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The Best Man And The Bridesmaid
Liz Fielding
Bridesmaid says ‘I do’! Daisy Galbraith had always loved notorious playboy Robert Furneval, but she’s kept that between herself and her diary. He’s clearly not a one-woman man, and she’d rather be his friend than another notch on his bedpost!Except glammed up as chief bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding, suddenly best man Robert is realizing she’s not just a good friend – she’s also a stunningly attractive woman! When he discovers she’s secretly in love, Robert’s shocked… and determined to convince Daisy that he’s the only man for her!



Bridesmaid says ‘I do’!
Daisy Galbraith has always loved notorious playboy Robert Furneval, but she’s kept that between herself and her diary. He’s clearly not a one-woman man, and she’d rather be his friend than another notch on his bedpost!
Except, glammed up as chief bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding, suddenly best man Robert realises she’s not just a good friend – she’s also a stunningly attractive woman! When he discovers she’s secretly in love, Robert’s shocked…and determined to convince Daisy that he’s the only man for her!

The Best Man and the Bridesmaid
Liz Fielding


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents
Cover (#u4fa73673-ec57-59b5-93aa-1110193b0962)
Excerpt (#ua07c8ad1-d5ad-5782-99fa-74f6f7eb4b5d)
Title Page (#ufa6acc7b-e869-5c78-ade6-5165f15cadd4)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ua20c5e4c-d201-5326-aad4-dd667287b4b1)
WEDNESDAY, 22 March. Dress fitting. Me, in frills, as a bridesmaid. It’s my worst nightmare come true. The self-assertiveness course was a complete waste of time; it was utterly impossible to be assertive in the face of Ginny’s sweet pleading. Lunch with Robert first, though. The lovely (and very clever) Janine has dumped him and I am, as usual, the nearest shoulder available. Crocodile tears, of course … but interesting to see how he takes being on the receiving end of the boot for a change.
‘Yellow velvet? What’s wrong with yellow velvet?’
‘Nothing. Probably.’ In its place. Wherever that might be.
‘If being a bridesmaid was high on my list of ambitions.’ It came five hundred and twenty-seventh on hers: right after having her teeth extracted without anaesthetic. ‘Nothing, if I enjoyed the idea of being fitted into a dress that will display all my shortcomings in the figure department.’ She glanced down at her chest, which she suspected would be six inches short of the desired circumference. ‘Or, in my case, not display them.’ Robert’s gaze had followed hers and he was regarding her lack of curves with a thoughtful expression. ‘Nothing,’ she added quickly, to distract him, ‘if I relished the prospect of walking behind a girl who is going to be the prettiest bride this century, alongside a posse of her equally beautiful and raven-haired cousins, all of whom will look ravishing in yellow.’
Was she being petty?
Oh, yes.
‘Maybe you’ll look ravishing in yellow,’ Robert offered. He didn’t sound convinced. Well, he didn’t have to. Just so long as he stopped talking about Janine. She’d heard quite enough about how wonderful Janine was. If she was that wonderful, he should have married the girl.
Her boyish chest clenched painfully at the thought.
‘I’ll look like a duck,’ she said, more to distract herself than because it mattered very much. It was Ginny’s day and no one would be looking at her.
‘Probably.’ Robert, primed to offer at least a token contradiction, instead grinned broadly. Well, that was why he’d asked her to lunch, to cheer him up.
The best man had it so easy, she thought irritably. Robert would be in morning dress and the biggest decision he’d have to make was whether to wear a grey morning coat or a black one. Or maybe not. Ginny’s mother was stage-managing this wedding like the director of some Hollywood epic, and everything was being colour co-ordinated down to the last button, so it was unlikely he’d even have to worry about that.
No. All Robert would have to do was make sure her brother arrived in time for the wedding, produce the rings at the appropriate moment and make a short but witty speech at the reception. She’d seen it all before. Robert was very good at weddings … particularly at ensuring they weren’t his own.
He’d arrange a stupendous stag night for Michael and still deliver him immaculately dressed and sober as a judge at the church in plenty of time for the wedding. He’d produce the rings dead on cue, make the wedding guests chuckle appreciatively with his wit and probably have the prettiest bridesmaid for breakfast.
By the time they’d left the church every female heart would be aflutter and the eyelashes would be following suit. Well, not the bride’s eyelashes, perhaps. And the bride’s mother could be forgiven for being distracted. But the bride’s sister, the bride’s cousins, the bride’s aunts …
Not that Robert needed morning dress for that. Women fell for him wherever he went, whatever he was wearing. Beautiful women. Sophisticated women. Sexy women. And he didn’t have to do a damned thing except smile.
Bridesmaids, on the other hand, were at the whim of the bride’s mother. She sighed. Frills. Ribbons. Velvet. That was bad enough. But why on earth did Ginny’s mother have to choose yellow velvet? You’d have thought filling the church with daffodils would be enough yellow for anyone … ‘You aren’t supposed to agree with me, you know,’ she scolded. ‘I went to great lengths to avoid being a bridesmaid. I made Ginny swear that no matter what my mother did or said, she wouldn’t make me follow her up the aisle.’
‘The best-laid plans …’
‘The best-laid plans be blowed. I can’t believe Ginny’s mother permitted such a vital member of her cast to go skiing so close to the wedding.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone told her about it or she’d have done her best.’ He smiled. ‘Poor Daisy.’ She would do almost anything to have Robert smile at her like that. Even suffer the indignity of yellow velvet. He leaned forward and gently ruffled the springy mop of curls fighting their way out of the confines of an elastic band. ‘And actually, you’re quite wrong about looking like a duck. Ducks waddle, you don’t.’ As compliments went, it wouldn’t ring a fairground bell, but still Daisy had to work hard to stem a flush of pleasure. ‘Definitely not a duck.’
‘Really?’ The flush materialised; she just couldn’t help it.
He grinned. ‘No. You’re thinking of ducklings.’
Well, that would teach her to be vain. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Fluffy and yellow.’
‘Fluffy and yellow and—’
‘Don’t even think the word cute, Robert.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said, but his eyes betrayed him. Warm, toffee-brown eyes that were quite definitely laughing at her. ‘Your nose is too big for cute.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And your mouth.’
‘Okay, I get the picture. I’d crack a mirror at twenty paces—’
‘Thirty,’ he amended kindly. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. You’ll look sweet.’
Aaargh! ‘I’m not cut out for velvet and tulle,’ she said tersely. Beautifully tailored suits, severely cut coat dresses and sleek silk shirts were more her style; they flattered her wide shoulders and disguised her lack of curves. ‘I certainly don’t want to stuff my feet into a pair of satin Mary Janes and have rosebuds entwined in my hair. I’ll look about six years old.’
‘What are Mary Janes?’
‘Those little-girl shoes with the strap over the instep. Why grown women wear them beats me; I hated them even when I was a little girl.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She waited, knowing there was more. ‘I have to agree, six does sound about right.’
‘Robert!’ Well, a girl could only take so much.
He caught her hand, held it, and Daisy decided that he could insult her all day if he just kept doing that. ‘Heavens, you’re trembling. I’ve never seen you in such a state.’ The trembling had nothing whatever to do with being a bridesmaid, but hey … ‘This isn’t compulsory, sweetheart. Just tell Ginny that you can’t do it.’ As if. ‘She can manage with three little maids, can’t she?’
Of course she could. But this wasn’t about managing. This was about having the perfect wedding, and Daisy couldn’t, wouldn’t let her future sister-in-law down. And there just wasn’t anyone else. She’d asked.
Robert, of course, could not be expected to understand. All his life people had been falling over themselves to let him do whatever he wanted. Most men with his advantages would be absolute monsters, she knew. That apart from being the most desirable man she was ever likely to meet he was also good-natured and generous and legions of his abandoned girlfriends would declare with their dying breath that he was the kindest man in the world was little short of a miracle.
‘Of course my mother is over the moon,’ she said. ‘She didn’t expect to get a second chance.’
Robert squeezed her hand sympathetically. ‘If your mother wants you to be a bridesmaid, sweetheart, you might as well surrender gracefully.’
If? That was the understatement of the year. Her mother had an agenda all her own. With one daughter married and doing her duty in the grandchildren department, and with her son about to follow suit, Margaret Galbraith already had her sights firmly fixed on her difficult youngest child. Twenty-four and not an eligible suitor in sight.
Phase one of her mother’s plan involved getting Daisy to change her image. She was thinking feminine, she was thinking pretty. She’d already spent weeks trying to involve her in a clothes-buying sortie to take advantage of a large and fancy wedding at which there would undoubtedly be a number of eligible males. Now one of the raven-haired bridesmaids had thoughtfully broken her leg, showing off on the piste, and with Daisy the only possible replacement, her mother was in seventh heaven. There was absolutely no chance of escape.
Phases two and three would undoubtedly involve a major make-up job and the services of a hairdresser with orders to get her fluffy yellow hair under control for once. Daisy sincerely pitied the poor soul who was confronted by that hopeless task.
She looked at Robert’s hand, covering her own. He had beautiful hands, with long, slender fingers; a jagged scar along the knuckles only enhanced their strength. He’d got that scar saving her from a vicious dog when she was six years old; she’d loved him even then.
For a moment she allowed herself the simple pleasure of his touch. Just for a moment. Then she withdrew her hand, picked up her glass and swirled the remaining inch of wine about the bowl. ‘Mother thinks I’m being silly, that I’m being ridiculously self-conscious,’ she admitted. ‘She thinks being centre-stage will be good for me.’
He was still smiling, but with sufficient sympathy to put him back in her good books. ‘I’m truly sorry for you, Daisy, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to grin and bear it.’
‘Would you?’
‘Anything for a quiet life,’ he assured her. ‘But I’ll wear a yellow waistcoat to demonstrate solidarity,’ he offered, ‘if that’ll make you feel better.’
‘A yellow velvet waistcoat?’ she demanded.
‘If that’s what it takes.’ Easy to say. They both knew that unless it was part of the plan, Ginny’s mother would veto it. ‘Or you could dye your hair black to match the other girls,’ he offered. ‘Although whether a black duckling would have quite the same appeal—’
‘You’re not taking this seriously.’ But then, when did he ever take anything seriously? He might be a touch aggrieved because his latest girlfriend had worked out that he had a terminal aversion to commitment and cut her losses a full week before he’d made the decision for her, but since he would be beseiged by women eager to take her place, it wouldn’t worry him for long.
Daisy sipped her wine in a silent toast to the woman; so few of Robert’s conquests were that clever.
‘Or you could wear a wig,’ he suggested, after a moment.
She told him, in no uncertain terms, where he could stick his wig.
That made him laugh out loud. Well, she had intended it to. ‘Don’t get your feathers in a tangle, duckie,’ he said, teasing her. ‘You’re getting the whole thing out of proportion. I mean, who’ll notice? All eyes will be on the bride. Won’t they?’
For a man reputedly capable of charming a girl out of her knickers without lifting more than an eyebrow, Daisy considered that was less than gallant. But then he had always treated her like a younger sister, and what man ever felt the need to be gallant to a sister? Her own brother never had, so why would his best friend be any different? Especially since she went out of her way to keep the relationship on that level. No flirting. No sharp suits or silk shirts when she was meeting him for lunch.
She might love him to the very depths of her soul, but that was a secret shared only with her diary. Robert Furneval wasn’t a till-death-us-do-part kind of man, and when you really loved someone nothing less would do.
She downed her claret and stood up. Leaving him on the right note was always difficult; she had to take any chance that offered itself. ‘Next time you need a shoulder to cry on, Robert Furneval,’ she said, ‘try the Yellow Pages. Since you’re so fond of the colour.’
‘Oh, come on, Daisy,’ he said, picking up her boxy little beaded handbag from beneath the table and rising to his feet. ‘You’re the one female I know I can rely on to be sensible.’ She might have been placated by that. But then he spoilt it by handing her the bag and saying, ‘Except for a tendency to raid your grandmother’s wardrobe for dressing up clothes.’ She didn’t bother to correct him. Her sister had bought her the little Lulu Guinness bag for her birthday, probably egged on by their mother to improve her image. Her image was clearly beyond redemption. ‘Don’t go all girly on me about some stupid bridesmaid’s dress. It’s not as if you’ll have to show your legs.’
‘What have you heard about my legs?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. I just happen to remember that you have knobbly knees. I assume that’s why you make such a point of keeping them covered up. Trousers, jeans, long skirts …’ He smiled down at her with that little-boy smile. His smile did for her every time. Oh, not the knickers. She would never be that stupid. But it still melted every resolve she had ever made in the solitude of her room, still reduced to mush every heart-felt promise she’d made to herself that she would break herself of the Robert Furneval habit. ‘You wouldn’t want me to lie and say that you’ll look fabulous in yellow? Would you?’ It might be nice, she thought. Just once. But they had never lied to one another. ‘We’re friends. Friends don’t have to pretend.’
Yes, they were friends. She clung to that thought. Robert might not woo her with roses, might not take her to expensive little restaurants and ply her with smoked salmon and truffles, but he didn’t dump her after a couple of months either. They were true friends. Best friends. And she knew, she had always known, that if she wanted to be a permanent part of Robert’s life, that was the way it would have to stay.
And she was part of his life. He told her everything. She knew things about Robert that she suspected even her brother didn’t know. She had cultivated the habit of listening, and she was always there for him between lovers … to meet for lunch, or as a date to take to parties. Just so long as she never fooled herself into hoping that they would be leaving the party together.
Not that he ever abandoned her. He always made sure that someone reliable was detailed to take her home. Reliable and boring and dull. Then he teased her for weeks afterwards about her new ‘boyfriend’.
‘Do they?’ he persisted.
‘What?’ She realised he was frowning. ‘Oh, pretend? No,’ she said quickly, with a reassuring smile. ‘I wouldn’t ever want you to do that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But now I have to go and submit to the indignity of having the dress taken in.’
‘Taken in?’
‘The dresses are empire line.’ She spread her hands wide and tucked them beneath her inadequate bosom. ‘You know, straight out of Pride and Prejudice. All the other girls have the appropriate cleavage to show them to advantage.’
‘Wear one of those lift ‘em up and push ‘em together bras,’ he suggested.
‘You have to have something to lift and push.’
He didn’t argue about that, but rubbed his hand absently down the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Don’t worry about it, Daisy. Everything will be fine. And the wedding will be fun, you’ll see.’
She gave him the benefit of a wry smile. ‘For you maybe. Best man gets the pick of the bridesmaids, doesn’t he?’
He gazed down at her. ‘I’ve never been able to fool you, have I?’
‘Never,’ she agreed.
‘Better cut along to this fitting, then, so that you can give me the low-down on Saturday.’
‘Saturday?’
‘There’s a party at Monty’s. I’ll pick you up at eight and we’ll have dinner first.’
It never seemed to occur to him that she might have something else planned, and for just a moment it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was busy on Saturday night. There was only one problem with that. In all her life, since she was old enough to toddle after her brother and his best friend, she had never been too busy for Robert. ‘Make it nine-thirty,’ she said, forcing herself to be a little difficult. Just to prove to herself that she could be.
‘Nine-thirty?’ His dark brows twitched together in gratifying surprise.
‘Actually ten o’clock would be better,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to give dinner a miss, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh? Are you sure you can manage the party?’ The edge in his voice gave Daisy rather more satisfaction than was quite kind. After all, she’d chosen the path she was treading. ‘You haven’t gone and got yourself a boyfriend, have you? You’re my girl, you know.’
‘No, I’m not,’ she said, putting on her sweetest smile. ‘I’m your friend. Big difference.’ His girls lasted two, three months tops, before they started hearing wedding bells and he, with every appearance of reluctance, let them go. ‘But I was going to Monty’s bash anyway and I’ll be glad of the lift.’ Just occasionally he needed to be reminded that she wasn’t simply there at his beck and call. Just occasionally she needed to remind herself, even if it did mean passing on dinner at some fashionable restaurant and dining alone on a sandwich.
Then, having made a stand, having started a tiny ripple in his smoothly ordered world, she held up her cheek to be kissed, punishing herself with the brief excitement of his lips brushing her cheek, the scrape of his midday beard against her skin that did things to her insides that would rate an X-certificate.
It would be so easy to prolong the hug, just as it would have been easy to indulge herself and stretch out lunch over coffee and dessert. But Daisy’s little-sister act had its limitations; too much close contact and she’d be climbing the office walls all afternoon.
Besides, keeping him at a distance was probably the only reason he didn’t get bored with her.
‘Thanks for lunch, Robert. I’ll see you on Saturday,’ she said briskly, making for the restaurant door and not looking back once. It had been harder today. Much harder. Today he was unattached, momentarily vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. Maybe that was why she had made such a fuss about the bridesmaid dress. Not to amuse Robert, but to distract herself.
It would have been far too easy to forget all about the fitting, to suggest he walk her across the park, linking her arm through his, inviting him up to her flat with the excuse that she wanted to show him her new computer, plying him with coffee and brandy.
The trouble was she knew Robert too well. All his little weaknesses. Today, dumped by a girl with the wit to see through him, with his self-esteem needing a stroke, he might have been tempted to see what Daisy Galbraith was really made of beneath the trousers, the long skirts, the carefully neutral, sexless clothes she wore whenever she met him.
The trouble with that inviting scenario was tomorrow. Or perhaps next week. Or maybe it would be a month or two before someone else, someone elegant and beautiful, someone more his style, caught his roving eye. And after that nothing. No more precious lunches. No more of those early Sunday mornings at home when he dropped by with his rods to suggest they might go fishing, or take the dogs for a run. No more anything but awkwardness when they met by chance.
Worse, she would have to pretend she didn’t care, because her brother would never forgive his best friend for breaking his little sister’s heart.
While a treacherous part of her mind sometimes suggested that an affair with Robert might be all it took to cure her of his fatal attraction, Daisy had no difficulty in ignoring it. She might be foolish, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d been in love with him since she had gazed from her high chair at this seven-year-old god who had come home with her brother for tea. The very last thing on earth she wanted was to be cured.
‘More coffee, sir?’ Robert shook his head, retrieving his credit card from the plate and, on an impulse, heading quickly for the door, hoping to catch Daisy so that they could walk across the park together. She always walked, but then she always wore good sensible shoes, or, like today, well-fitted laced ankle-boots, even in London. She was so easy to be with. Always had been, even when she was a knobbly kneed kid trailing after him and Michael.
Then he frowned. Yellow? What was wrong with yellow? What was wrong with ‘cute’? What was wrong with ducklings, come to that?
From the pavement outside the restaurant he could see her bright froth of hair bobbing along in the distance as she strode across the park, and he realised that he’d left it too late to catch her. Oh, well. He’d see her on Saturday. And as he hailed a cruising cab, he frowned. Ten o’clock? What on earth could she be doing until ten o’clock?
Being stripped to her underwear, with her reflection coming back at her from a terrifying array of mirrors, was doing nothing for Daisy’s self-confidence, and she was almost grateful for the covering of yellow velvet despite the fact that it emphasised her own lack of curves.
The seamstress attacked the spare material with a mouthful of pins, tucking it back to fit Daisy’s less generous curves. Once satisfied, she nodded. ‘All done. Can you come back early next week?’
‘I couldn’t bribe you to spill something indelible on it, could I? A pot of coffee? A squirt of ink?’
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’ The woman seemed surprised.
‘With my colouring? Yellow would not be my first choice.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’
‘Yes. And a last.’
‘It’s just different, that’s all. With the right make-up you’ll make a really pretty bridesmaid.’
Oh, Lord, that, if anything, was worse. Prettiness was her mother’s fantasy; she had known better than to attempt it. She certainly didn’t want to look as if she were competing with the other bridesmaids.
‘Daisy!’ Ginny burst through the door with the rest of her adult attendants in tow. Dark, glossy and gorgeous to a girl. Robert was going to have a ball, she thought with that detached part of her brain that dealt with everything Robert did when he was not with her. It was just so much easier when she wasn’t part of the show. ‘You’re early!’
‘No, darling, you’re late.’
‘Are we? Oh, Lord, so we are. We’ve been having facials,’ she giggled. ‘You should have come.’
There was more than one way to take that remark, Daisy decided, but was sure that Ginny hadn’t meant it unkindly. Ginny didn’t have an unkind bone in her body and, while her figure might leave something to be desired, Daisy knew there was nothing wrong with her skin. There was, unfortunately, precious little that a facial could do about an over-large nose or mouth.
She arrived back at her office, breathless and feeling just a bit low. ‘Ah, Daisy, there you are.’
Yes, here she was. And here she’d probably be for the rest of her days; Robert’s best friend and standby date. She pulled herself together; feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help. ‘I’m sorry, George, I did warn you I might be late.’
‘Did you?’ George Latimer was nearing seventy, and while few could challenge his knowledge of oriental artefacts, his short-term memory was not quite what it might be.
‘I had to be pinned into the bridesmaid dress,’ she reminded him.
‘Ah, yes. And you had lunch with Robert Furneval,’ he added thoughtfully. In the act of hanging up her jacket, Daisy turned. She’d said she was lunching with a friend; she hadn’t mentioned Robert. ‘Your clothes give you away, my dear.’
‘Do they?’
‘You’re covered from neck to ankle in the most unattractive brown tailoring. Tell me, are you afraid that he’ll get carried away and seduce you in the restaurant if you wear something even moderately appealing when you meet him? I only ask because I get the impression that most young women would enjoy the experience.’
Her feigned surprise had not fooled him for a minute. His short-term memory might be a touch unreliable, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. And noticing things was what made him so good at what he did.
‘I didn’t realise you knew Robert,’ she said, avoiding his question.
‘We’ve met in passing. I know his mother. Charming woman. She’s something of an authority on netsuke, as I’m sure you know. When she heard I was looking for an assistant she called me and suggested I take you on.’
Daisy sat down rather quickly. ‘I had no idea.’ Jennifer Furneval had always been kind to her, taking pity on the skinny teenager who had hung around hoping to be noticed by her son. Not that she’d so much as hinted that she knew the reason why Daisy had developed such a fervent interest in her collection of oriental treasures. On the contrary, she had loaned her books that had been a blissful excuse to return to the house, to hang around, ask questions. And she had eventually pointed her in the direction of a Fine Arts degree.
Of course, she’d stopped hanging around for a glimpse of Robert long before then. She stopped doing that the day she’d seen him kissing Lorraine Summers.
She’d been sixteen, all knees and elbows, an awkward teenager whose curves had refused to develop and with an unruly mop of hair that had repulsed every attempt to straighten it—assaults with her mother’s curling tongs leaving her with nothing but frizz and the scent of singed hair to show for her efforts.
Her friends had all been developing into embryonic beauties, young swans while she’d seemed to have got stuck in the cygnet phase. The archetypal ugly duckling. But she hadn’t minded too much, because while the swans had made eyes at Robert they’d been far too young to win more than an indulgent smile. Daisy, on the other hand, had kept her eyes to herself, and had never asked for more than to sit and watch him fishing.
Her reward, one blissful summer when Michael had been away on a foreign exchange visit, had been to have Robert give her an old rod and teach her how to use it.
That, and the Christmas kiss he’d given her beneath the mistletoe. It was the best present she’d had that year. The glow of it had lasted until June, when she’d seen him kissing Lorraine Summers and realised there was a lot more to kissing than she’d imagined.
Lorraine had definitely been a swan. Elegant curves, smooth fair hair and with all the poise that a year being ‘finished’ in France could bestow on a girl. Robert had just come up from Oxford, a first-class honours degree in his pocket, and she had gone racing around there to just say hello. Congratulations. Will you be going fishing on Sunday? But Lorraine, with her designer jeans and painted nails and lipstick, had got there first.
After that she had only gone to see Jennifer Furneval when she’d been sure that Robert was not there.
He had still dropped by, though, when he’d been home. Her brother had been in the States, doing a business course, but Robert had still called in early on a Sunday morning with his mother’s dog, or with his rods. Well, he’d always been able to rely upon Daisy to put up some decent sandwiches and bring a flask of fresh coffee, and maybe Lorraine, and the succession of girls who had followed her through the years, hadn’t cared to rise at dawn on a Sunday morning for the doubtful honour of getting their feet wet.
‘She worries about him, I think,’ George Latimer continued, after a moment’s reflection.
Daisy dragged herself back from the simple pleasure of a mist-trailed early-morning riverbank to the exotic Chinoiserie of the Latimer Gallery. ‘About Robert? Why? He’s successful by any standards.’
‘I suppose he is. Financially. But, like any mother, she’d like to see him settle down, get married, raise a family.’
‘Then she’s in for a long wait. Robert has the perfect bachelor existence. A flat in London, an Aston Martin in the garage and any girl he cares to raise an eyebrow at to keep him warm at night. He isn’t about to relinquish that for a house in the suburbs, a station wagon and sleepness nights.’ Not sleepless nights caused by a colicky baby, anyway.
He didn’t argue. ‘So that’s why you dress down when you have lunch with him?’
Yes, well, she knew George Latimer was sharp. ‘We’re friends, George. Good friends, and that’s the way I plan to keep it. I don’t want him to confuse me with one of his girls.’
‘I see.’
Daisy wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thoughtful manner in which George Latimer was regarding her, so she made a move in the direction of her office, signalling an end to the conversation. ‘Shall I organise some tea? Then we can go through that catalogue,’ she said, indicating the glossy catalogue for a large country house sale that he was holding, hoping to divert him. ‘I imagine that was why you were looking for me?’
He glanced down at it as if he couldn’t quite remember where it had come from. ‘Oh, yes! There’s a fine collection of ceramics up for auction. I’d like you to go to the viewing on Tuesday and check them out.’ She felt a rush of pleasure at this token of his trust. ‘You know what to look out for. But, since you’ll be representing the gallery, I’d be grateful if you’d avoid Robert Furneval while you’re there.’ He peered over his half-moon spectacles at her. ‘Wear that dark red suit, the one with the short skirt,’ he elaborated, in case she was in any doubt which one he meant. ‘I like that.’
‘I didn’t realise you took such an interest in what I wear, George.’
‘I’m a man. And I like beautiful things. Have you got any very high-heeled shoes to go with it?’ he continued before she could do more than retrieve her jaw from the Chinese rug that lay in front of her desk. ‘They’d do a fine job of distracting the opposition.’
‘I’m shocked, George,’ she said. ‘That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.’ Then, ‘Actually, I’ve seen a pair of Jimmy Choo’s that I would kill for. Can I charge them to expenses?’
The lenses gleamed back at her. ‘Only if you promise to wear them next time Robert Furneval asks you to lunch.’
‘Oh, well. It’ll just have to be the plain low-heeled courts I bought for comfort, then. Pity.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ua20c5e4c-d201-5326-aad4-dd667287b4b1)
SATURDAY 25 March. I’ve bought the shoes. Wickedly sexy, wickedly expensive, but I used the money Dad sent me for my birthday. Oh, the temptation to wear them to Monty’s party tonight! I would if Robert wasn’t going to be there. I wonder if anyone else notices that I dress differently around him? Michael, probably. But then I’m sure that Michael knows the truth and, since he’s made no attempt to matchmake, understands why. I’ll probably still be filling the ‘girlfriend gap’ when Robert’s heading for his pension. And still be going home alone.
Daisy had plenty of time in which to contemplate her wardrobe and worry about what she should wear to the party. Plenty of time to call herself every kind of idiot, too.
She could have been dining in some exquisite little restaurant with Robert when, for pride’s sake, she had chosen a lonely cottage cheese sandwich and the inanity of a Saturday-night game show on the television. The fact that it was the sensible option did not make it any more palatable.
This was no way to run a life. She switched off the television, abandoned the half-eaten sandwich and confronted her wardrobe. Just because she knew better than to join in the queue for Robert’s attention, it didn’t mean she shouldn’t make the effort to get into some sort of relationship, if only to allay her mother’s for once unspoken but nevertheless obvious fears that her interests lay in another direction entirely.
She might not be able to compete with Robert’s glamorous ‘girls’, but her lack of curves didn’t appear to totally discourage the opposite sex. Most of the young gallants that Robert had deputised to escort her home from other parties had at least made a token pass at her. One or two had tried a great deal harder. Asking her out, phoning her until she’d had to be quite firm …
Oh, no! He couldn’t! He wouldn’t! Would he? She flushed with mortification to think that Robert might have encouraged them to be, well, nice to her.
Could it be that his only motive in taking her along to parties was to try and match her up with some eligible young male? Was it possible that her mother had asked him to? With a sinking feeling she acknowledged that it was exactly the sort of thing that her mother would do. She could just hear her saying, Robert, there must be dozens of young men working at your bank. For goodness’ sake try and fix Daisy up with someone before she’s left on the shelf …
She knew she should be grateful that her mother had never harboured ambitions for her in Robert’s direction. Clearly he was far too glamorous, good-looking, too everything for the plainest member of the family.
She pulled out a pair of wide-legged grey silk trousers. She’d intended to match them with a simple black sweater which was elegant in a rather dull, don’t-notice-me sort of way. If she could have been sure that Robert wouldn’t be at the party, she would have worn something rather more exciting.
Maybe she should anyway?
After all, if Robert thought she was so unattractive that he pushed his reluctant juniors in her direction, what she wore wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference, was it?
Damn, damn, damn. Why did it have to be so complicated? She just wanted to be his friend. That was all. But you don’t patronise friends …
She blinked at eyes that were suddenly stinging, but nothing could stop the tear from spilling down her face. She had tried so hard to be sensible, but she loved him so much. Not like the constant parade of the lovely women who moved through his life. She wasn’t in the least bit impressed by the glamorous job in the City, his money, the fast cars, his good looks. She’d love him without any of the fancy trappings because she cared about him. She always had. Not because she wanted to. Because she couldn’t help it.
She’d hoped that going away to university would have stopped all that. Really hoped that she would meet someone who would make her forget all about Robert. Maybe she hadn’t looked hard enough. Maybe, deep down, she hadn’t wanted to. But maybe it was time to put a stop to this stupid game she’d been playing. Walk away, before she did something really stupid.
After the wedding, she promised herself, drying her cheek with the heel of her hand.
She’d stop being available. Make herself busier. Take up knitting.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Now she was being pathetic. Well, she could put a stop to that right now. This minute. Tonight she wouldn’t hang around waiting for Robert to remember to dance with her. Tonight she’d pick her own escort home, or at least leave with some dignity on her own.
She looked her reflection straight in the eye and promised herself that if she could sort herself out a date for the wedding, she’d do that, too. It would please her mother, if nothing else. She palmed her eyes, trying to cool them.
Then she blew her nose, stood up and headed for the shower, determined that there would be no dressing down tonight. None of that barely there make-up.
She painted her nails bright red, she sprayed on her scent with reckless abandon, and instead of squeezing her hair into a French plait in order to keep it under control she left it fluffy. It wasn’t chic. It wasn’t that sleek, glossy stuff that swung and caught the light and looked like a million dollars in the shampoo adverts. In fact all that could be said in its favour was that she did have a heck of a lot of it.
She’d tried cutting it short once, but it hadn’t helped. She’d simply looked like a poodle after a less than successful encounter with the clippers. The only thing that had stopped her cutting it to within an inch of her scalp had been the sure and certain knowledge that what remained would curl even tighter, and shaving her head would just have been a temporary solution. Maybe that was the answer now, she thought, grinning as she flattened her curls against her skull with her hands. Not even dear, sweet, kind Ginny would put up with a skinhead as a bridesmaid. Would she?
A brisk ring at the doorbell put a stop to such nonsense. She checked her watch; it was still a quarter of an hour until ten o’clock. He was early, impatient with her delaying tactics, and that was unusual enough to make her smile as she pressed down the intercom.
‘You’re early.’
‘Then I’ll have a drink while I wait,’ Robert’s disembodied voice informed her.
She let him into the building and then opened her flat door before retreating to her bedroom to paint her lips as red as her nails. ‘There’s wine in the fridge,’ she called from the bedroom, staring nervously at her reflection now that he had arrived, wondering if she’d gone a bit too far.
‘Shall I pour a glass for you?’
‘Mmm,’ she said. She definitely needed a drink. Oh, well. In for a penny … She fitted a pair of exotic dangly silver earrings to her lobes and then stepped into the new shoes. They would be wasted, she decided. No one would see them. She stepped out of them again and, like the coward she was, put on a pair of low-heeled pumps.
Robert, tall, square-shouldered, with the fine, muscular elegance of a fencer and utterly gorgeous in pale suit and a dark green shirt, paused in the kitchen doorway as he saw her. Paused for a moment, taking in the wide silk pants, the tiny black and silver top that crossed low over her small breasts like a ballet dancer’s practice sweater and tied behind her waist … and said nothing.
He thought she looked like a little girl who’d been caught playing with her mother’s make-up, but was too polite to say so; Daisy could see it in his face and wanted to run howling back to the bathroom to scrub her face.
‘Have you been somewhere special?’ he asked finally, handing her a glass. For a moment she couldn’t think what he meant. ‘You couldn’t make dinner,’ he reminded her, eyes narrowed.
‘Oh. Um …’ She floundered for a moment. ‘It was just a gallery thing.’ Work. That was it, she decided, clutching at straws. Anything rather than have him think she’d done this to impress him.
‘A viewing? I’d have come if I’d known. I’m looking for something for my mother’s birthday.’
‘Are you? What?’ she asked, hoping to divert him further.
‘When I see it, I’ll know. So? Was it a viewing?’ he persisted, refusing to be sidetracked.
‘Um … No. Not exactly.’ He raised one of his dark, beautifully expressive eyebrows and took a sip of wine without commenting, leaving Daisy with the uncomfortable feeling that he didn’t quite believe her. But what else could she say? She refused to own up to staying in and watching television rather than have dinner with him. He wouldn’t understand why and she certainly couldn’t explain.
‘You shouldn’t let George Latimer work you so hard,’ he said, after a silence that seemed unusually awkward.
‘He doesn’t,’ she snapped back. ‘I love my job.’ Perhaps it was guilt at lying to him that made her so sharp. She certainly didn’t feel capable of the usual easy banter that sustained their conversation. ‘Shall we go?’
Robert Furneval reached the pavement and without thinking hailed a passing taxi. ‘We could easily have walked,’ Daisy said.
‘If you’ve been working, you deserve to ride.’ If? What on earth had made him say that? The feeling that she hadn’t been quite honest with him? Daisy had looked so guilty when she’d told him that she’d been working late. Guilty and unusually glamorous. If George Latimer had been forty, thirty years younger even, he might have suspected there was something going on.
Ridiculous of course. But being busy until nine-thirty smacked of the kind of affair where the man needed to be home with his wife and children at a respectable time. He glanced across at her, and even in the dim light of the cab he could see that her eyes were very bright. And she’d flushed so guiltily. But Daisy would never have that kind of affair. Would she?
He thought he knew her, yet it occurred to him that he had no idea what she might do if tempted. What exactly did she do in the evenings when the shutters came down at the gallery?
She never talked about herself much. Or was it that he never asked? No, that wasn’t right. He was good at relationships, knew how to talk to women … But he knew Daisy so well. Or thought he did. The girl sitting beside him in the taxi seemed more like a stranger.
He’d always thought of her as Michael’s kid sister, always there. Good natured, fun, a girl who didn’t make a fuss about getting a bit muddy. But tonight her eyes were shining and her cheeks looked a touch hectic. It was a look that he knew and understood. On Daisy, it made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Almost as if he had lifted aside a veil and seen something secret.
She turned and caught him looking at her, and for a moment he had a glimpse of something much deeper. Then she cocked a quirky eyebrow at him and grinned. ‘What’s up, Robert? Still missing the gorgeous Janine?’ she teased.
He relaxed. She hadn’t changed. He was the one who was tense. ‘Hurt pride, nothing worse,’ he admitted.
‘You’re getting slow. If you’re not very careful one of these days you’ll find yourself walking down the aisle and you won’t be the one behind, flirting with the bridesmaid, you’ll be the one in front, with the ring through your nose.’
‘That’s it, kick a man when he’s down.’
‘I’ll give you half an hour before you’re bouncing right back. Tell me, which terribly nice young man are you planning to send me home with tonight?’
‘Who said I was planning to send you home with anyone?’ he demanded.
‘Because you always do. I sometimes think that you must keep a supply of clones handy, to be activated in emergencies.’
‘Emergencies?’
She clutched her hands to her heart. ‘You know … Fabulous redhead … Let’s go on to a club … Duh! What’ll I do with Daisy …?’ She grinned. ‘That kind of emergency.’
‘Oh, cruel! For that, miss, I shall take you home myself and—’
‘And?’
And what? He might have teased her about boyfriends, but as far as he knew she’d never taken things further than goodnight-and-thank-you with any of the guys he’d deputised to take her home, some of whom had begged him for the privilege. Not that he was going to tell her that. She didn’t deserve to be flattered. ‘You won’t get away with a polite handshake and goodnight with me. I’ll expect coffee and a doorstep-sized bacon sandwich for my trouble.’
‘How do you know they just get a polite handshake?’ she asked archly. ‘Do they report back to you?’
‘Of course,’ he lied. He didn’t need to be told, their disappointment was self-evident. ‘I want to know that you arrived home safely.’
She grinned. ‘And it never occurred to you that they might not be telling the truth?’
‘They wouldn’t dare lie.’
‘Is that right?’ She was laughing at him. So that was all right. Wasn’t it? ‘One day, Robert, you’ll come seriously unstuck. But if you can tear yourself away from the first gorgeous redhead who smiles at you, or the first blonde, or brunette, you can have all the coffee and bacon sarnies you can eat. But don’t expect me to be holding my breath.’
‘Actually, I’m saving myself for the lovely bridesmaids,’ he said, mock seriously. ‘You did say they were lovely, didn’t you?’
‘Stunning. I’ll give you a run-down over supper. If you remember.’
‘Cat,’ he murmured, as the taxi slowed. He climbed out first, and by the time he had paid the driver Daisy was inside, the welcoming crowd parting to swallow her up in its warm embrace. She was, he knew, one of those girls everyone was glad to see. He was always glad to see her, too. He didn’t see her often enough.
Someone put a drink in his hand, then he was grabbed by an acquaintance who wanted some free advice about an investment, and he had just been buttonholed by a girl who seemed to know him, but whose name he couldn’t remember, when he saw Daisy chatting to a tall, fair-haired man he didn’t know. A man who was looking at her in a way that suggested he had only one thing on his mind.
It was a look that aroused all kinds of ridiculous protective male urges in him. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured to the blonde, abandoning her and the mental struggle for her name without a second thought.
The man was Australian, lean and suntanned and revoltingly good-looking, and Daisy was laughing at something he’d said. In fact she looked as if she was having a very good time. That irritated him. She was his date. ‘Can I get you a drink, sweetheart?’ he said, slipping his arm about her waist.
‘No, thanks,’ she replied, turning to look at him with some surprise. Justifiable surprise, since he rarely worried about her once they were at a party. After all she knew everyone. Almost everyone. ‘Nick’s looking after me. Have you met?’ she asked. ‘Nick, this is Robert Furneval. Robert, Nick Gregson.’
Robert gave the Australian the kind of look that suggested it was time to find someone else to talk to. For a moment he looked right back, then, getting no encouragement to stay from Daisy, he shrugged and disappeared into the crowd.
‘What’s the matter?’ Daisy asked, turning to him. ‘Didn’t the blonde go for your usual chat-up line?’ She raised her voice as someone turned up the music.
He got the impression Daisy wasn’t very pleased with him. ‘What chat-up line?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve no idea, but you must have one. You can’t possibly think up something new to say to every girl you meet.’
‘You’re very touchy tonight, sweetheart. Is this my payoff for agreeing that you’ll look like a duck at Michael and Ginny’s wedding?’
‘What?’
‘For saying that you’ll look like a duck …’ Unhappily, ‘‘… you’ll look like a duck …’’ coincided with one of those sudden drops in noise level that occasionally happens in a crowded room, and everyone turned to stare.
Daisy flushed. ‘Well, thanks, Robert,’ she said. ‘I really needed that.’ And she placed her glass in his hand and walked away.
Daisy was furious. She couldn’t ever remember being angry with Robert before, and the sensation was rather like taking a deep breath over the bottle of smelling salts that her mother used as a reviver on particularly strenuous jaunts around stately homes. A dizzy blast that was a lot more intoxicating than the wine she had been drinking.
Maybe that was why, when her natural circulation of Monty’s flat brought her back to the Australian with the sun-bed tan, she was rather more encouraging than she might have been. Especially since Robert was glowering at him rather than giving his full attention to a luscious brunette who quite evidently hadn’t learned a thing from her predecessors’ mistakes. But then maybe she didn’t care about commitment. Robert was very good looking.
Nick jerked his head in Robert’s direction. ‘Are you and he …’ He shrugged, leaving her to mentally fill in the gap with whatever relationship she thought appropriate.
She dragged her gaze back from Robert and gave Nick her full attention. ‘Robert and me?’ She managed a laugh. ‘Heavens, no, we’re just good friends. I’ve known him since I was in my cradle. He’s more like a brother.’
‘Is that right?’ He grinned. Well, he did have an exceptional set of teeth, dazzlingly white against the tan. ‘It must be brotherly concern, then. But since your good friend looks as if he’d like to put a knife in my back, maybe we should move on. Try a club, maybe?’
Why not? The brunette was clearly intent on getting her wicked way with Robert. Another five minutes and he’d have totally forgotten the bacon sandwich deal, if he hadn’t already. Forgotten about her, in all probability until the next time he needed someone to stick a maggot on a hook, or fill in as a date at a dinner party. Well, that was the way she’d chosen to play it, and he did always come back to her for tea and sympathy. If she was careful, he always would.
In the meantime it was rather pleasurable having a good-looking man showing a more than passing interest.
As she looked up at him, it occurred to Daisy that Nick would impress the heck out of her mother. Well, why not? ‘Do you have anything planned for two weeks today?’ she asked.
Nick opened his mouth, closed it again, then said, ‘Not that I can think of.’ He flashed his teeth at her again, using them in much the same way as the brunette was using her eyelashes. It could get boring, she decided. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Nothing exciting. I wondered if you’d like to come to my brother’s wedding, that’s all.’
‘Brother as in brother?’ He glanced across at Robert. ‘Or brother as in ‘‘good friend’’?’
‘My brother Michael is the one getting married. Robert is just the best man.’
‘Then I’m sorry, because I’d love to have come. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a good wedding. Unfortunately, I’ll be in Perth.’
She considered the logistics of getting him from Scotland … Then the penny dropped. ‘You mean Perth, Australia, don’t you?’
He was grinning again. She was beginning to suspect he advertised toothpaste for a living. ‘I’m afraid I do. But we could still have that date. Give your brother’s wedding a miss and come with me. We could have a wedding of our own.’ On the other hand there was nothing boring about a man who issued that kind of invitation. Eccentric, perhaps. Over-endowed with imagination, maybe. Drunk, even. Although he didn’t sound drunk.
‘Well, that’s different. But I’m afraid I’ll have to say no. I’m fourth bridesmaid, you see.’ Although the fact that her mother would never speak to her again if she jetted off to the other side of the world with a complete stranger simply to avoid being fourth bridesmaid might be considered a positive reason for accepting his invitation.
Of course, if she ran away to get married she might just be forgiven. It would certainly put her out of reach of temptation where Robert was concerned. No comfortable backsliding into gap-filling if she was in Australia. Unfortunately, Nick and his teeth were part of the package.
‘They won’t miss one bridesmaid, will they?’ he pressed, when she didn’t immediately answer.
‘I’m afraid they would. Three would look so untidy on the photographs. Besides, I make it a rule never to accept proposals of marriage from men I’ve only just met.’
He wasn’t deterred. ‘We’ve got three days before I leave. Plenty of time to get to know one another. Why don’t we start with a dance?’
‘Three whole days?’ she repeated as he relieved her of her glass in a masterful manner and, taking her firmly about the waist, pulled her close. He was more heavily muscled than Robert. Undoubtedly the consequence of hours spent on a surfboard getting that improbable tan. ‘You don’t waste much time, do you?’
‘Life’s for living, not wasting.’
he had a point, but she laughed anyway. ‘You’re crazy.’
He looked hurt. ‘Why? Because I want to get to know you really well? Suppose we were made for each other and you went to this wedding and I went back to Oz and we never found out?’
‘That’s a risk I’ll just have to take,’ she said, although she didn’t think it was that big a risk. She had the strongest suspicion that he meant getting to ‘know’ her in the physical sense, rather than intellectually. In fact she suspected that the frank, open, bighearted act was just that. An act. He was just looking for a girl to fill the gap between now and catching his plane, and he wasn’t particularly fussy about which girl.
Okay, so she didn’t object to filling Robert’s little gaps. But she loved Robert. Well. Maybe not right at this moment. At this moment she felt like telling him that he was crazy, too. That life was a two-way street and that if he wasn’t careful he’d end up old and lonely. Of course she’d just be wasting her breath. And who was she to tell him that he’d end up old and lonely, when it was far more likely that she’d be the one who was everyone’s universal greataunt rather than anyone’s grandmother?
He’d probably still be pulling all the best-looking nurses when he was in his dotage, and she’d probably be the sap pushing his Bath chair.
‘Wouldn’t you like to find out?’ Nick asked, as he came to halt in a corner.
She hadn’t been paying too much attention to what he was saying, but this seemed to require an answer. She looked up. ‘Find out what?’
Stupid question. The lights were dim, they were in one of those little out of the way corners, and he needed no further invitation to lower his mouth to hers and kiss her.
It was pleasant as kisses went. Nothing heavy. Just a testing-the-water kind of kiss, and Daisy pulled back before it got too serious, looking up at the big, bronzed hunk with just a touch of regret. Her mother would have really loved Nick.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I think I’d rather just leave it like this. With you wondering.’ She already knew. Had known since her cradle that there was only one man in the world for her.
For a moment Nick looked puzzled. Then he laughed. ‘I think I like you.’
‘You see? Right decision. Will you excuse me?’ She eased herself out of his arms, turned, only to be confronted by Robert.
‘You haven’t forgotten our deal, have you?’ he said, glaring past her at Nick.
Deal? He was still planning on taking her home? ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Robert, go away and flirt with someone your own age,’ she said crossly.
‘Later. Let’s dance.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but slipped his arm about her waist. Not like Nick. There had been nothing subtle about the way Nick had held her. He’d held her close, leaving her in no doubt what he was thinking. Robert, of course, didn’t see her that way. Usually by this time he’d forgotten all about her. Was he really so upset about Janine’s desertion, or was the party lacking in the kind of girls that caught his fancy? ‘I’d ask if you were having a good time, but the question would appear to be redundant.’
‘It’s been interesting,’ she said, as they moved together in time to the music. Her cheek was against the peachy twill of his shirt and she could feel the slow thudding of his heartbeat. He didn’t dance with her often enough for her to get used to it. Each time was special. The chance to touch him, hold him, feel the hard muscle and bone of his shoulder beneath her hand, breathe in the scent of him, warm and faintly musky. His arm tightened about her possessively and for a long blissful moment she allowed herself to drown in the pleasure of their closeness. Then, because breaking away was so very hard, she added, ‘I’ve already had one proposal of marriage.’
It had the desired effect. He stopped, pulled back a little, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘No, I mean really. You seem a bit edgy. Not quite your usual self. You would tell me …’
‘What?’
There was a long pause before he said, ‘Well, if things weren’t … all right.’
‘All right?’ Of course things weren’t all right. He wasn’t supposed to take it for granted that she was joking about the proposal, for a start. Okay, so she was, but, really, he might try and play along. ‘Well, I may have broken his heart,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure he’ll recover.’
‘What?’ He frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘He lives in Australia, you see. If I went to Australia I couldn’t be Ginny’s bridesmaid. Could I?’
‘Er, no, I suppose not.’ He seemed bemused and Daisy sighed. ‘I’m fine, Robert.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Go. You’ve done your duty. I’m going to see if Monty needs a hand with the food.’ She headed for the kitchen. Robert followed her, stopping in the doorway as their host greeted her with delight.
‘Daisy, my darling! Just the girl,’ he said, handing her an apron. ‘The caterer left boxes and boxes of stuff but I haven’t got a clue what to do with it.’
‘Stuff that lot in the oven to heat up and put those on plates. Of course it would save time, effort and washing up if you just lined the boxes up on the table. I don’t suppose anyone would notice.’
She saw Robert and Monty exchange a startled look, and without another word she tied the apron around her waist, but it occurred to her that she would be better occupied getting to know Nick Gregson, trying to forget about Robert, than acting as unpaid kitchen hand. Probably.
She shrugged and gave her attention to the task in hand, arranging a pile of little savoury tarts on one plate, heaping chicken goujons around a bowl of sauce on another. When she turned to put them on the table, Robert was still standing in the doorway.
It was disconcerting to be the focus of his attention. He didn’t usually take so much notice of her, and she couldn’t believe that the silver and black top she was wearing was so spectacular that he was unable to take his eyes off her.
‘There’s another apron if you want to help,’ she said.
It had the desired effect. Robert helped himself to a pastry and deserted without another word.
A couple of hours later she’d had enough. She’d passed around food, caught up with the gossip, danced rather more than usual. It was a lovely party, except that every time she turned around Robert seemed to be there, watching her. It was unsettling. She didn’t want him looking at her. Not with that little crease that might just be concern dividing his brows. She’d thought she knew everything there was to know about the way his mind worked, but this was different.
Not that things had changed that much. He was still the focus of attention for every unattached girl at the party, and quite a few who weren’t, and she had no expectation that, come the witching hour, he would still be looking for a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich. But there was no way she was going to allow him to delegate the task of seeing her home to anyone else.
Taking advantage of a distraction caused by the still hopeful brunette, she retrieved her coat and considered looking for Monty, but decided instead to phone him later in the week. Nick cut her off before she reached the door.
‘Hey! You weren’t thinking of leaving without me, were you? We’re almost engaged.’
Torn between irritation and a certain satisfaction that someone was capable of seeing more to her than a girl who could fill the gaps, or pass around the canapés, she found herself laughing. ‘No, we’re not.’
‘You’re playing very hard to get.’ He made it sound as if she was the one being unreasonable.
‘I’d hoped you realised I was playing impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible. Once, in Las Vegas, I married a woman I’d only just met.’
‘Really?’ Why didn’t that surprise her? ‘Only once?’
‘Well—’
‘And are you still married to her?’
‘Of course not.’ He looked hurt at the suggestion. ‘I’m not a bigamist. That’s the great thing about Las Vegas. Married today …’ he clicked his fingers ‘… divorced tomorrow.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Well, very nearly.’ She wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. On balance she was rather afraid he was telling the truth. ‘Where would you like to get married? We could stop over somewhere exotic and have one of those beach ceremonies. I’ve always rather fancied one of those. What about Bali?’
It was a tough choice. Right now Bali sounded a lot more fun than yellow velvet, but it wasn’t really any contest. The dress, after all, was just for a few hours whereas, unlike Nick, she viewed marriage as a lifetime commitment. ‘I’m allergic to sand,’ she said. ‘And I’m scared of flying.’
‘Are you?’ That seemed to throw him momentarily. ‘A shipboard wedding, then? The ship’s captain doing the honours?’
‘It’s a myth that you can be legally married by the captain of a ship,’ she told him. The joke was beginning to wear very thin. ‘And right now all I’m interested in is going home. Alone.’ She turned and walked out into the street.
He wasn’t that easy to shake off. ‘The streets aren’t safe for a woman on her own,’ he said, following her.
‘Maybe not, but how safe are they with you?’
And this time when he smiled she fancied it was less a sexual display of teeth than genuine good humour. ‘As safe as you want them to be. Scout’s honour,’ he promised.
Before she could tell him that she didn’t believe he had ever been a Scout, he had hailed a passing black cab.
‘Daisy!’ Robert. ‘There you are, sweetheart. I was looking for you. I’m just about ready for the coffee and sandwich you promised,’ he said, taking her arm and smiling cordially at Nick as he opened the taxi door and held it for her while she stepped inside. ‘Thanks for the taxi, Gregson. Black cabs are as rare as hen’s teeth at this time of night.’
And with that he stepped in after her and closed the door, leaving Nick Gregson standing alone on the pavement as they drove away.

CHAPTER THREE (#ua20c5e4c-d201-5326-aad4-dd667287b4b1)
SUNDAY 26 March. Church with family for final reading of the Banns for Michael and Ginny’s wedding and everyone home for lunch afterwards. Mother will be in her element.
Robert offered me a lift. I said I’d rather walk. I do hope he didn’t take me seriously.
‘Daisy?’
She knew it was him as soon as the doorbell rang. Even at the crack of dawn her heart gave one of those painful leaps that betrayed her every time.
She glanced at her watch, yawned, tightened the belt of her dressing gown about her waist. Why was it so much harder to get up in London than in the country? ‘Go away, Robert. It’s the middle of the night.’

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