His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer
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right out of the blue.’
Darcy forced a smile. ‘And for me too.’
‘Well, tell all.’ Lois leaned forward expectantly. ‘What’s his name? And how did you meet him?’
This, thought Darcy, was the tricky bit. She said slowly, ‘He’s called Joel Castille, and we met some time ago.’
Lois’s brow was creasing again. ‘But you’ve never said a word about him to me and you’re my best friend. You came here to ask me to be your matron of honour. I don’t get it.’
Darcy drank some coffee. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say on the way over, but, faced with Lois’s clear-eyed gaze across the kitchen table, she realised it didn’t make much sense. And that maybe only the truth would do.
She said, ‘It’s a little difficult to explain.’
‘Try me,’ Lois invited affably.
‘You see,’ Darcy floundered, ‘there’s going to be a wedding, but—I’m not really being married.’
‘You mean it’s some sort of elaborate hoax?’
‘Not that either.’ Darcy sighed. ‘Actually, it’s just a business arrangement, and a temporary one at that. But with a ceremony.’
There was a silence, then Lois said with a touch of grimness, ‘I think this requires something more than coffee.’
She went to the fridge, extracted a bottle of Chardonnay and opened it, pouring generous measures into two glasses.
‘Now,’ she said, as she sat down. ‘Do I detect your father’s hand in all this? Just who is Joel Castille, and why have you agreed to this ridiculous arrangement?’
Darcy took a deep breath. She said baldly, ‘He’s Werner Langton’s new managing director, and he’ll be chairman when my father stands down. Dad thinks that the transition will be easier if Mr Castille becomes his son-in-law.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s probably right. The king abdicates, and the crown prince takes his place. It makes a certain grisly sense.’
‘Not to me, it doesn’t.’ Lois stared at her with fascinated horror. ‘Honey, this is madness. You don’t even refer to the guy by his given name.’
Darcy grimaced. ‘For that, I’m going to need time and practice.’
‘Dear God,’ Lois said faintly. ‘How long did you say you’d known him?’
‘I don’t know him,’ Darcy returned shortly. ‘Nor do I want to. We’re—acquainted, and that’s as far as it goes.’ She hesitated, then decided to put all the cards on the table. ‘But we first met about two years ago.’
Lois’s head lifted sharply. ‘Two years?’ she echoed. ‘But that was when…’ Her voice trailed away in uncertainty.
‘Yes,’ Darcy agreed quietly. ‘Exactly when. In fact, Joel Castille was the one who stopped me from seeing Harry that night.’
‘He’s the man who thought you were a stripper, and had you thrown out?’ There was a brief appalled silence, then Lois shook her head. ‘I—I don’t know what to say. This is absolutely unbelievable.’
‘He had his reasons.’ Darcy played with the stem of her glass. ‘The bride’s his cousin, and he was trying to protect her, it seems. Stripper or no, he recognised me as trouble.’ She bit her lip. ‘And, apparently, Harry confirmed this when he was tackled about it later. He claimed I’d been stalking him.’
‘Rotten little bastard,’ Lois said with feeling. She hesitated. ‘Did you tell this Joel Castille the truth, including what happened afterwards?’
Darcy lifted her chin. ‘No,’ she stated with clarity. ‘It’s over, and it’s none of his damned business, anyway. Let him think what he likes.’
‘Darcy,’ Lois spoke with urgency, ‘it isn’t that simple. You must know that.’
‘But it can be,’ Darcy said flatly. ‘Trust me. Joel Castille only wants someone to run his home, and act as his hostess. Nothing more. Well, I can cope with that, for as long as it takes.’
‘Nothing more?’ Lois rolled her eyes. ‘Get real, darling. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re a beautiful girl, and you’ll be sharing a roof with this guy. Are you sure he’ll be content to leave it at that?’
‘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