The Groom Said Maybe!

Terrific. Annie had put her at a table with an eligible bachelor. Stephanie sighed. She should have expected as much. Even though her own marriage had failed. Annie had all the signs of being an inveterate matchmaker.

“Oh,” she’d said softly when she’d learned Stephanie was widowed, “that’s so sad.”

Stephanie hadn’t tried to correct her. They didn’t know each other well enough for that. The truth was, she didn’t know anyone well enough for that. Not that anyone back home thought of her as a grieving widow. The good people of Willingham Corners had long-ago decided what she was and Avery’s death hadn’t changed that. At least, nobody tried to introduce her to eligible men...but that seemed to be Annie’s plan today.

Stephanie gave a mental sigh as she made her way to the table where the seating cards were laid out. She could survive an afternoon with Dawn’s Uncle David. He’d surely be harmless enough. Annie was clever. She’d never met Avery but she knew he’d been in his late fifties, so she’d matched Stephanie with an older man. A sexy older man, Stephanie thought with a little smile, meaning he was fiftyor sixty-something but he still had his own teeth.

She peered at the little white vellum cards, found hers and picked it up. Table seven. Well, that was something, she thought as she stepped into the ballroom. The table would be far enough from the bandstand so the music wouldn’t fry her eardrums.

Stephanie wove her way between the tables, checking numbers as she went. Four, five... Yes, table seven would definitely be away from the bandstand out of deference to Uncle David, who’d probably think that the dance of the minute was the merengue. Not that it mattered. She hadn’t danced in years, and she didn’t miss it. She just hoped Uncle David wouldn’t take it personally when she turned out to be a dud as a table partner.

Table seven. There it was, tucked almost into a corner. Most of its occupants were already seated. The trendylooking twosome had to be the New Yorkers; the plump, sweet-faced woman with the tall, bespectacled man were sure to be the teacher and the engineer. Only Uncle David was missing, but he was certain to turn up at any second.

The little group at table seven looked up as she dropped her place card beside her plate.

“Hi,” the plump woman said—and then her gaze skittered past Stephanie’s shoulder, her eyes rounded and she smiled the way a woman does when she’s just seen something wonderful. “And hi to you, too,” she purred.

“What a small world.”

Stephanie froze. The voice came from just behind her. It was male, low, and touched with satirical amusement.

She turned slowly. He was standing inches from her, the man who’d sent her pulse racing. He was every bit as tall as he’d seemed at a distance, six-one, six-two, easily. His face was a series of hard angles; his eyes were so blue they seemed to be pieces of sky. Clint Eastwood, indeed, she thought wildly, and she almost laughed.

But laughing wouldn’t help. Not now. Not after her gaze fell on the white vellum card he dropped on the table beside her.

Stephanie looked up.

“Uncle David?” she said in a choked whisper.

She remembered the way he’d looked at her the first time they’d seen each other. The smoldering glance, the lazy insolence of his smile... There was nothing of that about his expression now. His eyes were steely; the set of his mouth gave his face a harsh cast.

“And the widow Willingham.” A thin smile curved across his mouth as he drew Stephanie’s chair out from the table. “It’s going to be one hell of a charming afternoon.”

CHAPTER TWO

STEPHANIE sat down.

What else could she do? Everyone at the table was watching them, eyes bright with curiosity.

David Chambers sat down beside her. His leg brushed hers as he tucked his feet under the table. Surreptitiously, she moved her chair as far from his as she could.

He leaned toward her. “I carry no communicable diseases, Mrs. Willingham,” he said dryly. “And I don’t bite unless provoked.”

She felt her face turn hot. His voice had been lowpitched; no one else could have heard what he’d said, but they’d wanted to—she could see it in the way they leaned forward over the table.

Say something, Stephanie told herself. Anything.

She couldn’t. Her tongue felt as if it were stuck to the roof of her mouth. She cleared her throat, moistened her lips...and, mercifully, an electronic squeal from the bandstand microphone overrode all conversation in the ballroom.

The guests at table seven laughed a bit nervously.

“Those guys could use a good sound engineer,” the man with the glasses said. He grinned, rose and extended his hand toward David. “Too bad that’s not my speciality. Hi, nice to meet you guys. I’m Jeff Blum. And this is my wife, Roberta.”

“Call me Bobbi,” the plump brunette chirped, batting her lashes at David.

The other couple introduced themselves next. They looked as if they’d both been hewn out of New England granite, and had the sort of names David always irreverently thought of as Puritan holdovers.

“Hayden Crowder,” the man said, extending a dry, cool hand.

“And 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?