LITMIR.BIZ

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tulle,’ she said tersely. Beautifully tailored suits, severely cut coat dresses and sleek silk shirts were more her style; they flattered her wide shoulders and disguised her lack of curves. ‘I certainly don’t want to stuff my feet into a pair of satin Mary Janes and have rosebuds entwined in my hair. I’ll look about six years old.’

      ‘What are Mary Janes?’

      ‘Those little-girl shoes with the strap over the instep. Why grown women wear them beats me; I hated them even when I was a little girl.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’ She waited, knowing there was more. ‘I have to agree, six does sound about right.’

      ‘Robert!’ Well, a girl could only take so much.

      He caught her hand, held it, and Daisy decided that he could insult her all day if he just kept doing that. ‘Heavens, you’re trembling. I’ve never seen you in such a state.’ The trembling had nothing whatever to do with being a bridesmaid, but hey … ‘This isn’t compulsory, sweetheart. Just tell Ginny that you can’t do it.’ As if. ‘She can manage with three little maids, can’t she?’

      Of course she could. But this wasn’t about managing. This was about having the perfect wedding, and Daisy couldn’t, wouldn’t let her future sister-in-law down. And there just wasn’t anyone else. She’d asked.

      Robert, of course, could not be expected to understand. All his life people had been falling over themselves to let him do whatever he wanted. Most men with his advantages would be absolute monsters, she knew. That apart from being the most desirable man she was ever likely to meet he was also good-natured and generous and legions of his abandoned girlfriends would declare with their dying breath that he was the kindest man in the world was little short of a miracle.

      ‘Of course my mother is over the moon,’ she said. ‘She didn’t expect to get a second chance.’

      Robert squeezed her hand sympathetically. ‘If your mother wants you to be a bridesmaid, sweetheart, you might as well surrender gracefully.’

      If? That was the understatement of the year. Her mother had an agenda all her own. With one daughter married and doing her duty in the grandchildren department, and with her son about to follow suit, Margaret Galbraith already had her sights firmly fixed on her difficult youngest child. Twenty-four and not an eligible suitor in sight.

      Phase one of her mother’s plan involved getting Daisy to change her image. She was thinking feminine, she was thinking pretty. She’d already spent weeks trying to involve her in a clothes-buying sortie to take advantage of a large and fancy wedding at which there would undoubtedly be a number of eligible males. Now one of the raven-haired bridesmaids had thoughtfully broken her leg, showing off on the piste, and with Daisy the only possible replacement, her mother was in seventh heaven. There was absolutely no chance of escape.

      Phases two and three would undoubtedly involve a major make-up job and the services of a hairdresser with orders to get her fluffy yellow hair under control for once. Daisy sincerely pitied the poor soul who was confronted by that hopeless task.

      She looked at Robert’s hand, covering her own. He had beautiful hands, with long, slender fingers; a jagged scar along the knuckles only enhanced their strength. He’d got that scar saving her from a vicious dog when she was six years old; she’d loved him even then.

      For a moment she allowed herself the simple pleasure of his touch. Just for a moment. Then she withdrew her hand, picked up her glass and swirled the remaining inch of wine about the bowl. ‘Mother thinks I’m being silly, that I’m being ridiculously self-conscious,’ she admitted. ‘She thinks being centre-stage will be good for me.’

      He was still smiling, but with sufficient sympathy to put him back in her good books. ‘I’m truly sorry for you, Daisy, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to grin and bear it.’

      ‘Would you?’

      ‘Anything for a quiet life,’ he assured her. ‘But I’ll wear a yellow waistcoat to demonstrate solidarity,’ he offered, ‘if that’ll make you feel better.’

      ‘A yellow velvet waistcoat?’ she demanded.

      ‘If that’s what it takes.’ Easy to say. They both knew that unless it was part of the plan, Ginny’s mother would veto it. ‘Or you could dye your hair black to match the other girls,’ he offered. ‘Although whether a black duckling would have quite the same appeal—’

      ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’ But then, when did he ever take anything seriously? He might be a touch aggrieved because his latest girlfriend had worked out that he had a terminal aversion to commitment and cut her losses a full week before he’d made the decision for her, but since he would be beseiged by women eager to take her place, it wouldn’t worry him for long.

      Daisy sipped her wine in a silent toast to the woman; so few of Robert’s conquests were that clever.

      ‘Or you could wear a wig,’ he suggested, after a moment.

      She told him, in no uncertain terms, where he could stick his wig.

      That made him laugh out loud. Well, she had intended it to. ‘Don’t get your feathers in a tangle, duckie,’ he said, teasing her. ‘You’re getting the whole thing out of proportion. I mean, who’ll notice? All eyes will be on the bride. Won’t they?’

      For a man reputedly capable of charming a girl out of her knickers without lifting more than an eyebrow, Daisy considered that was less than gallant. But then he had always treated her like a younger sister, and what man ever felt the need to be gallant to a sister? Her own brother never had, so why would his best friend be any different? Especially since she went out of her way to keep the relationship on that level. No flirting. No sharp suits or silk shirts when she was meeting him for lunch.

      She might love him to the very depths of her soul, but that was a secret shared only with her diary. Robert Furneval wasn’t a till-death-us-do-part kind of man, and when you really loved someone nothing less would do.

      She downed her claret and stood up. Leaving him on the right note was always difficult; she had to take any chance that offered itself. ‘Next time you need a shoulder to cry on, Robert Furneval,’ she said, ‘try the Yellow Pages. Since you’re so fond of the colour.’

      ‘Oh, come on, Daisy,’ he said, picking up her boxy little beaded handbag from beneath the table and rising to his feet. ‘You’re the one female I know I can rely on to be sensible.’ She might have been placated by that. But then he spoilt it by handing her the bag and saying, ‘Except for a tendency to raid your grandmother’s wardrobe for dressing up clothes.’ She didn’t bother to correct him. Her sister had bought her the little Lulu Guinness bag for her birthday, probably egged on by their mother to improve her image. Her image was clearly beyond redemption. ‘Don’t go all girly on me about some stupid bridesmaid’s dress. It’s not as if you’ll have to show your legs.’

      ‘What have you heard about my legs?’ she demanded.

      ‘Nothing. I just happen to remember that you have knobbly knees. I assume that’s why you make such a point of keeping them covered up. Trousers, jeans, long skirts …’ He smiled down at her with that little-boy smile. His smile did for her every time. Oh, not the knickers. She would never be that stupid. But it still melted every resolve she had ever made in the solitude of her room, still reduced to mush every heart-felt promise she’d made to herself that she would break herself of the Robert Furneval habit. ‘You wouldn’t want me to lie and say that you’ll look fabulous in yellow? Would you?’ It might be nice, she thought. Just once. But they had never lied to one another. ‘We’re friends. Friends don’t have to pretend.’

      Yes, they were friends. She clung to that thought. Robert might not woo her with roses, might not take her to expensive little restaurants and ply her with smoked salmon and truffles, but he didn’t dump her after a couple of months either. They were true friends. Best friends. And she knew, she had always known, that if she wanted to be a permanent part of Robert’s

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