Start With Me - Kara Isaac Page 0,68

morning in 2011 to admire Pippa Middleton’s perfect cream-clad rear end holding Katherine’s exquisite train at the front of Westminster Abbey.

Lacey had been counting on her cousin to have at least carried on the American tradition of the ugly bridesmaid dress. Instead, when she’d opened her designer-embossed dress bag, she’d thought she’d accidentally been given Emelia’s dress.

“I left my flower basket in the car so it wouldn’t get lost or damaged. Mommy says I’m the responsible one.” Katherine enunciated each word with precision.

“Well, why don’t we go and get it and see if we can find Charlotte’s basket.” Lacey glanced around. She could only see one boy clad in breeches. “George, where’s William?” George shrugged.

Lacey spun in a circle, looking for the three-year-old with the long lashes and penchant for mischief. One long road that, thank goodness, she could see down a decent way. No small person.

One church graveyard. That appeared empty save for some bouquets wilting against headstones. She opened the back door of the Rolls-Royce and looked inside. Nothing except Katherine’s petal-filled basket.

“George, watch Katherine and Charlotte.” She slammed the car door and checked the other Rolls. Empty as well. Where on earth had Carolina gone? She was meant to stay here to help wrangle her progeny until Emelia arrived. Given Carolina had named not one, but all five of her children after various Windsors, the woman was no doubt in the church chatting up some minor nobility, her ridiculous hat obscuring the view of half the guests.

“Missing someone?” The British drawl behind her was amused. And oh so horribly familiar. She’d thought she’d have a few more minutes to brace herself before she saw him. At least an hour before she’d have to talk to him. “William here decided to take an extra practice walk down the aisle.”

“Thanks.” The word came out strangled. Maybe she could just stay facing the car. Pretend she had a stone in her shoe.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Victor, Peter’s brother.” He kept talking to the back of her head. Why? “You must be Emelia’s cousin …”

Good grief. Had he not opened the order of service? Her name was right there. In eleven-point Apple Chancery, silver. She knew this because the wedding planner had spent an hour of Emelia’s life forcing her thorough the pros and cons of Apple Chancery versus Lucida calligraphy. Then Emelia had spent an hour of Lacey’s life reliving the torment so someone else suffered with her.

She turned, her heels crunching on the gravel. “Oh, we’ve met.”

Victor gaped at her. At least that gave Lacey a second to steel herself against what Victor Carlisle suited up in tails did to her knees.

“Are you a pirate?” William asked from where he was perched on Victor’s arm. God bless him. God bless the three other children now buzzing around them like bees.

“If you’re Peter’s brother, why don’t you have red hair?” Katherine asked, with hands on hips and a critical gaze.

“Did you get that scar in a sword fight? That would be awesome!” That was George, wide-eyed and outright staring at Victor’s cheek.

Victor dropped to a crouch on the ground, placing William down gently and giving the sprogs his full attention. “No, I’m not a pirate. I don’t have red hair, because Peter has red hair like our dad and I have blonde hair like our mum. And it wasn’t a sword fight, but it was close.”

“Ouchy?” Charlotte ran her hand over Victor’s jagged scar, rosebud lips puckered. “Charlie kiss it better?” Before Victor could say anything, the little girl leaned in and dropped a delicate kiss on Victor’s cheek.

Good grief. Even the most cold-hearted person couldn’t withstand that kind of frontal assault. If the wedding photographer could see the image he’d missed, he’d weep a thousand tears.

She pulled in a breath. Get it together, Lacey. He’s still your competitor. A titled heir who was born with the entire gold-plated cutlery set in his mouth.

Except the words that had worked so well before Minnesota fell distinctly flat now.

“Thank you, Princess Charlie. That made it all better.”

“Can I have your pwetty flower?” Charlotte reached out and fingered the cream rose pinned to his lapel. “Sure, Princess.” He unpinned it in a flash and handed it over. Charlotte took the flower in her chubby fingers, looking at him like she was Rapunzel, and he was the knight rescuing her from the tower.

Victor rose to his feet, lifting an eyebrow at her as soon as he got to her face height.

“I’m warning