The Fiancée Farce


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Contents
 Chapter One
 Chapter Two
 Chapter Three
 Chapter Four
 Chapter Five
 Chapter Six
 Chapter Seven
 Chapter Eight
 Chapter Nine
 Chapter Ten
 Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
 Chapter Thirteen
 Chapter Fourteen
 Chapter Fifteen
 Chapter Sixteen
 Chapter Seventeen
 Chapter Eighteen
 Chapter Nineteen
 Chapter Twenty
 Chapter Twenty-One
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 Chapter Twenty-Three
 Chapter Twenty-Four
 Chapter Twenty-Five
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Praise for the Work of Alexandria Bellefleur
 Also by Alexandria Bellefleur
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 
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 Dedication
 
 
 To anyone who has ever felt like a black sheep—this one’s for you.
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter One
 
 A few stray petals fluttered to the floor as Madison van Dalen née James’s bouquet soared through the air. The confection
 of sherbet-colored orchids and draping Dutch roses tumbled flowers over stems, missing the grabbiest hands, hurtling instead
 toward the deserted end of the dance floor.
 
 
 Deserted, save for Tansy.
 
 The wainscoting bit into the small of her back as she hugged the wall, her accelerating pulse pounding out a rhythm of no, no, please no, not her as the bouquet’s distance dwindled, dwindled, disappeared. Tansy flinched, eyes shutting and arms rising reflexively, cushioning the flowers’ fall.
 
 
 Damn it.
 
 A gasp rose from the crowd. Heat crept up the front of Tansy’s throat, her underarms and the creases of her inner elbows damp
 with flop sweat. Everyone—all three hundred of Tucker and Madison’s closest friends and family—was going to be staring. Looking
 at her. What a nightmare.
 
 
 Tansy cringed and braced herself for the stares, the inevitable glares from those who thought catching a falling floral arrangement meant something. She cracked one eye open and—
 
 
 Okay, odd. No one was glancing in her direction, not even her stepmother, Katherine, the one responsible for dragging Tansy out onto the dance floor despite her many, many objections that she really, really didn’t see the point because what were the odds of her catching the bouquet, anyway?
 
 Famous last words.
 
 It was like Tansy didn’t exist, like she hadn’t had the misfortune of catching the bouquet, as if the toss had never happened.
 At least two dozen guests had gathered, gawking not at her—thank God—but instead at the center of the dance floor, where Ashleigh,
 Tansy’s stepsister, clutched her face, eyes brimming with tears. She looked pissed, jaw set, one hand fisted at her side as
 if poised to exact retribution from the bridesmaid beside her, who was sheepishly massaging her elbow.
 
 
 “Ashleigh.” Katherine scuttled across the room and grabbed her daughter’s face, tilting it toward the light with a grimace before whisking
 her off the dance floor. Katherine craned her head over her shoulder, frazzled eyes locking on Tansy. Her lips moved, mouthing
 what looked like the word ice followed by a please and then a hurry that jolted Tansy into action.
 
 
 In the time it took for her to wind her way through the maze of tables, dodging pint-sized ring bearers and drunk groomsmen,
 flag down a bartender, and retrace her steps all the way across the Grand Ballroom of the Seattle Yacht Club, a deep purple
 bruise had begun to bloom along the crest of Ashleigh’s cheek. Tansy winced and held out a linen napkin full of ice cubes
 embossed with Tucker and Madison’s initials. Fancy.