to work. She loved her job. She loved—no, too strong a word, particularly in light of today’s fiasco, but she did rather adore—her boss. Randall was incredibly intelligent, and interesting and successful. He was also calm, to the point of being unflappable, and when there was a crisis at work, he was usually the one to calm her down.
She hated humiliating Randall today. It hurt her to have hurt him, but Sophie didn’t love Randall. Sophie was only marrying Randall because her family had thought it would be an excellent business deal back before she was even old enough to drive. It wasn’t a marriage as much as a merger and Sophie deserved better. And Randall definitely deserved better, too.
“I came to find out what was taking so long,” Randall said from the doorway.
His voice was hard and icy-cold. Poppy stiffened and straightened, swiftly wiping away tears. “Sorry. I just need a moment.”
“You’ve had a moment. You’ve had five minutes of moments.”
“I don’t think it was that long.”
“And I don’t think I even know who you are anymore.”
She blanched, looking at him where he remained silhouetted in the doorway. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“But at the same time you’re not trying to help. I don’t want to be here. I have my entire staff downstairs trying to figure out what to do with the hundreds of gifts and floral arrangements, never mind that monstrosity of a wedding cake in the reception tent.”
“Of course. Right.” She rose and headed toward Sophie’s luggage. “Let me just take these downstairs.”
“Those are Sophie’s, not yours. She can make her own arrangements for her luggage.”
“She’s my best friend—”
“I don’t care.”
“I do, and as her maid of honor—”
“You work for me, not her, and if you wish to continue in my employ, you will get your own bag and follow me. Otherwise—”
“There’s no need to threaten me. I was just trying to help.”
“Mrs. Holmes manages my house. You manage my business affairs,” he answered, referring to his housekeeper.
“I just thought Mrs. Holmes has quite a lot to manage at the moment. She doesn’t need another worry.”
“Mrs. Holmes is the very model of efficiency. She’ll be fine.” He crossed the room and pointed to a small, worn overnight case. “Is this one yours?” When he saw her nod, he picked up her case. “Let’s go, then. The car is waiting.”
Poppy’s brow furrowed as she glanced back at Sophie’s set of suitcases but there was nothing she could do now, and so she followed Randall down the sweeping staircase and out the front door.
Mrs. Holmes was waiting outside the big brick house for them.
“Not to worry about a thing, sir,” she said to Randall, before turning to Poppy and whispering in her ear, “Poor lamb. He must be devastated.”
Poppy wouldn’t have described Randall as a poor lamb, or all that devastated, but Mrs. Holmes had a very different relationship with Randall Grant than she did. “He’ll recover,” Poppy answered firmly. “He’s been caught off guard, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”
Randall’s black Austin Healey two-seater convertible was parked at the base of the stairs in the huge oval driveway.
He put Poppy’s overnight bag in the boot, and then opened the passenger door for her. The car was low to the ground and even though Poppy was short, she felt as if she had to drop into the seat and then smash the pink gown’s ballerina-style tulle in around her so that Randall could close the door.
“This is a ridiculous dress to travel in,” she muttered.
She’d thought she’d been quiet enough that he wouldn’t hear but he did. “You can change on the plane,” he said.
“What plane?” she asked.
“My plane.”
“But that was for your honeymoon.”
“Yes, and it can fly other places than the Caribbean,” he said drily, sliding behind the steering wheel and tugging on his tie to loosen it.
“Speaking of which, should I begin canceling your travel arrangements?”
“My travel arrangements?”
She flushed. “Your...honeymoon.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I may have lost my bride at the altar, but I’m not completely inept. Seeing as I made the reservations, I will cancel them.”
Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m sure you are. You are a singularly devoted secretary, always looking out for my best interests.”
She sucked in a breath at the biting sarcasm. “I’ve always done my best for you.”
“Does that include today?”
“What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means, Poppy? Or have you suddenly become exceptionally good at playing dumb?”
* * *
Dal wanted to throttle Poppy; he really did. She knew far more than she was letting on but she was determined to play her role in whatever scheme she and Sophie had concocted.
He was disgusted, and not just with them, but with himself. He’d always believed himself to be an excellent judge of character, but obviously he was wrong. Sophie and Poppy had both betrayed his trust.
He hated himself for being oblivious and gullible.
He hated that he’d allowed himself to be played the fool.
His father had always warned him not to trust a woman, and he’d always privately rolled his eyes, aware that his father had issues, but perhaps in this instance his father had been right.
Dal’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as he drove the short distance from Langston House to the private airport outside Winchester. There was very little traffic and the sky was blue, the weather warm without being hot. Perfect June day for a wedding. This morning everything had seemed perfect, too, until it became the stuff of nightmares.
He gripped the wheel harder, imagining the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. How the media loved society and scandal. The headlines were bound to be salacious.
Unlike Sophie, he hated being in the public eye, detesting everything to do with society. In his mind there was nothing worse than English society with its endless fascination of classes and aristocrats, and new versus old money.
He’d spent the past ten years trying to avoid scandal, and it infuriated him to be thrust into the limelight. The attention would be significant, and just thinking about having cameras or microphones thrust in his face made him want to punch something, and he hadn’t wanted to fight in years.
Dal had been a fighter growing up, so much so, that he’d nearly lost his place at Cambridge after a particularly nasty brawl. He hadn’t started the fight, but he’d ended it, and it hadn’t mattered to the deans or his father, that he’d fought to defend his mother’s name. To the powers that be, fighting was ungentlemanly, and Dal Grant, the future Earl of Langston, was expected to uphold his legacy, not tarnish it.
The school administrators had accepted his apology and pledge, but his father hadn’t been so easily appeased. His father had been upset for weeks after, and then as usual, his anger finally broke, and after the rage came the despair.
As a boy, Dal had dreaded the mood swings. As a young man, he’d found them intolerable. But he couldn’t walk away from his father. There was no one else