Emma Richmond - The Reluctant Groom

“Interested?” Sam drawled “Interested?” Sam drawled “No,” Abby denied. “You aren’t my type.” “No,” he agreed. “Nor you mine. I imagine you like your men biddable, and not to answer back, Ms. Hunter.” “Miss,” she corrected. “And you would always answer back, Mr. Turner. Wouldn’t you?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up, and the expression in his eyes made her feel decidedly un-Abby-like. “Why the hostility?” he asked mildly. “Caution,” she corrected. He inclined his head without taking his eyes from hers. “What was your father like?” “Kind. What are you like?” she asked with remote hauteur. His mouth twisted. “Not kind.” About the Author EMMA RICHMOND was born in Kent, England, during the war, when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed—reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!” Title Page The Reluctant Groom Emma Richmond www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“Interested?” Sam drawled

“No,” Abby denied. “You aren’t my type.”

“No,” he agreed. “Nor you mine. I imagine you like your men biddable, and not to answer back, Ms. Hunter.”

“Miss,” she corrected. “And you would always answer back, Mr. Turner. Wouldn’t you?”

When he didn’t answer, she glanced up, and the expression in his eyes made her feel decidedly un-Abby-like.

“Why the hostility?” he asked mildly.

“Caution,” she corrected.

He inclined his head without taking his eyes from hers. “What was your father like?”

“Kind. What are you like?” she asked with remote hauteur.

His mouth twisted. “Not kind.”

EMMA RICHMOND was born in Kent, England, during the war, when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed—reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE gardener wore a suit, the chrysanthemums their paper hats, her mother called, and Abby came running. Nothing changed. But it must, Abby thought with a sigh. It must. If her mother was to have any sort of life at all, things must change radically.

A crisis, her mother had said. Another one. In a moment of inattention, as she’d put it, she had let a man into her house to look at her late husband’s books. He’d made an appointment and everything, had had letters of reference, but he’d made her nervous. Abby must come home at once.

And so Abby Hunter had come home. She’d taken a week’s leave—much to the firm’s annoyance—and driven up straight from the office.

Climbing from the car, still dressed in her high heels and a suit as elegant as the gardener’s, she walked slowly up to the front door. Tall, slim, always immaculate, she had a cool, insolent beauty that most people found intimidating. Clear grey eyes surveyed a world she appeared to find wanting. Wavy blonde hair tied tidily at her nape, she looked the epitome of the modern woman. Although she wasn’t entirely sure, she thought with a dry smile, that modern women always came running when their mothers called. Her sisters were never summoned, only Abby. Admittedly Helen and Laura were both married and had very high-powered jobs, but even so...

The front door opened as she reached it, and her thoughts were abandoned. Examining her mother’s face for signs of renewed stress, and finding her no worse, she gave a small contained smile. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello, darling,’ her mother greeted her nervously. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘You aren’t,’ Abby denied gently. ‘But I do wish you wouldn’t look at me as though you think I’m about to smack you. It’s so very bad for my image.’

Irony entirely lost on her, her mother murmured apologetically, ‘Because you make me feel such a failure. Always in control, always efficient.’

‘Yes,’ Abby agreed quietly, and didn’t say, as she could have said, had so very many times wanted to say, that this was how she’d wanted her to be. Always responsible for her actions, always sensible and in control—which was why there was such a barrier between them. A barrier they had both made.

Stepping inside, she asked with the brisk efficiency she’d trained herself in, ‘So, where is he?’

Her mother’s face crumpled. ‘Don’t say it like that, Abby. Please don’t. I’ve been trying so hard.’

So had she. ‘I know,’ she sighed. Curbing her impatience, because she knew that most of her mother’s behaviour stemmed from grief, she gave her a quick hug, removed the feather duster she was carrying like a baton before her mother poked her eye out, and gently sat her on the hall chair. ‘Now, tell me.’

‘He came a few days ago,’ she began, ‘and he’s perfectly polite and everything, but—oh, Abby, I just can’t cope with him! I had to tell him about Daddy, and he didn’t know, and I really can’t stay home all day just to make sure he doesn’t steal the silver!’ she completed distressfully.

‘No,’ Abby agreed, knowing that it had absolutely nothing to do with silver. She knew her mother couldn’t bear to talk about her husband just yet, not even to Abby, and certainly not to a stranger who had obviously asked questions she was in no fit state to answer. But then, Abby wasn’t sure she was either. Her mother seemed to think that she was the only one grieving, but Abby was hurting too. She was also worried sick about the debts her father had left. And a letter that was beginning to give her nightmares.

Eyes lowered, hands twisted together, her mother continued quietly, ‘You’ll deal with him, won’t you, darling? You’re so much stronger than me, so much more—capable. You always deal with things so much better than I do.’

Yes, because she’d forced herself to. ‘Does he want to buy the books?’

‘I don’t know, but I really couldn’t sell them, Abby—’

‘No,’ she broke in, before her mother could make herself even more distressed, but she would have to force the issue soon. Something had to be sold to pay off the debts. The house, preferably, which was far too big for one person. But her mother wasn’t ready for that yet. ‘So, what, exactly, is he doing here?’

‘Just looking at books. He said he was a war historian—or something,’ she added vaguely.

‘You should have told him to come back later, when you were better. There surely can’t be any rush about it.’

‘I tried, Abby! I did try, but he has that look about him,’ she defended fiercely. ‘One of those people you find yourself promising things to!’

Vaguely alarmed, Abby demanded weakly, ‘What have you promised?’

‘Nothing! Truly. Well, only that he can stay as long as he likes.’

With a deep sigh, she asked fatalistically, ‘And how long did he say he would like?’