Cinderella’s Wedding Wish

with it.’ She glanced at Rafe as by unspoken consent they turned to make their way back down the beach to where he had left his shoes and socks. ‘We’d better not have any more days like this for a while.’

Rafe watched her tie her hair back with a stupid pang of regret. He remembered how it had felt against his fingers, how the light had warmed it to dark honey, and made it gleam with gold. How Miranda had looked with the sea breeze tangling it around her face, her eyes dazzled by sun.

Why was he thinking about that? Rafe caught himself up. Really, it was high time he found himself a suitable bride, he decided. He wanted someone serious and serene and lovely, not prickly and impatient the way Miranda was. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t.

And even if she had been perfect in every way, which she clearly wasn’t, she was holding out for the fairy tale. For someone so practical, she was absurdly romantic, he thought. She seemed the last person to believe in true love.

Rafe scowled down at the sand. He couldn’t imagine who Miranda would fall in love with. Obviously it would have to be someone insanely tidy, yet with no fashion sense, who didn’t mind being slobbered over by dogs or walking across a sea of mud to live miles from anywhere without a single convenience.

No, she was right. There was no point in any more days like this. They were looking for completely different things. He needed to concentrate on finding someone suitable to settle down with, not on how Miranda looked walking straight-backed and slender beside him on the sand.

Rafe turned the car between the gates and into the welcome shade of the chestnut trees lining the avenue. It was a beautiful day, just as it had been when he first came here with Miranda. The ball had been just an idea then. It was hard to believe that it was happening tonight, and that tomorrow it would be over.

Miranda had been at Knighton Park for the past week, keeping an eagle eye on the preparations and making sure that Elvira didn’t have to deal with anything. He had had an email from her only that morning, reminding him to bring a present for his grandmother and to pick up the place cards, which had been sent back to the printer because they weren’t exactly as she had ordered.

She had signed it simply ‘Miranda’. No, ‘love, M’, no ‘x’ after her name. There were no exclamation marks or funny faces made with punctuation marks in Miranda’s messages, which were unfailingly clear and crisp. Rafe knew that he ought to be grateful that she was so efficient and practical, but he couldn’t help wishing sometimes that she would give some indication that he was more to her than just a boss.

He felt as if they had become unlikely friends over the past ten weeks, but it was hard to know exactly what Miranda herself thought. She had certainly done an incredible job of organising the ball in record time. Rafe had often seen her working late at her desk, and he’d fallen into the habit of stopping by to have a chat at the end of the day and see how plans were progressing.

He liked the cool detachment with which she viewed him, and the way she remained determinedly unimpressed by his looks or charm. He liked the humour in her clear green eyes, the irony that feathered her voice, the snippy comments that made him laugh. Miranda never tried to impress or flatter him, quite the opposite in fact. There was no danger of suffering from an inflated ego when she was around, he would grumble, but secretly he enjoyed being able to relax and be himself in a way he never seemed to be able to do with anyone else.

As the pace of the preparations had become more frantic Rafe had insisted that they spend every free lunchtime walking in Green Park.

‘You can’t waste the entire summer sitting in an office,’ he told her when he discovered her working through her lunch hour one day. ‘It’s bad for you.’

‘I haven’t got time to go to the park,’ objected Miranda.

Rafe tsk-tsked. ‘You’re just using work as an excuse. You know what I think the problem is? You’re afraid!’

‘Afraid?’ she scoffed. ‘Afraid of what?’

‘Of enjoying yourself. I don’t think you know how to relax and enjoy something simple like a walk in the sun,’ he said provocatively.

‘I’m perfectly capable of relaxing. I just don’t have time with you interrupting every five minutes,’ Miranda complained, but in the end she gave in and let Rafe bully her into getting up and going with him.

‘Come on, stop grumbling, and if you’re very good I’ll buy you an ice cream,’ he said with one of his slanting smiles.

The park quickly became part of their routine and Rafe found himself looking forward to it every day. He was disappointed if he had a lunchtime meeting and couldn’t walk along the paths beside Miranda, straight-backed and composed and tart-tongued.

She would soften immediately when she saw a dog, though, and Rafe enjoyed watching the way her face lit up with a smile as she bent to greet them.

‘That’s torn it,’ he would pretend to complain whenever he spotted a dog approaching, and he would roll his eyes exaggeratedly. ‘Now we’ll be here for half an hour while you make friends with yet another mutt!’

He always ended up talking to the owners while Miranda fussed over the dog, and he would watch her out of the corner of his eye, wishing that she would be that uninhibitedly affectionate with him. It had come to something when he was jealous of a dog!

‘I don’t know what you see in them,’ he would grumble when the dog was eventually dragged away by its owner. ‘They’re such messy creatures. Look, you’ve got hairs all over your skirt.’

Miranda rolled her eyes as she brushed casually at her skirt. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you can go on so much about me being repressed when you’re so finicky.’

‘I am not finicky!’

‘Yes, you are. Look at the fuss you make about a few little hairs.’

‘I don’t like looking messy,’ said Rafe a little defensively.

‘Perhaps we should add fussy about their appearance to your list of attributes for an ideal bride,’ Miranda suggested. ‘Oh, I’ve got a good idea! Why don’t I cull the invitation list? We should only invite obsessive compulsives on the grooming front and then you’d be bound to find a soul mate!’

‘At least they would all care about their appearance, which is more than you do!’ Rafe eyed her morosely. She persisted in wearing those dull grey skirts with a prim little top and sensible shoes, as if she had never heard of colour. She never wore make-up, never let her hair swing free, never made the slightest effort at all, in fact.

‘Why do you always tie your hair back like that?’ he grumbled.

‘Because it’s practical.’

‘It would be prettier if you let it hang loose.’

‘I don’t do pretty,’ said Miranda, unruffled. ‘I leave that to my sisters.’

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS true, of course. Miranda wasn’t pretty, but the more Rafe looked at her, the more he noticed the fineness of her skin, the subtleness of her colouring, the clear, cool lines of her that plucked at a chord deep inside him, vibrating through him and making him itch with the longing to peel those awful clothes off her, to run his fingers through her hair and explore her, unlock her, with his mouth and his hands. Making him imagine what it would be like to warm her and excite her and drive her to a pitch of passion where she would lose her primness and reveal the warm, vibrant woman he was convinced lurked beneath her deliberately dull facade.

But of course he couldn’t do that. Miranda had made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in him. And he wasn’t interested in her, Rafe told himself. Not really.

He reminded himself of his plan. It had made such good sense when he first thought about getting married, and it still did make sense. All he needed was to find the right woman, and then he wouldn’t feel this restless and edgy and dissatisfied. He wouldn’t be distracted by fantasies about a plain, prim girl who preferred dogs to men and had a totally impractical plan to live in the middle of nowhere without the most basic of amenities.

It would be such a relief to find the right woman and settle down. She would steady him and help him focus.