SOS: Convenient Husband Required / Winning a Groom in 10 Dates: SOS: Convenient Husband Required / Winning a Groom in 10 Dates

‘Hurt her? Why would I hurt her?’

‘You’ve done it before,’ she said. ‘It’s in your nature. I’ve seen the string of women you’ve paraded through the pages of the gossip magazines. How many of them have been left with a bruised heart?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘May has spent the last ten years nursing her grandpa. She’s grieving for him, vulnerable.’

‘And without my help she’ll lose her home, her business and the animals she loves,’ he reminded her.

She gave him a long look, then said, ‘That child is hungry. You’d better give her to me before she chews a hole in your neck. What did you say her name was?’

‘Nancie, Mrs Robson. With an i and an e.’

‘Well, that’s a sweet old-fashioned name,’ she said, taking the baby. ‘Hello, Nancie.’ Then, looking from the baby to him, ‘I suppose you’d better call me Robbie.’

‘Thank you. Is there anything I can do, Robbie?’

‘Go and book a date with the Registrar?’ she suggested. ‘Although you might want to put your trousers on first.’

The kitchen was empty, apart from a couple of cats curled up on an old armchair and an old mongrel dog who was sharing his basket with a duck and a chicken.

None of them took any notice of him as he unhooked his trousers from the rail above the Aga and carried them through to the mud room, where the kitten had curled up in the fleece and gone to sleep. He hoped Nancie, jerked out of familiar surroundings, her routine, would settle as easily.

Having brushed off the mud as best he could and made himself fit to be seen in polite society, he hunted down May. He found her in a tiny office converted from one of the pantries, shoulder to shoulder with a tall, thin man who was, presumably, Jeremy, as they leaned over her desk examining some artwork.

‘May?’

She turned, peering at him over a pair of narrow tortoiseshell spectacles that were perched on the end of her nose. They gave her a cute, kittenish look, he thought. And imagined himself reaching for them, taking them off and kissing her.

‘I’ve talked to Robbie,’ he said, catching himself. ‘Put her in the picture.’

That blush coloured her cheeks again, but she was back in control of her voice, her breathing as she said, ‘You’ve explained everything?’

‘The why, the what and the when,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll give you a call as soon as I’ve sorted out the details. You’ll be in all afternoon?’

‘You’re going to do it today?’ she squeaked. Not that in control…

‘It’s today, or it’s too late.’

‘Yes…’ Clearly, it was taking some time for the reality of her situation to sink in. ‘Will you need me? For the paperwork?’

‘I’ll find out what the form is and call you. I’ll need your number,’ he prompted when she didn’t respond. ‘It’s unlisted.’

Flustered, May plucked a leaflet from a shelf above her desk and handed it to him. ‘My number is on there.’

For a moment they just looked at one another and he wondered what she was thinking about. The afternoons they’d spent together in the stables with him ducking out of sight whenever anyone had come near? The night when they had been too absorbed in each other to listen? Or the years that had followed…?

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, turning to look at the artwork laid out on the table.

‘What?’ He looked up and saw that she was still staring at him and her poise deserted her as, flustered, she said, ‘I’m ch-choosing a label for Coleridge House honey. Do you know Jeremy Davidson? He’s head of the art department at the High School.’ Then, as if she felt she had to explain how she knew him, ‘I’m a governor.’

‘You’re a school governor?’ He didn’t bother to suppress a grin, and yet why should he be surprised? She’d been born to sit on charitable committees, school boards. In the fullness of time she’d no doubt become a magistrate, like her grandfather. ‘I hope you’ve done something about those overflowing gutters.’

‘It was my first concern.’ For a moment there was the hint of a smile, the connection of a shared memory, before she turned to Jeremy Davidson. ‘Adam and I were at the High School at the same time, Jeremy. He was two years above me.’

‘I’m aware that Mr Wavell is one of our more successful ex-pupils,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘I’m delighted to meet you.’

He was another of those old school tie types. Elegant, educated. A front door visitor who would have met with James Coleridge’s approval. His manners were impeccable, even if his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘I have an Emma Davidson on my staff,’ he said. ‘I believe her husband is an art teacher. Is that simply a coincidence or is she your wife?’

‘She’s my wife,’ he admitted.

‘I thought she must be. You’re on half term break, I imagine. While she’s at work catching up with Saminderan employment law, you’re here, playing with honey pot labels—’

‘Was my wife. We’re separated.’ His glance at May betrayed him. ‘Our divorce will be finalised in January.’

‘Well, that’s regrettable,’ he said. ‘Emma is a valued member of my organisation.’

‘These things happen.’

So they did. But not fast enough to save May, he thought. Were they having an affair? he wondered. Or was she saving herself for the big wedding? Or was he waiting to declare himself until he was free?

Best put him out of his misery. ‘Has May told you our good news?’ he asked.

‘Adam…’

She knew.

‘We’re getting married later this month,’ he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her.

Jeremy’s shocked expression told its own story and, before he could find the appropriate words, May swiftly intervened.

‘I can’t decide which design I like best, Adam. What do you think?’

He waited pointedly until Davidson moved out of his way, then put his hand on the desk and leaned forward, blocking him out with his shoulder.

They were pretty enough floral designs with ‘Coleridge House Honey’ in some fancy script. About right for a stall at a bazaar.

‘You produce handmade sweets too, don’t you?’ he asked her, looking at the shelf and picking up a fairly basic price list that, like the brochure, had obviously been printed on her computer. ‘Is this all the literature that you have?’

She nodded as he laid it, with the brochure, beside the labels.

‘There’s no consistency in design,’ he said. ‘Not in the colours, or even the fonts you’ve used. Nothing to make it leap out from the shelf. Coleridge House is a brand, May. You should get some professional help to develop that.’

‘Jeremy—’

‘There’s a rather good watercolour of the house in your bedroom. The country house, nostalgia thing would be a strong image and work well across the board. On labels, price lists and on the front of your workshop brochure.’

She looked up at him, a tiny frown creasing the space between her eyes.

‘Just a thought.’ With a touch to her shoulder, a curt nod to Davidson, he said, ‘I’ll call you later.’