Sara Craven - Wife Against Her Will

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 …