Rosemary Gibson - Last Chance Marriage

Their bantering was good-humoured—if puerile—rather than threatening, and normally Clemency wouldn’t have had any trouble in dealing with the group of intoxicated but harmless young men. But tonight she simply stared dazedly at the group forming a half-circle around her.

‘Scram!’

The deep, educated voice came from behind her. Quiet and controlled, it held an authority that was immediately recognised and acted upon. Macho bravado evaporating, the young men dissolved into sheepish small boys, murmuring apologies to Clemency before hastening on their way.

‘Are you all right?’

Tilting her head, Clemency looked up at the tall, quietly spoken man.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said mechanically. The glow of the street lights illuminated strongly carved male features.

‘Where are you going? It might be advisable to take a taxi.’

It was the flicker of concern in the dark, shadowed eyes, the gentleness in the deep voice that proved to be her undoing. ‘I d-don’t know where I’m going,’ she mumbled in a small, bewildered voice and burst into tears.

Vaguely she was aware of a firm hand on her arm propelling her towards a bench. He made no attempt to assuage her tears, offered no trite words of comfort, simply sat there silently by her side, letting her cry without question or intrusion. Yet his very presence, his aura of calm strength was more soothing than a million platitudes.

Her tears subsiding, she dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue and turned towards him. She had never broken down in front of anyone in her life before, should have felt self-conscious and awkward, but she felt neither. Maybe it was because he himself showed no signs of embarrassment or impatience, the corners of the very masculine mouth curving in a reassuring smile, the dark blue eyes inviting but not pressing her to tell him the cause of her distress.

There were tiny laughter lines etched on his face, hinting at a strong sense of humour, a sense of the absurd. A man not given to small talk but, she suspected from the astute eyes, an acute observer. His clean-shaven jaw was lean, well defined, its decisiveness reflected in the square, tenacious chin. In his early thirties, he looked resourceful and competent, not a man to be fazed easily, and certainly not by a weeping female.

She ran a hand over her face again and gave him a watery smile. The embankment was deserted but she felt no qualms about sitting alone in the night with him, not the slightest flicker of unease.

‘I’m fine now,’ she assured him unconvincingly. ‘Please don’t let me detain you any further,’ she added politely.

He didn’t answer. Made no effort to move. Just sat there. Waiting.

‘I’ve just found out that my husband has fallen in love with my best friend,’ she blurted out, and saw the leap of compassion in his eyes. She swallowed. ‘We were at my brother’s party and I overheard them talking in the kitchen...’ Jerkily she relived again out loud the most traumatic seconds of her young life. ‘I just ran away,’ she concluded in a mumble.

‘You had no idea?’ the man beside her asked softly.

‘No. Not a clue. I thought we were happy,’ she said bleakly. ‘I’ve known Simon since I was at primary school. He was my first boyfriend when I was sixteen.’ She paused, her luminous eyes huge with pain and bewilderment. ‘How can you know someone almost all your life, live with them, share their bed and not really know anything about them at all? Not really know what they’re thinking, feeling?’

‘I don’t know.’

His voice was even but the muscle flickering along the lean jaw betrayed him, alerted Clemency immediately. He wasn’t simply paying lip service to the words but actually understood—no, more than that—shared her dazed incredulity.

Slowly she searched his face, her eyes locking with his. And for the first time she saw the unhappiness in the dark blue depths. He wasn’t as she’d automatically supposed en route to a party, but, like her, had deliberately sought out the solitude and anonymity of the river embankment. This man was suffering as much as she was.

Her heart squeezed, aching for him, her own pain momentarily forgotten as she silently willed him to confide in her as she had in him. She saw the hesitancy on his face, the hesitancy of a man accustomed to keeping his own counsel, dealing with his own problems.

Then she saw the doubt disappear and was aware of a sudden jolt of warmth at the knowledge that he trusted her as instinctively as she did him. Why it should matter so much that he did so, when her whole life was falling apart, was too confusing even to think about.

‘I found out this afternoon that my wife’s pregnant,’ he said quietly.

Clemency looked up at him uncomprehendingly. Surely that was cause for celebration, wasn’t it?

‘She’s known for six weeks.’

‘Six weeks?’ she echoed. How could his wife have kept the news to herself for six weeks? Not wanted to share it with him immediately?

‘She doesn’t want the baby,’ he said abruptly. ‘She doesn’t want our child. My child.’

The pain in his voice cut through Clemency like a knife, driving everything else from her mind.

‘Laura’s an interior designer. A very successful one. She’s just won a prestigious overseas contract which she’s due to start in June next year.’

By which time she would be nearing the end of her unplanned and unwanted pregnancy.

The chiselled mouth twisted. ‘Lousy timing, hmm?’ He paused. ‘I always knew that Laura’s career was important to her.’ His voice was so low that Clemency had to strain her ears to hear it. ‘But I didn’t realise...’

That it was the most important part of her life, more important than her husband or their unborn child. The unspoken words hung in the air, the raw, naked hurt etched on his face almost unbearable. Knowing just how inadequate any words she could offer would be, Clemency reacted instinctively. Inhibitions abandoned in the overwhelming need to comfort him, she reached out and gently took hold of his hand.

His strong, lean fingers tightened around her small palm and then slowly relaxed but didn’t release their hold. The tension easing from his face, he smiled down at her wryly.

She smiled back, a sense of complete unreality engulfing her, the blue eyes anaesthetising her to everything but the sensations induced by the warm male fingers folded lightly around hers. She was sitting in the dark on a London bench holding hands with a man whose name she didn’t even know and yet it felt the most natural thing in the world to be doing, as if, far from being strangers, they were old, familiar friends. Or lovers.

She stiffened, horrified at the insidious thought, further appalled to realise that Simon had completely slipped from the forefront of her mind. Oh, God, Simon and Lisa. She began to shudder as reality crashed over her again.

‘You’re getting cold.’

She nodded, the protectiveness and concern in the deep voice making her throat constrict with the effort of keeping back another flood of tears. How could this man’s wife not want his child? How could anyone hurt him like this? It took every ounce of control not to launch herself into his arms, hold him, hug him.

‘I’ll walk you back,’ he said quietly, pulling her gently to her feet.

She nodded again, both relieved and bereft as he released her hand. Shortening his strides to match hers, he accompanied her as she retraced her path along the river bank towards her brother’s flat, the silence between them no longer comfortable but increasingly constrained. Clemency ground to a halt, indicating the illuminated three-storey house across the road, the sound of music spilling out into the night from the ground-floor flat.

‘It’s just over there.’ As she spoke the music was abruptly silenced, raised voices beginning a countdown. Ten, nine...

Eight seconds to midnight. Clemency stared up at the house. Was Simon standing beside Lisa? Had he even noticed she was missing or was he too lost in his own misery even to care?

‘One...’ As the exuberant voices reached a crescendo, she turned to look up at the figure towering by her side, his dark face as strained as her own.

‘Happy New Year,’ she murmured wryly, and felt an inane bubble of laughter rising in her throat, the words so hopelessly inappropriate under the circumstances.

‘Happy New Year,’ he returned, and she saw his own mouth quirk as he too recognised the absurdity of their seasonal exchange. His eyes moved slowly over her face. ‘Take care, hmm?’

‘You too,’ Clemency said unsteadily. Once this man turned and walked away she would never see him again. The tightness in her chest had nothing to do with Simon.

Impulsively she stood up on tiptoe, intending to plant a swift, chaste kiss on his cheek. Simultaneously he lowered his head to bestow a similar parting gesture, but as she unexpectedly tilted her face upwards his mouth, instead of grazing her forehead, closed over her lips.

The warm, firm mouth barely brushed hers and yet it acted like a touch paper, heat instantly pooling in the pit of her stomach, flaring up, gathering momentum, scorching through her veins. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he lifted his head, his dark face rigid with shock.

For a second she could hardly breathe, let alone think, stared up at him with wide, stunned eyes, drawing desperate gulps of air into her burning lungs. Then she turned and ran.

With a tiny, convulsive shiver, Clemency jerked herself to her feet and paced across the garden, coming to a standstill by the wooden fence that separated her garden from the open farmland beyond.

More than five years on and she could still remember that mindless panic with which she’d fled Joshua Harrington that night. Her hands tightened over the fence and then relaxed. She’d been in a total daze that night, emotionally completely off-balance, vulnerable to anyone who’d shown a modicum of sympathy and understanding.

Turning around, she began to make her way briskly up the garden and faltered, her eyes drawn like a magnet to the red-tiled roof adjacent to her own. Why of all people did her new neighbour have to be him? She’d made a new life for herself with which she was perfectly content.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Clemency. She pulled herself up irritably. There was no earthly reason why her orderly existence should be remotely affected by her new neighbour. Joshua Harrington, she reminded herself firmly, had made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of intruding into her life, let alone changing it.

CHAPTER THREE

MUFFLING a yawn, Clemency zipped up her jeans and tugged a green cotton sweater over her rumpled red curls. Barefoot, she padded across to her bedroom window and flung it open, surveying the cloudless blue sky. It looked as if it was going to be another glorious day.

Yawning again, she slipped on her sandals and made her way downstairs. She bent to retrieve the newspaper and mail from the front doormat and headed down the hall, coming to an abrupt halt as she heard the sound of breaking glass.

One of the cats from the local farm knocking down a milk bottle? Except she didn’t keep her empty bottles outside her back door. She took a tentative step forward and froze. Someone was breaking into her kitchen...

‘Please, Daddy, let me do it.’

‘Sorry, old chap. Back you go. You too, Tommy, please.’

She expelled a long, deep breath. Did prospective burglars normally bring their four-year-old sons along as witnesses? Tiptoeing to the door, she stealthily eased it open a crack and peeped through.