The Reluctant Groom. Emma Richmond

how long did he say he would like?’

      ‘A week. Perhaps a week. He kept asking about your father!’

      Oh, God, not another one, she thought in defeat. ‘Asking what, specifically?’ she ventured carefully.

      ‘I don’t know! Just about him, what he was like...’

      ‘Did he know him?’

      ‘I don’t know, he didn’t say.’

      ‘What’s his name?’

      ‘Turner, Sam Turner.’

      Mouth pursed, eyes slightly unfocused, Abby murmured, ‘I’ve been through all Daddy’s papers, and there definitely wasn’t a mention of anyone with that name.’

      ‘Where is he now? In the study?’

      ‘No, he went out for his lunch. He makes me nervous, Abby.’

      And when her mother got nervous, life became very, very complicated. Abby envisaged a very fraught week.

      Eyes worried, her mother continued to stare up at her. ‘You will stay, won’t you? Oh, that will be my cab,’ she added in relief. Flustered, she got to her feet, hurried to pick up the suitcase that Abby hadn’t seen resting by the front door.

      ‘Cab?’ Abby echoed hollowly.

      ‘Yes. Didn’t you hear it? Just a soft toot, you know how they do.’

      ‘Mmm. Where are you going?’

      ‘To stay with Lena for a few days. Didn’t I tell you?’

      ‘No,’ Abby denied drily.

      ‘Oh, I thought I had. You will be nice to him, won’t you?’ she pleaded. ‘If he was a friend of Daddy’s...’

      Bewildered, Abby asked, ‘I thought you said he was a stranger?’

      ‘Yes, but if Daddy wrote to him, he must have known him, mustn’t he?’

      ‘I suppose.’

      ‘I’ll ring you when I get there, just to let you know I’m safe.’ Pressing a hasty kiss on her daughter’s cheek, she opened the front door and hurried out.

      Slowly following, still holding the feather duster, a small frown in her eyes, Abby watched the driver help her mother into the cab. James, the gardener, had now started on the front lawn, she noted absently. His jacket was draped carefully on a hanger suspended from the apple tree, a striped apron covered his pristine white shirt and knife-edge creased trousers.

      Sam Turner must be something pretty exceptional if he could fluster her mother into leaving! Both she and her sisters had tried to get her to go away for a while after her husband had died, and she’d flatly refused. So, what was it about Sam Turner that could send her mother packing in such haste? she wondered as she watched her depart. And discovered the answer all too soon. As the cab drove out a man walked in. And, for the first time in her adult life, her heart leapt. Alarmed, she watched him walk towards her.

      His shirt wasn’t pristine, and his trousers didn’t have a knife-edge crease, but then he could probably have worn a sack and not one woman on the planet would have cared. Tall, raw-boned, brown hair bleached by the sun, a proud nose, and cheekbones to hang your hat on. Mesmerised, Abby continued to watch him, and as he got closer she saw that he had piercing blue eyes that could probably stop an elephant in its tracks. Certainly she thought they might be able to stop her. She didn’t think she had ever met anyone so blatantly masculine in her entire life.

      Defensive, on guard, she watched him glance at the gardener, and then back to Abby, who was still holding the feather duster. His face was quite expressionless.

      She hoped hers was too.

      ‘And I suppose you’re the housekeeper,’ he stated mockingly. His voice was low, deep, and slightly husky. Like syrup over cobbles, she decided with a bewilderment that was entirely foreign to her nature. She could understand all too well why her mother had found herself promising things.

      ‘No,’ she denied, ‘the daughter.’ Fighting for the casual nonchalance that was her shield, her security blanket, she continued coolly, ‘But I will grant that a gardener wearing a suit is a little bizarre. You’re Mr Turner?’

      His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone, and then he nodded.

      Staring into blue, blue eyes, unable to look away, she thought she detected a sneer there. That, if nothing else, stiffened a decidedly weakening backbone. With the insolent smile that had been practised assiduously for over fourteen years, she queried, ‘You have identification?’

      He gave a small derisive smile. ‘Mrs Hunter has already seen my papers.’

      Irritated by his lethargy, she said sweetly, ‘I’m not Mrs Hunter.’

      ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You are not Mrs Hunter. My papers are in the study.’

      Arrogant and selfish, she decided, without any evidence to support it. A man used to getting his own way. A man who found common courtesy a waste of time. A man who put her heart at risk. Absurd. With a dismissive little gesture, she stepped back and invited him in. Closing the door behind him, she followed him into the study. He had the easy, fluid grace that some men are born with. Unhurried, precise.

      Unzipping the document case that lay on the wide desk, he removed some papers and handed them to her. His face showed nothing of anything he might be feeling. Leaning back against the desk, he waited.

      Tucking the duster under her arm, she slowly unfolded the papers, and was extraordinarily aware that he was watching her, that he made her as nervous as he had made her mother. Forcing herself to concentrate, she quickly perused the letter of introduction from a Professor Wayne at Oxford, and then at a letter from her father inviting him to come. A wave of sadness washed over her as she stared at her father’s decisive signature, a stark reminder of the vigour he had once shown. Masking the pain, she reproved, ‘Not very comprehensive proof of your identity. They could be stolen. Don’t you have a current passport?’

      ‘Not with me.’

      With no sign of the irritation she was feeling, she said, ‘Then you must at least see my need for caution. One can’t be too careful nowadays.’

      ‘No,’ he agreed. His eyes still held that hateful amusement, and a rather shrewd intelligence.

      ‘You won’t object if I check with this Professor Wayne?’

      ‘Feel free,’ he urged expansively.

      She gave him a sweet smile. Perching elegantly on the edge of the desk, she picked up the phone and punched out the number at the top of the headed paper. Lethargic, at ease, tall, he watched every move she made.

      Refusing to be intimidated, refusing to look away from eyes that burned, she spoke briefly with the person who answered the phone, and was put through immediately to Professor Wayne. She asked questions, he answered, and when he’d described Sam Turner she thanked him and replaced the receiver.

      Blue eyes still clashed with grey.

      ‘Interested?’ he drawled.

      ‘No,’ she 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?’

      He didn’t answer, merely continued to watch her, and then his gaze moved beyond her, and she refused to admit the relief that gave her. Following his glance, she saw that James was now pruning some bushes, and wearing his bright yellow rubber gloves. Bizarre he might be, but he was an excellent gardener. And if the house was sold, which it must be, eventually, then James would be out of a job. Unless the new owners took him on.

      With a barely registered sigh, she got to her feet.