Last Chance Marriage. Rosemary Gibson
dear. When your father gets back from swimming with the twins, I should ask him to have a look at that wisdom tooth.’
‘Dad won’t want to go into his surgery on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll make an appointment with him for tomorrow.’
‘He was planning to go in anyway for a couple of hours to catch up on some paperwork, and you might be able to last out until tomorrow but I don’t know whether the rest of us can.’
There was a moment’s silence and then the stillness was broken by a rich, deep chuckle. ‘Have I been that impossible this morning?’
‘You haven’t exactly been suffering in silence,’ the gentle voice observed dryly, but the underlying affection was marked. ‘Shall I hold the ladder?’
Forewarned, Clemency had plenty of time to beat a hasty retreat, but refused to be driven out of her own garden and glanced up with a sunny smile as a dark head and wide, powerful shoulders appeared in her line of vision through the branches of the huge ash tree.
‘Hello,’ she began cheerfully, and stopped, her breath catching in her throat, the hairs stiffening on the back of her neck as she absorbed the hard, chiselled male features.
It couldn’t be him.
Slowly she expelled her breath, berating herself for her idiocy. Even after all these years, she thought wryly, the sudden glimpse of a well-shaped head, of a square, tenacious chin, a certain inflection in a deep male voice could still catch her completely off-guard, could still make some part of her leap in half-remembered recognition.
But of course this man wasn’t him. That other man belonged to the past, and she’d known that night they’d parted that she would never see him again.
Her eyes jerked upwards again. There was a slight facial resemblance, that was all, she convinced herself uneasily, but this man looked tougher, more formidable. His face could have been carved out of granite, gave nothing away, the hard, unyielding contours etched by a world-weary cynicism.
‘Clemency Adams,’ she introduced herself swiftly. Mid-thirties, she judged. It couldn’t be him, she denied again. It was impossible. He could not be her new neighbour. She wasn’t even sure how clear her recollection of him was any more, anyway. The image of the dark face still haunted her sleep sometimes but, when she woke with that inexplicable aching sense of loss, the image had blurred. Their time together had been so fleeting.
If he’d noticed her momentary agitation, he gave no indication of it, the blue eyes showing no more than idle curiosity as they swept speculatively down the length of her slight frame from the top of her sun hat, over the baggy pink T-shirt, to her sandalled feet with a dismissive assurance that made her stiffen with inexplicable resentment. He wasn’t sure whether she’d heard or not. Didn’t much care if she had.
‘Joshua Harrington,’ he returned crisply, the straight mouth unsmiling. The bare arms revealed by the short-sleeved blue shirt were as tanned as the strong, lean fingers holding the saw.
‘How are you settling in?’ she enquired blithely, her heart giving an uncomfortable thud. So that was his name. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy village life, being part of such a small, friendly, close-knit community.’
The corners of the firm mouth quirked, the unexpected smile transforming the harsh, forbidding face so dramatically that Clemency’s stomach turned an involuntary somersault, the terrible, unwelcome sense of familiarity gripping her again, this time leaving her in no doubt—it was him.
‘I’m sure I shall, Miss Adams,’ Joshua Harrington drawled, the amusement in the discerning blue eyes leaving her in no doubt that he knew she’d overheard his earlier tirade and was now deliberately baiting him.
‘Mrs Adams,’ Clemency corrected immediately, wondering why on earth she had done so. When she’d first moved to the village, to her intense relief, it had been generally assumed that she was unmarried. She’d neither confirmed nor denied the mistaken assumption, just grateful to be spared the necessity of explaining about Simon.
‘Mrs Adams,’ he repeated slowly, the blue gaze concentrated on her face with heart-stopping intensity, as if, for the first time, he was mentally stripping her of the camouflaging hat and sunglasses. His mouth suddenly tightened, his eyes narrowing as they lingered on the short copper curls peeping out from beneath the wide-brimmed hat, and then abruptly he turned away, the muscles in his shoulders tautening as he swiftly and efficiently began sawing through the rotten wood.
Averting her own gaze just as abruptly, Clemency pushed the wheelbarrow to the end of the garden to empty the contents. She’d corrected Joshua Harrington because being dismissed as a workaholic spinster had struck a raw nerve, she admitted slowly. Especially as there was more than a grain of truth in it.
Work, initially an antidote to Simon, had slowly come to dominate her entire life to the exclusion of all else, she reflected with uncomfortable honesty. She squared her small chin. Well, unlike her marriage, she was at least making a success of her career, had heard only on Friday that she’d been short-listed for the vacancy in the international audit team, invited for a second interview in London next week.
The chief attraction of the coveted post was the travel involved. Mostly in Europe, but with occasional trips to Canada, Australia and the Far East. A chance to see much of the world, all expenses paid. Determinedly Clemency tried to recapture the enthusiasm that had made her apply for the position in the first place but was aware only of a tiny, dull emptiness inside her. No one to miss her when she went overseas, no one to greet her rapturously when she returned from each trip.
Snap out of it, Clemency! She could block off Joshua Harrington’s words but it was impossible to dismiss the man himself.
Stretched out lazily on the lounger after a late lunch, she tried to concentrate on her novel, but the disturbing image of strong, assured male features seemed to be superimposed on every page. It was all too easy to understand how his advent in the village had made such an impact on the local female populace, she conceded uneasily, overwhelmingly grateful that she was now safely immune to all members of the male sex. Her stomach started to churn; her hands felt clammy. Had he recognised her? She squeezed her eyes shut. Was he divorced? Widowed?
‘Hello.’
Her eyes shot open. Two small boys, distinguishable only by the differing colours of their T-shirts, stood by the lounger, studying her solemnly.
‘Hello,’ she returned with equal gravity, pushing herself upright. About four years old, she hazarded. No, she thought, her stomach muscles constricting. She didn’t need to guess—knew almost to the week exactly how old Joshua Harrington’s sons were.
‘What are you doing?’ Red T-shirt enquired, removing a twig from his tousled dark hair.
Thinking about your daddy. ‘Reading,’ Clemency said firmly.
‘Why?’
She was momentarily nonplussed. ‘Because I like reading.’
‘I can read. What’s your name?’
‘Clemency. What’s your name?’
‘Jamie.’
‘I’m Tommy.’ Blue T-shirt chipped in, looking down admiringly at the grass stains on his jeans.
‘Does your daddy know where you are?’ Clemency asked gently. Silly question. She hardly imagined Joshua Harrington had passively watched his offspring tunnelling their way through the hedge into her garden.
‘He’s gone out with Grandpa.’
Of course. The wisdom tooth.
‘And Granny’s making a cake.’
Doubtlessly innocent of the fact that her two enchanting grandsons had decided to go exploring. Swinging her long, slim legs to the floor, Clemency slipped on her sandals and rose to her feet. The sooner she herded these two escapees home, the better.
‘Why?’ both Tommy and Jamie enquired in unison when