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

meet her for lunch with the excuse that she wasn’t sure of her plans.

      So what was that all about? Darcy wondered.

      Her reverie was interrupted by the quiet voice of their housekeeper, Mrs Inman. ‘I thought I heard you come in, Miss Langton. I wondered if you’d take a quick look at the dining room, and approve the table settings before you go up to change.’

      Darcy glanced down at her white silk blouse, and corded damson skirt. Quite good enough for a simple family supper, she decided. Mrs Inman was a treasure, but not over-confident about her abilities, and inclined to fuss a little over non-essentials.

      She said gently, ‘There’s only the three of us, Mrs Inman, and I’m sure everything looks lovely.’

      ‘Well, if you’re quite certain. Only your father seemed to think…’ The other woman’s voice tailed off as she gave a swift, nervous smile and left the room.

      Darcy curled up, unfastening the button at the neck of her blouse, plus a couple more for good measure, and tucking her stockinged feet under her. It had been a pretty dispiriting day, she mused, leaning back and closing her eyes, but maybe things would be better tomorrow. They certainly couldn’t get any worse.

      Her mind was beginning to drift, and she was almost sinking into a tired doze, when she suddenly heard the sound of the door bell. She sat up, surprised, glancing at her watch, wondering who on earth could be calling at this hour. Unless, of course, Aunt Freddie had forgotten her key again. It had been known.

      As the drawing-room door opened she turned her head casually, ready to make some teasing comment, and froze as she saw Joel Castille walk into the room.

      He paused, his brows lifting sardonically as he registered her horrified expression. ‘Good evening.’ His voice was silky, but the note of faint amusement was unmistakable.

      Darcy shot upright, her feet frantically scrabbling for her discarded shoes. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded hoarsely.

      He had the audacity to smile. ‘Don’t look now, sweetheart,’ he drawled. ‘But I think you’ve just blown your perfect-hostess image. Didn’t you know that your father had invited me to dinner?’

      ‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘Obviously not.’ She badly wanted to refasten those damned buttons on her shirt, which he’d already noticed, but knew that would only give him further ammunition.

      ‘I wonder why not,’ he said pensively. ‘Maybe he thought you might suddenly remember a previous engagement.’

      ‘And he’d have been right,’ Darcy said stonily. Shod once more, she got to her feet. ‘You’ll both have to excuse me, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. I’d only be in the way.’

      As she made for the door he halted her, his fingers closing on her arm.

      She pulled free, glaring at him. ‘Do not—ever—put your hands on me again.’

      He stepped back, lifting them in mock-surrender. ‘Just a word of warning, Miss Langton. I don’t think your father would be pleased if you disappeared this evening. He seems to want us to be friends.’

      ‘Something else he hasn’t chosen to mention.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Why didn’t you tell him he’s wasting his time?’

      ‘Because it seemed a little arbitrary. And it occurred to me that for the sake of future harmony, you and I could perhaps develop—a working relationship. On a temporary basis only, of course. Until his retirement is complete.’

      She shook her head, angrily aware that his blue gaze had returned to the loosened front of her shirt. ‘No, Mr Castille,’ she said. ‘Not even for the space of the next five minutes.’

      ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘Your father doesn’t strike me as a man who takes disappointment well. It’s something we have in common,’ he added levelly.

      ‘Then that’s as far as the resemblance goes,’ she said. ‘And if he had any idea how you once treated me, you’d be looking for another job.’

      ‘Which I’d find,’ he said. ‘How’s your employment record, Miss Langton? Logged on the police computer?’

      Her face was suddenly burning. ‘How dare you?’

      ‘Well, it’s hardly a secret.’ He shrugged. ‘Drew Maidstone is pretty notorious, and you’re extremely photogenic. And as we’re being totally frank, you should be grateful to me. I got you away from that party two years ago just in time. People had been drinking, and things could have turned nasty for you. I’m sure you remember that.’

      ‘I remember,’ she said, ‘that as far as I was concerned, you were just one more animal in a truly disgusting pack. So, gratitude doesn’t really feature.’

      He wasn’t smiling any more, and she saw a muscle flicker at the corner of his mouth. She’d got to him at last, she thought, and knew a fleeting moment of triumph.

      ‘All the same,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you might be wiser to stay at home for dinner tonight.’

      ‘And if ever I need your advice,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask for it.’ She collected blazer and bag, and walked past him into the hall.

      She was at the front door when her father’s voice reached her. ‘Darcy? Where are you going?’

      She turned to see him coming down the stairs, his expression faintly forbidding.

      ‘To visit Lois.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Pizza, a bottle of wine and a couple of chicks’ movies. Didn’t I say?’

      ‘No, it must have slipped your mind.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘And I’m afraid you must telephone Lois and make your excuses. As you now know, we have a guest, and I need you here this evening to act as my hostess.’

      ‘Aunt Freddie seems to be one of Mr Castille’s fans,’ she returned defiantly. ‘I’m sure she’d take my place for once.’

      ‘Your aunt returned to Kings Whitnall this afternoon. I pay you a generous allowance, Darcy, and occasionally I expect you to earn it.’ He waited, giving a nod as, reluctantly, she turned back from the door. ‘Now, run upstairs and tidy yourself, then join us for sherry,’ he added implacably, ignoring her pleading look.

      Mutinously, Darcy went to her room. She washed her face and hands, then applied moisturiser, but no other cosmetics. Not even a touch of her favourite scent. No concessions whatsoever, she told herself, brushing her hair vigorously then sweeping it back severely from her face, in order to confine it, with a silver clip, at the nape of her neck.

      Mouth tightening, she refastened her shirt to the throat, and straightened her skirt.

      Then she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the flurried beat of her heart, and went slowly and unhappily down to the drawing room, and the continuing nightmare that waited for her there.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHE’D EXPECTED to be met with a combination of mockery and triumph, but she was wrong. Joel Castille rose politely as she entered, his smile pleasant and unchallenging, then brought her the glass of excellent amontillado that she’d requested in a small wooden voice.

      Then he and her father resumed their quiet conversation, and she was left, thankfully, to her own devices.

      But, with her enemy sitting only a few feet away, long legs stretched in front of him, dark face warmly alive as he talked, it was difficult to divorce herself as totally from the proceedings as she might wish. He was speaking about some project he’d been involved with in Colombia, and the inbuilt problems his team had been forced to overcome, and she was annoyed to find her attention first captured, then engaged.

      In addition, as time passed, Darcy realised uneasily that she was studying him covertly under her lashes, taking in the elegant lines of the charcoal suit, and the way its waistcoat accentuated