Marrying Maddy

Maddy stood up slowly, looked Joe full in the face. Pronounced every word carefully. “I loved you, Joe,” she said quietly. “But you didn't trust me. Not enough to tell me the truth.”

Now Joe felt his temper rising, the temper he had thought had cooled long ago, to be replaced by the damning knowledge that, if he were to become rich beyond his dreams—and he had—he would never be happy, complete, without Maddy by his side. He had to love her. If he didn't, he was just plain nuts to be putting himself back into a position where she could cut his knees, and heart, right out from underneath him.

And still, he couldn't help himself….

Marrying Maddy (SR#1469)

Jessie's Expecting (SR#1475)

Raffling Ryan (SR#1481)

Dear Reader,

Silhouette's 20
^th
anniversary celebration continues this month in Romance, with more not-to-be-missed novels that take you on the romantic journey from courtship to commitment.

First we revisit STORKVILLE, USA, where a jaded Native American rancher seems interested in
His Expectant Neighbor
. Don't miss this second book in the series by Susan Meier! Next,
New York Times
bestselling author Kasey Michaels returns to the lineup, launching her new miniseries, THE CHANDLERS REQUEST…. One bride,
two
grooms—who will end up
Marrying Maddy
? In
Daddy in Dress Blues
by Cathie Linz, a Marine embarks on his most terrifying mission—fatherhood!—with the help of a pretty preschool teacher.

Then Valerie Parv whisks us to a faraway kingdom as THE CARRAMER CROWN continues.
The Princess's Proposal
puts the lovely Adrienne and her American nemesis on a collision course with…love. The ever-delightful Terry Essig tells the tale of a bachelor, his orphaned brood and the woman who sparks
A Gleam in His Eye
. Shhh…. We can't give anything away, but you
must
learn
The Librarian's Secret Wish.
Carol Grace knows…and she's anxious to tell you!

Next month, look for another installment of STORKVILLE, USA, and THE CHANDLERS REQUEST…from
New York Times
bestselling author Kasey Michaels. Plus, Donna Clayton launches her newest miniseries, SINGLE DOCTOR DADS!

Happy Reading!

Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

T
he midafternoon sun filtered through sheer white draperies that hung at a half-dozen nearly floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner bedroom on the third floor of the Chandler mansion.

The June heat barely registered in the electronically filtered, air-conditioned atmosphere that was busily sucking dust motes out of the air as quickly as the sun could highlight them.

Dark cherry furniture, all genuine antiques, was scattered around the room; a grouping of chairs and a small, overstuffed ivory couch placed in front of the marble fireplace. A high, four-poster bed was angled into one corner and backed by a living forest of potted plants, a tall, Oriental screen tucked into the greenery.

Three crystal chandeliers hung from the high, stuccoed ceiling. There was a vanity table that definitely lived up to its name, displaying enough mirrors and pretty cut-glass bottles with expensive la
bels to keep Snow White's stepmama too busy to look for poison apples.

There were original oil paintings on the walls of the bedroom, even on the walls of the huge bathroom that held a marble tub that had been brought over from France forty years earlier, so enormous it probably could have been floated across the Atlantic with a three-man crew aboard.

There was a separate dressing room, a separate showering room, both a built-in sauna and a mini beauty salon. The four-in-one walk-in closet—one large section for each season—was larger than most living rooms.

The remainder of the apartment, for this was only a small part of it, took up half of the third floor: a living room, formal dining room, full kitchen, a large guest bedroom and maid's quarters.

It comprised only one half of one floor of a three-million-dollar mansion. But, hey, be it ever so humble, it was home.

Back to the bedroom…dragging the eye from the huge poster bed, the fireplace mantel that had once resided in the Earl of Coventry's summer house on the isle of Jersey, the massive chandeliers…and to the trio of women gathered near the tall, three-sided mirror Madame Pompadour herself had once preened in front of before the ball.

One woman was seated on a straight-back Chippendale chair that had been moved across the carpet solely for the purpose of holding her body as she held sway over the situation. In other words, it would take no more than two seconds to play and win the game of “who's the boss?” if anyone were to ask.

The woman was a deceptive seventy; the sort that looks fifty, laughs like forty and can't believe she isn't still thirty. A tiny woman, no more than three inches over five feet, she probably didn't outweigh the chair she sat on as if it were a throne. Her perfectly coiffed light brown hair was piled high on her head above a long neck and a chin that was only slightly soft—three face-lifts, one eye job and a forehead lift just last year.

The manicured fingers of her right hand clasped a crystal sherry glass, half full. Her day dress was a soft blue silk paisley and she wore her skirt to the knee, because her legs were still slim, without a single telltale vein showing beneath her nude panty hose.

This woman, the clear matriarch of the Chandler family, spent a half hour each day with her legs inelegantly raised above her head in a yoga position in order to “reverse the damages of blood flow and gravity.” That, however, was a family secret revealed only to her two granddaughters, who had caught her in this ignoble position and threatened to tell their grandfather on her.

But enough of Almira Chandler, and on to the other two women.

The second, Mrs. Ballantine—and
always
Mrs. Ballantine, even after twelve years as the Chandler housekeeper—stood to one side of the trio, a part of the scene, but really not a part of the small group.

Nearly six feet tall, all of it straight as a poker, and with an air of command about her that would have made her the terror of the second grade if she hadn't decided the classroom wasn't for her, Mrs. Ballantine wore bright red lipstick, and was secretly
proud of her coal-black hair. She had the pale complexion of a person who hadn't been out in the sun since the Eisenhower administration.

At the moment, the formidable Mrs. Ballantine had a mouthful of straight pins.

And now to the last occupant of the room. This could only be Ms. Madeline Chandler, whose rooms these were, and who stood uncomfortably in front of the mirror, inspecting her reflection as the other two women watched.

The wedding gown she wore was nothing short of spectacular. It had rich, luxurious peau de soie. It had costly Alencon lace. It had cleverly positioned ribbons and silk flowers worked into the full, dropped-waist skirt, tucked into small “pockets” of material in the huge, off-the-shoulder “poof” sleeves. It had a long, flowing train both the flower girl and ring bearer could picnic on as the bride walked down the aisle.

Right now, the gown also had her, and Madeline Chandler was feeling rather trapped and smothered inside all of this beauty, inside all that it meant.

She thought about this for a moment, thought that her feelings were somehow wrong, and then worried that, for as trapped and smothered as she felt, she couldn't seem to do anything about it. Couldn't really even
care
all that much about it.

And she should. Shouldn't she?

“You look like a fairy princess. Except for the frown. Surely you aren't practicing to be the Wicked Witch of the West. I mean, remember, Maddy, dear, she wore black. Not white. More like Mrs. Ballantine.” Almira Chandler, known as Allie to her grandchildren, looked to the housekeeper, shivered.
“Yes, much more like our own dear Mrs. Ballantine, who is looking remarkably like a porcupine at the moment.”

“It's not white, Allie. It's ivory. With a hint of blush. Very ‘in' this year, and all of that,” Maddy explained. She looked into the full-length mirror again, drawing in her breath on a deep sigh that lifted her shoulders, then let both her mouth and her shoulders sag on the exhale. “I don't know, Allie,” she said, shaking her head. “What do you think? Is this really
me?
”

“Is it you standing there, or is the gown really you? Clarify, Maddy darling. Always clarify. Mrs. Ballantine? More sherry, if you please? Being an observer seems to be thirsty work.”

As Mrs. Ballantine plucked the glass from Almira's hand and walked toward a table bearing several crystal decanters, Maddy plucked at the skirt of the gown that had cost as much as her grandmother's first house, forty-five years earlier.

“The gown, I suppose,” Maddy corrected. “I mean, I
like
it. Really. But do I really need three petticoats? I look like a mushroom. I wish I was taller, like Jessie. And less round. Maybe once the alterations are complete…”

“And you have the headpiece on, and your makeup, and your hair out of that rather inappropriate ponytail, and Matthew is on your arm…”

Maddy inspected her reflection—the heavy, blue-black hair pulled back from her full, yet slightly sharp-chinned face, the huge green eyes that looked so shadowed, so sad—not bridelike at all.

She bit her lips between her teeth, trying to bring some color into them, tipped her head to one side
as she gripped both sides of her rather surprising twenty-three-inch waist. The gown really was beautiful. She wasn't so bad herself, except for that frown line between her eyes. She smiled, knowing it looked more like a grimace.

“Yes,” she said at last, turning in a half circle, to look at the back of the gown as it was reflected in the mirror. “That's probably it. I'm missing the accessories.”

“How wonderful. I'll be sure to tell Matthew,” Almira said, winking at the unsmiling Mrs. Ballantine. “I'm sure he'll be delighted to have been reduced to a bridal accessory. Not that he isn't, of course. Other than to answer the minister at the correct times, he's nothing more than a convenient prop to hang the bride on the whole day. Poor boy.”

Mrs. Ballantine stepped forward, and motioned for Maddy to step up onto the stool she had earlier placed on the carpet.
“Hemmm, hemm,”
she mumbled, still making small shooing motions to Maddy.

Almira chuckled. “What was that, Mrs. Ballantine? Him? Them? Oh, oh.
Hem.
You want to pin the hem? Goodness, woman, why didn't you just say so? You could have hurt yourself, you know.”

The pins were removed from the wide red mouth. “Ha,” Mrs. Ballantine barked out, showing her lack of amusement. Then she knelt on the carpet, put the pins back between her lips once more and got to work.

“I think Mrs. Ballantine is just so sweet, insisting on doing the alterations herself, not trusting the bridal salon to do them properly. Don't you, dear?”

Maddy turned to answer her grandmother, which earned her a sharp tug on the skirt of her gown,
which nearly toppled her off the stool. “Sorry, Mrs. Ballantine. I shouldn't move, should I? And I am very grateful for all your help. We all are.”

The pins transferred from mouth to hem, Mrs. Ballantine crowed, “Fall apart without me, the whole bunch of you,” even as Almira now exchanged winks with Maddy's reflection in the mirror. “Told the old man I'd watch over you, and watch over you I will, even if it kills me outright.” She glared at Almira for a moment, then added, “And it just might,” then stuck more pins between her lips.

“You know, Mrs. Ballantine,” Almira said, pausing to take another sip of sherry, “with all the long, fairly involved conversations my late husband and I had during his last illness five years ago, I truthfully cannot remember him mentioning your name a single time. How odd that he didn't bother to tell me that he'd appointed you guardian of us all, helpless creatures that we are. Even odder, don't you think, was that he made sure to include a
thank you and have a happy retirement
gift of money for you in his will.”

Mrs. Ballantine pulled the pins from her mouth. “Wedding's in a week. Are we going to talk, or are we going to pin up this hem?” she asked, her tone clearly indicating that she didn't have time for idle chitchat.

“Oh, we'll pin the hem, Mrs. Ballantine. Definitely. Maddy? Stand still, darling. After all, the woman's armed.”

Maddy bit her lips again, this time to keep from giggling. The running feud between her grandmother and Mrs. Ballantine was probably what kept
the old lady so young, so spry. Between the two women, they had loved Edward Chandler with all their hearts, in different ways, for different reasons.

That Edward Chandler had believed Mrs. Ballantine the reincarnation of his old, hated Army sergeant was a secret he'd shared only with his family. Through guilt at the woman's obvious grief at Edward's death, or because they were all afraid of her, the family had gone along with Mrs. Ballantine's declaration that she had promised her late employer she would never leave, never desert the Chandler family.

After all, as Almira always said, who else would have the woman anyway? Mrs. Ballantine was about as appealing as prune whip on a stick.

“Mrs. Chandler? Please excuse the intrusion. The florist is on the telephone in my office. Something about trying to explain to you, one more time, why he can't dye six dozen pots of mums blue.”

“How ridiculous. They can put a man on the moon, can't they? So why can't they do a simple little thing like—oh, never mind.” Almira sighed, slapped at her knees and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Sarah,” she said to her social secretary. “I suppose I can now safely leave you two to your own devices?” she asked Maddy and Mrs. Ballantine. Then, before either could answer, she swept out of the room, her stride smooth and graceful, even in three-inch heels.

“Fhought she'd neber lede.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Ballantine?” Maddy asked, turning to look down at the housekeeper, earning herself another sharp tug on her skirts for the effort.

Mrs. Ballantine pulled the pins from her mouth.
“I
said,
I thought she'd never leave. Now, what's the matter, Miss Maddy? And don't go telling me everything's fine, because it isn't. Never saw such an unhappy bride, or a grandmother so blind to what's smack in front of her face. Dratted woman. Probably had her head pulled too tight last year, and her brains have all shrunk.”

“Mrs. Ballantine!” Maddy scolded, then laughed with real enjoyment—right up until she realized it was the first time she'd laughed in
real enjoyment
in quite a while. No, she wasn't being very bridelike, was she?

“I'm fine, Mrs. Ballantine. Honestly. Just some prewedding nerves. I imagine all brides get them. Now, I promise to stand very still while you finish pinning this huge hem.”

“Going to take some time, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I should have gone with the sheath, I suppose, but Allie did like this one so much.”

“And you listened to her? Woman's an idiot.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ballantine, I know,” Maddy replied calmly, as the running feud between housekeeper and matriarch was as superficial as the women's regard for each other was deep. “She likes you, too.”

Mrs. Ballantine lifted another half-dozen pins to her mouth, pausing only to say, “Now, think happy thoughts, Miss Maddy, as a bride should, and we'll be done here in about ten minutes. Then you can do something with that hair. At least the old lady was right about that. Ponytails are for children. Why, I remember…”

Maddy stared at her reflection as she allowed Mrs. Ballantine's words to glide over her head. And she remembered the last time she'd worn her hair in a
ponytail. Where she had been, who had been there with her…

“You look gorgeous, Maddy. I think every bride should wear shorts, her hair pulled up like that. I mean, that veil and gown thing is definitely overdone. Now, what do you think of my groom gear?”

Maddy could see Joe O'Malley standing in front of her, just as he had stood in front of her eighteen months earlier. His smile was wide in his tanned, handsome face. His arms were out at his sides as he playfully turned himself in a half circle, inviting her to admire his cutoffs and bright red Phillies jersey, the number 32 stamped on the back in huge white characters.