Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

‘I don’t think anything. I know you’ve run mad.’

‘That is because you haven’t thought it through.’

‘Nope. It’s because it doesn’t make any sense—we would need to spend a whole week together.’ The idea fuzzed her brain with cotton wool even as her insides twisted in panic. ‘That will only fuel speculation about us—not prevent it.’

‘Not if we play it right. The story provides a perfectly logical explanation for the time we’ve spent together, both at the wedding and at breakfast the next day. I tried to persuade you to get involved—you couldn’t because of your commitments with Prince Frederick. So when I heard about the split I hot-footed it over here to see if I could convince you to join me now.’

There was a certain plausibility about it, but... ‘That might work as a cover, but I could have still refused to join you. There is no need for me to actually come to Scotland or Venice.’ The idea shortened her breath, pierced her chest with the stab of anxiety that preceded panic.

Chill, Kaitlin.

‘But it would be better if you did come.’

‘Better for whom?’

‘Better for the project. Right now the press is focused on you—you could make a real difference...raise awareness of the Caversham Foundation by a substantial amount.’ His eyebrows rose with more than a hint of derision. ‘Think of your image as well. A refusal to participate wouldn’t look good.’

Whereas an agreement would be an opportunity to remodel Lady Kaitlin—transition her from prospective royal bride to a woman who had moved on from her break-up in a positive manner, the champion of a good cause that she genuinely believed in.

Yet caution still raised its head. ‘The press will try to find a romantic angle.’

‘Let them try. They won’t be able to locate it, because it doesn’t exist.’ His mouth twisted in a wry upturn that held more than a hint of challenge. ‘Unless, of course, you’re worried you’ll succumb to my deadly charm?’

Kaitlin narrowed her eyes. ‘In your dreams, Daniel.’ Been there, got the T-shirt and never again.

‘Then what are you so worried about? Worst-case scenario is that they speculate—you’re a free agent now.’ He eyed her for a moment, fingers drumming on his thigh, and then he snapped his fingers. ‘Unless you are hoping for a reconciliation with Prince Frederick?’ Disdain dripped from his voice. ‘Is that the plan—did he agree that if you weather the storm you will requalify as a Lycander bride?’

‘No!’ His contempt stung. ‘There is no plan. But it’s...complicated.’

With an effort she kept the crack of emotion from her voice as scenes from the previous day filled her mind.

The Duke and Duchess had taken disappointment to new heights—their frustration had filled the living room at Derwent Manor with palpable waves of fury.

‘You have let us down, Kaitlin. Not just us, but the Derwent name. The only way to redeem yourself is to get him back. Your destiny is with the House of Lycander—we want at least one grandchild with royal blood in his veins. Is that understood?’

The message had been loud and clear, and had been followed by the outline of a ‘Win Frederick Back’ action plan that had made her burn with humiliation. Yet she had listened in silence—had neither agreed to obey nor expressed refusal to comply. It had seemed the easiest option until she figured out for herself what she wanted to do. For months she’d been on a path and now...now she felt as though the proverbial rug had been pulled from under her designer wedge shoes.

‘So, explain.’

The blue of his eyes held not so much as a glint of compassion, but at least his censure had been put on hold.

‘This marriage is important to my parents and they believe I should keep my options open. I don’t want to rock the boat.’

‘You can’t marry Prince Frederick for your parents’ sake. They have no right to ask that of you.’

The sheer intensity of his voice rocked her backwards. ‘They have every right to ask. My father is recovering from a heart attack and my brother and sister have both made marriages my parents disapprove of. I have it within my power to make them happy by marrying a wealthy, handsome prince. It seemed like a no brainer.’

‘Seemed,’ he repeated. ‘Past tense. What about now?’ He tipped his palms up in patent disbelief. ‘The wealthy, handsome Prince has ruthlessly discarded you for fear of scandal. You can’t possibly still want to marry him.’

Kaitlin resisted the urge to cover her ears and tune out his questions. She had erected a block against Prince Frederick’s judgement. But now his words buzzed through the barrier like pellets of venom.

‘I am sorry, Kaitlin—you would have made a good Lycander princess, but I can’t take the risk of scandal or ridicule. Not now. My bride needs to be untainted by even a breath of scandal. You no longer qualify.’

For a moment the meaning of his words hadn’t dawned on her—and then the realisation that nine months could be dismissed so summarily had had her reeling, caused a wire of irrational hurt and anger to tighten her chest. Clearly once again she wasn’t worth fighting for; the threat of scandal outweighed her value as a person.

All those years ago her parents had made it plain that they wouldn’t expose her kidnappers—wouldn’t bring them to justice because of the potential smearing of the Derwent name. Now history had repeated itself with a vengeance.

It didn’t matter—she wouldn’t let it matter. Lady Kaitlin Derwent did not succumb to feelings. She had learnt to lock them down. Thus she had rid herself of pain, anxiety and the slither of horrific memories. So no way would she be goaded into emotion now.