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

He looked her over, his lips pursing irritably at the jeans and sweatshirt she was wearing. ‘And buy yourself a new dress—something glamorous that’ll make you look like a woman. Don’t forget you have a bad impression to wipe away.’

She felt her hands tighten into fists, but made herself unclench them. Even smile. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said quietly. ‘Of course.’

‘The guest of honour is late,’ Aunt Freddie murmured. ‘And your father is getting agitated.’

‘Not my problem,’ Darcy returned softly, smiling radiantly over her untouched glass of champagne. ‘He can’t expect me to go out and scour the highways and byways for the guy.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps he knows there’s dissension in the ranks over his appointment, and has changed his mind.’

Her aunt shuddered faintly. ‘Don’t even think it. Can you imagine the fallout?’

‘Yes, but at least you’re here to help me cope. I’m truly grateful, Freddie. I know how you hate London.’

‘But occasionally, a visit is inevitable.’ Her aunt looked around her, and sighed. ‘What a disagreeable evening. All these resentful faces.’

‘Plus a drunken waiter, and a waitress spilling a tray of canapés all over the finance director’s wife,’ Darcy reminded her softly.

‘They may turn out to be the high spots of the party.’ Aunt Freddie turned to survey her niece. ‘You look very lovely, darling, but does it always have to be black?’

Darcy glanced down at her figure-skimming voile dress, with its narrow straps and the bias-cut skirt that swirled as she moved.

‘This is a compromise,’ she said. ‘I was looking for sackcloth and ashes.’

‘Well, start celebrating instead,’ her aunt said with open relief. ‘Because the errant guest has finally made it.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Oh, for a sketch pad.’

Amused, Darcy turned towards the doorway. A group of Werner Langton executives was already clustering round the latecomer, and, for a moment, her view was blocked by her father’s commanding figure.

She ought to join them, she thought. Play her part in the meeting and greeting.

She took a step, then the group shifted, and she saw him. And, sick with shock, recognised him. Confronted the harrowing, unforgettable image she’d carried for two years—the tall figure with black hair, and eyes as cold as a northern sea in his tanned face.

Not a bad dream or a hallucination. But here—now—in this room—breathing the same air. And looking round him.

Almost, she thought, dry-mouthed, as if he was searching for someone…

CHAPTER TWO

DARCY COULDN’T move. Could barely think straight.

She gulped air. Any other social event, and she could have contrived to vanish discreetly. But not this one. Not tonight. There was no way.

She tried desperately to compose herself. To be rational.

He won’t remember, she tried to tell herself frantically. Why should he? It was two years ago, for heaven’s sake, in a dimly lit room. She’d changed since then, she was slimmer, had different hair. She was older.

And he wouldn’t be expecting to see her either.

But, as their eyes met at last across the room, Darcy found herself reeling under a look that froze her flesh to her backbone.

For a heartbeat she was stunned, then she lifted her chin and returned the look with as much additional venom as she could muster.

Only to realise, with horror, that he was actually crossing the room towards her. Standing straight in front of her, when he must know, if he possessed a grain of sense or tact, that she would never want to see or speak to him again.

That the looks they’d exchanged had said it all.

She was aware of Aunt Freddie’s surprised glance at her as the taut silence lengthened, then her quiet voice saying, ‘Mr Castille, how nice to see you again. I don’t think you’ve met my niece. Darcy, this is Werner Langton’s new managing director, Joel Castille.’

She was prepared to bluff it out. To take the only option—shake hands and turn away. But he was not.

He said softly, ‘Actually, Miss Langton and I have met before, but only briefly. It was two years ago, around the time of Harry Metcalfe’s wedding. I’m sure she remembers.’

‘No,’ Darcy returned with total and chilling clarity. ‘I do not.’

‘Are you sure it was the Metcalfe wedding?’ Aunt Freddie was wrinkling her brow. ‘Because none of us actually attended it. We were invited as neighbours, of course, but only out of politeness, I’m sure. And Darcy was in London, staying with friends.’ She turned to the unsmiling statue beside her. ‘You were ill there, weren’t you, darling? A severe migraine, if I recall. Such a shame.’

‘A shame, indeed,’ Joel Castille said gravely. There were twin devils dancing in the cold blue eyes. ‘Do you suffer much from migraines, Miss Langton?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I feel as if I might be developing one right now.’

‘And we didn’t meet at the wedding itself,’ he added, turning to her aunt. ‘But at one of the parties beforehand. Isn’t that right, Miss Langton?’

‘Your memory is clearly better than mine,’ she said icily. ‘I have no recollection of you at all, Mr Castille.’

‘What a pity,’ he said lightly. ‘Now, I found our encounter electrifying—quite unforgettable.’ His eyes went over her with that same sensual male appraisal that she’d never quite been able to erase from her mind. The look that suggested she was standing in front of him, unclothed. His loaded smile seemed to leave a bruise. ‘And I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.’

As he moved away, Aunt Freddie said in quiet reproach, ‘Darcy, what were you thinking of? You were almost rude to Mr Castille.’

Rude? thought Darcy, shock now battling with fury inside her. I’m only sorry I didn’t kick him where it hurts, and throw up all over his shoes.

She said shortly, ‘I didn’t find him quite as irresistible as he clearly does himself.’ She shrugged. ‘But, what the hell? Hopefully, we won’t have to meet again.’ Please God. Please God.

The evening became like some weird game of hide-and-seek, she thought afterwards. She tried to be totally unobtrusive. He let her know, without coming near her, that he knew exactly where she was at any given moment. And she flinched under that knowledge.

At the same time, he could work a room, she acknowledged without pleasure. She could actually notice a thaw in the atmosphere. Realised that some tight-lipped expressions had relaxed. That people were approaching him, gathering round him, wanting to talk. And that he was listening.

She saw her father smiling expansively, not even bothering to conceal his triumph that the first hurdle, at least, had been cleared with consummate ease.

But she found her own heart sinking.

It was ludicrous to hope that her desperate prayer would be answered, and that Joel Castille could simply be—dismissed from her life, as if he’d never existed. He was only too real. And letting her know it, too.

She heard some sally from her father and the quieter response, followed by an appreciative roar of laughter, and winced. Langton and Castille, she thought, grabbing another glass of champagne from a passing tray. The new double act.

I’ll be lucky if my father doesn’t offer to adopt him.

Oh, God, if I could just get out of here. If I didn’t have to stay until the bitter end.

Instinct told her that she hadn’t heard the last of him. That he would seek her out again before the night was over. But at least this time she would be slightly more prepared.

She’d just said goodnight to the personnel director and his wife when Joel Castille eventually came up to her. She took an instinctive step backwards, which was a mistake because it took her into a corner, and she found herself blocked there, her only escape route to push right past him.

She stood her ground and waited.

He said softly, ‘You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this evening.’

‘Of course.’ She didn’t even pretend to smile. Her expression was stone, and to hell with what people thought. ‘You’ve just landed one of the top jobs in the industry. Congratulations. Now leave me alone.’

‘I really didn’t know you were Gavin’s daughter,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Until I saw that photograph of you adorning the grand piano in the drawing room at Kings Whitnall. You looked younger, of course, and more innocent, but quite unmistakable.’

His gaze roamed over her, slowly and comprehensively. ‘And tonight you’re wearing black again. But then it’s your colour. Gives that lovely skin of yours the sheen of ivory. I recollect thinking that at our last encounter. Besides, white would hardly be appropriate, would it?’

‘If you say so.’

Black, she thought, was a non-colour. It was darkness—it was mourning. It was a vast hole in the middle of the universe, filled with nothing.

He’d paused, deliberately building up the tension that already vibrated between them. ‘Of course, Harry said you were a neighbour’s daughter, and I knew whereabouts he lived, so I should have put two and two together.’

‘And made five, no doubt,’ she said. ‘Like last time.’

‘Listen, darling,’ he said. ‘Pretty blondes who turn up at stag nights are asking to be misunderstood. Anyway, I wasn’t so far off the mark,’ he added sardonically. ‘You might not have been a stripper, but you were still trouble. One look at Harry’s face told me that.’

Harry’s face. Oh, God, Harry’s face…

She rallied. ‘And what gave you the right to interfere?’

‘His wife is my cousin, Emma.’ His tone hardened. ‘I’ve known her since she was a tot, and I care very deeply about her happiness. Harry Metcalfe wouldn’t have been my choice for her, but she—loves him. So, I wasn’t going to have her wedding ruined by a spoiled, man-hungry little bitch like you.’

She was white to the lips. ‘How dare you? You know nothing—nothing about me.’

He said grimly, ‘The bridegroom told me all I needed to know—after some persuasion. He said that you’d had a crush on him for years, and you’d always been hanging around him, trying to attract his attention. Do you deny it?’

‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.

I was a child. And he was like a god to me—gorgeous, glamorous Harry. I’d had hopes—dreams. Who wouldn’t? And, of course, I wanted to be noticed by him—but not like that. Not ever like that…

‘Eventually, against his better judgement, you had a brief fling together,’ the hard voice went on. ‘He admitted that. Also that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake, and just wanted to forget the whole thing, only you wouldn’t allow that—would you, beautiful? You refused to let go.

‘He said that you’d been making a nuisance of yourself ever since, phoning and sending text messages. In effect—stalking him. That you had this pathetic obsession with him and were begging him to break it off with Emma, and marry you instead.’

Darcy drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘And, of course, you believed him?’

‘Why not? I’d seen for myself how persistent you could be.’ The cold eyes were contemptuous. ‘Are you now saying you didn’t have sex with Harry—that he invented it?’

‘No.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘I—can’t say that. And I knew he had a girlfriend, because he always did. But I didn’t know he was going to be married. Not until the wedding invitations arrived,’ she added, almost inaudibly.

‘But it was true that you’d been trying to contact him before you came to the club that night? That you wouldn’t take no for an answer?’

‘Yes.’

I wanted to know how he could have done what he did—with me—when he was in love with someone else. Engaged to her. I needed to ask why—that’s all.

Then I realised our so-called ‘fling’ was going to have consequences, and I was scared—so scared. I didn’t know what to do—who else to turn to. Was that so wrong?

‘And you were trying to stop the wedding?’ His voice probed at her again.

‘Yes—I—I suppose so.’

Was I? I can barely remember any more. I think I just needed Harry to listen—to take some responsibility for what he’d done. But what I do recall is those men’s faces—sweating, gloating. And you—your hands on me…That I remember most of all.

‘Then I’m glad you didn’t get away with it,’ he said curtly, ‘because it would have broken Em’s heart, and that’s not allowed, whatever my private take on Harry.’

‘Fine,’ Darcy said quietly and savagely. ‘It’s all over, and no harm done, so can we leave it there? Because you’ve had your say, Mr Castille. You’ve raked up a lot of things I’d rather forget about, and I’d really like it to stop. Besides, people are leaving, and I need to say goodnight to them.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Daddy’s only daughter. The perfect hostess.’ His mouth twisted. ‘My God, if he only knew.’

‘Let’s leave him in his innocence, shall we?’ She stared back in challenge. ‘Like your cousin Emma?’

She made to get past him, but he halted her, his hand on her arm. ‘One moment. I hope you don’t still harbour any obsessive little fantasies about Harry? Because that could make your life awkward.’

She shook him off almost violently. ‘You—do—not touch me.’ She choked out the words. ‘Not now. Not ever. And my sole fantasy, Mr Castille, is never to see you again as long as I live.’

‘Unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Because something tells me that we shall be meeting again, and quite soon. So, let’s simply bow to the inevitable, shall we? And smile while we’re doing it,’ he added softly. ‘Or people might notice.’

He looked down at her again, in slow assessment, and she saw the hard mouth soften, curve into deliberate amusement—and something more.

Because his smile did several strange things to her, none of which she wanted to happen. To her utter horror and dismay, it seemed to smooth an errant strand of hair back from her face, kiss her mouth gently and delicately caress the tips of her breasts.

Suddenly her heart was racing, and she felt her pale skin burn. And he knew it. The smile told her that too.

She hastily strengthened her wavering defences, gave him a look of pure loathing and walked away. At the same time, wondering, with every step she took, if he was watching her go.

‘I saw you having a long chat to Joel,’ Gavin Langton commented with satisfaction. He was standing, brandy glass in hand, before the fireplace in the drawing room of their Chelsea house. He nodded. ‘You did well tonight, Darcy. Very well.’

‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice neutral. Yet her heart was still thudding unnaturally, and she felt hollow inside.

She’d wanted to go straight to bed when they got back, and Aunt Freddie had already done so, but, as usual, her father wanted to talk about the evening’s events over coffee, and a nightcap.

‘So, what did you think of him?’

She made a deliberate effort not to stiffen. Even managed to speak relatively lightly. ‘I thought my role was purely decorative. That I wasn’t required to have an opinion. Or, at least, not to voice it.’

Her father frowned. ‘You’re a pretty girl. He’s a good-looking man. There must have been some reaction.’

Yes, she thought, there was. But not one I’d ever wish to contemplate. I think I must have gone a little mad.

‘He was the guest of honour.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you’d want me to be civil. But I doubt we’ll ever be friends.’

She was still shaking at the memory of those last minutes in his company. She felt incensed by the way he’d looked at her. Degraded.

‘Oh?’ He looked at her sharply. ‘And why’s that, pray?’

She replaced her cup carefully in its saucer. ‘Well—I have very little contact with the company, so the opportunity will hardly arise.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Joel’s been in America for the past eighteen months, so I plan to do more entertaining—make sure he’s properly introduced around. Also, it seems he might be visiting regularly in our neighbourhood in Hampshire.’

‘Oh,’ Darcy said. ‘Why?’

Her father pursed his lips. ‘Harry Metcalfe and his wife are coming back from Malaysia quite soon, and moving in at the Hall with his parents while they look for a house of their own.’

There was a sudden buzzing in Darcy’s ears, and her mouth went dry.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she managed somehow.

Her father nodded. ‘Joel’s related to Emma Metcalfe, of course. First cousins, apparently, but he looks on her more as his younger sister. Speaks of her with great affection. And he’s concerned about her, too. The climate abroad didn’t suit her, apparently, particularly now she’s having a baby. So naturally he feels protective.’

The world seemed to dissolve around her. Slide sideways, turning crimson with a pain she’d thought buried forever. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she might have fallen. A baby…

She heard herself say from some great distance, ‘So she has two men watching out for her—her husband, and her cousin. Lucky girl.’

‘Perhaps.’ Her father’s frown deepened. ‘I never had a lot of time for young Metcalfe. Definite lightweight, I thought. Oh, I knew you had some childish thing about him once, but I was always glad that he never came sniffing round you.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was just as well he had Emma.’

She wished she could appreciate the terrible, unspeakable irony of it all, but it was impossible. She longed only to crawl away into some dark, forgotten corner, and deal with her grief all over again. Something she’d believed she would not have to do.

Her father was speaking again. ‘Things are going to be changing, Darcy. Changing rapidly for all of us, and maybe it’s time you and I talked seriously about the future.’

She steadied herself, kept her voice even. ‘I’d like that. But not now, please. Not tonight. I’m a bit whacked.’

‘You’ve not recovered from burning the candle at both ends on that damned boat, I suppose,’ he said gruffly, then relented. ‘Off with you, then, my child.’

He walked across to her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I was proud of you tonight,’ he said. ‘I want to go on feeling like that.’

She gave him half a smile, and fled.

Safely in her room, she threw herself face downward across the bed and stayed there. How could one short evening bring so many disasters? she asked herself in agonised disbelief. And what the hell could she do to prevent any more occurring? It seemed to her that she was trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea.

If she stayed in London, it would be difficult to avoid Werner Langton’s new managing director completely, as she needed to do. Particularly as her father seemed determined to be involved with him socially as well.

Whereas if she went down to Kings Whitnall, sooner or later Harry would turn up, with his wife. His pregnant wife.

Was that why she’d received that oblique warning from Joel Castille? Could he really think she still cherished memories of Harry? Well, he seemed to have swallowed all Harry’s half-truths, lies and evasions, so he probably did.

She shuddered and sat up, pushing her dishevelled hair back from her face. Across the room, her mirror reflected a white-faced, wild-eyed creature she barely recognised.

She pulled off her dress, and tossed it aside with loathing as she walked to the bathroom. No more black ever, she swore to herself, recoiling at the memory of Joel Castille’s gaze making its lingering way down her body.

Tomorrow she would go back to the agency she used and find another job as an au pair. Lisbon, maybe, or Vienna, she thought. Or even—Australia.

It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped for, of course.

She cleaned off her make-up, and stepped under the shower, welcoming the sting of the water on her overheated skin.

But maybe it was time to stop dreaming about careers she would never have, and face up to reality.

And the truth was, she needed to get as far away as possible, and as soon as possible. So, she would have to settle for whatever was available.

She dried herself, slipped into a nightdress and went back into the bedroom. She felt stifled suddenly, so she went over to open the window. It had begun to rain, she realised, and the glass panes were running with water, but she undid the catch anyway and pushed the frame a few inches ajar, allowing a draught of cold, dank city air to penetrate the room.

She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her shoulders with a faint shiver.

Traffic noise in London had never bothered her particularly, and their square was quiet enough. And when the distant rumble of cars and buses was conjoined with the splash of the rain, it was almost soporific.

She hadn’t expected to sleep, yet she did, only to find herself dreaming endlessly of rain-washed pavements and a flight of steps leading to a door that would not open to her, however hard she knocked for admittance. And she woke in the grey dawn light with tears on her face.

Darcy pulled off her black blazer, and tossed it over the back of the sofa with her bag, before sinking down onto the cushions and kicking off her shoes. She rested for a moment, flexing her aching toes with a slight grimace. She must have walked miles, she thought, and what had she achieved? Practically zilch.

The au pair market was crowded by eager and cheaper applicants from Eastern Europe. The only post immediately available was one she’d actually taken a year ago with an American couple living in Paris, who believed their three hyperactive children should grow up with total freedom from discipline and who had since, Darcy heard with horror, been blessed with a fourth hostage to liberty. No one, the agency had frankly confessed, would stay for longer than a week. A situation that Darcy totally understood.

She had tried other agencies, and even job centres, but without success.

‘I really want to work abroad,’ she’d said wearily as she was offered yet another computer training course.

The girl behind the desk had given her an old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t we all?’ she’d responded crisply.

Which wasn’t a great deal of help.

She hoped Aunt Freddie had met with better luck in whatever business had brought her to the city. She’d been almost mysterious about it at breakfast, declining Darcy’s offer to meet her for lunch with the excuse that she wasn’t sure of her plans.

So what was that all about? Darcy wondered.

Her reverie was interrupted by the quiet voice of their housekeeper, Mrs Inman. ‘I thought I heard you come in, Miss Langton. I wondered if you’d take a quick look at the dining room, and approve the table settings before you go up to change.’

Darcy glanced down at her white silk blouse, and corded damson skirt. Quite good enough for a simple family supper, she decided. Mrs Inman was a treasure, but not over-confident about her abilities, and inclined to fuss a little over non-essentials.

She said gently, ‘There’s only the three of us, Mrs Inman, and I’m sure everything looks lovely.’

‘Well, if you’re quite certain. Only your father seemed to think…’ The other woman’s voice tailed off as she gave a swift, nervous smile and left the room.

Darcy curled up, unfastening the button at the neck of her blouse, plus a couple more for good measure, and tucking her stockinged feet under her. It had been a pretty dispiriting day, she mused, leaning back and closing her eyes, but maybe things would be better tomorrow. They certainly couldn’t get any worse.

Her mind was beginning to drift, and she was almost sinking into a tired doze, when she suddenly heard the sound of the door bell. She sat up, surprised, glancing at her watch, wondering who on earth could be calling at this hour. Unless, of course, Aunt Freddie had forgotten her key again. It had been known.

As the drawing-room door opened she turned her head casually, ready to make some teasing comment, and froze as she saw Joel Castille walk into the room.

He paused, his brows lifting sardonically as he registered her horrified expression. ‘Good evening.’ His voice was silky, but the note of faint amusement was unmistakable.