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

‘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.

And maybe it was a good omen that he’d suggested meeting her here today.

She heard a sudden stir in the room, suggesting a new arrival, and looked up with an expectant smile, which froze on her lips as she realised just who was walking towards her, accompanied by Georges, the head waiter.

‘Oh, no,’ she wailed under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it. This can’t be happening to me. It—can’t.’

She sat in stony silence while Joel was seated opposite her, his napkin spread on his lap, and menus and the wine list ceremoniously handed to him.

When they were left alone, she said, ‘Where is my father?’

‘He couldn’t make it.’ His smile was equable. ‘I’m taking his place.’

‘Not,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘in this lifetime.’ She reached for her bag. ‘I’m going.’

‘I’m aware you have a predilection for making scenes,’ he said softly. ‘But I hardly think you want to start one here, where you’re so well-known. Not if you ever want to come back, anyway.’ He allowed that to sink in for a heartbeat, the continued evenly, ‘So I suggest you bite on the bullet, Miss Langton, and stay exactly where you are.’

Slowly, unwillingly, she let go of her bag. Looked at him, her enemy, elegant in his dark blue suit with the discreetly striped silk tie. Found herself noticing reluctantly the long, dark lashes that fringed the vivid blue gaze—the cool, sculpted line of the hard mouth.

She took a breath. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because I don’t have a choice. If you’d spent the weekend at Kings Whitnall, this interview could have been conducted in private. That was certainly your father’s initial wish.’

‘I thought he took my absence far too well,’ she said bitterly. ‘I should have known that he’d be planning something.’ She paused. ‘And what interview, precisely?’

‘Maybe we should order first,’ he said. ‘Some discussions should be avoided on an empty stomach.’

‘Then I’ll have the red-pepper soup,’ she said, barely glancing at the menu. ‘Followed by Dover sole, and a green salad.’

Joel beckoned to a hovering waiter. ‘I’ll have the vegetable terrine, and the sea bass,’ he added, having given her order. ‘And the Chablis.’ He glanced at Darcy, sitting rigidly across the table, bright spots of colour flaring in her pale cheeks. ‘Also some still water, right away, please.’