Page 103 of The Bridesmaid

My eyes rove the rack. It must hold sixty or so bottles, floor to ceiling. Where to start?

‘Six feet under,’ I murmur. Taking a breath, I stand on my tiptoes and count down six places from the top. When I reach the sixth bottle, I slide it free.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ I tell Fitzwilliam, disappointed. ‘It’s just a regular bottle of wine.’

I push a hand into the cavity. ‘Nothing here.’

‘I’m taller than you,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Let me look.’ He comes to stand beside me, peering into the space in the wine rack. Then pushes a long arm deep inside.

‘Anything?’ I ask hopefully, knowing in my heart there isn’t.

To my great surprise, Fitzwilliam’s hand emerges, clutching a sheaf of documents.

‘Crammed right into the back,’ he says, handing them to me. ‘You’d never find them unless you knew where to look.’

My heart catches in my chest. ‘Fitzwilliam,’ I breathe, ‘this is it. The documents Simone wanted to reveal onWrongly Accused.’

Chapter Eighty-three

ADRIANNA

I close my eyes as Ophelia sprays a shimmering mist of dewy foundation on my face. She has already spent an hour fitting a heavy piece of chestnut hair into my own curling tresses, pulling and shaping with brush and tongs.

As she finishes, I sit staring into the mirror.

‘I am Adrianna Fucking Kensington,’ I mutter, at my reflection. ‘I’m getting married today.’

‘Ready?’ Ophelia’s beaming smile is fixed in its usual place. She wears the magenta gown I carefully picked out, so as not to complement her skin tone. I wonder, briefly, if I should have been kinder.

No,I remind myself,it’s not about me. It’s about the Kensington brand.The Kensington brand has to be perfect today.

‘Did you see Petra?’ I ask.

‘Not yet.’ Ophelia shakes her head, still smiling. ‘She stayed up pretty late. I’m guessing she’s nursing a sore head this morning. I’m sure she’ll be here on time for the pictures.’

‘Petra stayed up late?’ I don’t remember that. But then again, I don’t remember much at all from last night.

‘How is your head?’ Ophelia stands just a little too close.

‘Fine,’ I say, slightly unnerved. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Want me to check your breath?’ she suggests. ‘Be sure you’re not breathing tequila fumes on your groom?’ She says it lightly, like a joke. Almost. But then, without waiting for my response, she leans in an inch from my face, and inhales.

I sit rigidly in my chair.

‘You smellgorgeous,’ says Ophelia, her head back, but not far back enough to be a normal distance. ‘He’s lucky to have you,’ she whispers.

Confusion is knocking my mind around. Things are fitting together.

‘Ophelia,’ I say quietly, ‘why did you get into my bed last night?’

There’s a long, tense moment where our eyes lock. Her narrow, freckled forehead puckers.

‘You asked me to,’ she says, mouth downturned, eyes flitting around the room. ‘Don’t you remember? You didn’t feel safe.’

‘But you told Mark you were afraid I would vomit.’

‘I …’ She nods. Two tight inclines of her head. ‘Of course I toldMarkthat,’ she says. ‘I didn’t want him to think you’d invited me into bed with you, the night of your wedding.’