Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (9 page)

“Well, at least you’ve narrowed it down to two,” Tarquin said with resignation. He’d spent the past hour slumped in a chair as Natalie tried on dress after dress.

“I have to find the perfect outfit for your wedding.”

“What about this?” Tarquin suggested hopefully. He plucked a dress from a nearby rack that cost much less than either of Natalie’s choices.

“I’m not buying off the rack for your wedding, Tark. I need something worthy of the occasion.”

“The newspapers say that Dashwood and James aren’t doing well, Nat,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps you should be a bit more – erm, frugal.”

“Frugal?” Natalie echoed. “I know you Scots are famous for thrift, but I refuse to scrimp when it comes to your wedding!”

“Perhaps you should get them both,” Tarquin said finally, defeated.

She beamed. “Brilliant!” She dropped an impulsive kiss on the top of Tark’s head on her way back to the dressing room. “I’m almost done.”

As she changed back into her clothes, Natalie considered possible wedding gifts. She wanted to give Wren and Tark something special – Waterford crystal, perhaps, or one of those hideous metal sculptures Tark fancied – something suitable for his Scottish castle…

…something to show how much his friendship meant to her.

“I have to get you a wedding gift,” Natalie told him a few minutes later when she emerged from the dressing room. “We’ll shop once I pay for this lot.”

Alarmed, Tarquin rose and followed her to the front desk. “I don’t need a present, Nat! Besides, Dashwood and James are in real financial trouble,” he added in a low voice. “Rhys Gordon’s only called in if things are very bad.”

“How did you know grandfather hired Rhys?”

“It’s in all the business pages.” Tarquin reddened slightly and added, “I hate to bring it up, but the tabloids are also saying that you and Mr. Gordon are –erm…”

“—having an affair?” Natalie pressed her lips together. She refused to be embarrassed. Why should she be? She’d done nothing wrong. “We’re not. It’s only for publicity.”

“Well, that’s a relief! He’s bloody awful, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Natalie said airily. “At any rate,” she added as she handed her credit card to the sales clerk, “Dashwood and James have been around since 1854. We’ll pull through this little slump. There’s nothing to worry about.”

As they left, Tarquin came to a stop. “Nat, about the wedding gift,” he said. “You’ve already spent a small fortune on clothing—”

“You sound like an accountant, Tark. Or worse, like Rhys,” she added darkly. “I’m getting you a wedding gift, and there’s an end to it.” She smiled. “And I know just the thing.”

Laden with carrier bags, Natalie strode along the crowded pavement as Tarquin trailed behind, her earlier promise to meet with Rhys Gordon completely forgotten.

“Hannah!” Cherie called out from her dressing table on Saturday evening. “Your father and I are going to dinner tonight. We won’t be too late, should be home by eleven or so.”

No reply from Hannah’s room.

“I’ve left you a casserole in the warming oven. I’ll take it out before we leave.” Cherie applied lipstick and blotted her lips on a tissue.

There was still no reply.

Cherie sighed. She’d survived Holly’s mood swings and teen angst; now it was Hannah’s turn. Overnight, her normally sunny child had turned into a moody, disaffected stranger.

Their house had become a war zone of slammed doors and meals that ended in shouting and recriminations. Cherie knew Hannah’s moods had everything to do with Duncan Hadley.

The phone rang. “Hello,” Cherie said, and cradled the receiver against her ear as she picked up her pearl earring.

“Hello, darling.”

“Alastair! Are you on your way? Or shall I meet you at the restaurant?”

There was an ominous pause. “Neither, I’m afraid. I just got out of a late meeting with Rhys, and he wants me to rework the markdown budget. I’ll probably be working most of the day tomorrow as well.”

Cherie focused on the eardrop dangling between her fingers. “Can’t you work on it tomorrow? Surely it can wait.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but it can’t. Everything has to be reconciled for our finance meeting on Monday. I’m just as disappointed as you.”

“I doubt that,” Cherie said acidly.

“Look, why don’t you go, and take Hannah,” Alastair suggested. “Don’t let the reservation go to waste.”

“Hannah wants nothing to do with me at the moment.” She laid the earring aside. “Which you’d know, if you were ever here. And the whole point of this evening was to have dinner with my husband. Not my daughter.”

“I know. I’ve let you down. Again.” He sounded tired, and defeated. “Rhys is letting Henry go, did I tell you? Poor old chap.”

“Henry? How awful,” Cherie echoed, her disappointment forgotten. “He must be devastated. Mr. Gordon is heartless.”

“He’s only doing what Sir Richard and I should have done already. Henry should’ve retired years ago. It’s madness right now, with Rhys making so many changes. It won’t always be this way.”

“No.” Cherie sighed. “I suppose not. Well, there’s no point letting the reservation go. I’ll ring Sarah and ask her.”

“Duncan’s mum? Good idea,” Alastair agreed. “I’m sure she’d welcome a night out. Going through a divorce isn’t easy.”

“No. I’ll talk to you later, then. Goodnight.”

Cherie rang off and called Sarah. She hesitated when Neil answered. “Hullo,” she said. “Cherie here.”

“Cherie! How are you?”

“Fine,” she said. “Alastair’s just backed out of our dinner reservation. I thought Sarah might like to go instead.”

He paused. “I’m sure she would…but she’s gone to Bath for the weekend. I’m staying with Duncan until she returns next week. So Alastair backed out tonight, did he?”

“Yes, he’s working late again. Things are chaotic at the store at the moment.” She glanced at the clock. “If I’m to keep our reservation, I need to go. I won’t keep you.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything but an evening in front of the TV. Where are you off to?”

“Chez Rouge, a new French restaurant in Soho.” She paused and added, “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No. On the menu tonight at Chez Hadley is leftover roast and frozen Yorkshire pudding.”

“Why don’t you come along?” she said impulsively. “I’ve never liked sitting alone in a restaurant. I feel as though everyone’s staring at me, wondering who that sad woman is.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure they find you intriguing…a woman of mystery.” He paused. “Of course you know that if we dine together, tomorrow it’ll be all over Cavendish Avenue that we’re an item. Sure you want to risk it?”

Cherie didn’t hesitate. “I’m quite sure,” she said, and added, “Shall I meet you there?”

“No need. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“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

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.”

“Why not bring Natalie?”

“And give the tabloids more fodder for speculation?” Rhys said, and sipped his espresso. “No, thanks.”

“Isn’t that what you want? It’s more publicity for the store. Besides, you like her, I know you do—”

“Miss Dashwood is spoilt and selfish and has no concept of what it’s like to do without. I’m sure she thinks ‘austerity’ is a clothing label. And even if I were – hypothetically speaking – attracted to her, a relationship between us simply can’t happen. Natalie works for me, or will do soon, and Sir Richard – her grandfather – is a client.”