Last Chance Marriage. Rosemary Gibson

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      ‘Daddy’s back...’

      As the lean figure loomed in the doorway, they launched themselves joyfully towards him like small, exuberant puppies.

      ‘Had a good afternoon?’

      The gentleness in Joshua Harrington’s voice made Clemency’s heart miss an unsteady beat, her eyes leaping to his face. Mesmerised she watched the uncompromisingly male features warm, soften as he rumpled the two small, dark heads, the cynicism temporarily eradicated from his face.

      ‘Yes, Daddy,’ the twins chorused enthusiastically, and scampered back out into the garden.

      ‘Mrs Adams.’

      Caught completely off-balance, Clemency flushed slightly as Joshua Harrington acknowledged her presence in his home and turned towards his mother. ‘Dad’ll be back in about an hour,’ he relayed, but the dark, slanted eyebrow clearly enquired, What’s she doing here?

      Or perhaps she was merely being super-sensitive, Clemency acknowledged. She was twenty-seven, had been brought up with three elder brothers, been married, her colleagues were predominantly male—and yet this man unnerved her completely. Even during her adolescence she’d never felt this self-conscious in a man’s presence.

      ‘The twins went AWOL and Clemency brought them home,’ Mary Harrington said peacefully. ‘Tea in the pot. Oh, Lord, the cake!’ Springing to her feet, she moved across the kitchen to the stove at the far end.

      ‘Thank you.’ The blue gaze flicked to Clemency.

      ‘I considered simply tossing them back over the hedge,’ she couldn’t resist murmuring with an impish grin, recalling his earlier remark about the football, and instantly regretted it as she saw him frown. She was only joking, for heaven’s sake. Being deliberately flip to conceal her fast-fading composure. Then with an uncomfortable jolt she realised that the flippant remark hadn’t even registered with him; his whole concentration was focused on her face. He was inspecting each delicate feature, her high, fragile cheekbones, wide-spaced eyes, straight freckle-dusted nose with a clinical thoroughness that she was too keyed up to resent.

      There was no acknowledgement of her fragile feminine attraction in the shadowed blue depths, no trace of the appreciation she was accustomed to witnessing—and rebuffing—in male eyes, but something else... But before she could analyse it, before she could be a hundred per cent sure, he had turned away.

      Swallowing hard to ease the dryness in her throat, she watched him pour out a mug of tea and carry it across to the table. Removing a cricket bat from a chair, he sat down, stretching his long, lean legs out in front of him.

      ‘How long have you lived in the village, Mrs Adams?’ he enquired quietly.

      Clemency hesitated. It was a perfectly innocuous question and yet there was something in the astute blue eyes that reflected more than just polite, idle curiosity.

      ‘I moved down here over four years ago.’

      ‘From London?’

      Her spine stiffened. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged.

      ‘An unusual career move,’ he observed slowly.

      For a second Clemency wondered if he was baiting her, but there was no hint of mockery in the pensive eyes.

      ‘Relocation,’ she said shortly. Relocation of her life.

      She focused her attention firmly on Mary Harrington as she rejoined them at the table but it was impossible to distance herself from the formidable male presence on her left. Contributing little to the casual conversation, he nevertheless seemed to dominate the room, emanated a masculine force that was almost tangible.

      He wasn’t even in her direct line of vision, but she was alert to his slightest movement, her senses tuned into him as if she’d suddenly developed a set of ultra-sensitive antennae.

      The kitchen which had seemed so warm and welcoming when she’d first entered seemed to have undergone some subtle change. There was an underlying tension which wasn’t solely contributable to her own growing unease. Unable to resist any longer, she flicked the silent man a sideways glance.

      Dark eyebrows drawn together, he was frowning at the opposite wall. Unobserved, her eyes swept over the strong planes of his face, and dropped to the firm line of his chiselled mouth.

      Unsteadily she picked up her cup and drained the contents, setting it down on the saucer with a clatter that seemed deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen.

      ‘Thanks for the tea.’ She forced herself to smile across the table.

      ‘You’re more than welcome.’ Mary Harrington smiled back.

      ‘I’ll see you out.’ Her son rose to his feet in a swift, controlled movement.

      ‘Thank you,’ she murmured evenly, overwhelmingly conscious of his height and breadth as he ushered her down the hall. Opening the front door, he stood back to enable her to step through, and for an imperceptible second her eyes locked with his, saw the hard certainty in their depths as they raked her oval face. The pretence was over for both of them.

      ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Joshua Harrington said quietly.

      The colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she said simply, and saw a muscle clench along the hard line of his jaw.

      ‘I think I recognised you almost straight away,’ he conceded slowly.

      ‘But you hoped you’d made a mistake?’ she said levelly.

      ‘Yes,’ he admitted shortly.

      That swift pinprick of hurt was completely irrational. Hadn’t she been equally reluctant to acknowledge his identity? Exhibited no more warmth or pleasure at seeing him again than he had her?

      ‘Your hair was longer then,’ he said abruptly.

      Five years ago her waist-length red hair had been the most striking, most immediately noticeable thing about her.

      ‘I had it cut.’ She stated the obvious, wondering why it should matter that he made no immediate comment on the shorter gamine style. His own physical appearance had altered, too, but the change was more subtle. His dark hair was as thick and rich as she remembered. His eyes were the same intense blue—but the guarded detachment in their depths was as alien to her as the cynicism.

      Clemency surveyed him with large, wary eyes, the constrained silence that had fallen between them unbearable. It seemed impossible that she had once, for a short time, felt closer to this man than any other living creature. But she was at a total loss how to even try to bridge the chasm that existed between them now. Wasn’t even sure that she wanted to.

      ‘I’d better be getting home.’ With amazement Clemency registered her calm, collected voice. But then over the past five years she’d become an expert at concealing her emotions. What happened to your wife? Knowing just how tenuous her composure was, terrified that the faade might crack at any minute and she would give utterance to the question pounding in her head, Clemency turned away quickly.

      ‘Mind the step.’

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