephanie thought hysterically. She smiled blindly at the waiter as he served their first course. The Crowders and the Blums grabbed their oyster forks and attacked their shrimp cocktails with a fervor she suspected was born of the desire to leap to their feet and run from what was turning into the kind of encounter that ends with one of the parties bleeding.

      If you had any brains, Stephanie told herself, you’d do the same...

      Instead, she picked up her fork and began to stuff food into her mouth because if she was chewing and swallowing, maybe—just maybe—she’d stop saying things that only made this impossible mess messier.

      “I