Emma Darcy - Their Wedding Day

Cover Page

Excerpt “Trust me, Rowena,” he said softly. A brave prince, she thought. Brave to take me on, and all the baggage I bring with me. She looked down at their hands, feeling the strength of his seep into her veins. A helping hand, a loving hand, a hand she could hold on to. It wouldn’t slip away from her, would it? Trust me. But could she trust herself to do right by him? She was no longer sure what right was. Only that Keir’s hand felt right in hers. Was that enough on which to let the past go and forge a future together?

Dear Reader Dear Reader, For many years my husband and I shared a communication that crossed all barriers between us and opened up doors we hadn’t known existed. We explored each other’s private inner worlds in ways that brought us much closer together. Frank became more and more involved with the stories I was writing, contributing ideas and slants I would never have thought of myself. We enjoyed developing them together, bouncing thoughts off each other, stretching for the optimum result in whatever story we were creating. Frank suffered a stroke, then a heart attack just before Christmas 1994. He passed away on 14 March 1995. He wanted me to go on writing. So I sent my first solo book to London. My editor loved it. She said the hero was wonderful. I smiled. The hero is everything my husband was to me. The book is called Their Wedding Day, and you are just about to read it. Do enjoy the book and think of Frank while you are reading it. Best wishes Emma Darcy

Title Page Their Wedding Day Emma Darcy www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Copyright

A brave prince, she thought. Brave to take me on, and all the baggage I bring with me.

She looked down at their hands, feeling the strength of his seep into her veins. A helping hand, a loving hand, a hand she could hold on to. It wouldn’t slip away from her, would it?

Trust me.

But could she trust herself to do right by him? She was no longer sure what right was. Only that Keir’s hand felt right in hers. Was that enough on which to let the past go and forge a future together?

Dear Reader,

For many years my husband and I shared a communication that crossed all barriers between us and opened up doors we hadn’t known existed. We explored each other’s private inner worlds in ways that brought us much closer together. Frank became more and more involved with the stories I was writing, contributing ideas and slants I would never have thought of myself. We enjoyed developing them together, bouncing thoughts off each other, stretching for the optimum result in whatever story we were creating.

Frank suffered a stroke, then a heart attack just before Christmas 1994. He passed away on 14 March 1995.

He wanted me to go on writing. So I sent my first solo book to London. My editor loved it. She said the hero was wonderful. I smiled. The hero is everything my husband was to me. The book is called Their Wedding Day, and you are just about to read it.

Do enjoy the book and think of Frank while you are reading it.

Best wishes

Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ROWENA couldn’t let go without putting up a fight. A seven-year marriage didn’t end overnight. There had to be some way to fix it, some way to stop what was happening. She had to see for herself this woman who had turned Phil’s heart so cold to her and their children. She had to know what she was up against.

Despite the steady determination she had fostered from their home in Killarney Heights to Phil’s work place at Chatswood, nerves fluttered sickeningly through Rowena’s stomach as she drove into the basement car park of the Delahunty building. Her eyes quickly scanned the row of reserved spaces for staff. She didn’t want Phil to be here. If someone told him she had come, he might try to prevent her from confronting the situation head on.

His red Mazda convertible was nowhere in sight. Rowena breathed a long, tremulous sigh of relief. As she manoeuvred the family Ford sedan into a parking bay, it suddenly slid through her mind that Phil might have lied to her about the flashy sports car being an impulse buy. Had he been re-imaging himself to impress the other woman? If so, what kind of love needed sexy status symbols?

Rowena wouldn’t concede it was love, no matter what Phil said. This was another one of his flirtations, an ego boost that had somehow gone too far, probably pushed by the woman. Phil was a very attractive man. He earned a high income as Delahunty’s chief property buyer. He was a catch in most women’s eyes.

But she was his wife, and the flirtations had never meant anything before. A bit of fun. Phil had always assured her of that. Although it hadn’t been fun for her, and it certainly wasn’t fun now.

The shock announcement last night that he was leaving her for another woman, leaving her and their children and their home, had been so devastating she had barely been able to think, let alone try to change his decision. She hadn’t even suspected their marriage was at risk.

It shouldn’t be. Not when they had shared so much together, had so much together. Rowena would not accept what was happening. Not without a fight.

Some shallow infatuation…that was all it could be. Propinquity at the office. She had to believe that. She had to. Or seven years of her life lost their meaning.

She switched off the engine and checked her reflection in the driving mirror. Hours of weeping had robbed her green eyes of any sparkle, but at least the skilfully applied make-up concealed the shadows under them. Her eyelashes were long enough and thick enough to veil the slightly puffy lids.

The ruby-red lipstick looked rather stark against her pale skin but she had read in last Sunday’s newspaper that vibrant shades were part of power dressing and gave a woman clout. Rowena was not about to appear wimpish to her rival. She might be a housewife but she was no walkover.

She brushed her fingers across the fringe that kept the thick curtain of her black hair from falling over her face. It needed a trim. Maybe she should have done something dramatic like getting her hair cut into a short-cropped style, make Phil take a second look at her, but he had always said he liked her hair long. The shoulder-length bob with the soft, razor-cut wisps that framed her face did suit her, and she had washed and blow-dried it to shiny perfection.

She fiddled with the red and green silk scarf she had tied around her neck to add some bold colour to her navy suit, then told herself she was dithering for no good reason and alighted from the car. She looked as good as she could in the circumstances. She hadn’t let herself go. Her figure was slightly more rounded, more womanly than it had been before she had had children, but she certainly wasn’t sloppy.

Whatever Phil had told his other woman about her, she was about to come face to face with the truth, Rowena thought, holding grimly to her purpose as she locked the car and turned to walk to the elevators. She checked her watch. Eleventhirty. Time enough to say all she wanted to say before the lunch break.

A classy BMW swept into the car park and took the space beside the elevators. Rowena froze. It had to be Keir Delahunty, the one man whose path she least wanted to cross, especially today of all days!