Only when she was completely still and he was certain that he had her attention-although why it had taken him so long to realise that she couldn’t possibly imagine; he’d had her absolute attention from the moment she’d set eyes on him-did he speak.

‘Have you sacked him?’ he demanded. ‘The Honourable Quentin Turner Lyall.’

She swallowed. Truth, dare…She stopped right there and went for the truth.

‘As I’m sure you’re aware,’ she said, ‘falling in love is not grounds for dismissal. I have no doubt that the Employment Tribunal would take me to the cleaners if I tried.’

‘Love?’ he repeated, as if it were a dirty word.

‘What else?’ she asked. What else would have made Candy run for the hills when she had the prize within days of her grasp?

She had Tom McFarlane, so presumably she had the lust thing covered…

But, having dismissed her question with an impatient gesture, he said, ‘What about duty of care to your client, Miss Smith? In your letter you did make the point that I am your client.’ He regarded her stonily. ‘And I imagine Mr Lyall did go absent without leave?’

Oh, Lord! ‘Actually, he…No. He asked me for some time off…’

He sat back, apparently speechless.

‘Are you telling me you actually gave him leave to elope with a woman whose wedding you were arranging?’ he said, after what felt like the longest pause in history.

This was probably not a good time to give him the ‘dying grandmother’ excuse that she’d fallen for.

When Candy had borrowed Quentin for bag-carrying duties on one of her many shopping expeditions it had never crossed Sylvie’s mind that she’d risk her big day with the billionaire for a fling with a twenty-five-year-old events assistant. Even one who’d eventually make her a countess. He came from a long-lived family and the chances of him succeeding to his grandfather’s earldom before he was fifty-more likely sixty-were remote.