His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer
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when he wished to emphasise some point.
Attractive? Well, yes, she was forced, grudgingly, to admit. But not in any way that could ever appeal to her, although if Lois ever got to see him she would probably describe him as sex on legs.
But even without the events of two years before, Darcy would always find a man like Joel Castille eminently resistible. He was too armoured in his own arrogance, she told herself. His sense of power.
Joel Castille was clearly brilliant at his job, and a born raconteur, but it would be a relief when her father finally retired, bringing this interregnum to an end. Then she could finally airbrush his successor out of sight, mind and memory.
But long before that happy day, she needed to remove herself completely from his sphere of influence, she thought, and found herself suddenly wondering why she should know that with such total conviction. And also such terrifying urgency.
Fool, she castigated herself. It’s not that difficult to work out. You have to get away before something is said, deliberately or by chance, which could bring all your skeletons from two years ago tumbling into the open. Some random comment that will give your father the idea that you and Joel Castille have some kind of shared past, because that would be a disaster.
And the prospect of Harry coming back just increases the pressure. Because it would be so easy if he wished to make mischief…
She closed her mind at this point. She couldn’t let herself think about that, she told herself fiercely.
She simply needed to stay cool, and take the necessary avoiding action. And then everything would be fine. Or at least survivable.
Tomorrow she’d make it clear to the agency that she’d take any job at all, even if it meant, heaven help her, going back to Paris to the Harrisons and their demonic brood, and hoping that some other alternative opportunity for employment would present itself while she was there, and before she was driven either mad, or to murder.
She realised suddenly that a momentary silence had fallen, and that both men were looking at her, Joel’s eyes intent and slightly narrowed.
Her father said, rather too heartily, ‘I’ve been telling Joel how beautiful the woods round Kings Whitnall are looking—with the autumn tints. We’ll have to persuade him to come down again and see for himself.’
‘Mr Castille is a much travelled man,’ she said coolly, avoiding that too searching gaze. ‘I don’t think a few autumn leaves are enough to interest him.’
‘I’m always fascinated by beauty, Miss Langton,’ he drawled. ‘Wherever it may be found. And whatever unlikely form it takes,’ he added softly.
She was aware of her hands involuntarily clenching into fists, and was rescued by Mrs Inman, who came to say that dinner was served.
The housekeeper had always been an excellent cook, but that night she seemed to have surpassed herself. Her wonderful thick vegetable soup was followed by rib of beef, succulently pink in the middle, served with crisp golden potatoes and an array of vegetables, perfectly cooked. For dessert there was Queen of Puddings, served with a bowl of whipped cream.
And when she came to clear the plates, and tell them coffee would be served in the drawing room, she accepted Joel Castille’s sincere praise with shy, pink-faced pleasure.
Darcy had not felt like eating, but she knew that any failure of appetite on her part would be noted and commented on by her father, so she’d forced the food down as if she’d been programmed to do so.
Now that it was too late, she realised she’d been a fool to let Joel Castille see that his re-entry into her life mattered to her one iota.
She should have smiled—shrugged the whole thing off. Maybe pretended it was a joke that had gone wrong. That she was one of a whole series of girls who were supposed to turn up and play tricks on Harry.
He might not have believed her, but if she’d stuck to her guns he’d have had to accept her story. And she could have edged her way out of the situation quietly, and without fuss.
In the meantime, this was turning into the pleasant social occasion from hell.
It was so difficult, she discovered, to be forced to converse with someone and maintain an essential distance at the same time. Especially when that someone seemed to have read many of the same books, seen some of the same films and liked much of the same music that she did herself. Or so he claimed, anyway.
Joel Castille was making himself agreeable, and she didn’t want that. She wanted him to be brutal and bullying again. Behave in a way that would give her every excuse to shun him, and give her father every reason to accept those excuses.
She groaned inwardly. Oh, why had Aunt Freddie gone back to Kings Whitnall? Why wasn’t she here to give her niece some respite from this unwanted charm offensive?
As it was, she could almost hear Gavin purring with satisfaction, and she wanted to scream in frustration and rage, because her tormentor was doing this quite deliberately. Putting her in an impossible position, and watching her squirm.
All right, she wanted to shout at him. I made a mistake once when I was eighteen, but I’ve suffered for it. And I don’t need to be continually harassed and punished by you of all people. So, why the hell can’t you leave me alone?
And she would have to sit there in the drawing room and take anything he cared to dish out, smiling politely as she did so. She couldn’t even use one of her migraines as an excuse to quit this ghastly threesome, she realised bitterly. He’d see through that in an instant.
Yet it was Joel Castille himself who called a halt to her profound discomfort. He drank his coffee and rose to his feet.
‘I hate to break up such an unforgettable evening,’ he said, ‘but I have an early start tomorrow, and a crowded day. Will you forgive me, please?’
‘As long as you promise to dine here again very soon.’ Gavin Langton clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Show Joel to the door, won’t you, darling?’ he added to Darcy.
Only a few more minutes, she thought as she preceded him, sedate and unsmiling, to the front door. She held it open. ‘Goodnight, Mr Castille.’
But he’d halted, and was looking down at her, smiling faintly.
He said, ‘You look as if you’re about to take the minutes of some meeting.’ He glanced pointedly at the rigidly closed top button of her shirt. ‘Now, I prefer the dishevelled look, with your hair loose and your dress falling off.’
The shiver that ran down her spine had little to do with the chill of the night air entering the hallway.
She said in a low, scornful voice, ‘Your personal preferences are a matter of complete indifference to me. As far as I’m concerned, Mr Castille, you’re in this house purely on sufferance.’
He remained unruffled. ‘And has it ever occurred to you, Miss Langton,’ he drawled, ‘that the same might be said of you?’
He paused. ‘Tell me something,’ he said quietly. ‘What exactly did you hope to achieve that night two years ago?’
She stiffened. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Then indulge me,’ he said. ‘Satisfy my curiosity.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you know quite enough about me already.’ She faced him, chin up, her grey-green eyes sparking furiously. ‘I’m a marriage wrecker. A weapon of mass destruction. There’s no need for more.’
‘Now, there we differ.’ He spoke softly, his blue gaze suddenly and disturbingly intense. ‘Because I’ve only just begun to find out about you. And before I’m finished, I intend to discover everything there is to know. So, be warned.’
He went past her, and out into the night.
It was