gripped her bridesmaid bouquet tighter, even as relief whispered through her. She’d done it. She’d saved Sophie.
But it wasn’t just Sophie she’d helped; she’d helped Randall, too. Not that Randall Grant, the Sixth Earl of Langston, would be grateful at the moment, because he was the groom after all, and no man wanted to be humiliated in front of two hundred of England and Europe’s most distinguished, their guests having traveled far and wide to Winchester for what the tabloids had been calling the wedding of the year, and would have been the wedding of the year, had the bride not just been unceremoniously hauled away by a Sicilian race car driver. Correction, former race car driver.
Poppy doubted that the Earl of Langston would care about the distinction right now, either, not when he had a church full of guests to deal with. Thank goodness he wasn’t a sensitive or emotional man. There would be no tears or signs of distress from him. No, his notorious stiff upper lip would serve him well as he dealt with the fallout.
But she also knew him better than most, and knew that he wasn’t the Ice Man people thought. She shot Randall another swift glance, strikingly handsome and still in his morning suit, the collar fitted against his strong, tan throat, accenting the lean, elegant lines of his physique, and the chiseled features of his face. He looked like stone at the present.
Detached. Granite-hard. Immovable.
Poppy swallowed quickly once more, trying to smash the worry and guilt. One day Sophie would thank her. And Randall, too, not that she would ever tell him her part in the disaster. He wasn’t just Sophie’s groom—jilted groom—but her boss of four years, and her secret crush. Although he was a very good boss as employers went, and rather protective of her, if he thought she had something to do with this wedding debacle, he’d fire her. Without hesitation. And that would break her heart.
But how could she not write to Renzo?
How could she not send the newspaper clipping? Sophie didn’t love Randall. She was marrying him because her family had thought it would be an excellent business deal back before she was even old enough to drive. It wasn’t a marriage as much as a merger, and Sophie deserved better.
So while Poppy’s conscience needled her, she also remembered how Renzo had shown marauder.
It had been thrilling and impressive—
Well, not for Randall. No, he had to be humiliated. But Sophie... Sophie had just been given a chance at love.
SHE KNEW SOMETHING.
Dal Grant could see it in Poppy’s eyes, the set of her lips and the pinch between her brows.
She’d worked far too long for him not to know that guilty as hell expression, the one she only got when she did something massively wrong and then tried to cover it.
He should have fired her years ago.
She wasn’t irreplaceable. She’d never been an outstanding secretary. She was simply good, and rather decent, and she had the tendency to keep him grounded when he wanted to annihilate someone, or something, as he did now.
Most important, he’d trusted her, which had apparently been the absolutely wrong thing to do.
But he couldn’t press her for information, not with two hundred guests still filling the pews, whispering giddily while Sophie’s father looked gobsmacked and Lady Carmichael-Jones had gone white.
Thank God he didn’t have close family here today to witness this disaster, his mother having died when he was a boy, and then his father had passed away five years ago, just before his thirtieth birthday.
Dal drew a slow, deep breath as he turned toward the pews, knowing it was time to dismiss the guests, including Sophie’s heartsick family. And then he’d deal with Poppy.
* * *
“What did you do?” Randall demanded, cornering Poppy in the tiny antechamber off the chapel altar.
Poppy laced her fingers together uneasily, Randall’s words too loud in her head, even as she became aware of his choice of words.
He hadn’t asked what she knew, but rather, what did she do? Do, as in an action. Do, as in having responsibility.
She glanced over her shoulder, looking for someone who could step in, intervene, but the chapel was empty now, the guests disappearing far more rapidly than one would have imagined; but maybe that was because after Randall announced in a cold, hard voice, “Apologies for wasting your time today, but it appears that the wedding is off,” and then he’d smiled an equally cold, hard smile, the guests had practically raced out.
She’d wanted to race out, too, but Randall pointed at her, gesturing for her to stay, and so she had, while he waved off his aunts and uncles and cousins, and then exchanged brief, uncomfortable words with Sophie’s parents before shaking each of his groomsmen’s hands, sending every single person away. Sending everyone but her.
How she wanted to go, too, and she’d even tried to make a belated escape but he’d caught her as she was inching toward the vestibule exit, trapping her in this little antechamber typically reserved for the clergy.
“What did you do, Poppy?” he repeated more quietly, eyes narrowing, jaw hardening, expression glacial.
Her heart thumped hard. He was tall, much taller then she, and she took an unconscious step backward, her shoulders bumping against the rough bricks. “Nothing,” she whispered, aware that she was a dreadful liar. It was one of the things Sophie said she’d always liked best about her, and the very thing that had made Randall Grant, the Earl of Langston, hire her in the first place four years ago when she needed a job. He said he needed someone he could trust. She assured him he could trust her.
“I don’t believe you,” he answered.
Her heart did another painful thump as her mouth dried.
“Let’s try this again. Where is my bride? And what the hell just happened here, and why?”
Poppy’s eyes widened. Randall Grant never, ever swore. Randall Grant was the model of discipline, self-control and civility.
At least he’d always been so until now.
“I don’t know where she is, and that’s the truth.” Her voice wavered on the last words and she squirmed, hating that he was looking at her as if she’d turned into a three-headed monster. “I had no idea Renzo would storm the wedding like that.”
His dark eyebrow lifted. “Renzo,” he repeated quietly, thoughtfully.
She went hot, then cold, understanding her mistake immediately.
She shouldn’t have said his name. She shouldn’t have said anything.
“Poppy.”
She stared at his square chin and bit her lower lip hard. It was that or risk blurting everything, and she couldn’t do it; it wouldn’t be fair to Sophie.
Instead, she tugged at her snug, low-cut bodice, trying not to panic, which in her case meant dissolving into mindless tears. She actually didn’t feel like crying; she just felt trapped, but whenever trapped, Poppy’s brain malfunctioned and she’d lose track of her thoughts and go silent, and then those traitorous tears would fill her eyes.
It had happened in school. It had happened during her awful summer camps before Sophie rescued her and invited her home with her for the summer holidays. Poppy had thought she’d outgrown the panic attacks, but all of a sudden her chest constricted and her throat closed and she fought for air. Her incredibly tight, overly fitted bridesmaid gown, the icy-pink shade perfect on women like Sophie with porcelain complexions and gleaming hair, but not on short, frumpy secretaries who needed a pop of color near the face to lift a sallow complexion, suffocated her.
“I