His Very Convenient Bride. Sophie Pembroke
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out the one time he’d come to call on them. The priest had spoken to Flynn and Helena instead, and had nodded amiably when Flynn had leant forward to murmur their names to him again before Helena walked down the aisle, just to make sure he got it right in the service. It was entirely possible that the man holding the Bible firmly believed that he was joining a young couple in love in the binding act of marriage.
Well, Flynn was on board with the binding part, at least.
As they knelt before the priest, he heard a gasp go up from the congregation behind them. Frowning, he glanced over at his bride and saw her trying to hide a smile behind her hand.
‘What?’ he mouthed, raising an eyebrow.
Helena gave a tiny shake of her head, but lowered her hand long enough to whisper, ‘I think they just clocked the shoes.’
Of course. Those ridiculous pink shoes.
Flynn kept his eyes on the floor in front of him. In all honesty, he quite liked the shoes. Liked the flash of colour and spirit they showed, just like the woman wearing them had when she’d stepped into that wedding dress at the last moment. They were right for Helena.
But they weren’t appropriate for a Morrison-Ashton bride, of course. Not for a formal, prestigious event like this. Especially when they were on the wrong feet.
He couldn’t let those pink high heels ruin everything. Everything else could go perfectly, Helena could be a perfect blushing bride, and all it would take would be the wrong society matron friend of his mother’s saying, ‘But did you see those shoes?’ and suddenly everyone would have permission to pick the whole marriage apart.
As if they weren’t going to do that anyway.
Flynn sighed, resigned himself to making the best of a bad day and tried to tune in to what the priest was saying. Before he knew it, they were at the only part of the service that really mattered—the promises and vows.
‘Flynn and Helena, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself to each other in marriage?’ The priest intoned the words with the sort of gravity that made it clear these were serious questions.
Flynn exchanged a fleeting glance with Helena as they both answered, ‘Yes.’ He wondered if she was thinking the same thing that he was—that he had many, many reservations about this. But he was going to go through with it anyway.
‘Will you honour each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?’
‘I will,’ Flynn said, Helena’s agreement coming just a heartbeat behind.
She’d said it now, and that knowledge filled Flynn with triumph. The rest of their lives. That was exactly how long he needed to prove he deserved this—his place in the family and the business. He knew the board members and the investors. He knew what they needed in order to believe in and respect Flynn’s new place at Morrison-Ashton.
Ezekiel Ashton had made it clear for years that Flynn didn’t count, that he wasn’t a true heir. Even if Zeke hadn’t known it, everyone else associated with the business had never doubted for a moment that Zeke was the one who’d inherit.
But not any more. Now that place was Flynn’s and the next few moments would cement it for life.
‘Will you accept children lovingly from God, and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?’
Beside him, Helena sucked in a breath, just loud enough for him to hear. As if she was steeling herself for something unpleasant. He frowned.
‘I will,’ Helena said, strong and clear, but Flynn couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just missed something important.
Like saying his line.
‘I will,’ he said, aware of the priest’s waiting gaze.
‘Good.’ The priest cracked a creaky smile. ‘Then, next, we have the vows. Flynn?’
He’d memorised this, had been prepared to stare into Thea’s eyes and say just the right words. But now, as he turned to face his bride and take her hand, looking down further than he’d expected to, Flynn realised he hadn’t a clue what her middle name was.
His panic must have shown on his face because Helena rolled her eyes and mouthed ‘Juliette’ at him, allowing his heartbeat to return to normal again.
‘I, Flynn, take you, Helena Juliette Morrison, to be my wife.’ She smiled as he spoke, and Flynn relaxed into the familiar words. ‘I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you, all the days of my life.’
He hoped she could hear how much he meant it. Love...maybe that would come and maybe it wouldn’t. But honour, constancy and fidelity—those he could give her.
It was the least he could do, given what he would gain from the bargain. She was his now, along with the respectability and the place she brought him. It was done at last.
Flynn couldn’t help but think he should feel more relieved about that.
* * *
‘I, Helena, take you, Flynn Michael Ashton, to be my husband.’ The words came out strong and clear, and Helena gave silent thanks that the trembling taking over her insides wasn’t visible or audible to the congregation. She’d learnt the vows by heart practising them with Thea; she could recite them with her eyes closed. Which might actually be easier than staring up into Flynn’s face, trying to look suitably besotted and loving.
Every single person listening was waiting to see if they’d really go through with it. Maybe some thought it was a stunt, some crazy PR thing. Maybe they even believed that Thea would appear from the wings to take her rightful place at any moment.
Wow. Those people were going to be really disappointed.
Most people, Helena suspected, were just waiting to see if this marriage would really happen, and hoping that at some point over the next few hours they’d find out why.
This was the scandal of the year, and not one of Isabella’s friends would rest until they knew what had really happened behind the scenes today.
Isabella. Helena sneaked a sideways look at the front pew as she promised to be true, to love and honour and all the rest of that stuff. Flynn and Zeke’s mother sat with a fixed smile on her face, hands clasped around a handkerchief in her lap, the wide brim of her hat shading her eyes. Helena would bet that if she could see any tears in them, they wouldn’t be tears of joy.
Explaining this mess to Flynn’s parents was not going to be fun. Maybe she’d leave that to him. Refine the art of wifely delegating early.
Her vows done, the priest picked up the baton again. ‘What God has joined, man must not divide,’ he intoned.
Gosh, that sounded formal. Binding.
Final.
Well, what did he know? He’d happily married the wrong couple without batting an eyelid. There was a pretty strong chance that none of this was even legal. It would be fine.
‘Do you have the rings?’ the priest asked, and Helena’s eyes widened. Did they? What had even happened to them?
But Flynn reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring box, flipping open the lid to reveal two shiny platinum rings. Helena knew those rings, had helped choose those rings.
She also knew there was a good chance that the ring Flynn was about to try and put on her finger wouldn’t fit.
As the priest blessed the rings, Helena tried to convey this information to her new husband using only her eyes and eyebrows. Anything else would signal to their audience that there was a problem.
Flynn’s forehead furrowed in confusion and Helena resigned herself to losing the outer layer of skin on her ring finger.
‘Helena, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity.’ Flynn took her left hand