Buch lesen: «His Independent Bride: Wife Against Her Will / The Wedlocked Wife / Bertoluzzi's Heiress Bride»
Will he take control of
His Independent Bride?
Three exhilarating, compelling romances from three favourite Mills & Boon authors!
In April 2010 Mills & Boon bring you two classic collections, each featuring three favourite romances by our bestselling authors
HIRED: MISTRESS
Wanted: Mistress and Mother by Carol Marinelli His Private Mistress by Chantelle Shaw The Millionaire’s Secret Mistress by Kathryn Ross
HIS INDEPENDENT BRIDE
Wife Against Her Will by Sara Craven The Wedlocked Wife by Maggie Cox Bertoluzzi’s Heiress Bride by Catherine Spencer
His Independent Bride
Sara Craven
Maggie Cox
Catherine Spencer
MILLS & BOON
Wife Against Her Will
By
Sara Craven
Sara Craven was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.
Don’t miss Sara Craven’s exciting new novel, His Untamed Innocent, available in July 2010 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.
PROLOGUE
IT WAS raining heavily, but the girl paying off the taxi did not turn up her coat collar, or try to avoid the rivulets of water running across the pavement. She seemed oblivious to the wet chill of the evening, pausing under a street lamp to check the address on the scrap of paper clutched in her hand.
It was just one of a number of similar tall houses in the terrace, its neat front door reached by a short flight of railed steps. There was a polished brass plaque by the entrance, and an equally burnished doorbell beneath it.
She touched the button, but it was damp and her fingers slipped. Or was she beginning to lose her nerve? She took a deep, steadying breath, then pressed the bell again, more firmly.
Her ring was answered promptly by a man in a porter’s uniform.
‘May I help you, miss?’ His tone was civil but guarded.
She said, ‘I’d like to speak to one of your members—a Mr Harry Metcalfe.’
His brows lifted, and she found herself being closely scrutinised.
‘Mr Metcalfe is attending a private party, miss. I don’t think he would wish to be disturbed. But I could take a message, if you like.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t do.’ She lifted her chin. Returned his stare. ‘I need to talk to Mr Metcalfe myself. It’s—urgent. So will you get him, please?’
For a moment she wondered blankly what she would do if he simply denied her Harry again and shut the door in her face. But, grudgingly, he stood aside, and she walked into a large square hallway panelled in dark wood.
Straight ahead a wide flight of stairs, carpeted in deep crimson, curved away to the upper floors. On her right was a desk, with two telephones, and the club’s registration book with a pen tray beside it. There was also a newspaper folded at the crossword and a mug of tea, half-drunk, beside it.
And on the other side of the hall was a series of doors, all closed.
Behind one of them, she supposed, was Harry, centre of attention at his private party. But which one?
The porter opened the nearest door, motioning her to precede him into the room beyond. He pressed a switch, bringing two heavily shaded wall lights into service.
‘If you’ll wait here in the reading room, miss, I’ll see what I can do.’ He added dourly, ‘But I can’t promise.’
Reading room? she thought as the door closed behind him. It was so dim in here, you’d probably go blind.
As she unfastened her damp trench coat, she looked around at the formal groups of hard leather armchairs and the table in the centre with magazines and periodicals arranged in regimented rows. They looked as if their cover stories might relate to Queen Victoria’s jubilee, she thought, her mouth twisting.
Stationed round the walls were several glass-fronted bookcases with elaborate locks, but no keys, as if to discourage any attempt to open them, let alone prise out one of the rigid leather-bound volumes they contained.
The whole room seemed as if it had been frozen in time—or was that only because she felt the same? Numb, as if the world had stopped six hours ago when she’d looked at a line on a plastic tube, and seen it turn blue.
‘Harry.’ She whispered the name into the emptiness. ‘Harry, you’ve got to help me. I don’t know what to do.’
She heard the door open behind her and spun round in instinctive relief. But it was short-lived. Because the newcomer wasn’t Harry. It was someone she’d never seen before. Someone taller, and much darker than Harry, but by no means as handsome, she thought, apprehension uncurling inside her. Harry had charm, and a smile that could melt icebergs. This man’s mouth looked as if it had been forged from steel.
In addition, he had hair as black as a witch’s cat, and the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Which were currently looking her over with unconcealed exasperation.
‘Oh, God.’ His voice was low-pitched with a faint drawl. Perhaps a trace of an accent too. ‘Who had the bright idea of inviting you, sweetheart? Because I’ll wring his bloody neck.’
Jolted, she stared back at him. She said, ‘I think there’s some mistake. I’m here to see Harry Metcalfe.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ he said. ‘But Harry’s enjoying a bachelor dinner with some friends and relations, including his future father-in-law,’ he added with a touch of grimness. ‘So you can see that your intrusion would be completely inappropriate.’ He reached into the jacket of his elegant suit and took out his wallet. ‘How much to make you disappear?’
Her brows snapped together. She said, icily, ‘I don’t know who you are, but…’
‘And I don’t care who you are,’ he cut across her, his tone bored. ‘It’s what you are that sticks in my gullet. Because it’s really not that kind of party, so be a good girl, and don’t hang around where you’re not wanted.’ He extracted some banknotes from his wallet. ‘Now, tell me how much you were going to be paid, and add on the cab fare, so we can all get on with our lives.
‘And it’s nothing personal, darling.’ The blue gaze skated over her again more slowly, taking in the simple knee-length black dress that her open raincoat revealed. His smile was swift and cynical. ‘In other circumstances, I’d probably enjoy watching your performance. You might even persuade me to join in, if I’d had enough to drink. But this isn’t your night, so I suggest you get off to your next engagement.’
She stared up at him, dazed, bewildered. She said thickly, ‘What the hell are you talking about? I came here to see Harry, and I’m not leaving until I do.’
‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘With a police escort, if necessary. Here.’ He walked over to her, briskly peeling off some of the notes, and before she could read his intentions he pushed them down the front of her dress between her breasts, the long fingers casually brushing her rounded flesh.
She gave a small cry of outrage and stepped back, dragging out the money and throwing it at him.
She said hoarsely, ‘How dare you—how dare you touch me—you bastard?’
‘You mean touching’s not part of the act?’ He was unfazed, even mocking. ‘Now, there’s a novelty.’ He paused for a moment, glancing towards the door. ‘Oh, God,’ he said wearily. ‘The bloody cavalry. Just what I didn’t want.’
The door was flung open and a younger man came in, sandy-haired and faintly flushed. ‘I’m the search party, old boy,’ he announced, faintly slurring his words. ‘Your uncle Giles is asking for you.’
Then as his gaze discovered the room’s other occupant he halted, and let out a long, slow whistle. ‘You sly devil, you,’ he said, grinning. ‘Where did she come from?’
‘How odd you should ask.’ The drawl was even more pronounced. ‘That, my dear Jack, was going to be my question—to you.’
Jack’s brows lifted, and he began to laugh. ‘You mean some live entertainment’s arrived after all?’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Nothing to do with me, my friend. I seriously didn’t dare, not when I heard your uncle Giles was planning to honour us with his presence. Couldn’t see old Harry wanting to get his kit off and frolic with his bride’s father looking on.’
He gave another appreciative whistle. ‘But she’s a bit adorable, eh? Not the usual type at all. Fancy giving a private show down here, darling? Just for the two of us?’
‘No, she doesn’t.’ The retort from her adversary was clipped and immediate. ‘You may be drunk enough, but I’m not. And anyway, we have a party to go back to, so she’s leaving.’
He took her arm, but she wrenched herself free. ‘Let go of me,’ she said stormily, a hectic flush spreading along her cheekbones. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t—I’m not what you obviously think. I know Harry. I’m a friend of his, and I have to see him tonight—talk to him. It’s terribly important.’
‘Harry’s friends are upstairs at his stag party,’ he said. ‘And you definitely weren’t on the guest list. Now go.’ He took her by the shoulders and turned her, pushing her inexorably towards the doorway.
She struggled against his grasp, aware of the raincoat slipping from her shoulders as they reached the hall. Her bag sliding away too, with the coat. Hitting the floor.
She reached down, trying to grab for it, and stumbled, almost sinking to her knees, but his fingers were like iron, pulling her up again.
The porter was on his feet, and there were other people there too—men—some of them on the stairs, but others right there in the hall, surrounding her, groping at her, trying to reach her zip, laughing and shouting, ‘Off. Off.’
She felt the back of her dress tear, and cried out in fear. Knew the shock of her tormentors’ hands on her bare skin.
And she suddenly saw Harry in the turmoil of grinning, hooting faces, standing towards the back. He was as white as a ghost, his mouth open in shock, staring at her as if she was his worst nightmare.
She called out to him, her voice high and desperate with panic. ‘Harry—help me—please. You must…’
But he didn’t move or speak. Only his expression changed, going from surprise to guilt. And from guilt, she realised, to cold fury.
It was then that she stopped fighting. That she let the hard male hands still on her shoulders propel her towards the club’s open front door.
Where they halted. She found herself swung, not gently, to face him. She saw the blue eyes skim her with contempt, and, gasping, wrenched herself free of him at last, her naked skin feeling flayed where he’d touched her.
He took her coat and bag from the sandy-haired man, who’d appeared beside him, and tossed them to her.
He said softly and unsmilingly, ‘I’d consider a change of career, darling, if you want to make a living. I don’t think you’re cut out for this.’
Then the door closed, leaving her outside in the rain-washed darkness, and more alone than she had ever been in her life.
CHAPTER ONE
Two years later
‘MY FATHER retiring?’ Darcy Langton gave a derisive snort. ‘Only with the help of six pallbearers and a memorial service.’
‘Darcy, dear,’ her aunt said reproachfully. ‘That’s not nice. Not nice at all.’
Neither, thought Darcy, is my father, a lot of the time. But out of respect for her aunt Winifred, she didn’t voice it aloud.
‘Is this why I’ve been summoned home in such haste?’ she demanded instead. ‘To hear about his latest whim?’
Her aunt sighed. ‘I think it’s gone much further than that. He is actually standing down as managing director of Werner Langton, and plans to hand over as chairman too, just as soon as his successor finds his feet.’
‘But there was no mention of this before I went away.’ Darcy, who’d been standing by the window, staring at the sunlit autumn gardens, came back and seated herself on the sofa beside her aunt, stretching out slim, denim-clad legs. ‘Yet, if it’s this far advanced, he must have been planning it for ages.’
But then, she thought suddenly, we all have our secrets. Don’t we?
Restlessly she flicked back a tendril of pale blonde hair that had escaped from the loose knot on top of her head.
She said abruptly, ‘This successor you mentioned—has he already been appointed? Is he a member of the board?’
‘No, he’s not.’ Aunt Freddie frowned slightly. ‘In fact, he seems rather an odd choice. Much younger than I’d have expected.’
Darcy stared at her. ‘You’ve met him, then?’
‘Your father brought him down here a few weekends ago. They spent most of the time shut up in the study, so that must be when the deal was done.’
She shrugged. ‘Your father seems very pleased with his choice. He says Werner Langton has become too complacent, and needs the injection of dynamism and drive that this young man will provide.’
‘How on earth did they meet?’
‘Your father went to the USA specially, because he’d heard of this whizkid who’d been there for the past year, troubleshooting various projects that had got into difficulties and turning them around.’ She paused. ‘His name is Joel Castille. Does that mean anything to you?’
Darcy shrugged. ‘Absolutely not. It’s quite an odd name, so I think I’d have remembered it.’
‘It seems he had an English mother, but a French father.’ Aunt Freddie devoted a moment to silent consideration. ‘Quite striking looks, too. I don’t do many portraits, as a rule, but he has a face I’d like to paint.’
Darcy’s lips twitched faintly. ‘Something to hang in the boardroom, maybe. You should suggest it to him.’
‘No, darling,’ Aunt Freddie said wryly. ‘I really wouldn’t dare—as you’ll understand when you meet him. Your father’s throwing a reception for him next week at the Templar Hotel. Introducing him to the company, and trade Press. And, naturally, he wishes you to act as his hostess for the occasion. You’re so much better at these London things than I am.’
‘Not true,’ Darcy said instantly. ‘You’d rather stay down here in your studio and paint than work the room at a party, or make polite conversation at formal dinners, that’s all.
‘But I see now why I’ve had the regal summons to return,’ she added, her mouth tightening.
‘Not altogether.’ Her aunt spoke with a certain constraint. ‘I’m afraid pictures of the police raid on the yacht appeared in some of the papers here—and you were clearly visible in them, and mentioned in the stories as one of Drew Maidstone’s companions on board. Gavin is—not pleased. And that’s putting it mildly.’
‘Then it’s a pity the Press—and Gavin—can’t get their facts straight,’ Darcy said hotly. ‘Firstly, yes—there was a raid, and we all spent a few hours in custody while they searched the boat. No, it wasn’t pleasant, but the search found nothing—no drugs or anything else untoward. It was a mistake.
‘Secondly, I’ve been working on Sorceress and damned hard too. Drew doesn’t bother with the charming playboy image when he’s paying the wages, believe me,’ she added bitterly. ‘Nor was I sharing his stateroom—ever. I was squashed into something the size of a half-pint broom cupboard.’
She spread her hands. ‘He just likes posh totty waiting on his guests, that’s all. And he reckons I qualify.
‘Thirdly, he was furious when I left, so Daddy will be pleased to hear I won’t be going back, because I no longer have a job. I hope he’s satisfied.’
‘No, I don’t think he will be,’ Aunt Freddie said calmly. ‘He wants to see you in some settled occupation, dearest, not skivvying round Europe and the Caribbean for frankly chancy characters like Mr Maidstone.’
‘No,’ Darcy said flatly, and with candour. ‘He really wants to see me a boy—the son he never had, but always thought Mummy would give him eventually. The son who would have taken over from him at Werner Langton. Kept the dynasty going.’ She shook her head. ‘He never wanted a daughter—hadn’t a clue what to do with me. And still hasn’t.’
‘You’re very hard on him.’ Her aunt spoke gently.
Darcy hunched a shoulder. ‘It’s mutual.’
‘But things will not improve while you go out of your way to antagonise him.’ Aunt Freddie spoke with unaccustomed severity. ‘Werner Langton has been his life. Giving it up cannot have been an easy decision for him. So when he arrives, can we make a concerted effort to have a pleasant weekend?’
Darcy reached across and kissed her aunt on the cheek. ‘For you—anything,’ she said gently, and smiled.
But when she was alone, the smile faded. Much as she loved her aunt, it was galling to hear about the startling change in her father’s future plans at second hand like this.
And if he hadn’t suddenly needed her to be his hostess at the reception next week, because Aunt Freddie had jibbed, he wouldn’t have sent for her, she thought bitterly. She’d simply have arrived home at some time in the future to discover a fait accompli.
He’s not that different from Drew Maidstone, she told herself drily. He also needs some posh totty to wait on his guests. That’s why I went on that course in France two years ago, to learn how to cook, and arrange flowers, and organise a household. Because I’m a girl, and to Dad, that’s what girls are for. Or partly.
And if I hadn’t been feeling so totally hellish, I might have fought back. Demanded some training where I could have used my brain. Had a proper career. But I simply didn’t have the strength. Not then. Besides, I just wanted to get away—to escape.
She squared her shoulders. But that was all in the past, where it belonged. Dead and buried, with no looking back.
It was much more important to consider what the future might hold, she thought with slight unease. There was no doubt that her father’s unexpected decision would bring about a big shakeup in all their lives.
Perhaps when he retired altogether, and would no longer need her services even marginally, she could get some proper qualifications at last. Up to now, her father’s frequent calls on her had precluded her working on anything but a temporary basis, or performing much more than menial tasks that could be swiftly abandoned.
She might, she thought longingly, eventually find employment that would be more fulfilling and absorbing than acting as au pair for spoiled children, or cooking on board yachts which were basically extensions of the latest fashionable night clubs.
Maybe achieve something that would include real travel too.
The world could be opening up for her at last.
Hey there, Darcy, she whispered inwardly, abruptly halting her train of thought. You’re running too far ahead of yourself here. Dad might change his mind about retirement—especially if this whizkid turns out to be a little too whizzy after all. You could be back at square one.
But maybe she could hope—just a little. After all, she told herself, you never know in life what might be just around the corner—do you?
It was a difficult weekend. Her father arrived looking dour, and insisted on seeing Darcy alone in his study soon afterwards.
‘I hope you realise the Werner Langton Press office received calls from gutter journalists about the company you keep,’ was his opening salvo. ‘At every lunch I go to, other men are showing me pictures of their grandchildren. And what can I offer in return? My daughter being arrested in a drugs raid.’
Darcy bit her lip. ‘The police searched the boat and found nothing,’ she repeated wearily. ‘No one was charged with anything.’
‘More by luck than judgement,’ her father returned angrily. ‘Understand this, Darcy: I will not have you consorting with the likes of Drew Maidstone.’
She looked back at him stonily. ‘I was his employee, Dad. Part of the crew, and nothing more.’
‘And that’s hardly to your credit either—being at the beck and call of that kind of riff-raff.’ Under the thick thatch of silver hair, his face was unbecomingly flushed.
‘But it’s OK for me to put on a designer dress and smile at the people you do business with,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that why I’m here now?’
He grunted. ‘That’s hardly the same thing. They know you’re my daughter, and they treat you with respect. And that’s how it should be, if you’re ever to find a husband.’
She hadn’t been expecting that. Her head went back. ‘I’m hardly on the shelf at twenty.’
‘Many more Drew Maidstone episodes and you’ll be looked on as damaged goods. Is that what you want?’
She was very still suddenly, remembering contemptuous blue eyes judging her—stripping her…
Not, she thought, shivering inwardly, not twice in a lifetime.
‘It’s time you pulled yourself together, Darcy,’ Gavin Langton went on. ‘Began to take your life seriously. God knows what your mother would say to you if she was here now,’ he added sombrely.
His previous remark had made her vulnerable. The cruelty of this left her gasping, but she rallied. ‘She’d be saying nothing, because I wouldn’t actually be present. I’d be away, starting my final year at university with her blessing and encouragement.’ ‘Of course,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Some ludicrous degree in engineering, wasn’t it? To be followed by a job with the company, no doubt.’
He snorted. ‘You think I’d allow my daughter to strut round on site in a hard hat, giving orders while the men laughed at you behind your back?’
‘No,’ she said, quietly. ‘I—never thought that. But I hoped you might let me make—some contribution.’
‘Then you can, at the reception next week. I want to make sure the evening goes smoothly. Not everyone approves of the man I’ve chosen to step into my shoes. Some of them feel…passed over, others are afraid the axe is going to fall, so I’ll need you to…defuse any troublesome situations that might arise. After all, the shareholders won’t like open warfare.’
‘No,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘Why are you doing this, Dad? You’re still years off retirement age. You could have introduced this man at a lower level. At least let him prove himself, before you give him the top job.’
‘I’ve given my whole life to Werner Langton.’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘Travelled the world building bridges, digging tunnels, putting up shopping malls. I was in Venezuela when your mother died. I’ve thought a thousand times that if I’d been here, I might have been able to do something. That she could still be with us now.
‘I plan to enjoy the time that’s left to me.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Let the company swallow up another willing sacrifice. I’ve paid my dues. And Joel Castille will follow me, whatever the rest of them think.’
She said slowly, ‘It didn’t occur to you to speak to me first—talk things over.’
‘And you’d have advised me, would you—out of your vast experience?’ He shook his head. ‘I make my own decisions. Just be pleasant to my choice of managing director, Darcy, and see the evening goes smoothly. That’s your forte.’
He looked her over, his lips pursing irritably at the jeans and sweatshirt she was wearing. ‘And buy yourself a new dress—something glamorous that’ll make you look like a woman. Don’t forget you have a bad impression to wipe away.’
She felt her hands tighten into fists, but made herself unclench them. Even smile. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said quietly. ‘Of course.’
‘The guest of honour is late,’ Aunt Freddie murmured. ‘And your father is getting agitated.’
‘Not my problem,’ Darcy returned softly, smiling radiantly over her untouched glass of champagne. ‘He can’t expect me to go out and scour the highways and byways for the guy.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps he knows there’s dissension in the ranks over his appointment, and has changed his mind.’
Her aunt shuddered faintly. ‘Don’t even think it. Can you imagine the fallout?’
‘Yes, but at least you’re here to help me cope. I’m truly grateful, Freddie. I know how you hate London.’
‘But occasionally, a visit is inevitable.’ Her aunt looked around her, and sighed. ‘What a disagreeable evening. All these resentful faces.’
‘Plus a drunken waiter, and a waitress spilling a tray of canapés all over the finance director’s wife,’ Darcy reminded her softly.
‘They may turn out to be the high spots of the party.’ Aunt Freddie turned to survey her niece. ‘You look very lovely, darling, but does it always have to be black?’
Darcy glanced down at her figure-skimming voile dress, with its narrow straps and the bias-cut skirt that swirled as she moved.
‘This is a compromise,’ she said. ‘I was looking for sackcloth and ashes.’
‘Well, start celebrating instead,’ her aunt said with open relief. ‘Because the errant guest has finally made it.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Oh, for a sketch pad.’
Amused, Darcy turned towards the doorway. A group of Werner Langton executives was already clustering round the latecomer, and, for a moment, her view was blocked by her father’s commanding figure.
She ought to join them, she thought. Play her part in the meeting and greeting.
She took a step, then the group shifted, and she saw him. And, sick with shock, recognised him. Confronted the harrowing, unforgettable image she’d carried for two years—the tall figure with black hair, and eyes as cold as a northern sea in his tanned face.
Not a bad dream or a hallucination. But here—now—in this room—breathing the same air. And looking round him.
Almost, she thought, dry-mouthed, as if he was searching for someone…
