The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy: Prada and Prejudice / Love and Liability / Mansfield Lark

“OK. See you then.” With a smile, Cherie hung up the phone and retrieved the pearl eardrop once again.

Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be a total waste after all.

The bill arrived on Wednesday, innocuously enough, in a thick cream envelope. Gemma Astley slit the flap, ready to add it to the pile of invoices for Rhys’s approval. As she scanned the page, her eyes widened. She hurried in to Rhys’s office.

He didn’t look up from his ledgers and spreadsheets. Gemma noticed that the black-framed eyeglasses he wore, hideous on anyone else, looked downright sexy. “Yes, Gemma, what is it?”

“You’d better have a look at this.”

He glanced briefly at the invoice she held out to him. “Yes, it’s a bill. Add it to the pile and send it to accounts payable.”

“Look at the amount.”

He frowned and looked at it more closely. The invoice listed one Missoni tank dress, £919.27; one Roberto Cavalli sheath dress, £372.32; and one Waterford Regency crystal chandelier, shipped to Draemar Castle, County Clare, Scotland, net cost—

Rhys paused, and dropped his pen. “Good God. Eleven thousand pounds…for a chandelier?” He closed his eyes.

Natalie. This had to be her doing. No wonder she hadn’t shown up on Saturday afternoon to look at the store’s financial spreadsheets; she’d been too busy shopping for designer dresses and overpriced chandeliers.

“Gemma,” he called out grimly, “get me Sir Richard on the phone. I need to speak with him straight away.”

Chapter 12 (#ulink_75f69f6b-a8c9-54de-b358-10832169a574)

Who would’ve thought London had so many bridal salons?

Caroline Dashwood stopped to slip off her shoe and rub her foot. She’d tried on and rejected a dozen wedding dresses. She was hungry and discouraged, and her feet hurt. “I’ll just elope,” she grumbled. “It’s so much easier that way.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Natalie scolded her older sister. “After all, it’s only our first day shopping. We’ll find something.”

“Right now, I’d settle for a white dress from Oxfam and a glass of Chardonnay.”

“Vera Wang,” Natalie said suddenly. “Something simple but elegant, in cream satin—”

“We can’t afford designer things any longer, Natalie,” Caro reminded her. “We need to practise economy.”

Natalie ignored this totally unwelcome (but unfortunately true) assessment of the family finances. “I’ve just had the most fabulous idea!” she exclaimed. “I’ll buy your gown. It’ll be my wedding gift to you.”

“Nat, it’s Saturday, and your new job doesn’t start until next week, so you won’t get paid until the end of the month. You can’t afford a knock-off from Marks and Sparks right now, much less a designer gown.”

“No, but with this—” Natalie held up a credit card “—I can afford anything. Besides, I want to do something for you. You’ve done lots for me, over the years.”

And it was true. When thirteen-year-old Nat snuck off to Glastonbury with a friend and nearly got arrested, Caro brought her home, and didn’t tell mum. She’d given Nat lifts, turned a blind eye when Nat borrowed her Barbour (until Nat ripped the lining and Caro slapped her, hard), and offered advice (most of it rubbish) and a shoulder to cry on.

Her sister deserved to have the wedding of her dreams, just as Tarquin and Wren deserved a truly fabulous wedding gift. And so Natalie would buy Caro the perfect dress.

She found it, as she’d hoped, at the Vera Wang atelier. A slim column of cream silk with a low, draped back, the dress was simple but stunning.

“Oh, Caro, it’s beautiful!” Natalie breathed. She turned to the bridal assistant. “We’ll take it.”

Doubtfully her sister demurred. “It’s far too expensive,” she murmured. “I can get a perfectly nice dress off the rack.”

Natalie shrugged. “It’s pricey, but you only get married once.” She smirked. “Well – let’s hope so, anyway.”

As Caro tried on the dress and a fitter made adjustments, Natalie followed the bridal assistant to the front desk and handed over her card. A minute later the assistant returned, her face looking like the back end of a horse.

“I’m sorry, Miss Dashwood, but your purchase was not approved. Your credit has been declined.”

Rhys wiped his face with a towel and draped it around his neck. “I win again. Better luck next time, mate.”

Ben Harris thrust his squash racket into its case and tossed Rhys a bottle of water. “Not bad for an old guy,” he conceded.

“This old guy just kicked your arse.” Rhys drank his water down in one go and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are we on for a re-match next Saturday?”

Ben followed him off the squash court and into the changing room. “Can’t. Sophie needs help choosing wedding napkins.”

“Wedding napkins?” Rhys raised his brow. “A napkin’s a napkin, or so I thought. You wipe your mouth with it.”

“They’re to have our initials. And she wants them folded into flower shapes.”

“Origami napkins…bloody hell.” Rhys stripped off his sweat-drenched T-shirt and shorts and stepped into the shower. “Better you than me, mate.”

Ben towelled himself off. “What can I say? It makes Sophie happy. You’re coming to the wedding, aren’t you?” he called out over the rush of water.

“Of course…sorry I couldn’t be your best man. I just can’t fit it in right now.”

“Yeah, saving Dashwood and James’s arse must keep you busy. How’s that going, by the way?”

Rhys emerged from the shower. “With the exception of Sir Richard’s granddaughter, Natalie – who thinks it’s her mission in life to bankrupt the company – it’s going OK, I suppose. No one likes change.”

“Least of all you,” Ben observed dryly. He glanced at Rhys. “Sorry it didn’t work out with you and Cat.”

Rhys threw his locker door open and began to get dressed. “I was a fucking idiot for ever getting involved with her.” Rhys slammed his locker shut. “Have time for a coffee before I go to work?”

“Sure.” Ben dropped the subject of Caterina. He and Rhys had known each other a long time, but even best mates didn’t talk much about their relationships. They shared a drunken regret or two over a pint, and never spoke of it again.

As they left the squash courts and emerged onto the street, they passed a newsstand. Photos of Rhys and Natalie Dashwood featured prominently on most of them.

“Well, you and Natalie Dashwood are certainly popular with the paparazzi these days,” Ben remarked, and smirked. “Sorry, but I have to ask. Are you two really—”

“Sleeping together?” Rhys finished tersely. “No.” He thought of Natalie, wearing a T-shirt that barely covered her bum, and shoved the image resolutely aside. “Sir Richard and Natalie are clients. And I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

Ben grinned. “Maybe you should. You know what they say…all work and no play—”

“—makes Ben a dead man, if he doesn’t shut the hell up,” Rhys retorted.

Ben followed Rhys into the coffee shop. “Are you bringing a plus one to the wedding?” he asked as they took their cups and sat down.

“No.”