Outside, guests congregated at the front entrance to cheer for the newly married couple as they departed for their honeymoon. He wandered through the ancient Jacobean manor house, looking for a quiet place to sit and close his eyes. The air had been so thick with perfume that it had given Tom a mild headache. At the ceremony this morning, the tiny estate chapel of Eversby Priory had been stuffed to the rafters, as if the entire Covent Garden Flower Market had disgorged its contents there. Nothing but romantic drivel, lukewarm food, and far, far too many flowers. But he should have anticipated the Ravenel wedding would be an utter bore, as weddings always were. He liked barging into places where he hadn’t been invited, knowing he was too rich for anyone to dare throw him out. Not that Tom Severin gave a damn about politeness or etiquette. IT HAD BEEN A mistake to invite himself to the wedding.
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