His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride. Catherine Spencer

if you’re quite sure…’ Mrs Inman shook her head, still anxious, and departed reluctantly for her own pleasant flat in the basement.

      It was good, Darcy discovered, to have the house to herself, and be able to embark on a couple of days of sheer indulgence, with no one to please but herself.

      She’d expected phone calls—messages on the answering machine from Kings Whitnall demanding her presence, or at least an explanation for her absence.

      But there were none. Perhaps her father was being philosophical at last, accepting that she and Joel Castille would always be oil and water.

      And when Gavin finally phoned on Monday morning, there were no awkward questions.

      ‘Are you free for lunch, Darcy?’ he asked. ‘Then why don’t I reserve a table at Haringtons for one o’clock?’

      ‘My favourite place,’ she told him happily. ‘I can’t wait.’

      He seemed in a good mood, she thought as she rang off, because that was definitely a peace-offering. She found herself wondering how the rest of the weekend had gone, and if Joel Castille had shown any great interest in the autumn countryside he’d been invited to admire. But she immediately dismissed it all from her mind. His interests were no concern of hers. And the falling leaves could bury him alive for all she cared.

      For her lunch date, she dressed in a cream straight skirt topped by a V-necked sweater in a pale honey colour. She put gold studs in her ears, and brushed her hair into silky waves round her face. She emphasised the faint almond slant of her eyes with shadow and pencil, and touched her lips with a neutral gloss.

      Neat, she told herself, her mouth twisting, but not gaudy. The way her father liked her to look.

      Because if, as she suspected, they were about to have that serious talk about the future that he’d mentioned last week, it would be good to get off on the right foot.

      And she would raise, yet again, the subject of her engineering training. Try and make him see that she was serious. That she wanted to make a contribution.

      She arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, to be greeted by the head waiter, all smiles, and conducted with some ceremony to one of the corner tables.

      The stage was definitely set for a quiet tête-à-tête, she thought wryly as she asked for a white-wine spritzer. She settled back on the cushioned bench, and glanced around her. It might not be the most fashionable place in London, but the food was wonderful, so most of the tables were occupied, and the room was filled with the soft hum of conversation.

      She and her father had been coming here for years. Even when she was a schoolgirl, a meal at Haringtons had invariably featured as part of every half-term treat.

      And maybe it was a good omen that he’d suggested meeting her here today.

      She heard a sudden stir in the room, suggesting a new arrival, and looked up with an expectant smile, which froze on her lips as she realised just who was walking towards her, accompanied by Georges, the head waiter.

      ‘Oh, no,’ she wailed under her breath. ‘I don’t believe it. This can’t be happening to me. It—can’t.’

      She sat in stony silence while Joel was seated opposite her, his napkin spread on his lap, and menus and the wine list ceremoniously handed to him.

      When they were left alone, she said, ‘Where is my father?’

      ‘He couldn’t make it.’ His smile was equable. ‘I’m taking his place.’

      ‘Not,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘in this lifetime.’ She reached for her bag. ‘I’m going.’

      ‘I’m aware you have a predilection for making scenes,’ he said softly. ‘But I hardly think you want to start one here, where you’re so well-known. Not if you ever want to come back, anyway.’ He allowed that to sink in for a heartbeat, the continued evenly, ‘So I suggest you bite on the bullet, Miss Langton, and stay exactly where you are.’

      Slowly, unwillingly, she let go of her bag. Looked at him, her enemy, elegant in his dark blue suit with the discreetly striped silk tie. Found herself noticing reluctantly the long, dark lashes that fringed the vivid blue gaze—the cool, sculpted line of the hard mouth.

      She took a breath. ‘Why are you doing this?’

      ‘Because I don’t have a choice. If you’d spent the weekend at Kings Whitnall, this interview could have been conducted in private. That was certainly your father’s initial wish.’

      ‘I thought he took my absence far too well,’ she said bitterly. ‘I should have known that he’d be planning something.’ She paused. ‘And what interview, precisely?’

      ‘Maybe we should order first,’ he said. ‘Some discussions should be avoided on an empty stomach.’

      ‘Then I’ll have the red-pepper soup,’ she said, barely glancing at the menu. ‘Followed by Dover sole, and a green salad.’

      Joel beckoned to a hovering waiter. ‘I’ll have the vegetable terrine, and the sea bass,’ he added, having given her order. ‘And the Chablis.’ He glanced at Darcy, sitting rigidly across the table, bright spots of colour flaring in her pale cheeks. ‘Also some still water, right away, please.’

      ‘You think I might need it?’ she asked sarcastically as the waiter left.

      ‘I’m still learning your reactions,’ he said. ‘And this is new territory.’

      ‘Then here’s a response to be going on with.’ She kept her voice low and fierce. ‘I do not want to be here with you. I hoped I would never see you again. I would like you to go away now. Is that clear enough?’

      ‘Your father’s wishes are rather different,’ he said. ‘And he’s still the boss. And this is the scenario as he sees it. I stay, and we enjoy a pleasant lunch together. Tomorrow, I get my secretary to send you flowers. At the end of the week, I call you personally and invite you to dinner. After that, I have tickets for a play you want to see.

      ‘And on we go for three months, say, when I arrange dinner à deux, probably at my flat, produce a very expensive diamond ring, and ask you to be my wife.’

      She stared at him. ‘You’re quite insane,’ she said flatly. ‘You must be.’

      ‘As I said, it’s your father’s script, not mine. And certainly not yours.’

      ‘No.’ She bit the word.

      ‘Then why don’t we save a lot of time and wasted effort? Scrub the meaningless courtship rituals, and cut to the chase.’ The blue gaze dwelt on her dispassionately. ‘Your father intends you to marry me, Miss Langton. So, what’s it to be? Yes—or no?’

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE NOISE and movement around them faded to some unknown distance. Darcy could hear nothing but the echo of his words in her head. Could see nothing but the watchful blue eyes.

      From somewhere, she found her voice. Made it work.

      ‘No. No. Of course not. Obviously. You—you couldn’t possibly think…’

      She drew a breath. Moved her hands in a quick, angry gesture. ‘My God, no.’

      He nodded. ‘You don’t think you should give the proposition some reasoned consideration?’ His tone was almost meditative.

      ‘Reasoned?’ she echoed derisively. ‘I think my father, and you, must have taken leave of your collective senses.’

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Isn’t it apparent?’ She took a quick breath. ‘I loathed you on sight, Mr Castille, and first impressions count with me. And, of all the women in the world, I must be the last one you’d ever seriously consider as a wife. So why don’t