Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (11 page)

“Rather a lot, yes.”

She bit her lip. Guilt was plain upon her face. “I bought it for Tark and Wren. It’s a wedding gift.”

Rhys turned away from the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and faced her. “Did it never occur to you to send them a nice set of wine glasses instead?”

“Wine glasses would still be pricey,” she informed him. “The castle dining hall seats two hundred.”

“Then why,” Rhys went on, gathering steam like an angry locomotive, “if you were determined to be extravagant, didn’t you purchase the chandelier from Dashwood and James? We carry Waterford, you know. You’d get a ten percent discount. And free bloody shipping!”

“That would’ve been immensely tacky,” she said indignantly. “The chandelier would’ve arrived at the castle in a big D&J packing box, and Tark would’ve known straightaway that I used my family discount to buy his present.”

“Thank God your reputation for generosity with the rich and titled remains unblemished,” Rhys snapped. “Do you realise that this store – the source of what little income remains to you and your family – is on the verge of total fucking collapse?”

Natalie fixed him with a glare. “I don’t believe things are so bad. You make everything look worse than it is, so you can swoop in and save the day. All hail Saint Rhys.”

“Let me make this as simple as I can, Miss Dashwood.” He returned to his desk and leaned towards her, his hands pressed down on the spreadsheet-covered blotter. “The store’s become a vast money pit, with more outgoing than incoming. That’s not good. It can’t continue any longer.”

“You’re mistaken,” Natalie said stubbornly. “D&J still make a profit. I stand to inherit a fortune—”

“A fortune?” he echoed, incredulous. “The stores haven’t made a profit in months. Sir Richard has an outstanding debt of nearly a million pounds. Once that debt is paid off,
if
it’s ever paid off—” Rhys sat down, punched a few keys on his laptop, and pointed to a spreadsheet with a much tinier figure than Natalie could ever have imagined “—you might inherit enough to open a chip shop in Bermondsey.”

Natalie was too shocked to speak.

“Unless things change drastically, and soon,” Rhys informed her icily, “Dashwood and James will close its doors…forever.”

As the opening strains of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’ heralded the beginning of the afternoon wedding service at St. Anselm’s cathedral, the bride was in a panic.

“Where’s Dominic?” Keeley demanded, fraught with nerves. “It’s nearly time!” The church was packed with reporters, celebrities, and well over two hundred of their closest friends; even Klaus von Richter had condescended to come.

“I’m sure he’s just nipped out for a fag,” her mum reassured her. “He seemed a bit edgy.”
Drunk as a sailor on payday, more like
, she almost added; but there was no point in upsetting Keeley any more than she already was.

“I’ll kill him if he messes this up,” Keeley fumed. It’d be just like Dominic to do a runner and embarrass her in front of everyone. She gathered up her voluminous Balenciaga skirts and sailed out of the dressing room to hunt him down.

But Dominic was nowhere to be found.

Furious, Keeley stopped near the broom closet to calm her shattered nerves and decide what to do next, when she heard a strange sound. It was rhythmic and steady, punctuated with whispery giggles and the odd moan. She stared at the closed closet door in dawning horror. Surely not even Dominic would be so bold, so brazen, and on their wedding day—?

Grimly Keeley flung the closet door open. At the sight that met her eyes, she screamed.

Dominic stood, mid-bonk with one of her bridesmaids, whose legs were wrapped round his waist. He looked over his shoulder at Keeley and blanched. “Sorry, love,” he mumbled to the girl as he pulled away and fumbled with his fly. “Gotta go. The bride’s just arrived.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Keeley said icily. “By all means, continue. Finish shagging the bridesmaid. Take all the time you need, because we’re not getting married, you skeevy bastard. Not today, not ever!” She turned and stalked away.

As the other bridesmaids emerged from the church and hurried towards her, clucking like outraged hens, Dominic finished doing up his trousers and staggered out into the vestibule. “Keels, wait!”

She cast a scalding glare over her shoulder. “Piss off, Dominic! It’s over between us!”

“Yeah, OK, it’s over, I get that.” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “Um…the thing is, what about the honeymoon, then?”

She came to a stop and turned slowly around. “What?”

“I mean, since it’s paid for and all, I thought I’d take—” he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the bridesmaid, smoothing down her skirts in the closet “—er, Victoria, right? Take Vicks with me to the Maldives instead. I mean, no sense in lettin’ the trip go to waste, is there—”

He never finished the sentence, because Keeley flew at him, shrieking like a demented banshee, and it took all five of the wedding party’s efforts to pull her off.

Alerted by the commotion, the tabloid reporters in attendance spilled out into the vestibule, and flashbulbs began popping. Blood was in the air. The story of Keeley and Dominic’s disastrous celebrity non-wedding, accompanied by lurid four-colour photos, would be the biggest, juiciest scandal to hit the UK since…well, since ever.

“I hate you, Dominic!” Keeley screamed. “I’ll make you pay for this, you bastard!”

Dominic staggered back towards the broom closet, momentarily blinded by flashbulbs.
Shouldn’t have drunk that entire bottle of Chivas…probably not my best idea, upon reflection…

Too bad no one had any drugs on offer
, he thought. He could really do with a bit of oblivion right about now.

Then he passed out.

Chapter 14

Natalie sank into one of the chairs arranged in front of Rhys’s desk. “I can’t believe it,” she murmured, stricken. “How did things get so bad?”

He leaned back in his chair. “A lot of reasons…over-spending being only one of them.” He glanced pointedly at Natalie, and she flushed. “But mainly because Sir Richard wants things done as they’ve always been done.”

“He’s stubborn,” Natalie admitted. “I’m sure it’s hard for him, keeping pace with technology. His grandfather started D&J as a market stall in Portobello, did you know that?”

“Yes. And I know Dashwood and James received the royal warrant from Queen Elizabeth in 1956, which it still carries today.” He drew his brows together. “That’s something to be proud of. That’s why it’s imperative we keep these doors open.”

“Grandfather despises change.”

“Sir Richard is old, and tired,” Rhys said. He laced his hands behind his head. “Like Henry, he should have retired long ago. But with your father gone, there’s no one to take over. Of course…” He eyed her. “There’s you.”

“Me?”

“God knows why, but Sir Richard trusts you implicitly. You might be the answer to D&J’s troubles.”

Natalie stared at him in astonishment. “But I don’t know the first thing about the stores, or how they’re run.”

“Of course you do. You told me yourself you worked here every summer, in every department.” Rhys picked up his pen and toyed with it. “You can start with your grandfather. Show him some department store websites, and explain how D&J would benefit from a more robust presence on the internet. See if Dominic will do a television advert for the store, as a favour to you. I’ve no doubt he would.”

After slamming her door in Dominic’s face and telling him in no uncertain terms to piss off, Natalie wasn’t so sure. “Well,” she said slowly, “I know a few people. Poppy Simone, Keeley…”

“Poppy Simone…the supermodel?” Rhys was suitably impressed. “Good. We need to attract younger customers.”

“Maybe she’ll model a few outfits.”

“That’s an excellent idea. Of course we can’t afford to pay anything at this stage.”

“Oh, she’ll do it for me,” Natalie assured him. “I’ve known her and Pen for yonks.”

“Pen?”

“Her sister, Penelope. Pen’s very arty; she designs her own jewellery. Poppy’s the goofy one. Perhaps I can persuade Pen to design a few pieces for the store.” She beamed at him. “I never knew work could be so much fun!”

“It can be, if you’re motivated. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

The unexpectedness of the question left Natalie blinking. “I…erm, yes, I am.”

She imagined sitting across from him in a posh restaurant, sharing smouldering glances across a candlelit table as he fed her prawns and ripe, juicy strawberries…and then she imagined him leaning forward to kiss her, murmuring, ‘Miss Dashwood, you bewitching creature, you taste enticingly of strawberries…’

“I’ll have Gemma order takeaway,” Rhys announced. “Chinese, or Indian if you prefer. We can discuss our plans in the conference room.”

Her visions of candlelight and chateaubriand in a romantic French bistro vanished abruptly, replaced with takeaway cartons, plastic cutlery, and grease-spotted bags. A
business
dinner…why on earth had she expected anything more?

“I don’t like Indian takeaway.” She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling suddenly like a petulant child.

“Then Chinese it is.” Rhys leaned forward and pressed his intercom. “Gemma, order in some shrimp lo mein for me, and—” he paused to glance inquiringly at Natalie.

“Garlic broccoli,” she murmured sulkily.

“—garlic broccoli for Miss Dashwood, please. And spring rolls. You can leave once it arrives. Thanks.”

“Are you quite sure we can afford it?” Nat snapped.

“I think we can just about manage.” He lifted his eyebrow. “I see you get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“Blimey.” Natalie sat back, and despite her irritation, regarded him with grudging admiration. “How do you do it?”

He thrust on his glasses and begun tapping at his laptop. “Do what?” he asked.

“Well, you…you make things happen. I came in here ready to throttle you; instead, we’re about to plan D&J’s future together over spring rolls and plum sauce.”

He shrugged. “I just get on with it.”

The food arrived, and once the cartons and spring rolls and packets of soy sauce and mustard were sorted, they went to work.

“Gemma said you went shopping with your sister this morning,” Rhys said as he expertly wielded his chopsticks. “Did she find a wedding gown?”

Natalie squeezed Chinese mustard liberally on her spring roll. Gemma had a big bloody mouth. “She found the perfect dress at Vera Wang. I was going to buy it for her. But unfortunately—” she glared at him “—my credit was declined.”

“That must’ve been inconvenient…and embarrassing.”

“It was. I was furious, had a bit of a meltdown. Caro said the dress was too expensive anyway.”

“I’m glad at least one of you is sensible.” He caught the packet of plum sauce she flung at him. “Why not ask your designer friend – Pen, is it? –to recommend an up-and-coming designer to make your sister’s wedding dress?” he suggested. “A bespoke gown from a rising fashion star—”

“Yes! We could feature the dress in store ads, and offer a limited number for sale,” Natalie mused. “Women love limited editions. And not just wedding gowns! We could feature a new designer line each season.”

“Available only at Dashwood and James,” Rhys agreed.

“We could sponsor a yearly event,” Natalie went on, her excitement growing, “and offer makeup consultations and makeovers, and accessories – handbags, shoes – to go with the outfits. We could have a fashion show!” She looked expectantly at Rhys, her eyes shining. “Well, what do you think?”

“I like it…dependent upon the cost, of course. Draft me up a business plan.”

“Oh, it shouldn’t cost much; we’d only need to put up a marquee outside, provide light refreshment, hire a couple of DJs. We’d give a real boost to a fledgling designer’s career if we featured their clothing line in-store.” Excitement overtook her. She was actually enjoying this! “I’ll do up a marketing plan.”

Rhys frowned, which meant he was deep in thought, and probably not listening to a word she’d said.

Natalie bit into her spring roll. “Tell me a bit about your brother, the one who fancies Keeley. Is he a workaholic, like you?”

“Jamie? He’s a sous chef with a 60-hour work week and a girlfriend he rarely sees.” He paused. “So yes, I suppose you could say he’s a workaholic. But he’s more likeable than me.”

Natalie raised her brow. “I should hope so. You’re not likeable at all.”

He chucked a packet of Chinese mustard at her and said it was time they got back to work.

Hannah James flicked through the racks of new spring clothing with a satisfied sigh. A Saturday afternoon spent browsing in Topshop and H&M always cheered her up.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” she told her best friend, Jo. “I don’t see anything I like.”

As they emerged onto the pavement, Jo glanced at Hannah. “We could go to D&J…”

“No way. The clothes are vile. Even mum says they’re only fit for old ladies.”

“True.” They passed a music store, and Jo grabbed Hannah’s arm. “Han, look, isn’t that…it is! It’s Duncan!”

“Where?” Hannah froze and glanced through the window, past the guitars and amps and racks of sheet music, and she saw him.

He stood with a slender blonde girl, the two of them looking at a sheet of music Duncan held, oblivious to anyone around them.

“Who’s she?” Hannah demanded. “I’ve seen her before, somewhere—” she broke off as she saw Jo’s guilty expression. “You know who she is! Tell me.”

Jo sighed. “Her name’s Theodora, she’s a new sixth-former. Her friends call her Theo.”

“Come on,” Hannah decided, “let’s go. I don’t want to see Duncan…or
Theo
,” she added.

They were turning away when Duncan glanced up and saw them through the window.

“Oh God, he’s seen us,” Jo muttered. She waved. “Shit! They’re coming out. Sorry.”

“Jo, I swear, I’ll kill you for this!” Hannah hissed.

The door opened, and Duncan and Theodora joined them. “Hullo, Jo, Hannah,” he said, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping,” Hannah retorted. “What else?”