Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Katie Oliver
She’s dated Mr Darcy…now it’s time for Gemma to prepare to say ‘I do’! And the Bride Wore Prada is the sensational first book in Katie Oliver’s long-awaited ‘Marrying Mr Darcy’ series, the follow-up to her best-selling ‘Dating Mr Darcy’ trilogy.
KATIE OLIVER
loves romantic comedies, characters who ‘meet cute’, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in northern Virginia with her husband and three parakeets, in a rambling old house with uneven floors and a dining room that leaks when it rains.
Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully, better) stories. She even finishes most of them.
So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com, and have a look.
Here’s to love and all its complications...
To my wonderful readers, who've supported me, encouraged me, and told me how much they enjoy my stories, this one's for you. With thanks to Clio Cornish, my fabulous editor, and to the writers at Carina UK for their unstinting support and friendship.
‘Flight 6072 to Inverness – Two-Hour Delay.’
Natalie clutched her Vuitton cosmetics case and stared at the electronic arrivals and departures board in dismay. She glanced over at her husband Rhys. ‘That’s us, then.’
Rhys took her arm and led her over to a row of seats – horrible, crowded, uncomfortable seats – in Heathrow’s British Airways departures lounge.
‘Nothing for it but to wait,’ he told her. ‘Have a seat and I’ll go and fetch us a coffee.’
With a sigh, she sank into a chair. The skies outside the airport were a gloomy, lowering grey, and despite her warm coat and boots and the promise of Christmas in the air, Natalie felt the chill in her very bones.
‘You know, Rhys,’ she grumbled, ‘we could be in the Galleries lounge right now, drinking martinis, if we’d only flown first class.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘You could still upgrade our tickets.’
‘It’s a short flight,’ Rhys pointed out. ‘Hardly worth paying double. And it’s a bit early for martinis. Besides,’ he reminded her as he glanced round the crowded airport, ‘we can’t be extravagant with our expenditures. Dashwood and James department stores are still regaining their footing. We don’t want the press saying that we’re wasting company money.’
‘But it’s our bloody money,’ Natalie said crossly, and sneezed. ‘Yours and mine! We own half the company.’
‘Twenty-five percent,’ Rhys corrected her. ‘And don’t forget ‒ public perception is very important. It’s all about financial restraint.’ He lifted his brow. ‘What’ll you have, coffee, or tea?’
‘Coffee,’ Natalie answered, her expression sulky. ‘Cream. One sugar. If you think we can afford it.’
He didn’t answer; he’d already turned and plunged into the crowds to fetch their coffees.
Public perception. Financial restraint. Crikey, Natalie thought irritably as she fished out a wodge of tissue from her jacket pocket and blew her nose – bloody allergies – she and Rhys had been married less than six months, and already she was beyond tired of those words. It was annoying, living one’s life under a glass dome, having one’s every move watched and criticised—
A commotion just ahead caught Natalie’s attention, and she glanced up. The click and whirr of flashbulbs and the sound of raised voices carried across the airport.
Natalie frowned. What in the world—?
Through the crowd she glimpsed a woman with a glossy fall of dark-red hair and a tiny black dress clicking purposefully across the airport in a pair of dagger-sharp heels. Next to her, a man, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses and his dark hair stylishly cut, linked his arm through hers.
Oh my God, Natalie thought, startled. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was Gemma Astley and Dominic Heath!
‘Dominic,’ one of the reporters called out as he lunged in front of the rock star, microphone outstretched, ‘is it true that you and Gemma are getting married soon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’ a female reporter shouted. ‘Have you set a date?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is it true there’s to be a secret wedding at your Scottish estate in Inverness?’
‘Not much of a secret if you lot know about it, is it?’ Dominic shot back. ‘Now fuck off.’
Natalie stood and waved to catch his eye – he and Gemma were headed for the VIP lounge, no doubt – but the throngs of people and camera-wielding paparazzi around them made eye contact all but impossible.
‘Dominic!’ she called out. ‘Gemma!’
But they neither saw nor heard as they swept past. Disappointed, Natalie sank back
