His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer
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‘Not at all,’ Darcy returned coolly. ‘Dad would never forgive me if I damaged his precious rose bushes.’
His mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement. ‘There is that, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘People are waiting to say goodbye. It’s time we were leaving.’
‘Then we mustn’t keep them waiting.’ She fastened the remaining jacket buttons on her pale grey woollen suit, and picked up her gloves and bag.
Joel was looking at her wardrobe door, where her discarded wedding dress and veil still hung.
‘What are you doing with those?’
‘They’ll be dry-cleaned, and returned to the hire company. Lois is seeing to it.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and there was a pause. ‘No one could ever accuse you of harbouring sentimental feelings, Darcy.’
‘It’s served its purpose,’ she returned with faint defensiveness. ‘Sentiment doesn’t feature.’
‘All the same,’ Joel said quietly, ‘allow me to tell you how incredibly beautiful you looked in church today. You quite took my breath away.’
But you barely looked at me. The words hovered unspoken on her lips.
She found herself remembering how her own throat had tightened in shock when she’d caught her first glimpse of him in the formality of his morning suit, and registered all over again the stunning force of his attraction.
Yet during the ceremony he’d seemed a remote stranger, she thought, his voice quietly making the required responses, his hand cool when it became necessary to touch hers.
Thankfully, the vicar was an old-fashioned man who didn’t believe in jovial enjoinders to ‘kiss the bride’ at the weddings he conducted, so she’d been spared that piece of awkwardness at least. Not that Joel had shown the least inclination to force any more embraces on her, she admitted.
In fact, he’d kept his distance as much as she could wish. But now, he was holding out his hand to her. ‘A touch of togetherness to convince the onlookers?’
Unwillingly she complied, letting his fingers close round hers as they went along the gallery and down the stairs to the barrage of cheers and smiles awaiting them.
They were separated instantly. Darcy disappeared into a deluge of hugs from the women. She glimpsed Joel surrounded by his friends, and heard a sudden roar of laughter verging on the ribald. She could guess the nature of the joke, and felt sudden hot colour stain her face.
It was almost a relief to be out of the house and running to the car, pelted by dried rose petals.
Almost, but not quite, because she was now closed in with him in the back of his car on their way to London, and what would pass for married life. She settled herself carefully in the opposite corner, with the width of the seat between them.
So, she thought, now it begins. And found herself wondering, not for the first time, exactly what she’d taken on.
And, once again, she could find no immediate answer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DARCY LEANED back, trying to relax, but her skirt had ridden up over her knees, and she adjusted it instinctively, her lips tightening as she realised that Joel was watching with amused interest.
‘They say,’ he remarked, ‘that women do that not to hide their legs, but to have them noticed.’
She said coldly, ‘Then what total nonsense “they” talk.’
‘You sound a little fractious,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But that might be because you’re tired. I must see to it you have an early night.’
Darcy straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she told him crisply. ‘Not tired at all, so please don’t concern yourself.’
‘That could be a problem,’ he said. ‘Because a couple of hours ago, I promised to cherish you. I remember it perfectly.’
‘A form of words,’ Darcy said dismissively, ‘which don’t mean a thing.’ She had an inward image of the vicar’s reproachful face, and made a hasty amendment. ‘At least, not to us. We should concentrate on the other promises we made some weeks ago, when this ridiculous farce began.’
There was a silence, then Joel said quietly, ‘Darcy, do you intend to continue in this vein for the foreseeable future, or could we introduce a note of civility into our married life? Make some attempt to get along together?’
She didn’t look at him. ‘I see no problem with that.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ There was a touch of grimness in his tone.
She turned her head, and gazed fixedly out of the window. She thought she heard him sigh, but couldn’t be sure.
She bit her lip. She should be the one with regrets. And Joel had little enough to complain about. He was her nominal husband, and Gavin’s legal son-in-law, which should keep the Werner Langton board quiet. And that was all that was required.
Before too long, the smooth motion of the car, the cushioned comfort of the seat and the rush of the passing landscape produced their own soporific effect, and Darcy found her eyes closing. But she wasn’t going to actually sleep, she told herself drowsily. Of course she wasn’t, because where Joel Castille was concerned she needed to keep her wits about her.
The next thing she knew was Joel’s voice saying with faint amusement, ‘Wake up, Darcy, we’re nearly there.’
She sat up instantly, pushing at her hair with a defensive hand. ‘I knew that, thank you.’
His brows lifted. ‘Fibber,’ he said softly. ‘But I have to tell you that you look very lovely when you’re not being tired. You even snore beautifully.’
She said between her teeth, ‘I wasn’t really asleep and I do not snore.’
His lips twitched. ‘Of course not, sweetheart. Whatever you say.’
She sent him a fulminating look, then, still disorientated, took a belated glance out of the car window. And stiffened. Because there was no sign of the quiet Chelsea square she was expecting. On the contrary, the car seemed to be caught up in the approach to a major airport.
She turned on Joel. ‘What’s happening? Where are we?’
‘Just coming into Heathrow.’
‘Heathrow?’ Darcy stared at him, her forehead puckered in bewilderment. ‘Are you being dropped off here for some business trip?’
‘By no means. We’re here to catch a flight to the Caribbean for our honeymoon.’
She was wide awake now, and sitting upright, her heart beating like a trip hammer.
She said, ‘You don’t really mean that. You can’t.’
‘I certainly do. After the wedding ceremony, the happy couple depart for a week or two of blissful seclusion. That’s the convention.’
‘But this isn’t a conventional marriage.’ She managed to keep her voice steady.
‘In some ways it will be,’ he told her coolly. ‘And this is one of them. I thought some relaxation in the sun might do us both good. And I think you’ll like Augustina. It’s a very small island belonging to a property developer I met in the States a few years back. He’s built a hotel there, and scattered a dozen or so thatched bungalows through the grounds.
‘The emphasis is on peace and quiet, and I’m all for that. Besides, your father thinks you’ve been looking pale and tense recently. He feels you need a break.’
But not like this. Never like this…
She said huskily, ‘You didn’t think