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

“And thank God for that,” he said acidly.

“I won’t be treated like an empty-headed adolescent—”

“Then stop acting like one,” Rhys retorted, and returned to his desk.

“What about you?” she snapped. “Staying at the Connaught at the company’s expense, swanning all over town in your Jaguar, making a bloody fortune to come in here and boss me round, turning everything upside down—”

“I worked my arse off to get here.” His face was dark with anger. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen, going to school at night and working during the day, and it wasn’t easy. But it taught me responsibility, and it taught me the value of a pound. Two things you’ve yet to learn.” He scowled. “I make no apologies for who I am or how successful I’ve become, Miss Dashwood, because it’s all down to one thing. Hard fucking work.”

He snatched up a sheet of paper from the blotter and thrust it at her.

She flinched. “What’s this?”

“That,” he informed her, “is what’s known as an invoice. It lists money owed for something which one has purchased.”

“You needn’t talk down to me! I can see it’s an invoice—”

“Good. Excellent! We’ve made progress.” He strode, scowling, from his desk to the window. “Now look at the figure owed. Here’s a hint – it’s on the bottom of the page.”

Natalie looked more closely at the invoice. “Well…there’s one Missoni tank dress, one Cavalli sheath, and one Waterford chandelier, shipped to Scotland…” her voice dwindled and trailed away. “Oh. Eleven thousand pounds…that’s rather a lot, isn’t it?”

“Rather a lot, yes.”

She bit her lip. Guilt was plain upon her face. “I bought it for Tark and Wren. It’s a wedding gift.”

Rhys turned away from the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and faced her. “Did it never occur to you to send them a nice set of wine glasses instead?”

“Wine glasses would still be pricey,” she informed him. “The castle dining hall seats two hundred.”

“Then why,” Rhys went on, gathering steam like an angry locomotive, “if you were determined to be extravagant, didn’t you purchase the chandelier from Dashwood and James? We carry Waterford, you know. You’d get a ten percent discount. And free bloody shipping!”

“That would’ve been immensely tacky,” she said indignantly. “The chandelier would’ve arrived at the castle in a big D&J packing box, and Tark would’ve known straightaway that I used my family discount to buy his present.”

“Thank God your reputation for generosity with the rich and titled remains unblemished,” Rhys snapped. “Do you realise that this store – the source of what little income remains to you and your family – is on the verge of total fucking collapse?”

Natalie fixed him with a glare. “I don’t believe things are so bad. You make everything look worse than it is, so you can swoop in and save the day. All hail Saint Rhys.”

“Let me make this as simple as I can, Miss Dashwood.” He returned to his desk and leaned towards her, his hands pressed down on the spreadsheet-covered blotter. “The store’s become a vast money pit, with more outgoing than incoming. That’s not good. It can’t continue any longer.”

“You’re mistaken,” Natalie said stubbornly. “D&J still make a profit. I stand to inherit a fortune—”

“A fortune?” he echoed, incredulous. “The stores haven’t made a profit in months. Sir Richard has an outstanding debt of nearly a million pounds. Once that debt is paid off, if it’s ever paid off—” Rhys sat down, punched a few keys on his laptop, and pointed to a spreadsheet with a much tinier figure than Natalie could ever have imagined “—you might inherit enough to open a chip shop in Bermondsey.”

Natalie was too shocked to speak.

“Unless things change drastically, and soon,” Rhys informed her icily, “Dashwood and James will close its doors…forever.”

As the opening strains of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’ heralded the beginning of the afternoon wedding service at St. Anselm’s cathedral, the bride was in a panic.

“Where’s Dominic?” Keeley demanded, fraught with nerves. “It’s nearly time!” The church was packed with reporters, celebrities, and well over two hundred of their closest friends; even Klaus von Richter had condescended to come.

“I’m sure he’s just nipped out for a fag,” her mum reassured her. “He seemed a bit edgy.” Drunk as a sailor on payday, more like, she almost added; but there was no point in upsetting Keeley any more than she already was.

“I’ll kill him if he messes this up,” Keeley fumed. It’d be just like Dominic to do a runner and embarrass her in front of everyone. She gathered up her voluminous Balenciaga skirts and sailed out of the dressing room to hunt him down.

But Dominic was nowhere to be found.

Furious, Keeley stopped near the broom closet to calm her shattered nerves and decide what to do next, when she heard a strange sound. It was rhythmic and steady, punctuated with whispery giggles and the odd moan. She stared at the closed closet door in dawning horror. Surely not even Dominic would be so bold, so brazen, and on their wedding day—?

Grimly Keeley flung the closet door open. At the sight that met her eyes, she screamed.

Dominic stood, mid-bonk with one of her bridesmaids, whose legs were wrapped round his waist. He looked over his shoulder at Keeley and blanched. “Sorry, love,” he mumbled to the girl as he pulled away and fumbled with his fly. “Gotta go. The bride’s just arrived.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Keeley said icily. “By all means, continue. Finish shagging the bridesmaid. Take all the time you need, because we’re not getting married, you skeevy bastard. Not today, not ever!” She turned and stalked away.

As the other bridesmaids emerged from the church and hurried towards her, clucking like outraged hens, Dominic finished doing up his trousers and staggered out into the vestibule. “Keels, wait!”

She cast a scalding glare over her shoulder. “Piss off, Dominic! It’s over between us!”

“Yeah, OK, it’s over, I get that.” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “Um…the thing is, what about the honeymoon, then?”

She came to a stop and turned slowly around. “What?”

“I mean, since it’s paid for and all, I thought I’d take—” he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the bridesmaid, smoothing down her skirts in the closet “—er, Victoria, right? Take Vicks with me to the Maldives instead. I mean, no sense in lettin’ the trip go to waste, is there—”

He never finished the sentence, because Keeley flew at him, shrieking like a demented banshee, and it took all five of the wedding party’s efforts to pull her off.

Alerted by the commotion, the tabloid reporters in attendance spilled out into the vestibule, and flashbulbs began popping. Blood was in the air. The story of Keeley and Dominic’s disastrous celebrity non-wedding, accompanied by lurid four-colour photos, would be the biggest, juiciest scandal to hit the UK since…well, since ever.

“I hate you, Dominic!” Keeley screamed. “I’ll make you pay for this, you bastard!”

Dominic staggered back towards the broom closet, momentarily blinded by flashbulbs. Shouldn’t have drunk that entire bottle of Chivas…probably not my best idea, upon reflection…

Too bad no one had any drugs on offer, he thought. He could really do with a bit of oblivion right about now.

Then he passed out.

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