The Impetuous Bride. Caroline Anderson

coffee, not a cup of tea, but breakfast, the most intimate meal of all—a meal they’d never shared.

      He was mad. He had to be. Bringing her back into the house and filling every nook and cranny of it with her image was absolutely the last thing he needed, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if those images would haunt him for years, because the house would be sold and she’d never even been to his new flat in London.

      No, it was just a short-lived torture, a bit of flagellation that if he wasn’t such a masochist he would have avoided like the plague, but he was too weak and too stupid to steer clear of her.

      He drained his coffee and stood up. She was drooping over the table, struggling to keep her eyes open after her long flight, and he was keeping her up.

      Not that he ought to care, but for some absurd reason he did.

      ‘I’m off,’ he said briskly. ‘Go to bed. Call me in the morning.’

      She stood up and went to the door with him, and without thinking he lowered his head and brushed her lips.

      ‘Sleep tight, Princess,’ he murmured roughly, and then could have kicked himself for the familiar endearment.

      He walked home in the dark, striding along the lane in the faint moonlight, his body stalked by the image of her leaning against the Aga, her nipples clear against the soft fabric of her dress, the tip of her tongue chasing the last melted smear of chocolate on her lips, the gentle sway of her body as she moved.

      He could still smell the light, teasing fragrance of her skin, taste the chocolate on her lips. His palms ached to cup those small, soft breasts, to cradle her bottom and lift her against him as he lost himself in her.

      Damn. He stripped off his sweater and unfastened his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and letting the cool night air to his skin. Damn her for her hold over him.

      It was just because he’d never had her, of course, because she’d always held back from that last intimacy. If he’d made love to her he could have forgotten her, could have got her out of his system.

      Maybe now was a chance—not out of revenge, but just as a way of purging his emotion.

      And maybe he was a bigger fool than he’d thought.

      He went in, slammed the door behind him and took the stairs three at a time. Maybe a cold shower would bring him to his senses.

      She rang him at a quarter to nine, knowing he would be up. He was always up by six, so he’d told her in the past, and he answered the phone on the second ring.

      ‘Hi,’ he said, and his voice sounded gruff and sexy and early-morning, and did nothing for her composure.

      ‘I’m awake,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘Is it too early? I’m dying for coffee.’

      ‘Of course not. Come on round. I’ll leave the back door open.’

      She pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, contemplated putting on make-up and told herself not to be ridiculous. She was going for breakfast, nothing else.

      Her jeans hung on her, but they would have to do. She slid her feet into sandals, tied a jumper round her shoulders in case it was chilly out and walked briskly round to his house.

      Although it was next door, technically, it took a couple of minutes to walk there along the lane, and the fresh morning air felt wonderful on her skin. It had rained in the night, just lightly, and the air was cool and damp and scented with honeysuckle and roses.

      It was gorgeous, so much more subtle than the exotic scents of the tropics, and Lydia felt the tension in her ease a little. Nevertheless, she approached the back door with a certain amount of trepidation. She’d put so much of herself into the design of this particular kitchen, and then later so much love into the planning of the other things they’d hoped to do, and now she would see what he had achieved—and what he was casually going to hand over to another person without a pang, because it was, in his words, ‘just a house’.

      Not to Lydia. Never to Lydia.

      She tapped on the open door and went in, greeted by the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon, and there he was, standing at the work island in a pair of ancient jeans faded almost to white over the knees and seat, a soft T-shirt tucked in, emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the neatness of his waist.

      ‘Hi,’ he murmured, and threw her a smile that made her heart kick. ‘Come on in.’

      She went in, looking round her at the finished room, settled in now to its role and every bit as lovely as it had been. A wave of sadness washed over her, and instinctively she crossed to the Aga for the comfort of its warmth. ‘Anything I can do?’

      ‘No. I’m just about done. There’s a plate of goodies in the bottom oven—you could get it out.’

      She reached down and pulled out a dish heaped with bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, tiny fried potatoes—

      ‘Good grief,’ she said faintly. ‘Do you always do breakfast like this?’

      He grinned, turning her heart over, and put the last few rashers of bacon on to the dish. ‘Only on Sundays. There’s scrambled egg in the microwave; it just needs another turn.’ He pressed a couple of buttons and while it finished off he put coffee and milk and mugs on a tray. Toast popped up, the scrambled eggs were done and he was hustling her through into the breakfast room.

      ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, slamming to a halt in the doorway. ‘You did the conservatory!’

      ‘Like it?’ he asked from right behind her, and she felt her eyes fill. It had been another of their plans, and she felt the huge well of sadness grow a little larger.

      ‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered, and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Really lovely.’

      ‘Go on out there. I’ve set the table.’

      She put the hot dish down on the mat in the middle of the cast-iron table, and looked around at the pretty structure. White-painted, it reached up towards the clear blue sky, the centre of the roof a square raised lantern, a typical Georgian feature and absolutely at home in the context of his house. Plants rioted around the broad sills, foamed out of huge pots and swarmed up the glass. It was like a tropical paradise, and she shook her head in astonishment.

      ‘You must have green fingers,’ she murmured, stroking a leaf thoughtfully.

      ‘You sound surprised.’

      She shrugged. Just another thing she hadn’t known about him. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and turned to look at him.

      For a moment there was something in his eyes, something that could have been yearning, and then it was gone, replaced by a genial nothingness like a shield over his feelings.

      Unless that was just fanciful imagination, which was quite likely, given her lack of sleep.

      ‘I can’t claim all the credit. I have a domestic genius who waters them for me. I suspect it’s more her touch than mine.’ He held a chair for her, and she sat down, looking out over the garden and noticing the little changes—the new rose bed, the repaired formal terrace, the little summer house—

      ‘You’ve got a summer house!’ she exclaimed.

      ‘I know. It just seemed to need one. Come on, help yourself before it’s cold.’

      She looked at the mass of food and her stomach rumbled. Her last proper meal had been in Singapore, and since she’d hardly eaten a thing last night because of the atmosphere, she was utterly ravenous. ‘I could eat all of this,’ she confessed with a wry grin.

      ‘Do. I can cook more. Pile in.’

      She did, not stopping until her plate was clear for the second time and she was halfway down her mug of coffee. Then she leant back and smiled sheepishly. ‘That was wonderful.’

      His answering smile was gentle and a little sad.