The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy: Prada and Prejudice / Love and Liability / Mansfield Lark

“I don’t want Dashwood and James immersed in a lawsuit. Bad press is the last thing we need right now.”

Natalie sank into one of the high-backed chairs. Her head pounded like the drums at Salamanca. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognise you at the party,” she murmured. “I should’ve done.”

“You might have, if you weren’t so trolleyed…or if you ever read the business section of a newspaper.”

Natalie bit her lip. “Do you suppose we could just…forget about last night?”

“If that’s what you want.” He gathered up his things, his face unreadable.

Natalie studied him through her lashes. The tabloids said he was a womaniser who could turn on the charm whenever he chose. Not that she’d seen any evidence of that so far…

“Tell me – are things at Dashwood and James really so bad?”

“Honestly? They’re worse. There’s a long, uphill climb ahead if we have any hope of re-establishing profitability.”

Her eyes widened. “That sounds serious, indeed.”

“It is. Sir Richard wouldn’t have brought me on, otherwise.”

“Do you really think,” she asked, scepticism plain on her face, “that you can drag Dashwood and James, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century?”

As his gaze met Natalie’s, Rhys couldn’t help but notice her wide grey eyes, liberally fringed with thick dark lashes.

“I do. And I will.” He forced his attention back on the remaining papers scattered on the table before him. “It won’t happen overnight, of course, and it won’t be easy. But it can be done.”

“And you’re just the man to do it, are you?”

“I am.” He regarded her with one brow lifted. “Whether you believe that or not is strictly up to you.”

“I don’t believe things are as bad as you say.”

“Profits are down by sixty-one percent, Miss Dashwood. I can show you the figures. And as I stated in the meeting, the average dwell time in the stores is less than twenty minutes.”

“How much should it be?” she asked, curious.

Rhys slid a folder into his briefcase. “Ideally, forty-five minutes to an hour. That’s why Sir Richard needs me.”

“Quite sure of yourself, are you?” The challenge in her gaze was unmistakable.

“I know what needs to be done.” Rhys snapped his briefcase shut. “And I’ll do it…with the board’s approval, of course.”

There was a knock on the conference room door, and Gemma, Rhys’s newly assigned personal assistant, strode in. “Mr. Gordon, I have the tabloids you wanted.” She flicked a glance at Natalie. “Miss Dashwood.”

“Gemma.” Wearing a black sheath dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, Gemma Astley was attractive, well-groomed, and terrifyingly efficient.

As Gemma handed Rhys a neatly fanned-out assortment of tabloids, Natalie felt a sudden flicker of unease. She remembered the white glare of flashbulbs last night when Dominic had announced his engagement to Keeley.

Her unease increased. Surely they hadn’t got any photos of her last night? As Gemma left, Natalie came around the table beside Rhys and peered over his shoulder…

…and wished for the second time that day that she could die. Or disappear into the floor – whichever came first.

She and Rhys were splashed on the front pages of the red-tops – the Daily Mirror, the Sun, and the Star among them. Natalie’s photographs, thank God, looked OK. No melting mascara, no wildly smeared lipstick.

The headlines, however, were another story.

She let out a sharp breath as Rhys flicked through the Sun. ‘Rhys Gordon’s Latest Takeover’ read one headline, above a photo of Rhys with his face close to hers. Another image, this one featuring Natalie tossing her wine at Rhys’s shirt, was captioned, ‘Ex Marks the Spot!’

But worst was the photo of Rhys, his hand resting low on Natalie’s back as they left the party, headlined, ‘Gordon and Dashwood – Spreadsheets, or Bed Sheets?’

Natalie squealed in outrage, then grabbed the Daily Mail from Rhys and began to read aloud. “Rhys Gordon, hired to rescue the troubled Dashwood and James department stores, attended a Holland Park soirée Friday evening, along with Sir Richard Dashwood’s granddaughter, Natalie.

“Dominic Heath, Ms. Dashwood’s pop star ex-boyfriend, announced his engagement to Keeley, ex-wife and former lead singer for The Tarts. Unfortunately, ‘Ex’ did not mark the spot for Natalie…

“Gordon stepped between the pair and got a chest full of Pinot Noir for his trouble. Sorry, Ms. Dashwood, but Gordon prefers his wine, like his women, of a more mature vintage…”

She flung the paper down. “This is a bloody nightmare! Everyone’ll think we’re having an affair!”

Rhys shrugged, unperturbed. “The publicity will generate interest, not just in us, but in Dashwood and James. And that’s what we want.”

“It’s not what I want! And there is no us! This is awful!”

“Lesson number one,” Rhys said. “There’s good publicity, and bad. You want to get as much of the first as you can and as little of the second as possible.”

“But I don’t want Dominic – and all of London – thinking we’re an item!”

“Why? Are you worried that Dominic will believe it’s true? He dumped you, if you recall, in a very public way.”

She glared at him. “Thanks for reminding me. And no, I don’t care what Dom thinks. It’s just…I hope grandfather doesn’t see this. He’ll think that I…that we…” her words trailed off.

“Your grandfather may be old, but he’s shrewd, Miss Dashwood. He’ll see this for what it is – media speculation, nothing more.” Rhys smiled slightly. “Don’t forget lesson number one – good publicity is always preferable to bad.”

She resisted the urge to clutch at her hammering head. “And what’s lesson number two?”

He eyed her pale face. “That the best cure for a hangover is a good fry-up. Unless I miss my guess, you’re hung over.”

“I don’t have a drink problem, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, defensively.

“I think you’ve had a lousy couple of days.” He took her arm. “It’s nearly noon, so you’ll have to make do with lunch instead. Come on. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

Chapter 5

Rhys took Natalie to an Italian restaurant around the corner. “Two house salads and two orders of lasagna,” Rhys told the waiter when they were seated. He glanced at Natalie inquiringly. “What will you have to drink?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, irritated. “Why don’t you order that for me, as well?”

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine.” He leaned forward, completely unrepentant, and added, “The lasagna’s very good, but get whatever you like.”

“I’ll have the lasagna,” she told the waiter, ignoring Rhys’s smirk as she handed back her menu, “and water with lemon, please.”

“Tell me about yourself,” he prompted, and fixed that intense blue gaze on her. “Where did you go to school, what sort of jobs have you had?”

She raised her hand to stop the flow of questions. “Blimey! Is this an interview? I thought you wanted to talk about the store.”

“I do. But I want to understand why you’re not more involved. Sir Richard tells me you have a dual degree in business and marketing. Why not use it?”

Natalie shrugged. “The store was always grandfather’s thing. I worked there when I was a teenager, on holidays and during the summer.”

“What did you do?”

“What didn’t I do? I worked the perfume counter, and ladies’ shoes. I manned the till, or answered phones and filed paperwork when grandfather’s secretary was out, and I unpacked and shelved merchandise in the stockroom.”

“Did you plan any events for Dashwood and James?”

She shook her head. “Grandfather says store events are costly, and a waste of time.”

“He’s wrong. Dashwood and James are in dire need of some public relations magic right now.”

The waiter brought their salads, heaped with shaved Parmesan and fragrant with basil and oregano. Rhys speared a forkful of greens. “What are you doing now? When you’re not attending soirées in Holland Park, that is.”

“Oh, the usual,” she replied airily. “Christening ships, cutting ribbons – just another day in the exciting life of a department store heiress.” She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap.

He smiled slightly. “Fair enough, I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did.” She took a bite of salad. “I took a gap year after uni to travel. I do some charity work, and I help mum with the odd church boot sale…” Her voice trailed away. “But I don’t – work, at the moment.” As she said the words aloud, Natalie felt, suddenly, a bit ashamed. Defensively she added, “I’m not really the nine-to-five type.”

The truth was, she didn’t do anything useful, or clever. She couldn’t knit, or decoupage, or balance spreadsheets, or play the guitar. Ever since she’d met Dominic, she’d drifted along in his wake. Her gap year had stretched into two. And now, she began to realise what a waste most of it had been.

But she’d never, ever admit as much to Rhys.

“I see. So how do you fill your time?” he inquired.

“Well…I weekend with friends in the country, and I go on tour with Dominic – not now, obviously – and I shop—”

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his seat and eyed her, his gaze inscrutable. “Judging from the bills pouring in from every boutique and department store in London, shopping is an art form you’ve mastered admirably well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Natalie demanded.

“It means your spending is out of control. It’ll have to stop. And as for Dominic—”He paused. “It’s a good job that he dumped you. He’s destructive and irresponsible.”

“He’s an artist,” she said in his defense. “He’s temperamental—”

“Temperamental?” Rhys echoed, incredulous. “He’s a bloody nightmare! And he treats you like crap, yet you defend him.”

“Dominic can be incredibly sweet.”

“So can ethylene glycol,” Rhys retorted, “but it’ll kill you, just the same.” He paused as the waiter delivered their entrees. He lifted a forkful of lasagna to her lips. “Here, try this.”

Startled, she tasted it. “Oh,” she admitted, and wiped a bit of sauce from her mouth, “that’s really good.”

“You won’t find better anywhere in London. As to Dominic,” he added, “I suggest you avoid him. And watch your behaviour when you’re in public.”

She bristled. “My behaviour? Why, for heaven’s sake? I’m not a member of the royal family!”

“No.” He leaned forward. “But you’re in the public eye. You never know when a photographer might be around, or someone with a camera phone. You need to behave with the utmost decorum, especially now. After all, stories about our alleged affair are already all over the tabloids.”

“Crikey,” Natalie exclaimed as she flung down her napkin, “that’s hardly my fault, is it? Am I doing anything right? You’ve done nothing but criticise me! My behaviour, my spending habits, my relationships—”

“You’re a smart girl who’s been sheltered from your family’s financial problems – and life in general – for far too long. That’s probably not your fault.”

“Well, thank you for that—” she sputtered.

“—but it’s time you learned what we’re dealing with. Things can’t go on as they have.” He studied her. “I’m here to help your family, Natalie. I’m not the enemy.”

“Yes, you were brought on to help Dashwood and James,” Natalie agreed, stung by his criticism, “so I suggest you stick to your hire agreement, and do your job. But my behaviour – and my relationship with Dom – is none of your bloody business!”

Rhys threw down his own napkin. “I don’t give a shit about your relationship with that guitar-smashing fuckwit,” he snapped. “It’s your life; throw it away however – and with whomever – you wish. But I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from making yourself the next four-colour photo op in the Daily Mail…for the store’s sake, if not your own.”

She blinked, outraged. “How dare you! You have no right—”

“I haven’t time to waste discussing your messy personal life, Miss Dashwood. I’ve better things to do, like trying to keep your grandfather’s stores solvent. Because the truth is,” he added coldly, “some of us actually do have to work for a living.”

Natalie blinked, too astonished to speak. The diners nearest to them had gone quiet; even the clink of silverware had ceased. Mortification washed over her as she realised they’d heard every outrageous word Rhys said to her.

“You can run grandfather’s company however you like, Mr. Gordon,” Natalie said, her voice unsteady as she pushed her chair back. “But you won’t run me. I’m not one of your projects, and I don’t need advice on how to conduct my messy life – particularly not from a rude, arrogant prat like you. So you can just – fuck right off!” She let out a single, hiccupping sob and fled.

Chapter 6

As she emerged on the street, fury catapulted her forward. She scrabbled in her handbag for her sunglasses and thrust them on. Her head was pounding and her thoughts were in turmoil.

She pondered various ways to kill Rhys Gordon. Which would be more satisfying – a slow, torturous death, or something quick and violent? Tough call, that…

“Natalie!” someone shouted behind her. “Is it true you’re having an affair with Rhys Gordon?”

Suddenly she was surrounded by paparazzi, jostling one another as they thrust microphones and cameras in her face. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“Will Rhys turn the company round, or is Dashwood and James past redemption?”

“Tell us, Natalie – is Gordon as hard-driving in bed as he is in the boardroom?”

“No comment,” she managed, flustered. She began to tremble. Thank God she had sunglasses on; if they saw her tears, they’d probably say she’d had a lovers’ spat with Rhys!

“What does Dominic Heath think of your new boyfriend?”

“Rhys Gordon is not my new boyfriend!” Natalie sputtered. “He’s not my boyfriend at all!”

Suddenly Rhys appeared, thrusting his way through the crowd of reporters, and took possession of her arm.

“Is it true, Rhys?” a female reporter for the Mirror called out. “Are you and Natalie an item, or not?”

“What does Miss Dashwood say?” he countered, unperturbed.

“She says you’re not.”

He glanced at Natalie, his expression unreadable. “Then we’re not.” He turned back to the reporters. “Now bugger off, the lot of you.”

Shaken, she let Rhys draw her away. “Thanks,” she murmured, and cast a hunted look over her shoulder as the media hounds dispersed to return to their cars and news vans to sniff out a story elsewhere. “They came out of nowhere. Even after two years with Dom, I still hate it.”

Reporters had often waited outside Dom’s townhouse in Primrose Hill, hoping for a quote or a photograph. It was a nuisance; but it went with the territory when you dated a pop star.

No, far worse was the débâcle with her father when she was a child. Journalists had loitered at the gates to her family’s Warwickshire home for days, bristling with microphones and cameras, and shouted rapid-fire questions at the car as mum drove past, questions ten-year-old Natalie hadn’t understood.

But at least mum had shielded her and her sister Caro from the worst of it…

Natalie realised that Mr. Gordon had spoken. She looked up at him with a guilty start. “I’m sorry, what?”

He raised a brow. “You were a million miles away. Are you all right?”

She nodded. “A bit shaken, that’s all. I’m fine.”

“You never really get used to it,” he observed, and walked beside her as they headed back to Sloane Street. “The media, that is. You learn to handle them,” Rhys said, “and you learn to be firm. That’s the only thing they understand.”

She gave him a sidewise glance. “Spoken like someone who’s been there.”

“I have, more than once.” A shadow passed over his face, gone as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry if I was a bit hard on you in the restaurant.”

“It’s all right.” She added, “It won’t be easy to turn Dashwood and James around, you know.”

“Believe me, I know.” His words were grim. “The store’s finances are a bloody mess, and I’ve a lot of work ahead to get things sorted. But I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you. I apologise.”

“Sorry I told you to fuck off.”

Rhys smiled briefly. “Forget it. If you’ve time when we get back, Miss Dashwood, I’ll show you a couple of spreadsheets to demonstrate how bad things really are.”

Natalie groaned. “I despise spreadsheets, truly. But I suppose I could fit it in. I haven’t any ships to christen at the moment.”

As they rounded the corner onto Sloane Street, Natalie was conscious of his hand at her back. She realised that her headache was gone.

“Shit.” Rhys slowed his pace. Several reporters waited outside the store. “Normally I’d deal with them, but I haven’t time today. Come on, we’ll slip in the back entrance.”

But they’d been spotted. With a couple of shouts, the journos abandoned the front steps and pelted after them.

Natalie, her hand gripped tightly in Rhys’s, ran with him around the corner and gasped, “This is crazy!”

As they ducked into the store’s service lift, Rhys glanced back at her. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Well, we’re being chased by the paparazzi…your famous ex-boyfriend is engaged to his ex-wife…and you and I are the featured story in every red-top in London.”

Nat shrugged. “Oh, well – being papped goes with the territory when you date a celebrity. And Keeley and Dominic? They deserve each other. He never got over her, you know.” She smirked. “Or losing access to the masses of money she makes.”

As they stepped off the service lift to the fourth floor, Natalie checked her mobile. There were four messages from her mum, one from her sister Caro, and one from…Ian Clarkson? How did he get her number? “I’ve got to check my messages,” she told Rhys with a frown. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t be long,” he cautioned. “My meeting’s in twenty minutes.”

She nodded, already listening to her messages.

Bleep. “It’s mum. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight? I’ve hardly seen you lately.”

Bleep. “I don’t know what’s going on,” her mother began ominously, “but reporters are outside, armed with cameras and microphones. I can’t leave the house! Please call me.”

Bleep. “Sarah Hadley called to say you and Rhys Gordon are all over the tabloids! You’re not sleeping with that man…? I don’t care what you’re doing, Natalie, call me at once!”

Bleep. “I’m turning the hose on those reporters. This is insufferable! The answer machine is clogged with messages from every tabloid in London.” Natalie heard the hissing sound of spraying water, and a chorus of muffled shouts, then her mum cried triumphantly, “Take that, you lot!”

Natalie groaned. Poor mum. There was no time to call and explain now; she’d call back after the meeting with Rhys. Bleep. “I’m on my way to fetch Nigella,” Caro chirped. “Thanks, Natty! Love you.”

Finally, she scrolled to the last message. Ian Clarkson.

Bleep. “Natalie, Ian here.” He paused. “Call me. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

Ian was married, his wife Alexa expecting their first child, yet each time he saw Natalie, he asked her, in that suggestive, smarmy way of his, to lunch or drinks. She always turned him down. She had no doubt that his message was more of the same. Without hesitation, she deleted it.

Ian was trouble she didn’t need. Or want.

She hurried back to Rhys’s office. Just outside his door, she paused. He was talking to someone on the phone.

“—the tabloids? No, there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James.”

Natalie blinked. Every tabloid in Britain was running the story of her ‘affair’ with Rhys; reporters had badgered her, and brought up bad memories, and besieged her mum’s house; and Rhys Gordon thought it made for ‘great publicity?’ Her fingers tightened on her mobile.

“The stores need every ounce of attention they can get,” Rhys went on. “What better way to grab the headlines than an ‘affair’ with Sir Richard’s granddaughter, Natalie?”

Fury swept over her. How dare Rhys use her like this, like some kind of – of media catnip? Why, the opportunistic, manipulative little prat—

“Attractive?” Rhys said into the phone. “Yes, very. But she’s not my type,” he added dismissively. “As to what she’s like…well, you’d have to ask the boyfriend, Dominic.” He let out a throaty chuckle. “Probably a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…”

Her cheeks flaming with mortification, Natalie stood rooted to the spot.

When she’d flung the wine at Dominic, Rhys Gordon had stepped in to save the day – not to avoid publicity, but to guarantee it.

It all made perfect sense. She remembered how he’d offered to take her home, how he’d leaned his head close to hers when they spoke, and put his hand on her back when he walked her outside. He’d demonstrated such concern for her…

.…all for the benefit of the bloody photographers.

Natalie turned to go. She left, glad Gemma wasn’t at her desk, and blinked back tears of anger and humiliation.

“Natalie?” Gemma called out behind her. “Were you looking for me?”

She paused to collect herself before she turned around. “Yes. Would you tell Mr. Gordon that I can’t stay? I had a call…my mother…something’s come up.”

“Is everything all right?” Gemma asked as she came closer, her face etched with concern. “You look upset.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” And before her tears could give proof to the lie, she fled.

Chapter 7

When Natalie came downstairs, she saw reporters loitering outside the front doors. They were as persistent – and irritating – as midges. Thrusting her sunglasses on, she detoured once again to the back service entrance and peered cautiously out. No one was in sight.

Halfway down the alley to her car, Natalie heard a shout behind her.

“Natalie! Where’s Rhys? Is it true you’re seeing each other?”

“How do you feel about Dominic and Keeley’s engagement? Give us a quote, love!”

She flung herself inside the car and slammed the door, then gunned the engine. Her heart pounded as she threw the Peugeot in gear and screeched out onto Sloane Street, narrowly missing a taxicab in the process. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Thankfully, no one followed her.

Natalie found a parking spot on a side street and let out a ragged breath. Bloody media! What she needed was someone to talk to. Someone calm and sensible…

She grabbed her mobile and scrolled to Sir Richard’s private number. “I need to see you, grandfather,” she said without preamble when he answered. “Right now.” Her voice wobbled. “Thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Cherie James peeled the last potato, ready to add it to the others arranged around the roast, when the phone rang. “Yes?”

“Hullo, darling, it’s me.”

“Alastair,” Cherie said as she eyed the roast, “don’t tell me you’re working late again. You promised to be home in time for dinner tonight—”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But Gordon wants ideas to improve our bottom line, and he wants them by tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll get home. Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t worry,” Cherie said tightly as she put the roast in the Aga and slammed the oven door, “I won’t.” The meat would taste like a boot by the time Alastair finally sat down to eat.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “We’ll go to that new French restaurant you’ve wanted to try. I’ll make reservations for Saturday night when I hang up.”

Despite her anger, she relented. “All right,” she said finally. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that you’re always staying late. I’m bloody sick of my own company.”