Читать книгу SOS: Convenient Husband Required / Winning a Groom in 10 Dates: SOS: Convenient Husband Required / Winning a Groom in 10 Dates - Cara Colter - Страница 12

‘WHAT?’

The word was shocked from her.

May swallowed again, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture that drew attention to her neck. It was long and smooth. She had the clearest ivory skin coloured only by the fading blush…

‘If we get married, people will expect us to live together,’ he pointed out. ‘You wouldn’t want the Crown Commissioners getting the impression that it was just a piece of paper, would you? That you were cheating.’

‘But—’

Before she could put her real objection into words, Nancie, bless her heart, began to grizzle.

‘What do I do now?’ he asked, looking at her helplessly. That, at least, wasn’t an act.

‘I think the fact that she’s chewing your neck is the clue,’ she said distractedly.

‘She’s hungry?’

‘Feeding her, like changing her nappy, is something that has to happen at regular intervals. No doubt there’s a bottle and some formula in that bag.’

She didn’t wait for him to check, but went into her bedroom, fetched the bag and emptied it on the table.

‘There’s just one carton. I wonder what that means.’

‘That we’ll probably need more very soon,’ he replied, picking up on her unspoken thought that it might offer a clue about how long Saffy intended to stay out of sight. Always assuming she was thinking that rationally.

‘Adam!’ she protested as she turned the carton over, searching for instructions.

‘I’m sorry. I can plan a takeover bid to the last millisecond, but I’m out of my depth here.’

‘Then get help.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ he replied. ‘If you’d just cooperate we could both get on with our lives.’

May was struggling to keep up a calm, distant front. She’d been struggling ever since he’d stood beneath the tree in the park. Used that ridiculous name.

Inside, everything was in turmoil. Her heart, her pulse were racing.

‘Please, Adam…’ Her voice caught in her throat. He couldn’t mean it. He was just torturing her…‘Don’t…’

He lifted his hand, cradling her cheek to still her protest. His touch was gentle. A warm soothing balm that swept through her, taking the tension out of her joints so that her body swayed towards him.

‘It wouldn’t be that bad, would it, Mouse?’

Bad? How much worse could it get?

‘It seems a little…extreme,’ she said, resisting with all her will the yearning need to lean into his palm. Surrender everything, including her honour.

‘Losing your home, your business, is extreme,’ he insisted. ‘Getting married is just a piece of paper.’

Not for her…

‘A mutually beneficial contract to be cancelled at the convenience of both parties,’ he added. ‘Think of Robbie, May. Where will she go if you lose the house?’

‘She’s got a pension. A sister…’

‘Your business,’ he persisted.

The bank loan…

‘And what about your animals? Who else will take them in? You know that most of them will have to be put down.’

‘Don’t!’ she said, her throat so tight that the words were barely audible.

‘Hey,’ he said, pulling her into her arms so that the three of them were locked together. ‘I’m your trusty sidekick, remember? As always, late on the scene but ready to leap into action when you need a helping hand.’

‘This is a bit more than a helping hand.’

‘Hand, foot and pretty much everything in between,’ he agreed. ‘Take your pick.’

He was doing his best to make her laugh, she realised, or maybe cry.

Either would be appropriate under the circumstances. What would her mother have done? Spit in the devil’s eye? Or screw the patriarchal system, using it against itself to keep both her house and her freedom?

Stupid question. Heaven knew that she was not her mother. If she’d had her courage she’d be long gone. But all she had was her home. Robbie. The creatures that relied on her. The life she’d managed to make for herself.

As for breaking the promise to her grandfather, her punishment for that was built into the bargain of a barren marriage with a self-destruct date.

‘May?’ he prompted.

Decision time.

What decision…? There was only ever going to be one answer and, taking a deep breath, her heart beating ten times faster than when she’d climbed that tree, her voice not quite steady, she said, ‘You’re absolutely sure about this? Last chance.’

‘Quite sure,’ he replied, his own voice as steady as a rock. No hint of doubt, no suggestion of intestinal collywobbles on his part. ‘It’s a no-brainer.’

‘No…’ she said, wondering why, even now, she was hesitating.

‘No?’

‘I mean yes. You’re right. It’s a no-brainer.’

‘Shall we aim for something a little more decisive?’ he suggested. ‘Just so that we know exactly where we stand?’

‘You’re not planning on going down on one knee?’ she demanded, appalled.

‘Heaven forbid. Just something to seal the bargain,’ he said, taking his hand from her back and offering it to her.

‘A handshake?’ she said, suddenly overcome with the urgent need to laugh as she lifted her own to clasp it. ‘Well, why not? Everything else appears to be shaking.’

As his hand tightened around hers, everything stilled. Even Nancie stopped nuzzling and grumbling. All she could hear was her pulse pounding through her ears. All she could see were his eyes. Not the bright silver of the boy she’d known but leaden almost unreadable. A shiver ran through her as he closed the gap between them, kissed her, but then she closed her eyes and all sense of danger evaporated in the heat of his mouth, the taste of him and the cherished bittersweet memory flooded back.

It was different. He was different.

The kiss was assured, certain and yet, beneath it all, she recognised the boy who’d lain with her in the stable loft and kissed her, undressed her, touched her. And for a moment she was no longer the woman who’d subjugated her yearning for love, for a family of her own into caring for her grandfather, creating a business, building some kind of life for herself.

As Adam’s lips touched hers, she was that girl again and an aching need opened up before her, a dizzying void that tempted her to plunge headlong into danger, to throw caution to the winds and boldly kiss him back.

‘Oh…’

At the sound of Robbie’s shocked little exclamation, May stumbled back, heat rushing to her face.

That girl reliving the moment of guilt, embarrassment, pain when they’d been discovered…

‘Robbie…’

‘I thought I heard you come in earlier,’ she said.

‘I had a fall. In the park. Adam came to my rescue.’

‘That would account for the kitten, then,’ she said stiffly. ‘And the trousers hanging over the Aga.’

‘We both got rather muddy,’ Adam said.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with me what you were doing in the park,’ Robbie said, ignoring him. ‘But Jeremy is here.’

‘Jeremy?’ she repeated, struggling to gather her wits.

‘He’s brought the designs for the honey labels.’

‘Has he? Oh, right…’ Expanding honey production had been part of the future she’d planned and Jeremy Davidson had volunteered to design the labels for her.

‘He’s doing you a favour, May. You won’t want to keep him waiting,’ she said primly before turning to leave.

‘Robbie, wait!’ she began, then glanced at Adam, suddenly unsure of herself. She wanted to tell Robbie that the kiss had meant nothing. That it was no more than a handshake on a deal. Except when Robbie paused, her shoulders stiff with disapproval, the words wouldn’t come.

‘Go and see the man about your labels,’ Adam urged, then nodded, as if to reassure her that she could go ahead with her plans. That she had a future. ‘Leave this to me.’

‘But Nancie…’ She looked at the baby. It was easier than meeting his eyes, looking at Robbie.

‘I’ll bring her down in a moment.’

Adam watched as she stumbled from the room in her haste to escape her embarrassment and he could have kicked himself.

Most women in her situation would have leapt at the deal he’d offered, no questions asked, but her first response had been flat refusal, anger at his presumption, and that had caught him on the raw.

His kiss had been intended as a marker. A promise to himself that she would pay for every slight, every insult but, instead of the anticipated resistance, she had responded with a heat that had robbed him of any sense of victory. Only left him wanting more.

He did not want her.

He could have any woman he wanted. Beautiful women. The kind who turned heads in the street.

All he wanted from May Coleridge was her pride at his feet. And he would have it.

She had been his last mistake. His only weakness. Since the day he’d walked away from this house, his clothes freezing on his back, he’d never let anything, any emotion, stand in his way.

With his degree in his pocket, a mountain of debt to pay off, his mother incapable of looking after either herself or Saffy, the only job he had been able to get in his home town was in an old import company that had been chugging along happily since the days when the clipper ships brought tea from China. It wasn’t what he’d dreamed of, but within five years he’d been running the company. Now he was the chairman of an international company trading commodities from across the globe.

His success didn’t appear to impress May’s disapproving housekeeper.

‘It’s been a while, Mrs Robson.’

‘It has. But nothing appears to have changed, Mr Wavell,’ she returned, ice-cool.

‘On the contrary. I’d like you to be the first to know that May and I are going to be married.’

‘Married!’ And, just like that, all the starch went out of her. ‘When…?’

‘Before the end of the month.’

‘I meant…’ She shook her head. ‘What’s the hurry? What are you after? If you think May’s been left well off—’

‘I don’t need her money. But May needs me. She’s just been told that if she isn’t married by her birthday, she’s going to lose her home.’

‘But that’s less than four weeks…’ She rallied. ‘Is that what Freddie Jennings called about in such a flap this morning?’

‘I imagine so. Apparently, some ancient entailment turned up when he took James Coleridge’s will to probate.’

The colour left her face but she didn’t back down. ‘Why would you step in to help, Adam Wavell? What do you get out of it?’ She didn’t give him a chance to answer. ‘And that little girl’s mother? What will she have to say about it?’

‘Nancie,’ he said, discovering that a baby made a very useful prop, ‘meet Hatty Robson. Mrs Robson, meet my niece.’

‘She’s Saffy’s daughter?’ She came closer, the rigid lines of her face softening and she touched the baby’s curled up fist. ‘She’s a pretty thing.’ Then, ‘So where is your sister? In rehab? In jail?’

‘Neither,’ he said, hanging onto his temper by a thread. ‘But we are having a bit of a family crisis.’

‘Nothing new there, then.’

‘No,’ he admitted. A little humility wouldn’t hurt. ‘Saffy was sure that May would help.’

‘Again? Hasn’t she suffered enough for your family?’

Suffered?

‘I met her in the park. She was up a tree,’ he added. ‘Rescuing a kitten.’

She rolled her eyes. An improvement.

‘The only reason she told me her troubles was to explain why she couldn’t look after Nancie.’

‘And you leapt in with an immediate marriage proposal. Saving not one, but two women with a single bound?’ Her tone, deeply ironic, suggested that, unlike May, she wasn’t convinced that it was an act of selfless altruism.

‘Make that three,’ he replied, raising her irony and calling her. ‘I imagine one of May’s concerns was you, Mrs Robson. This is your home, too.’

If it hadn’t been so unlikely, he would have sworn she blushed. ‘Did she say that?’ she demanded, instantly on the defensive. ‘I don’t matter.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he said, pushing his advantage. ‘You and this house are all she has.’

And this time the blush was unmistakable. ‘That’s true. Poor child. Well, I’m sure that’s very generous of you, Mr Wavell. Just tell me one thing. Why didn’t your sister, or you, just pick up the phone and call one of those agencies which supplies temporary nannies? I understand you can afford it these days.’

He’d already explained his reasons to May and he wasn’t about to go through them again. ‘Just be glad for May’s sake,’ he replied, ‘that I didn’t.’

She wasn’t happy, clearly didn’t trust his motives, but after a moment she nodded just once. ‘Very well. But bear this in mind. If you hurt her, you’ll have to answer to me. And I won’t stop at a hosing down.’

‘Hurt her? Why would I hurt her?’

‘You’ve done it before,’ she said. ‘It’s in your nature. I’ve seen the string of women you’ve paraded through the pages of the gossip magazines. How many of them have been left with a bruised heart?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘May has spent the last ten years nursing her grandpa. She’s grieving for him, vulnerable.’

‘And without my help she’ll lose her home, her business and the animals she loves,’ he reminded her.

She gave him a long look, then said, ‘That child is hungry. You’d better give her to me before she chews a hole in your neck. What did you say her name was?’

‘Nancie, Mrs Robson. With an i and an e.’

‘Well, that’s a sweet old-fashioned name,’ she said, taking the baby. ‘Hello, Nancie.’ Then, looking from the baby to him, ‘I suppose you’d better call me Robbie.’

‘Thank you. Is there anything I can do, Robbie?’

‘Go and book a date with the Registrar?’ she suggested. ‘Although you might want to put your trousers on first.’

The kitchen was empty, apart from a couple of cats curled up on an old armchair and an old mongrel dog who was sharing his basket with a duck and a chicken.

None of them took any notice of him as he unhooked his trousers from the rail above the Aga and carried them through to the mud room, where the kitten had curled up in the fleece and gone to sleep. He hoped Nancie, jerked out of familiar surroundings, her routine, would settle as easily.

Having brushed off the mud as best he could and made himself fit to be seen in polite society, he hunted down May. He found her in a tiny office converted from one of the pantries, shoulder to shoulder with a tall, thin man who was, presumably, Jeremy, as they leaned over her desk examining some artwork.

‘May?’

She turned, peering at him over a pair of narrow tortoiseshell spectacles that were perched on the end of her nose. They gave her a cute, kittenish look, he thought. And imagined himself reaching for them, taking them off and kissing her.

‘I’ve talked to Robbie,’ he said, catching himself. ‘Put her in the picture.’

That blush coloured her cheeks again, but she was back in control of her voice, her breathing as she said, ‘You’ve explained everything?’

‘The why, the what and the when,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll give you a call as soon as I’ve sorted out the details. You’ll be in all afternoon?’

‘You’re going to do it today?’ she squeaked. Not that in control…

‘It’s today, or it’s too late.’

‘Yes…’ Clearly, it was taking some time for the reality of her situation to sink in. ‘Will you need me? For the paperwork?’

‘I’ll find out what the form is and call you. I’ll need your number,’ he prompted when she didn’t respond. ‘It’s unlisted.’

Flustered, May plucked a leaflet from a shelf above her desk and handed it to him. ‘My number is on there.’

For a moment they just looked at one another and he wondered what she was thinking about. The afternoons they’d spent together in the stables with him ducking out of sight whenever anyone had come near? The night when they had been too absorbed in each other to listen? Or the years that had followed…?

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, turning to look at the artwork laid out on the table.

‘What?’ He looked up and saw that she was still staring at him and her poise deserted her as, flustered, she said, ‘I’m ch-choosing a label for Coleridge House honey. Do you know Jeremy Davidson? He’s head of the art department at the High School.’ Then, as if she felt she had to explain how she knew him, ‘I’m a governor.’

‘You’re a school governor?’ He didn’t bother to suppress a grin, and yet why should he be surprised? She’d been born to sit on charitable committees, school boards. In the fullness of time she’d no doubt become a magistrate, like her grandfather. ‘I hope you’ve done something about those overflowing gutters.’

‘It was my first concern.’ For a moment there was the hint of a smile, the connection of a shared memory, before she turned to Jeremy Davidson. ‘Adam and I were at the High School at the same time, Jeremy. He was two years above me.’

‘I’m aware that Mr Wavell is one of our more successful ex-pupils,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘I’m delighted to meet you.’

He was another of those old school tie types. Elegant, educated. A front door visitor who would have met with James Coleridge’s approval. His manners were impeccable, even if his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘I have an Emma Davidson on my staff,’ he said. ‘I believe her husband is an art teacher. Is that simply a coincidence or is she your wife?’

‘She’s my wife,’ he admitted.

‘I thought she must be. You’re on half term break, I imagine. While she’s at work catching up with Saminderan employment law, you’re here, playing with honey pot labels—’

‘Was my wife. We’re separated.’ His glance at May betrayed him. ‘Our divorce will be finalised in January.’

‘Well, that’s regrettable,’ he said. ‘Emma is a valued member of my organisation.’

‘These things happen.’

So they did. But not fast enough to save May, he thought. Were they having an affair? he wondered. Or was she saving herself for the big wedding? Or was he waiting to declare himself until he was free?

Best put him out of his misery. ‘Has May told you our good news?’ he asked.

‘Adam…’

She knew.

‘We’re getting married later this month,’ he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her.

Jeremy’s shocked expression told its own story and, before he could find the appropriate words, May swiftly intervened.

‘I can’t decide which design I like best, Adam. What do you think?’

He waited pointedly until Davidson moved out of his way, then put his hand on the desk and leaned forward, blocking him out with his shoulder.

They were pretty enough floral designs with ‘Coleridge House Honey’ in some fancy script. About right for a stall at a bazaar.

‘You produce handmade sweets too, don’t you?’ he asked her, looking at the shelf and picking up a fairly basic price list that, like the brochure, had obviously been printed on her computer. ‘Is this all the literature that you have?’

She nodded as he laid it, with the brochure, beside the labels.

‘There’s no consistency in design,’ he said. ‘Not in the colours, or even the fonts you’ve used. Nothing to make it leap out from the shelf. Coleridge House is a brand, May. You should get some professional help to develop that.’

‘Jeremy—’

‘There’s a rather good watercolour of the house in your bedroom. The country house, nostalgia thing would be a strong image and work well across the board. On labels, price lists and on the front of your workshop brochure.’

She looked up at him, a tiny frown creasing the space between her eyes.

‘Just a thought.’ With a touch to her shoulder, a curt nod to Davidson, he said, ‘I’ll call you later.’