‘Yes. I’m sure.’
Nine months later...
DANIEL HARRINGTON PAUSED on the threshold of the immense marquee, his ice-blue eyes scanning the wedding guests with ruthless disregard. One part of his brain registered the glorious elegance that graced the wedding reception of Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax. The sumptuous drapes of organza, the glittering twinkle of the fairy lights and the splash of colour provided by the overhanging Chinese lanterns. The delicate scent of flowers pervaded the air—gloriosa and hyacinth, decked the canvas in lavish arrangements.
But in truth Daniel had no interest in the décor, and limited interest in the bride and groom. He was here for one reason and one reason only, and his eyes continued their systematic search, skipping over the rich, the famous and the ordinary on a quest to find Lady Kaitlin Derwent—sister to the groom, and the bride’s maid of honour.
Earlier in the proceedings he’d watched her walk down the aisle amidst a bevy of bridesmaids, all dressed in different jewel shades, a medley of beauty. But the only woman he’d been interested in was her, Lady Kaitlin, and as he’d studied her poised, graceful movements suspicion had begun the conversion process to confirmation.
Yet it was still nigh on impossible to believe that the poised Titian-haired beauty, clad in expensive designer teal-green, was the same woman he’d met nine months before in a Barcelona hotel. But as the hymns and the vows had resonated from the rafters of the picturesque medieval church his gaze had never once ceased its lingering on her beautiful features, and certainty had dawned.
Daniel had no doubt whatsoever that ‘Lynette’ and Katlin Derwent were one and the same.
Now, in the vast marquee that housed the reception party, he located her. Stood in a corner, deep in conversation with a tall blond man he knew to be Prince Frederick, ruler of the Principality of Lycander. Raw emotion slammed into his gut. Anger alongside the unwanted sting of desire and a primal instinct that yelled mine.
Instinctively he bunched his hands into fists.
Cool it, Dan. Violence no longer featured in his life as a solution, and initiating a brawl was not an option. After all, Prince Frederick was blameless in this whole sorry mess, and it shouldn’t matter to Daniel that Kaitlin’s hand rested on the Prince’s forearm as she looked up at him.
Yet anger at her deception still pulsed in his veins. Along with the memory of his sense of loss and chagrin when he’d woken up in the swish Barcelona hotel to find no sign of the woman he’d shared such an amazing night with. Not so much as a blonde hair curled on the pillow had spoken of her presence. No strand or fibre of clothing. Just an elusive trace of her rose scent, and the ache in his body that had awoken him in the expectation of her still being beside him.
Then had come worry—heightened by the fact that it had been her first time...a fact she had refused to elaborate on or discuss. Had he mistaken the wonder of the night? Did she have regrets that her first experience had been with a stranger?
Then had come the conviction that she was in trouble. Hell, he’d even wondered if she’d been forced to leave. More fool him.
Anger burned cold under his control.
He allowed only the civilised approach—Daniel got what he wanted through law, order and fair negotiation. That had been his vow a decade ago, and he’d lived by those rules ever since.
Frustration tautened his sinews with the desire to lash out. He would not revert to type—would not embrace the ethos of his family. That was why he’d walked away ten years before, though the cost had been high.
A memory snaked into his brain: his mother’s beautiful face, twisted in entreaty as she’d stretched out a pleading hand. ‘Don’t go, Danny. Please don’t walk out through that door.’
‘Daniel.’
He swivelled in recognition of the well-modulated tones of Gabriel Derwent, groom and brother of the Lady Kaitlin.
‘Glad you could make it.’
Gabriel smiled and Daniel blinked—the Earl radiated palpable happiness.
‘Etta. This is Daniel Harrington—CEO of Harrington Legal, a new associate of my father’s, and also a new patron of the Caversham Foundation.’
Daniel recognised the slight edge to Gabriel’s voice and couldn’t blame him. He’d negotiated an invitation to this wedding with the Duke of Fairfax, Gabriel’s father, by dint of making a sizeable donation to the Derwent Manor restoration fund. When Gabriel had found out he’d called Daniel and explained that he wanted an additional price—a ‘donation with a difference’ to the Caversham Foundation, a charitable trust that helped troubled teenagers.
‘Daniel, this is my wife—Etta.’
Pride and awe touched the syllables, and Etta positively beamed, her tawny eyes sparkling with joy.
Daniel searched his repertoire of happy wedding talk. ‘Congratulations,’ he mustered.
Though who knew for what? Marriage shackled you, created ties that would bind and link and imprison you. His own mother’s marriage was proof of that.
‘Thank you.’ Gabriel studied his expression and his smile widened. ‘Though I get the feeling you aren’t a fan of marriage.’
‘It’s just not for me.’
Etta shook her head. ‘Perhaps you haven’t met the right woman.’
His gaze must have flicked across to Kaitlin for a fraction of a second, because Gabriel followed his line of sight and his forehead creased in a small frown.
Daniel thought rapidly. ‘Though from what I’ve read it sounds as though your sister will follow in your footsteps shortly?’
Keep it casual.
‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel said, his frown deepening, almost as if he didn’t like the idea.
‘Why don’t we introduce you?’ Etta suggested.
Bingo. Not exactly the way he’d planned it—but Daniel was nothing if not versatile. ‘Great.’
Gabriel strode towards where Kaitlin and the Prince were engrossed in conversation. Satisfaction brought a small, cold smile to Daniel’s lips as he followed.
* * *
Kaitlin looked up at Prince Frederick and tried to suppress the all too familiar feelings of panic. Chill out. Or chillax. Or whatever the current phrase was. But she couldn’t—despite the size of the marquee she felt hemmed in, and fear knotted her tummy into a tangle of panic. Which was nuts. She was standing next to royalty—how much safer could she be? The Prince would have strategically placed bodyguards everywhere.
Though you could argue that those bodyguards were only interested in the protection of the Prince—she’d no doubt be seen as collateral damage.
No, that wasn’t fair. Frederick would care. Not because he loved her—he’d been upfront about that—but because he was a dutiful man. Or at least she thought he was—the Prince was even better than she was at keeping his true self under wraps.
Yet over the past months she’d learnt he had a moral code that meant he would protect her out of duty.
So she was safe. But, however many times her brain told her that, her nerves still fluttered with an anxiety that increased daily—a