CHAPTER ONE
LADY KAITLIN DERWENT, poster girl for the aristocracy, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax, stared at her nigh on unrecognisable reflection and wondered if she’d run mad... No, she knew she must have run mad.
There could be no other explanation for the fact that she was standing in this glitzy Barcelona hotel room, her Titian-red hair obscured under a bottleful of cheap blonde dye, her green eyes masked by baby-blue contact lenses, on a ‘Blonde Hair and Blue Eyes in Barcelona’ themed hen weekend for a woman she hadn’t seen for years.
‘You OK?’ Lynette Cooper, her childhood playmate and the bride-to-be, leant forward to peer more closely into the dressing table mirror and layered on another sheen of letterbox-red lipstick. ‘Are you sure you won’t come out tonight? We’re making cocktails and then we’re drinking cocktails.’
Kaitlin summoned a smile. ‘No, thank you. I appreciate it, but I’d be gatecrashing.’
She didn’t know any of the other guests; it had been a crazy impulse of the type she never, ever demonstrated to ask Lynette if she could join the hen group so that she could escape for a weekend. Travel as part of a group with a degree of anonymity and gain some time out, some space to think.
‘I will truly be happy chilling out here. I’ll order room service, watch a film and go to sleep.’
Lynette tipped her blonde head to one side. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘OK.’ Lynette’s smile was genuine, and so reminiscent of her ten-year-old self that Kaitlin couldn’t help but smile back.
‘And, Lynette... Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Kaitlin. I know we’ve lost touch, but I’m glad I could help. Really.’
Lynette looked as though she wanted to say more, and Kaitlin knew she needed to forestall her. She wouldn’t explain the reasons for the breakdown of their friendship all those years ago—couldn’t revisit the memories of a trauma she had relegated to the surreal.
‘And I am really grateful, Lynette. Now, go and have fun. Don’t worry about me.’
Lynette stood, undecided, and then nodded. ‘OK. Be good. Call me if you change your mind and want to meet up with us.’
With that she swirled from the room in a gust of perfume.
Be good. No problem there. Lady Kaitlin Derwent was always good—never a breath of scandal to her name and that was the way it would stay. This was as mad as she was ever likely to be—disguised as a blonde, holed up in a hotel room in Barcelona, so that she could contemplate her future.
The recent conversation with her parents pounded her temples.
Her mother’s voice, warm with honey. Yet it was a warmth all the Derwent children knew to be false. ‘Kaitlin. We have good news. Prince Frederick of Lycander is looking for a bride. We think you fit the bill.’
The Duke of Fairfax had snorted. ‘We know you do, and we expect you to do everything in your power to ensure it is you who joins him at the altar. Royal blood and Derwent blood joined in alliance.’
The Duchess had looked at her with something as near to approval as she ever showed, eyed her up and down and nodded her ash-blonde head. ‘So it shall be.’
Her parents had spoken and Kaitlin had smiled her cool, poised, serene smile—one of many practised in front of the mirror until her cheek muscles ached. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Now, sitting on the single bed of the Barcelona hotel room, Kaitlin closed her eyes and wondered what on earth she was doing here. What was the point of contemplation? There was nothing to muse over. After all, her future had been mapped out, her destiny already determined. Granted, it was a future most women would kill for—a guarantee of wealth and a young handsome sovereign prince to go with it.
A glance out of the window showed the dusky Barcelona evening. The breeze carried in staccato bursts of chatter, the smell of heat-hazed streets and a hint of sangria. Another glance at the mirror reassured her that her own siblings wouldn’t recognise her.
Well, Cora might, with her twin’s intuition, but Gabriel certainly wouldn’t. A familiar pang of guilt touched her at the thought of Cora—at the knowledge that her relationship with her sister had lost any semblance of closeness. As for Gabriel—right now she didn’t even know where her brother was. The future Duke of Fairfax had disappeared on a prolonged sojourn abroad, leaving behind a supposedly jilted girlfriend and no indication of when he would return.
The Derwent siblings—on the surface they had it all, but in reality...
The impetus of emotion made her decision for her—pent-up energy roiled inside her, making the room’s confines too restrictive, and instinct propelled her to the door, out of the room and down the carpeted stairs towards the lobby.
But as she looked around at the bustle in the marble foyer, the people all strangers, a tsunami of panic welled inside her without warning. Alarm and anxiety crashed in as they hadn’t for—oh, so many years.
Fool that she was.
This had been a mistake. She should never have come here—never have set foot out of her carefully planned life trajectory. At best she should at least have remained in the safety of her room. She needed to retrace her steps. If only her legs would co-operate. Dots danced in front of her eyes and her lungs refused to work.
A last vestige of common sense had her leaning against a marble pillar in the hope of obscurity...
* * *
Daniel Harrington stepped out of the elevator into the hotel lobby. Feelings of futile anger mixed with equally pointless hurt banded his chest.
Stupidity incarnate.
Who knew what had possessed him to attempt a reunion with his family? Ten years ago they had turned their backs on him, refused to countenance his decision to go legitimate, to no longer turn a blind eye.
‘If you walk out of that door, Danny, you don’t get to come back. Ever. You will be dead to us.’
That walk had been the hardest choice he’d ever made. But he’d done it, and he’d been a fool to think there would be any softening now. So he had only himself to blame for this wasted journey. But he had hoped that his mother, at least, would relent, would want to see her eldest son.