His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer
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you.’ She kept her voice neutral. Yet her heart was still thudding unnaturally, and she felt hollow inside.
She’d wanted to go straight to bed when they got back, and Aunt Freddie had already done so, but, as usual, her father wanted to talk about the evening’s events over coffee, and a nightcap.
‘So, what did you think of him?’
She made a deliberate effort not to stiffen. Even managed to speak relatively lightly. ‘I thought my role was purely decorative. That I wasn’t required to have an opinion. Or, at least, not to voice it.’
Her father frowned. ‘You’re a pretty girl. He’s a good-looking man. There must have been some reaction.’
Yes, she thought, there was. But not one I’d ever wish to contemplate. I think I must have gone a little mad.
‘He was the guest of honour.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you’d want me to be civil. But I doubt we’ll ever be friends.’
She was still shaking at the memory of those last minutes in his company. She felt incensed by the way he’d looked at her. Degraded.
‘Oh?’ He looked at her sharply. ‘And why’s that, pray?’
She replaced her cup carefully in its saucer. ‘Well—I have very little contact with the company, so the opportunity will hardly arise.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Joel’s been in America for the past eighteen months, so I plan to do more entertaining—make sure he’s properly introduced around. Also, it seems he might be visiting regularly in our neighbourhood in Hampshire.’
‘Oh,’ Darcy said. ‘Why?’
Her father pursed his lips. ‘Harry Metcalfe and his wife are coming back from Malaysia quite soon, and moving in at the Hall with his parents while they look for a house of their own.’
There was a sudden buzzing in Darcy’s ears, and her mouth went dry.
‘I didn’t know that,’ she managed somehow.
Her father nodded. ‘Joel’s related to Emma Metcalfe, of course. First cousins, apparently, but he looks on her more as his younger sister. Speaks of her with great affection. And he’s concerned about her, too. The climate abroad didn’t suit her, apparently, particularly now she’s having a baby. So naturally he feels protective.’
The world seemed to dissolve around her. Slide sideways, turning crimson with a pain she’d thought buried forever. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she might have fallen. A baby…
She heard herself say from some great distance, ‘So she has two men watching out for her—her husband, and her cousin. Lucky girl.’
‘Perhaps.’ Her father’s frown deepened. ‘I never had a lot of time for young Metcalfe. Definite lightweight, I thought. Oh, I knew you had some childish thing about him once, but I was always glad that he never came sniffing round you.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was just as well he had Emma.’
She wished she could appreciate the terrible, unspeakable irony of it all, but it was impossible. She longed only to crawl away into some dark, forgotten corner, and deal with her grief all over again. Something she’d believed she would not have to do.
Her father was speaking again. ‘Things are going to be changing, Darcy. Changing rapidly for all of us, and maybe it’s time you and I talked seriously about the future.’
She steadied herself, kept her voice even. ‘I’d like that. But not now, please. Not tonight. I’m a bit whacked.’
‘You’ve not recovered from burning the candle at both ends on that damned boat, I suppose,’ he said gruffly, then relented. ‘Off with you, then, my child.’
He walked across to her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I was proud of you tonight,’ he said. ‘I want to go on feeling like that.’
She gave him half a smile, and fled.
Safely in her room, she threw herself face downward across the bed and stayed there. How could one short evening bring so many disasters? she asked herself in agonised disbelief. And what the hell could she do to prevent any more occurring? It seemed to her that she was trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea.
If she stayed in London, it would be difficult to avoid Werner Langton’s new managing director completely, as she needed to do. Particularly as her father seemed determined to be involved with him socially as well.
Whereas if she went down to Kings Whitnall, sooner or later Harry would turn up, with his wife. His pregnant wife.
Was that why she’d received that oblique warning from Joel Castille? Could he really think she still cherished memories of Harry? Well, he seemed to have swallowed all Harry’s half-truths, lies and evasions, so he probably did.
She shuddered and sat up, pushing her dishevelled hair back from her face. Across the room, her mirror reflected a white-faced, wild-eyed creature she barely recognised.
She pulled off her dress, and tossed it aside with loathing as she walked to the bathroom. No more black ever, she swore to herself, recoiling at the memory of Joel Castille’s gaze making its lingering way down her body.
Tomorrow she would go back to the agency she used and find another job as an au pair. Lisbon, maybe, or Vienna, she thought. Or even—Australia.
It wasn’t at all what she’d hoped for, of course.
She cleaned off her make-up, and stepped under the shower, welcoming the sting of the water on her overheated skin.
But maybe it was time to stop dreaming about careers she would never have, and face up to reality.
And the truth was, she needed to get as far away as possible, and as soon as possible. So, she would have to settle for whatever was available.
She dried herself, slipped into a nightdress and went back into the bedroom. She felt stifled suddenly, so she went over to open the window. It had begun to rain, she realised, and the glass panes were running with water, but she undid the catch anyway and pushed the frame a few inches ajar, allowing a draught of cold, dank city air to penetrate the room.
She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her shoulders with a faint shiver.
Traffic noise in London had never bothered her particularly, and their square was quiet enough. And when the distant rumble of cars and buses was conjoined with the splash of the rain, it was almost soporific.
She hadn’t expected to sleep, yet she did, only to find herself dreaming endlessly of rain-washed pavements and a flight of steps leading to a door that would not open to her, however hard she knocked for admittance. And she woke in the grey dawn light with tears on her face.
Darcy pulled off her black blazer, and tossed it over the back of the sofa with her bag, before sinking down onto the cushions and kicking off her shoes. She rested for a moment, flexing her aching toes with a slight grimace. She must have walked miles, she thought, and what had she achieved? Practically zilch.
The au pair market was crowded by eager and cheaper applicants from Eastern Europe. The only post immediately available was one she’d actually taken a year ago with an American couple living in Paris, who believed their three hyperactive children should grow up with total freedom from discipline and who had since, Darcy heard with horror, been blessed with a fourth hostage to liberty. No one, the agency had frankly confessed, would stay for longer than a week. A situation that Darcy totally understood.
She had tried other agencies, and even job centres, but without success.
‘I really want to work abroad,’ she’d said wearily as she was offered yet another computer training course.
The girl behind the desk had given her an old-fashioned look. ‘Don’t we all?’ she’d responded crisply.
Which