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

Dark blond hair, dark blue eyes…

“Rhys,” Natalie murmured. She threw the sash up. “You can’t be serious! You brought your motorbike?” she called out.

“Get your arse down here! Time’s wasting.”

“I think I prefer the Jag,” Natalie said five minutes later as she regarded the Triumph doubtfully.

“Just put the helmet on. You loved it last time.”

“I was drunk last time.”

Once she was helmeted and straddled behind him, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

“Hang on,” he warned over the rumble of the engine. “I don’t drive like your granny.”

With a roar, they were off. Natalie clung to Rhys as they manoeuvreed their way out of London and onto the A3, headed west. Streets and buildings passed by in a blur, giving way gradually to rolling green countryside.

Exhilaration overtook her as they roared past hedgerows and fields dotted with cows and black-faced sheep. There was only the Triumph, the road, and Rhys’s broad, muscled back. Her nose was assaulted by the smells of leather, petrol, and occasionally, the scent of wildflowers.

Just past noon, they stopped for lunch. Natalie was ravenous. Over fish and chips and pints of beer, Rhys told her about his Thunderbird and his love affair with motorcycles.

“It’s my only escape,” he said, and thrust a pickled onion in his mouth. “No mobile, no laptop, no demands – just me and the road and plenty of horsepower.”

“I didn’t think I’d like it,” Natalie admitted, “but it’s brilliant. Except for the seat…my bum’s a bit sore.”

Rhys nodded. “It will be, the first couple of times out. You’ll feel it in your legs tomorrow.”

“I already do.”

Rhys paid the bill and they returned to the bike. “Ready?”

“Let’s walk first,” Nat suggested impulsively as she eyed the row of shops lining the main street.

“OK.” He shoved his wallet in his back pocket. “But only if you promise not to buy anything.”

“I’m very restrained in my spending these days.” She stopped and pointed. “But there’s a sweet shop, so I’m afraid—” she smiled triumphantly “—all bets are off.”

Rhys took her hand, and they made their way to the confectioners. Outside the door he paused. “I’ll probably regret this, but get whatever you like. I’ll buy.”

“Oh, you’ll definitely regret it,” Natalie agreed. “We’ll get something for your mum. Jamie says she likes sweets.”

“Jamie?”

“Yes, you know, your brother? We had a pint together the night you threw him out of your flat.”

Rhys frowned. “I didn’t throw him out.”

“You did! When I left, we went to the pub around the corner.”

“As I recall,” Rhys murmured, “you left just as things got interesting. I had a very different idea of how the evening would end. And talking to Jamie wasn’t it.”

Natalie blushed. “Do you fancy shortbread?” she asked him. The woman at the till was avidly listening to every word.

Rhys leaned forward to kiss her. “I don’t fancy shortbread,” he said against her lips, “or chocolate, or gumdrops. I fancy you. I want to make you dinner. And I’ve dessert of another kind altogether in mind.”

“You’ve forgotten Lesson Number One,” she murmured. “‘Behave with decorum at all times’.”

“I’m the instructor, so I’m allowed to break the rules.”

The woman behind the till rang everything up and handed the bag of sweets to Natalie. She leaned forward. “That’s Rhys Gordon, that is,” she whispered. “And you’re Natalie Dashwood. I’ve read all about you in the tabloids.”

“Oh, no,” Natalie said hastily, “you’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not.” The woman looked past her and eyed Rhys appreciatively. “You want my advice? Run along and have some of that dessert on offer. I would!” She winked.

Scarlet-faced, Natalie took the bag and fled the shop.

Rhys tossed the candy into the Triumph’s saddlebag and swung his leg over the seat. “Are you ready, Miss Dashwood?”

She settled herself in behind him and slid her arms tightly around his waist. “I’m ready, Mr. Gordon.”

With a throaty rumble, they roared off into the drowsy late afternoon countryside, back to London.

“What should I do?” Holly fumed as she slid into a booth at the pub on Sunday afternoon.

“Do about what?” Hannah asked without looking up from her mobile. She was used to her sister’s dramatics.

Holly brandished her mobile. “I’ve got a video of Klaus von Richter throwing a major tantrum at the newsagents on Friday,” she confided in a low voice. “Rajid asked for ID, and Klaus went mental! Here, look.”

As Hannah watched the video, her eyes grew wide. “Did you post this?”

“No! Are you crazy? If Klaus – or Sasha! – found out, I’d lose my job. Klaus is very important in the fashion world.”

“But he treated Rajid horribly…and he’s a racist git.” Hannah leaned forward. “Hols, you have to post this. Offer the story to the tabloids, make yourself a bit of money—”

“No! If I go to the tabs, everyone including Klaus will know I took that video, and I’ll be sacked.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Just say you want to be a – what do you call it? –an unnamed source,” Hannah said.

Holly shook her head firmly. “I can’t take the chance. My job means too much to me.”

“Send me the video,” Hannah offered. “I’ll post it, and no one need know you had anything to do with it. Come on! What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Losing my job, that’s what. I’m not at home any more. I have to pay rent, not to mention buy groceries—”

Hannah snorted. “You eat nothing but salad and veg…a head of lettuce can’t cost that much. And even if you lost your job, you could always come back home.”

“No thanks!” Holly said, and shuddered. “I like being on my own. And I like my career as well, thank you very much.”