Page 6 of The Unplanned Wedding

This is when she turns and runs screaming, or perhaps, faints—yep, that happened with one of my past assistants, too. He quit on the spot. Not that I blame him. My face is ravaged enough for mothers to use it as a stand-in for the boogie monster who’ll carry children off if they don’t fall asleep quickly enough.

She swallows, the sound audible in the room. Then she takes in my features again. Her cheeks flush further. But there’s no other reaction on her face. Certainly, there’s no fear or loathing. If anything, her breathing seems to roughen.Interesting.

Women used to find me attractive, but since I was hurt in action, they take one look at my face and are repelled. Most can’t look me in the eye, and if they do, it’s with sympathy. Despite the fact that their gaze is often transfixed by my wounded face, not one of them has the courage to ask me about it. They’re unable to look past the visible scars to the ones I carry inside. It’s as if my entire existence is defined by my facial disfigurement.

The few who decide they want to sleep with me are enticed by my family name and fortune, taking it as enough compensation to overlook my defacement—as one of them said in complete seriousness. None wanted to date me or be seen with me in polite company. I wince at the memory. It’s as if having an ugly face gives them permission to be impolite, because howcan someone so revolting have any emotions to speak of? Others want to sleep with me so they can boast that they’ve been with 'The Beast.' It’s a nickname I learned about by mistake.

It made me angry, at first. Then, I realized it was fitting and decided I’d do my best to live up to it. I’d embody the role of the wrathful, nasty boss with my employees, so no one would dare to approach me. Most of them—including my former assistants—averted their gaze while speaking to me, or preferred to email me instead, so they wouldn’t have to see my face. This way, I didn’t have to put up with their commiseration or their curiosity.

This woman, though, seems not to be repelled by my blemished features. If anything, she seems to be genuinely drawn to me. A first. And likely, an illusion.She’s probably pretending to be attracted to me so she can get something from me, as well. Yes, I'm sure that’s what it is.

I glower at her, but her facial expression remains unchanged. She continues inside and slaps an envelope on the desk. "This one is marked personal and confidential."

"Open it." I wave a hand in the direction of the cover.

"Are you sure?"

"I won’t repeat myself," I snap.

She swallows, then reaches over and grabs the letter opener on my desk. The neckline of her blouse dips, and I get a flash of her ample cleavage. Jesus. H. Christ, she’s gorgeous. She’s perfectly curved, perfectly plus sized in a way that has me riveted. The dip of her waist, the flare of her lush hips, and the turn of her shapely ankles have my pants growing uncomfortably tight.

She straightens and slits open the flap of the envelope. She pulls out what appears to be an ivory-colored card.

"Read it out loud," I order.

"The honorable Nelson Eddard, Earl of Duncastle, and Judith, Countess of Duncastle, are pleased to invite you to the wedding reception of their daughter Rosemary with Dean Thornton, the Fifth Duke of Thornton, on Tuesday the?—"

"Bin it on your way out." I pretend to yawn, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave because I can’t take my gaze off her beautiful features. Andthatis unexpected. "And don’t bother me with such trifles in the future."

"It’s the society event of the year and tipped to be the next best thing to a royal reception."

"Boring." I turn back to my computer.

"Surely, it would be good for your profile to be seen there. It could result in positive publicity, which could only help with the image of the Davenports. Which, in turn, might help you to retain talent."

I frown. "Are you implying we’re not doing a good enough job of keeping our employees happy?"

When she doesn’t reply, I raise my gaze to hers. She flinches but doesn’t look away. "Your last employee satisfaction survey speaks for itself." She pulls out her phone from the pocket of her skirt. My gaze is drawn to the flare of her hips, the way the hem ends just above her knees, the stocking-clad, gorgeous calves which end in heels—which are patently ill-fitting.

Her fingers fly over the screen, then she slides the phone across the desk in my direction.

I take in the details on the screen. Overall employee satisfaction within the Davenport Group’s media division is below thirty percent.

"And you think something as cosmetic as being seen at a society reception will fix this?" I sneer.

"Not alone. But positive PR, accompanied by measures like subsidized food in the employee canteen, arrangements for childcare within the office complex, and flexible working hours, as well as matching donations to their favorite charities, will help raise the scores."

One of my brothers implemented similar measures in one of the other group companies. They exceeded their quarterly goals, too. But that doesn’t necessarily mean there's a connection between the two.

"Such actions will also give rise to employees moonlighting during office hours, not to mention slacking off," I counter.

"Not if they're held to tight deliverables."

"Hmm." She has a point. With clear parameters, there’s no reason these measures can’t be implemented with little extra effort. I haven’t paid that much attention to the company’s internal HR policies, nor to public perception, but clearly, that needs to change.

"Write it up and email it to me."

She nods.

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