Emma Richmond - The Reluctant Groom

Off balance for a moment, she quickly rallied. ‘I wouldn’t,’ she denied. ‘You hold no interest for me at all. But let’s see...Helen and Laura arrived here when they were six. They’re thirty-four now, which means...’

“‘Arrived here”?’

‘Which would make it twenty-eight years ago,’ she continued, as though there had been no interruption. ‘And my parents were married two years before that . . .’

‘Arrived here?’

‘We were all adopted, Mr Turner.’

He still continued to stare at her, but she was fascinated to see that his eyes now seemed veiled.

‘Does that answer your question?’ she asked with slight impatience.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. Straightening almost abruptly, he added, ‘I’d better get on.’

‘With?’ she asked. ‘Which particular aspect?’ she persisted when he didn’t answer.

‘Nothing specific.’ Taking his coffee, and the tension, with him, he walked out.

Curious. In her experience, people were always specific. People with a passion for whatever—history, warfare, cigarette cards—usually bored on about their chosen subject, or became animated, enthused, so why not Mr Turner? And why the sudden change from mockery to tension?

Forcibly dismissing him from her mind, because she had other more pressing problems than Sam Turner, she walked over to the sink and poured the over-strong coffee away. Going out to her car, she collected her case and took it up to her room to unpack.

Removing her jacket, she took the engagement ring from her pocket and sat on the bed to examine it. It was a beautiful ring, expensive, but not given with love. Peter had become engaged to her for the same reason she’d become engaged to him. Expediency. She would have graced his home, been able to talk intelligently to his clients, guests, whatever, and he would have made a fitting escort for herself. Both families had thought it an excellent match. And maybe it was, but she wanted something more than expediency. More than being sensible.

It’s a start, Abby, she assured herself. It was definitely a start. Opening her bag, she zipped the ring inside, with the letter her father had left—and that she really must do something about. She couldn’t keep putting it off with the excuse that she didn’t have time.

Irritated, unsettled, she walked to the window, stared down at the grounds. Late October, and yet the sun was as warm as a summer’s day. The house must be sold. Must. But how to persuade her mother? She didn’t want to hurt her more. She wasn’t an unkind girl, despite the impression she continued to give. Especially to Sam Turner, who thought she was into heel-grinding. Maybe she was. Not that it mattered what he thought. Sam Turner was an irrelevance.

So why did he persist in staying in her mind?

The next morning she dressed in elegant tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. It was not, she insisted to herself, because she was trying to impress Sam Turner. She simply didn’t have casual clothes. The image she presented to the world didn’t permit it, and that, she thought, as she let him in, was one of the most absurd aspects of the whole charade. You took it too far, Abby. Way, way, too far.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked quietly as he entered the house.

‘No,’ she denied automatically, and then paused, because it would have been nice to have laughed at her absurdities with him, told him what she had been thinking, but the moment was lost as he strolled into the study.

‘Coffee?’ she asked him.

He turned, raised an eyebrow in mocking surprise, and she thought she could have cried for his disbelief at her common courtesy. A courtesy that would not have been extended last week. Would she only be able to change with people who did not yet know her? People she had not yet met?

‘Well, do you or don’t you?’ she asked, reverting to type.

‘Please. I have it black.’

Walking out, she went to make it.

Own fault, Abby. Yes. But then, he wasn’t a man to make things easy, was he? If she had been a sweet, simple soul, he would probably still have mocked, and that simple soul would have been embarrassed.

Scowling, she made his coffee and took it through.

Half the books were out of the bookcase and piled haphazardly on the desk. Hands braced, he was staring at a map that was spread out on top of them. ‘I hope you’re intending to put them back,’ she reproved as she found a place for his coffee.

He didn’t bother to answer, for which she could hardly blame him, but for some reason needing to goad, because he was at her father’s desk, because he was an intruder—because he had blue eyes, for all she knew—she extended an elegant finger and rested it on the map. ‘Sevastopol. The site of the siege.’

He looked up—and the most alarming thread of tension leapt between them.

Startled, she looked quickly back at the map. ‘I always think it such a shame,’ she said quickly, ‘that everyone focuses on the Charge of the Light Brigade and not on the reasons behind it all. On the pretext of a quarrel between Russia and France over guardianship of the Holy Places in Palestine, a war was started.

‘And the fact,’ he stated softly, ‘that Turkey invaded Moldavia.’

‘Yes.’ She needed to get out of here.

‘You’re being unusually forthcoming,’ he continued, in the same mesmerisingly soft voice.

‘Oh, I’m always forthcoming,’ she heard herself say, ‘Just not usually in the direction people expect. Enjoy your coffee.’

Without waiting for a reply, she walked out. He followed.

Heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too fragile to enclose it, shoulders tense, she quickened her pace.

‘Do you have a lover?’

Shocked, she halted, took a deep breath, and walked on. ‘No,’ she managed. ‘Do you?’

‘No. You forgot the biscuits.’

She halted again. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Biscuits,’ he repeated. ‘Your mother always gave me biscuits.’

‘Did she?’ she asked stupidly. Feeling the heat of him at her back, she hastily moved on and pushed into the kitchen. ‘How very kind of her.’

‘Mmm.’

Turning, she warily watched him open the cupboard and remove a packet of chocolate chip cookies. He opened the packet and held it towards her.

She shook her head.

Eyes on hers, he took out a biscuit and began to slowly eat it. She couldn’t for the life of her take her eyes away from his mouth. A small crumb clung to his lower lip and she shuddered, turned quickly away.

‘It can be arranged,’ he said softly.

Heart thumping, a shiver of awareness tingling her nerves, and not even pretending to misunderstand, she shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Why? You’re attracted.’

‘You’re an attractive man,’ she agreed, and couldn’t believe that her voice didn’t even quiver. No man had ever spoken to her like this. Men had always given her a wide, wary berth. Except for Peter, who was very much like her. Did he wear a mask? she suddenly wondered.

Taking a deep breath, she turned—and found him gone. Nerves unstrung, she let all her breath out on a sigh. It could be arranged, could it? Arranged for him to kiss her...? No. Shutting off a thought that thoroughly unnerved her, she walked out to see if the post had arrived. But for the rest of that day she was troubled by uncertainty, feelings of—longing.

The next day was worse. For her, anyway. Probably because she’d spent half the night thinking about him, she thought disgustedly. And why on earth did it feel as though it was taking enormous courage just to take his coffee and biscuits in? She could almost taste the tension in herself.

Shoving open the study door, she found him standing at the bookcase, idly running his finger down some of the titles.