Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie Pembroke

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      ‘You will make someone a very good husband one day.’ Clara eyed the rail of clothes that Raff and Susannah, the personal shopper he had co-opted to help them, had picked out. ‘Forget the name and fortune, any man who can shop like you will be snapped up.’

      Raff leant back against the wall. In a stark contrast to the opulence of the outer store the private changing rooms, exclusively for the use of those rich or lucky enough to secure the services of a personal shopper, were a study in sleek minimalism. The walls were a steely grey, the sofas chic, uncomfortable-looking studies in white and black; in this environment the clothes were the stars.

      ‘It’s a good thing one of us showed some interest,’ he said. ‘Poor Susannah certainly earned her commission today. I don’t think she’s ever met anyone who dislikes clothes as much as you do.’

      Clara bit just as he knew she would. ‘I like clothes well enough,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m just not into fancy clothes or fancy designers or fancy prices.’

      Raff suppressed a smile. He might be playing fairy godfather but this Cinderella wasn’t at all interested. She’d probably be far more comfortable cleaning the hearth and making the pumpkin into pies than going to the ball.

      ‘Or fancy shoes...’ he said provocatively.

      ‘If feet were supposed to be that elevated...’ Clara began.

      ‘Then our bone structure would be quite different,’ he finished. ‘I know, you told me at least three times and poor Susannah twenty. Normally women weep with gratitude after she supplies them with shoes, not lecture her about osteology. Come on, Cinders, enjoy the glass slippers.’

      ‘Cinderella probably almost broke her neck rushing down those stairs in just one shoe.’

      She wasn’t giving an inch. He shook his head, his grin wide. ‘Fairy tales must be a barrel of laughs at your house. It’s important that you play the part well and that means dressing the part too. You don’t have to keep any of it after we’re finished: sell them and give the proceeds to charity, turn them into bunting. They’re yours. Personally I’d say enjoy them. There must be a huge demand for sequinned shifts in Hopeford.’

      Her mouth tilted upwards. Her smile was irresistible; maybe it was a good thing she didn’t unleash it often. ‘Oh, there is. Perfect for a quiet drink at The Swan.’

      ‘We don’t have to take them all,’ he pointed out. ‘I think you need about six cocktail dresses, the same amount in day dresses and shoes and bags as well. Come on, Cinders, the sooner you try them on and make some decisions, the sooner you can have that cake.’

      ‘I think I preferred the mud,’ Clara said, but she unhooked the silver sequinned shift and began to carry it to the curtained-off area at the back. She paused at the curtain and turned back, her eyes lowered, cheeks flushed. ‘I feel really uncomfortable about this, Raff, you buying me these clothes. It’s one thing paying me for my time but this feels a step too far.’ She raised her eyes, meeting his with obvious difficulty. ‘I can’t begin to offer to pay you for them. I’m sure that I can manage with what I have.’

      Raff found himself short of breath, unable to formulate any kind of reply. He had been out with enough women to consider that he had a pretty good grip on the feminine mind even if he had been thrust into a single-sex school long before puberty, but he hadn’t seen this coming.

      Not one ex, from the trust fund socialite to the vegan gardener, had ever turned down a free outfit from Rafferty’s.

      He wasn’t sure whether he admired her pride—or found her stubbornness frustrating. ‘Well technically I won’t be buying you anything, they’re a gift from Rafferty’s, but remember I’m not playing Professor Higgins,’ he said as offhandedly as he could. ‘I’m just ensuring you have the right outfits for the job I have hired you to do. I supply the, what did you call them? Instruments of torture? You wear them.’

      She looked at him searchingly for a long moment before nodding, a short reluctant agreement. ‘Of course,’ she grumbled, ‘these clothes aren’t designed for real women. If I was a size-zero giraffe I might find this easier.’

      Raff ran his eyes over her approvingly. Clara wasn’t built like a model, it was true, nor did she eat like one, thank goodness. The year after university, full of pent-up energy he couldn’t expel at work, he had partied hard and dated several models and socialites. He had soon got bored with the shallow crowd he was running with.

      And women who thought a piece of lettuce meant a full dinner.

      No, give him someone like Clara, not too tall, not too small, curves in all the right places. That shift she was holding, for instance, it would fall to mid-thigh, showcase those fantastic legs, cling to the curve of her bosom.

      The room felt very small, just a curtain separating him from the area where Clara would be unbuttoning all those tiny buttons, slipping her dress off, replacing it with the short shift.

      He took in a deep breath. It was warm in here, roasting in fact. He should talk to someone about the temperature.

      ‘I think you’ll look perfect,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Why don’t you get started? I’ll just be...’ He waved at the entrance. ‘I need to get something.’ A brandy, a cold shower, some air.

      * * *

      Left alone, Clara felt curiously deflated. There had been something in Raff’s eyes. Something hot, something terrifyingly honest. Something that had awakened feelings she had spent so long hiding from: what it was like to be wanted, what it was like to want.

      Clara sank down into the hard-backed chair, the sole piece of furniture in the spacious curtained-off area. For the first time in a really long time she wished she had someone to lean on, to confide in.

      Raff, Byron’s impending visit, deciding how to best use the money Raff was paying her. There was so much going on she didn’t know where to turn.

      But there was no one. She didn’t want to worry her mother, Summer was too young, Maddie so busy. She had nobody. It hit her like a blow to the stomach as hot, unwanted tears pricked at the backs of her eyes; she blinked them away, wrapping her arms around herself as if she could ward off the unwanted knowledge. She would be so ashamed if her mother or cousin or the handful of friends she kept in contact with guessed just how she felt.

      Lonely.

      ‘Come on, Clara, where will self-pity get you?’ She hadn’t succumbed when she found out she was pregnant, only eighteen, thousands of miles away from home. She had stayed strong when Byron walked out of her life a month before their baby was born.

      She wouldn’t, couldn’t give in now. She had a wonderful, healthy daughter, a thriving business. She was lucky, even if it was hard to remember that sometimes.

      Slowly, feeling a little punch drunk, Clara rose to her feet and began to unbutton her dress. She was here to do a job. Feelings had nothing to do with it.

      The shift was heavy and yet it felt wonderfully cool and soft against her skin, the sequins sparkling as the spotlights hit it. Reflected in the many mirrors that lined the room, Clara gave in to the temptation to pirouette, loving the way the fabric flattered her. Raff was right: annoyingly, she did feel more confident, more sociable in this fabulous, exorbitantly expensive dress.

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