Читать книгу His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride - Сара Крейвен, Catherine Spencer - Страница 12

‘YOU’RE GETTING married?’ Lois repeated incredulously. She put down her coffee mug. ‘But I didn’t know you were even seeing anyone.’ She frowned. ‘Is it someone you met on Drew Maidstone’s boat?’ She paused, her frown deepening. ‘Hell, Darcy, promise me it isn’t Drew Maidstone himself. You’re not planning on being Wife Number Five, surely?’

‘No, no,’ Darcy made haste to assure her. ‘It’s nothing like that. Really.’

‘Then what? I mean, this has come 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 when the marriage ends, I get to go to university and train as an engineer. My former husband will pay all my expenses there as a divorce settlement, and I’ll finally be free to have what I want 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 telling me you believe in the sanctity of marriage?’ he enquired mockingly. ‘You didn’t appear to have the same regard for the vows Harry Metcalfe was about to make with my cousin.’

She felt her stomach churn in swift revulsion. She wanted to turn to him, and scream the truth. Exorcise this ghost from her past, once and for all. But he’d accepted Harry’s version before. Why should he believe her now?

She said tautly, ‘Perhaps I felt he didn’t take them very seriously either.’

‘Just as long as you know now that he’s strictly out of bounds,’ Joel said curtly. ‘I won’t have Emma’s peace of mind troubled, particularly at a time like this. Understood?’

‘Yes.’ She controlled the shake in her voice. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘As for this sudden attack of scruples,’ he went on, ‘you don’t have to worry. I won’t keep you tied to me longer than strictly necessary.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t find that particularly reassuring.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’re here to negotiate. What assurances do you require?’

She drew an uneven breath. ‘I have one, main condition. You have to accept that I will not, under any circumstances, sleep with you.’ She met his gaze directly. ‘Do you agree?’

He shrugged. His voice was level. ‘If that’s what you want. It’s really not that important.’ He paused. ‘However, I also require your assurance that during the term of the marriage, you won’t sleep with anyone else either.’

She went on staring at him. ‘Agreed. But why should that matter to you?’

‘It wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘But I’m investing quite heavily in you, Darcy, and your future.’ His smile was thin-lipped. ‘And I’d really hate to be made a fool of over an investment.’ He allowed that to sink in, then added, ‘In every other way, of course, I shall expect you to behave as if the marriage was a real one, instead of a sham.’

‘You mean I’m to keep my true feelings under wraps?’ She traced the grain of the wooden table with a forefinger. ‘Not easy.’

‘Nothing less will do. Meaning that if I have reason to touch you or kiss you in public, you’ll kindly remember that we’re newlyweds, and passionately in love, and not flinch from me as if you’d been attacked with an electric cattle prod.’

She said with difficulty, ‘My God, you don’t expect much.’

‘I could,’ he said slowly, ‘demand a great deal more. But I haven’t. And surely the ultimate reward is worth the inconvenience of a little public pretence? In private, of course, you can do as you like. And you can comfort yourself with the reflection that I shall be away a great deal on company business. Our paths may hardly cross.’

He paused. ‘And now shall we order some food?’

Reluctantly, she glanced back at the menu. ‘I’ll have the moules marinières to start with.’

‘So will I,’ he said. ‘And after that, shall we share a Châteaubriand? They’re intended for two people.’

‘If you wish.’ She stared at him. ‘What is this—an exercise in togetherness?’

‘Why not?’ Joel countered silkily. ‘God knows we need the practice.’

She could probably think of a hundred reasons, with more to follow, but it seemed pointless to voice them.

She’d agreed to marry him, and now she had to get on with that as best she could. It’s a business arrangement, nothing more, she reminded herself. A short-term contract that will eventually come to its end. And at least she’d had a chance to establish the small print.

When the mussels arrived they were in one big tureen, and even a few minutes’ mutual delving into the delicious white wine and shallot broth to remove the succulent contents from their shells totally scuppered any chance of maintaining an aloof distance for the rest of the evening.

It was clear that she was being treated to a crash-course in intimacy.

But then, he said he’d been here before, so he must have known how it would be when he placed the order, Darcy thought, resentment simmering quietly within her.

And for a brief, uncomfortable moment, she found she was wondering who his companion had been. And how the evening had ended…

None of my business, she told herself, firmly slamming the door on that kind of unhelpful speculation.

‘Here.’ Joel was proffering the largest mussel in the bowl. ‘My contribution to world peace.’

‘A sacrifice indeed,’ she said as she discarded the empty shell. ‘Or did you hope I’d say no?’

‘It would have been more in character,’ he agreed with faint amusement. ‘But will you also make a sacrifice now, and drop this Mr Castille nonsense? I’m beginning to feel that I’m taking part in some costume drama. If I start wearing knee breeches, and taking snuff, you’ll only have yourself to blame.’

Her lips twitched in spite of herself. ‘Actually, I think you might do rather well.’ She saw his answering grin, and checked herself, continuing more stiffly, ‘But, if you insist, I’ll try and remember in future to call you Joel.’

The name felt awkward on her lips, and she couldn’t imagine that using it would ever become second nature to her. Better, maybe, she thought, to call him nothing at all. Distance herself that way. Somehow.

The Châteaubriand when it came was perfectly cooked, and meltingly tender, served with platters of sauté potatoes, and mixed green salad, and a superb cabernet sauvignon from Chile.

Later, however, as she regretfully put down her knife and fork, Darcy shook her head at the idea of dessert.

‘Just coffee, please.’

‘And cognac?’

‘No, thank you.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hardly think there can be any more shocks in store for me.’

‘Cognac,’ he said, ‘can be drunk for pleasure alone. Have you considered that?’

No, she returned silently, because I don’t want to think of you and any kind of pleasure in the same context.

‘As for shocks,’ he went on, ‘brace yourself for one more.’ He took a small jeweller’s box from his pocket and slid it towards her, opening the lid as he did so.

The coruscating flame from the enormous solitaire it contained almost dazzled her.

She looked at it. Swallowed. ‘Is this—really necessary?’

‘Absolutely essential.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘Aren’t you supposed to calculate your lover’s regard by the number of carats?’

Her lips moved. ‘You are not my lover.’

‘Silly me. I keep forgetting. But no one else will know that, especially with this thing on your finger.’ He took the ring from its satin bed. ‘I think it will reassure your father that I’m very much in earnest. Give me your hand.’

She found she was praying that it would not fit. That adjustments would be needed, and she’d be spared, even for a little while, from wearing this alien, meaningless symbol.

But no one was listening to prayers that night, it seemed, and the ring slid smoothly over her knuckle into its designated place. And stayed there, glittering in the candlelight. Ice, she thought, and fire.

There was a silence, then she said quietly, ‘It’s very beautiful.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Naturally, I’ll return it to you in due

course.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said softly, ‘keep it as a souvenir.’ And signalled to the waiter to bring coffee.

Did he really think she needed such a tangible reminder of his invasion of her life? she wondered in a kind of agonised bewilderment as she stared sightlessly down at the table. Didn’t he realise that all she longed for was to be able to forget him utterly?

Yet, from the first moments of their disastrous meeting, everything he’d said and done seemed to have become seared ineradicably into her memory.

And instinct told her that the more time she spent with him, the worse it might get.

Fate, she thought bleakly, was playing one of its cruellest tricks on her by forcing her together with him in this way.

Yet, quite apart from the guarantee of no intimate involvement, he’d claimed they would hardly spend any time together anyway, she offered her frazzled nerves as palliative. Maybe they could even share the Chelsea house like neighbours in adjoining flats—friendly, but without encroaching on each other’s territory.

He’d told her they could make it work, and somehow she had to believe that. Trust him…

Also, it wasn’t a life sentence. It would end once its purpose had been served. That was what she had to keep in the forefront of her mind. Make her lodestar in this tangled maze of emotion and bitterness. Her hope for the future.

Yet, at the same moment, she found her gaze drawn almost mesmerically to the brilliant glitter of the gemstone on her left hand.

Exquisite it undoubtedly was. And a message of intent. But that was all. She would not allow it to develop any undue significance, she swore inwardly.

Because, even if a diamond was forever, marriage to Joel Castille most certainly was not. And that had to be her sole comfort in this whole terrible mess.