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

‘I know that I will.’ Darcy spoke curtly. ‘That’s what matters.’

Lois raised her brows. ‘Last year, you were my bridesmaid. You know how it works. There are things called vows. So when the groom says “With my body I thee worship”, you’re going to shout back “Oh, no, you won’t”? Is that what you’re saying?’

Darcy flushed. ‘Well, I’m not planning to do it exactly that way. We’re going to agree exact terms in advance. And separate bedrooms is top of my agenda.’

‘Then why get married in church? In fact, why marry at all? You can do the hostess thing if you’re simply on the payroll. You don’t have to be his wife.’

‘No,’ Darcy said. ‘And I shan’t be. It’s simply a legal arrangement.’

Lois was silent for a moment. ‘What’s he like? This Joel Castille. Short, fat, ugly?’

‘Well—no,’ Darcy conceded reluctantly.

‘Middle-aged?’

‘Early thirties, I suppose.’

‘Tall? Attractive?’

‘Some women would probably think so.’

‘I’ll score that as a yes,’ said Lois. ‘Then picture this. Your arrangement is up and running. You give a dinner party which goes well. You’ve both had a few glasses of wine. He’s feeling good about his life—and suddenly about you. And you’ve just admitted he’s attractive, so presumably he’s not a seven-stone weakling either. Therefore, dear friend, what are you going to do if he decides he wants more from this marriage? And positively insists?’

‘He won’t,’ Darcy said flatly. ‘After all, I’m the girl who tried to sabotage his favourite cousin’s wedding. He doesn’t like me, and he doesn’t trust me either. So, I’m safe.’

‘Darcy,’ Lois spoke gently. ‘I remember when you came back here that night—the state you were in. You were crying, hardly able to speak, but when you could string a few words together, they were all about this guy who’d insulted you. Manhandled you even. The man you’re now planning to marry.’

‘I haven’t forgotten anything,’ Darcy said. ‘And that pretty well makes me immune from him—wouldn’t you say?’

‘I only know that Mick was beside himself. He’d have gone round to that club, and sorted him out, if…’

‘If I hadn’t started to lose the baby, and he was suddenly needed here instead,’ Darcy supplied bleakly.

She had tried desperately to blot those memories from her mind—the initial shock—the bewilderment and pain of her miscarriage. The way Mick, then a houseman at a big London teaching hospital, had looked after her, his quiet, gentle reassurances in odd contrast to his burly rugby player’s exterior. The subsequent trip to hospital, using an assumed name, to check that all was well.

And afterwards, the anguished, ongoing necessity to hide the truth from her family. A need that still existed. A secret shared with Mick and Lois, but no other.

‘So,’ Lois went on, ‘if the guy’s such a brute, and a bully, how can you possibly do this?’

‘Because my father wants it, Joel seems to want it and I can’t think of one good reason to refuse.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Besides, I’m not marrying for life—just for a year or two, if that. His idea, not mine.

‘And when the marriage ends, I get to go to university and train as an engineer. My former husband will pay all my expenses there as a divorce settlement, and I’ll finally be free to have what I want from life.’

Lois sighed. ‘And that’s an engineering degree, is it? Darcy, you don’t have to compensate all your life because you’re not a boy.’

‘I’m not,’ Darcy said. ‘I promise.’ She looked at Lois. ‘So, even if you don’t approve, will you still be my matron of honour—and ask Mick to be an usher?’

Lois looked at her consideringly. ‘First, swear to me that Joel Castille doesn’t turn you on, even marginally.’

Darcy suddenly realised she was pressing the palm of her hand—the hand he’d kissed—hard against her jean-clad thigh. She was aware of a flicker of something, deep within her. Buried so resolutely that it barely existed.

She found herself swallowing. ‘How could that ever be possible?’

The corners of Lois’s mouth turned down. ‘Then I accept for both of us. I feel you’re going to need all the support you can get. But not a breath to Mick about Joel Castille’s real identity,’ she added. ‘Or I can’t answer for the consequences.’

Now, that, thought Darcy, is something I really can swear to.

All the same, she found herself wondering whether, in other circumstances, Lois’s husband might have succeeded in his aim if he’d gone to the club that night. But, to her own surprise, she realised that she doubted it. Joel’s features might not have been beaten into submission during a dozen rugby seasons like Mick’s, but he still looked tough enough to give a good account of himself.

A man to take seriously, she thought. And felt herself shiver.

There was champagne waiting on ice in the drawing room, when she went downstairs that evening, and her father was wearing a look of quiet satisfaction, which faded when he observed her baggy khaki trousers and loose-fitting beige sweater.

‘Is that how you dress to have dinner with your fiancé?’ he asked coldly.

‘Bought specially for the occasion.’ Darcy did a twirl and saw his frown deepen.

‘You have a wardrobe full of dresses,’ he reminded her. ‘Any one of them would be more appropriate.’

She shrugged gracefully. ‘I’m comfortable like this.’

His mouth compressed and he turned away.

She’d lied, of course. Certainly, the last thing she wanted was to look feminine, or even remotely desirable, in front of Joel Castille. But common sense told her that merely covering herself from throat to ankle in shapeless garments was never going to make the coming confrontation any easier to bear.

As it got nearer the time, Darcy’s mouth was dry, and butterflies were wheeling and diving in her stomach.

And as the mantel clock struck the half-hour, followed by the sound of the doorbell, right on cue, the knot in her chest tightened uncontrollably.

Maybe Lois was right, she thought. Perhaps she couldn’t and shouldn’t go through with this, whatever the practicalities of the situation, or the additional inducements. If so, now was the time to say so.

But what reason could she possibly give for this abrupt change of mind?

It was too simplistic to say merely that she disliked him. Her father would demand to know what lay behind this dislike, and that was forbidden territory. Nor dared she risk him turning to Joel Castille himself, and demanding an explanation. Because what was to prevent him telling the truth, if asked? If she rejected him, he wasn’t honour bound to keep her secret. And once that was revealed, other unutterable truths might enter the equation.

She looked towards the door, her mind teeming, her face blank.

Joel Castille walked into the room, then paused for a moment, glancing across at Darcy, his faint smile quizzical as if he could guess what she was contemplating. And the silent warning in the blue eyes told her unequivocally, Don’t even think about it.

Then he was moving forward to greet her father, and accept the offer of champagne with a semblance of pleasure at least. Before he turned to her.

He was more casually dressed than she’d ever seen him, his long legs encased in blue denim, topped by a roll-neck black sweater, and a black and white houndstooth checked jacket slung across his shoulders. Both sweater and jacket, she thought, were probably cashmere. The jeans would have some top-designer label.

But she’d hoped he’d be in a formal suit, so she could wrongfoot him, even marginally, by dressing down herself, but as usual he seemed to be one jump ahead of her.

As he reached her, she tensed. But he only took her hand, smiling down at her. ‘New image, darling? I’m impressed.’

As she realised he was not intending to kiss her, she felt her knees almost sagging in relief.