His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer
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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.
Instead, he led her back across the room to where Gavin Langton was waiting to propose a toast.
‘To happiness,’ he said, raising his glass.
I can drink to that, Darcy thought. In principle, anyway. Perhaps in some distant day, I may even achieve it. But not in the foreseeable future.
Joel was still holding her hand, and she tried surreptitiously to ease her fingers from his clasp, but without success.
‘I gather you’re not planning to dine at the Ritz.’ Gavin tried to make a joke of it, but the note of faint disapproval was apparent.
‘I know quite a good bistro,’ Joel said. ‘I thought we’d have a quiet meal this evening so we can talk and make some plans.’ He smiled at Darcy. ‘Is that all right with you, my love?’
She muttered something in stiff acquiescence, and his smile widened.
‘Then, as I have a cab waiting, shall we go?’ He took the barely touched drink from her and set it aside.
She said a quiet goodnight to her father, flung her black pashmina round her shoulders, and followed.
Joel said, ‘So, why the second thoughts?’
The bistro was busy, but its clientele consisted mainly of couples, so the conversation level was held at a contented, even intimate, hum. The wooden tables were set at sufficient distance from each other to ensure privacy, and were set with candles in pottery holders, and bowls of fresh flowers.
It was a place for lovers, Darcy thought. And, in that case, what, exactly, were they doing here?
She’d been dismayed to find herself seated next to Joel on a cushioned settle, rather than at a manageable distance, across the table. Even during the silent taxi ride, she’d found his proximity disturbing. Now he was altogether too close for comfort, his knee inches away from hers, their arms almost brushing as they examined the short handwritten menus.
She wanted to edge away, but knew that he would notice and, perhaps, draw unwanted conclusions.
She said defensively, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He sighed. ‘Darcy, as an engineer you’ll learn about stresses and strains. And get to recognise them, too, so don’t play dumb. You’re considering reneging on our agreement. Why?’
She shrugged a shoulder. ‘How many reasons do you need?’
‘Not many,’ he said. ‘But they’d need to be good. Our marriage ticks a lot of boxes.’
‘Except the one marked “love”.’ Her voice was cool and brittle. ‘Which most people seem to consider the most important.’
‘I thought,’ he said softly, ‘you’d decided to opt for expediency rather than ecstasy.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have. Yet, marrying someone—a comparative stranger—in a spirit of mutual dislike and contempt isn’t a path I ever saw myself taking.’ She drew a breath. ‘And making vows in church that we don’t intend to keep seems horribly wrong, somehow.’
‘You’re