Shock and a thousand questions slammed into her. The press were always printing outrageous stories about the somewhat outlandish heiress. Surely this was just another? It couldn’t be true.
Her eyes dropped to Cressida’s hand; an enormous diamond ring glinted from her finger.
She’d married him? Ewan Rieu-Bailee, the man she’d been tangled with earlier in the summer?
Rumours weren’t fact, and yet the picture was pretty damning.
As was the look Rio had for Tilly.
She darted a tongue out, moistening her lips. ‘That’s not me.’
?
?Obviously,’ he said sarcastically, still staring at her.
It was a look that spoke volumes. It said everything she had been shouting at herself. Confusion, disapproval, anger, mistrust.
‘She married him...’
Tilly thought back to their conversation. ‘I have a wedding to go to. And Daddy would never approve.’
Her own wedding?
Her heart turned over as she thought of Art Wyndham and how furious he’d be. And Tilly had unwittingly played a part in the whole thing! She would never knowingly hurt her boss—she adored him. And yet she’d been a crucial instrument in allowing Cressida to skive off and get married, with the whole world none the wiser.
‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut, no longer able to meet the full force of his interrogating glare. ‘I had no idea.’
‘You are not Cressida Wyndham.’
Though he hadn’t spoken them particularly loudly, the words reverberated through the small cabin with the force of furious bullets.
‘Who are you?’
‘I...’ She stared at the picture and the world collapsed around her.
‘Who are you?’ Now he shouted, his temper impossible to contain. He scraped his chair back so that he was standing, staring at her as if she’d sprouted four heads.
Tilly was shaking, her whole body quivering. She propped herself on the table, needing strength and support.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m... I’m the same person you fell in love with. My name is different, that’s all.’
‘You have been lying to me. You have been in my bed, in my arms, and I know nothing about you.’
‘You know everything about me,’ she whispered, reaching out and curling her fingers around his forearm. ‘I’m not Cressida, but I’m still me.’
‘And who is that?’ he demanded, his eyes narrowed, his expression grim.
‘I’m...’
Nausea was a wave and she was surfing it unrelentingly, occasionally dipping beneath the surface to the point when she thought she might vomit.
‘My name is Tilly. Matilda. I work for Art Wyndham.’
His eyes, so grey when he was in a state of passion, almost blue when he laughed, were dark now, like a bleak, storm-ravaged night.
‘Did Art set this up? What possible purpose could he have for sending you here?’