His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride

Darcy shot upright, her feet frantically scrabbling for her discarded shoes. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded hoarsely.

He had the audacity to smile. ‘Don’t look now, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘But I think you’ve just blown your perfect-hostess image. Didn’t you know that your father had invited me to dinner?’

‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘Obviously not.’ She badly wanted to refasten those damned buttons on her shirt, which he’d already noticed, but knew that would only give him further ammunition.

‘I wonder why not,’ he said pensively. ‘Maybe he thought you might suddenly remember a previous engagement.’

‘And he’d have been right,’ Darcy said stonily. Shod once more, she got to her feet. ‘You’ll both have to excuse me, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. I’d only be in the way.’

As she made for the door he halted her, his fingers closing on her arm.

She pulled free, glaring at him. ‘Do not—ever—put your hands on me again.’

He stepped back, lifting them in mock-surrender. ‘Just a word of warning, Miss Langton. I don’t think your father would be pleased if you disappeared this evening. He seems to want us to be friends.’

‘Something else he hasn’t chosen to mention.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Why didn’t you tell him he’s wasting his time?’

‘Because it seemed a little arbitrary. And it occurred to me that for the sake of future harmony, you and I could perhaps develop—a working relationship. On a temporary basis only, of course. Until his retirement is complete.’

She shook her head, angrily aware that his blue gaze had returned to the loosened front of her shirt. ‘No, Mr Castille,’ she said. ‘Not even for the space of the next five minutes.’

‘A pity,’ he said. ‘Your father doesn’t strike me as a man who takes disappointment well. It’s something we have in common,’ he added levelly.

‘Then that’s as far as the resemblance goes,’ she said. ‘And if he had any idea how you once treated me, you’d be looking for another job.’

‘Which I’d find,’ he said. ‘How’s your employment record, Miss Langton? Logged on the police computer?’

Her face was suddenly burning. ‘How dare you?’

‘Well, it’s hardly a secret.’ He shrugged. ‘Drew Maidstone is pretty notorious, and you’re extremely photogenic. And as we’re being totally frank, you should be grateful to me. I got you away from that party two years ago just in time. People had been drinking, and things could have turned nasty for you. I’m sure you remember that.’

‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that as far as I was concerned, you were just one more animal in a truly disgusting pack. So, gratitude doesn’t really feature.’

He wasn’t smiling any more, and she saw a muscle flicker at the corner of his mouth. She’d got to him at last, she thought, and knew a fleeting moment of triumph.

‘All the same,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you might be wiser to stay at home for dinner tonight.’

‘And if ever I need your advice,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask for it.’ She collected blazer and bag, and walked past him into the hall.

She was at the front door when her father’s voice reached her. ‘Darcy? Where are you going?’

She turned to see him coming down the stairs, his expression faintly forbidding.

‘To visit Lois.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Pizza, a bottle of wine and a couple of chicks’ movies. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, it must have slipped your mind.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘And I’m afraid you must telephone Lois and make your excuses. As you now know, we have a guest, and I need you here this evening to act as my hostess.’

‘Aunt Freddie seems to be one of Mr Castille’s fans,’ she returned defiantly. ‘I’m sure she’d take my place for once.’

‘Your aunt returned to Kings Whitnall this afternoon. I pay you a generous allowance, Darcy, and occasionally I expect you to earn it.’ He waited, giving a nod as, reluctantly, she turned back from the door. ‘Now, run upstairs and tidy yourself, then join us for sherry,’ he added implacably, ignoring her pleading look.

Mutinously, Darcy went to her room. She washed her face and hands, then applied moisturiser, but no other cosmetics. Not even a touch of her favourite scent. No concessions whatsoever, she told herself, brushing her hair vigorously then sweeping it back severely from her face, in order to confine it, with a silver clip, at the nape of her neck.

Mouth tightening, she refastened her shirt to the throat, and straightened her skirt.

Then she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the flurried beat of her heart, and went slowly and unhappily down to the drawing room, and the continuing nightmare that waited for her there.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE’D EXPECTED to be met with a combination of mockery and triumph, but she was wrong. Joel Castille rose politely as she entered, his smile pleasant and unchallenging, then brought her the glass of excellent amontillado that she’d requested in a small wooden voice.

Then he and her father resumed their quiet conversation, and she was left, thankfully, to her own devices.

But, with her enemy sitting only a few feet away, long legs stretched in front of him, dark face warmly alive as he talked, it was difficult to divorce herself as totally from the proceedings as she might wish. He was speaking about some project he’d been involved with in Colombia, and the inbuilt problems his team had been forced to overcome, and she was annoyed to find her attention first captured, then engaged.

In addition, as time passed, Darcy realised uneasily that she was studying him covertly under her lashes, taking in the elegant lines of the charcoal suit, and the way its waistcoat accentuated his lean body. Her aunt had mentioned he had a French father, and she saw that particular heritage in the occasional swift, graceful gesture of the long-fingered hands when he wished to emphasise some point.

Attractive? Well, yes, she was forced, grudgingly, to admit. But not in any way that could ever appeal to her, although if Lois ever got to see him she would probably describe him as sex on legs.

But even without the events of two years before, Darcy would always find a man like Joel Castille eminently resistible. He was too armoured in his own arrogance, she told herself. His sense of power.

Joel Castille was clearly brilliant at his job, and a born raconteur, but it would be a relief when her father finally retired, bringing this interregnum to an end. Then she could finally airbrush his successor out of sight, mind and memory.

But long before that happy day, she needed to remove herself completely from his sphere of influence, she thought, and found herself suddenly wondering why she should know that with such total conviction. And also such terrifying urgency.

Fool, she castigated herself. It’s not that difficult to work out. You have to get away before something is said, deliberately or by chance, which could bring all your skeletons from two years ago tumbling into the open. Some random comment that will give your father the idea that you and Joel Castille have some kind of shared past, because that would be a disaster.

And the prospect of Harry coming back just increases the pressure. Because it would be so easy if he wished to make mischief…

She closed her mind at this point. She couldn’t let herself think about that, she told herself fiercely.

She simply needed to stay cool, and take the necessary avoiding action. And then everything would be fine. Or at least survivable.

Tomorrow she’d make it clear to the agency that she’d take any job at all, even if it meant, heaven help her, going back to Paris to the Harrisons and their demonic brood, and hoping that some other alternative opportunity for employment would present itself while she was there, and before she was driven either mad, or to murder.

She realised suddenly that a momentary silence had fallen, and that both men were looking at her, Joel’s eyes intent and slightly narrowed.

Her father said, rather too heartily, ‘I’ve been telling Joel how beautiful the woods round Kings Whitnall are looking—with the autumn tints. We’ll have to persuade him to come down again and see for himself.’

‘Mr Castille is a much travelled man,’ she said coolly, avoiding that too searching gaze. ‘I don’t think a few autumn leaves are enough to interest him.’

‘I’m always fascinated by beauty, Miss Langton,’ he drawled. ‘Wherever it may be found. And whatever unlikely form it takes,’ he added softly.

She was aware of her hands involuntarily clenching into fists, and was rescued by Mrs Inman, who came to say that dinner was served.

The housekeeper had always been an excellent cook, but that night she seemed to have surpassed herself. Her wonderful thick vegetable soup was followed by rib of beef, succulently pink in the middle, served with crisp golden potatoes and an array of vegetables, perfectly cooked. For dessert there was Queen of Puddings, served with a bowl of whipped cream.

And when she came to clear the plates, and tell them coffee would be served in the drawing room, she accepted Joel Castille’s sincere praise with shy, pink-faced pleasure.

Darcy had not felt like eating, but she knew that any failure of appetite on her part would be noted and commented on by her father, so she’d forced the food down as if she’d been programmed to do so.

Now that it was too late, she realised she’d been a fool to let Joel Castille see that his re-entry into her life mattered to her one iota.

She should have smiled—shrugged the whole thing off. Maybe pretended it was a joke that had gone wrong. That she was one of a whole series of girls who were supposed to turn up and play tricks on Harry.

He might not have believed her, but if she’d stuck to her guns he’d have had to accept her story. And she could have edged her way out of the situation quietly, and without fuss.

In the meantime, this was turning into the pleasant social occasion from hell.

It was so difficult, she discovered, to be forced to converse with someone and maintain an essential distance at the same time. Especially when that someone seemed to have read many of the same books, seen some of the same films and liked much of the same music that she did herself. Or so he claimed, anyway.

Joel Castille was making himself agreeable, and she didn’t want that. She wanted him to be brutal and bullying again. Behave in a way that would give her every excuse to shun him, and give her father every reason to accept those excuses.

She groaned inwardly. Oh, why had Aunt Freddie gone back to Kings Whitnall? Why wasn’t she here to give her niece some respite from this unwanted charm offensive?

As it was, she could almost hear Gavin purring with satisfaction, and she wanted to scream in frustration and rage, because her tormentor was doing this quite deliberately. Putting her in an impossible position, and watching her squirm.

All right, she wanted to shout at him. I made a mistake once when I was eighteen, but I’ve suffered for it. And I don’t need to be continually harassed and punished by you of all people. So, why the hell can’t you leave me alone?

And she would have to sit there in the drawing room and take anything he cared to dish out, smiling politely as she did so. She couldn’t even use one of her migraines as an excuse to quit this ghastly threesome, she realised bitterly. He’d see through that in an instant.

Yet it was Joel Castille himself who called a halt to her profound discomfort. He drank his coffee and rose to his feet.

‘I hate to break up such an unforgettable evening,’ he said, ‘but I have an early start tomorrow, and a crowded day. Will you forgive me, please?’

‘As long as you promise to dine here again very soon.’ Gavin Langton clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Show Joel to the door, won’t you, darling?’ he added to Darcy.

Only a few more minutes, she thought as she preceded him, sedate and unsmiling, to the front door. She held it open. ‘Goodnight, Mr Castille.’

But he’d halted, and was looking down at her, smiling faintly.

He said, ‘You look as if you’re about to take the minutes of some meeting.’ He glanced pointedly at the rigidly closed top button of her shirt. ‘Now, I prefer the dishevelled look, with your hair loose and your dress falling off.’

The shiver that ran down her spine had little to do with the chill of the night air entering the hallway.

She said in a low, scornful voice, ‘Your personal preferences are a matter of complete indifference to me. As far as I’m concerned, Mr Castille, you’re in this house purely on sufferance.’

He remained unruffled. ‘And has it ever occurred to you, Miss Langton,’ he drawled, ‘that the same might be said of you?’

He paused. ‘Tell me something,’ he said quietly. ‘What exactly did you hope to achieve that night two years ago?’

She stiffened. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Then indulge me,’ he said. ‘Satisfy my curiosity.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you know quite enough about me already.’ She faced him, chin up, her grey-green eyes sparking furiously. ‘I’m a marriage wrecker. A weapon of mass destruction. There’s no need for more.’

‘Now, there we differ.’ He spoke softly, his blue gaze suddenly and disturbingly intense. ‘Because I’ve only just begun to find out about you. And before I’m finished, I intend to discover everything there is to know. So, be warned.’

He went past her, and out into the night.

It was hardly a grand gesture to slam the door after him, but Darcy did it anyway. And found, as she’d suspected, that it was no comfort at all.

She went back to the drawing room to find her father had poured himself another brandy, and was seated, gazing broodingly into space. Perhaps it was a trick of the lamplight, but for a moment it seemed to Darcy as if his face was shadowed, even haggard.

But when he looked at her it was with his usual searching look, and the illusion passed. ‘You took long enough to say goodnight.’

‘On the contrary,’ Darcy returned coolly. ‘Mr Castille doesn’t know when he’s outstayed his welcome.’

‘Speaking of which,’ he said slowly, ‘you might have taken a little more trouble with your appearance tonight.’

‘When we have guests, I will.’ There was a chill in her voice. ‘Mr Castille already seems to be part of the family.’

‘Maybe he is, at that.’ He shook his head. ‘Dear God, Darcy when I’m talking to him, I see myself at the same age. He’s just what Werner Langton needs.’

‘Which I never could be, of course.’ She didn’t hide her bitterness. ‘Why don’t you say it, Daddy? He’s the son you never had.’

‘I’m not exactly in my dotage,’ he came back at her sharply. ‘There could yet be another Langton to take up the reins in the years to come. I’ve never taken a vow of celibacy, you know.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’

Her thoughts were sober as she went up to bed. ‘Another Langton’, her father had said. Could he really be considering marrying again—spending his retirement with another woman—even starting a second family? Plenty of other men did so, of course.

But how would she feel about sharing her home with a stepmother, and having younger siblings around? Except it wouldn’t be her home any more. And what on earth would Aunt Freddie do under those circumstances?

She’d put her career as an artist on hold when her sister, Darcy’s mother, had died, and moved into Kings Whitnall, a gentle presence to run the house and care for a small, bewildered child.

As Darcy had grown older, she’d come to understand that her aunt cared far more deeply for Gavin than he seemed to realise.

He’s probably so used to having her around that he doesn’t see her any more—or not as a woman he could love, she thought sadly.

She hung her skirt in the wardrobe, and put the rest of her clothing in the laundry basket for Mrs Inman to attend to. The kind of luxury she would have to learn to do without, she told herself.

Kings Whitnall had always been her safety net. Somewhere to come home to. Safety and security under one welcoming roof. Now she might have to learn to be a guest there.

But if there was to be a new regime, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with Joel Castille, she reflected as she slipped into bed. And for that she could be truly thankful.

Even so, Darcy suddenly found herself remembering the way he’d looked at her as he was leaving. Heard again the softly voiced promise that threatened what was left of her peace of mind. And dragged the bedclothes around her body, shivering.

On the spur of the moment, she went down to Kings Whitnall the following afternoon. She needed, she thought, to talk to Freddie. To lay the cards on the table. But there was a shock in store for her.

‘Darcy, my love,’ her aunt said, pouring tea in the drawing room. ‘Please don’t worry about me. I’ve been making my own plans. I’m not needed here any longer. So, I’m ready to move on.’

‘But where will you go?’ Darcy bit her lip. ‘If I had a real job, we could find a flat, maybe. Somewhere together.’ She sighed. ‘But I haven’t got any kind of work at the moment. I was thinking of going back to that awful family in Paris, but even they managed to find someone else while I was making up my mind. So I can’t even afford a grotty bedsit right now.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much.’ There was an odd note in her aunt’s voice. ‘I’m sure your father has plans for you. And I do have somewhere to go. I went up to London to sort out the final arrangements.’

She paused. ‘You remember Barbara Lee, my great friend from school and art-college days? Well, she was appointed as headmistress of St Benedict’s last year, and she’s been looking for someone to teach art there.’

She drew a breath. ‘I didn’t say anything before, because I had to be interviewed by the board of governors. That’s where I was yesterday, and they’ve offered me the job, and asked me to start next month. I’m so thrilled about it all. It’s just the new beginning I need.’

Darcy said slowly, ‘It all sounds wonderful.’ And so it did. Her aunt sounded confident—energised. A different woman, taking her life by the throat.

I’m less than half her age, she reflected unhappily. And I feel as if everything around me has shifted by about sixty degrees and I don’t know where I am any more. Or where I can go next.

And she knew exactly who was responsible for this turmoil in her existence.

Damn you, Joel Castille, she thought savagely. Damn you to hell. Which reminded her…

‘By the way,’ she made her voice deliberately casual, ‘I think my father intends to invite the new Werner Langton supremo down here from time to time. Can you keep me posted about this, please, so that I can avoid him?’

‘Avoid him?’ Her aunt’s expression was openly startled. ‘But I thought…’ She paused for a moment. ‘My dear, are you sure this is wise?’

Darcy raised her brows. ‘Why not?’

‘Because your father wants you and Mr Castille to—get on together. You know that.’

‘I also know it’s not going to happen,’ Darcy said defiantly. ‘As I’ve told him. I can’t stand the man.’

Aunt Freddie gave her a quizzical look. ‘I’d have thought most young women would find him seriously attractive,’ she commented.

‘You’re the artist, Freddie, dear,’ Darcy countered. ‘You always told me to look below the surface. Perhaps I don’t like what I see.’

‘Really?’ her aunt said drily, and paused. ‘Do you still insist you never met before the other night, Darcy? Because he certainly seemed to remember you.’

Darcy shrugged. ‘It’s probably his mistaken notion of a chatup line,’ she evaded.

‘I shouldn’t think he needs one,’ said Aunt Freddie, clearly hell-bent on being irritating. ‘He’s good-looking, successful and wealthy. The average girl would generally find that enough.’

Darcy forced a smile. ‘Then I must be the exception that proves the rule,’ she said lightly. ‘But you will tip me off when he’s expected, won’t you?’

Her aunt sighed. ‘If that’s what you really want.’ She hesitated, then said reluctantly, ‘As it happens, your father telephoned just before you arrived. It seems they’ll both be down tomorrow evening.’

‘My God,’ Darcy said slowly. ‘He doesn’t waste any time.’ She shrugged. ‘Thank you, Freddie dearest. I’ll be gone in the morning.’

‘And what am I to tell your father?’ Aunt Freddie gave her a level look.

‘That history’s repeating itself, and you have another migraine, perhaps?’

There was a taut silence. Darcy bit her lip. She said in a low voice, ‘I truly wish I could tell you about that, but I can’t. One day, perhaps. Anyway,’ she added more robustly, ‘tell Dad you don’t know what I’m doing. After all, I’m free, and in six months I’ll be twenty-one. Do I have to explain how I’m spending my weekends?’

‘You’d think not,’ her aunt agreed. ‘But where Gavin’s concerned, the usual rules rarely apply. And I warn you now that he’s going to be bitterly disappointed.’

When Darcy got back to Chelsea, Mrs Inman was clearly surprised to see her.

‘Mr Langton said you’d both be away, miss, and that I could have the weekend off. I was going to visit my sister.’

‘And so you can,’ Darcy assured her. ‘I’ll hardly be here, except to sleep, and I plan to eat out as well.’

‘Well, if you’re quite sure…’ Mrs Inman shook her head, still anxious, and departed reluctantly for her own pleasant flat in the basement.

It was good, Darcy discovered, to have the house to herself, and be able to embark on a couple of days of sheer indulgence, with no one to please but herself.

She’d expected phone calls—messages on the answering machine from Kings Whitnall demanding her presence, or at least an explanation for her absence.

But there were none. Perhaps her father was being philosophical at last, accepting that she and Joel Castille would always be oil and water.

And when Gavin finally phoned on Monday morning, there were no awkward questions.

‘Are you free for lunch, Darcy?’ he asked. ‘Then why don’t I reserve a table at Haringtons for one o’clock?’

‘My favourite place,’ she told him happily. ‘I can’t wait.’

He seemed in a good mood, she thought as she rang off, because that was definitely a peace-offering. She found herself wondering how the rest of the weekend had gone, and if Joel Castille had shown any great interest in the autumn countryside he’d been invited to admire. But she immediately dismissed it all from her mind. His interests were no concern of hers. And the falling leaves could bury him alive for all she cared.

For her lunch date, she dressed in a cream straight skirt topped by a V-necked sweater in a pale honey colour. She put gold studs in her ears, and brushed her hair into silky waves round her face. She emphasised the faint almond slant of her eyes with shadow and pencil, and touched her lips with a neutral gloss.

Neat, she told herself, her mouth twisting, but not gaudy. The way her father liked her to look.

Because if, as she suspected, they were about to have that serious talk about the future that he’d mentioned last week, it would be good to get off on the right foot.

And she would raise, yet again, the subject of her engineering training. Try and make him see that she was serious. That she wanted to make a contribution.

She arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, to be greeted by the head waiter, all smiles, and conducted with some ceremony to one of the corner tables.

The stage was definitely set for a quiet tête-à-tête, she thought wryly as she asked for a white-wine spritzer. She settled back on the cushioned bench, and glanced around her. It might not be the most fashionable place in London, but the food was wonderful, so most of the tables were occupied, and the room was filled with the soft hum of conversation.

She and her father had been coming here for years. Even when she was a schoolgirl, a meal at Haringtons had invariably featured as part of every half-term treat.