The Boss's Bride

‘Well enough.’

‘Is he permanently fixed down here?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I did. He said to ask you.’

Claris merely looked at her.

‘Hmph. What’s this I hear about a baby?’

‘I don’t know,’ she denied. ‘What is it that you hear?’

A look of aggravation crossed her face. ‘You were seen arriving with one.’

‘Was I?’

‘Yes. Is it his? Are you sleeping with him?’

‘Are you always this rude?’ Claris countered.

‘In love with him?’

‘None of your business,’ she reproved, without inflexion.

Turning, Mrs Turmaine stared across the room at her nephew. ‘Time he was married and settled down. Good-looking men who play the field are usually bad news.’

Were they? To whom? Claris wondered. After sipping her drink, which was awful, she wedged it onto the crowded table beside her. Moving her eyes back to Adam, she considered his aunt’s statement. Yes, he was good-looking—no, she mentally denied, the man was devastating, but not necessarily bad news. He could sometimes be very rude. Must run in the family. His aunt was even ruder. He could also be aggravating, kind, and thoughtful. He also had a great deal of charm. When he cared to use it. His dark hair was thick, with a slight curl, his brown eyes direct. He was clever and challenging, and generous when he wanted to be. And, no, she wasn’t in love with him. She was attracted to him, she admitted, and it was an attraction she fought every minute of every day, but she was not in love. Any more than he was in love with her. The thought that it might even be conceivable brought a warped smile to her face. She wasn’t even sure that he was capable of loving. He was fond of his godson, which was the only reason he had moved to the house outside Rye—so that he could care for him whilst his parents were in hospital recovering from a horrendous car crash. His London apartment was totally unsuitable for a baby; the baby’s home was in Norfolk, and too far for easy access to the hospital, so they had come to the house he owned in the village of Wentsham. Little Nathan was probably the nearest he’d ever come to loving another human being. By his own admission he had no desire to marry, have children of his own…

‘What does he do?’

Wrenching her attention back to his aunt, Claris asked with deliberate vagueness, ‘Do?’

‘Yes, do. It surely can’t be a secret!’

‘No-o,’ she denied, ‘but I would prefer that you ask him yourself.’

‘I know he owns property,’ Harriet said crossly, as though it was some sort of sin.

‘Yes.’

‘And an electronics firm.’

‘Yes.’

‘And land. He’s extremely wealthy.’

‘Is he?’ asked Claris, who knew almost down to the last penny how much he was worth.

With eyes as direct as her nephew’s, Harriet Turmaine stared at Claris for some moments in silence. ‘It’s none of my business what he does, but I’ll give you a word of warning. This is a small community—old-fashioned, some might say—but if the baby’s yours, and he’s the father, and if he’s intending to stay here, he’d do better to marry you. I shan’t live in his pocket,’ she promised bluntly. ‘It’s not my way. No need to worry that I’ll interfere. Couldn’t if I wanted to. Don’t like people much.’ With an abrupt nod, she walked away.

Interesting, Claris thought. Related to Adam by marriage, not blood, astonishingly, she seemed very much like him. With a small smile, Claris made her way towards her employer, who was looking bored. She raised her eyebrows at him and amusement leached into his eyes.

‘Bored, Claris?’ he asked naughtily.

She gave him a look of mild derision and removed the glass from his hand. ‘Say goodbye to your hostess,’ she instructed him.

His amusement deeper, he went to do so.

‘Always does as he’s told, does he?’ a soft voice asked from beside her, and she turned to look at the young woman who had been talking to him.

‘Not always, no,’ she denied pleasantly. ‘It was nice to have met you,’ she added, by way of dismissal.

‘But you haven’t.’

‘No,’ Claris agreed.

‘I’m Bernice Long. Harriet’s niece. Her sister’s daughter. I expect we’ll meet again.’

It sounded like a warning. ‘Yes. Goodnight.’ A small smile on her mouth, she made her way towards their hostess, who had one hand resting rather intimately on Adam’s sleeve.

‘Thank you for a pleasant evening,’ Claris murmured, and Mrs Staple Smythe turned with a look of irritation.

‘I’m sure I don’t know why you have to leave so soon. You’ve only just arrived.’

‘Yes, but we don’t like to leave the baby too long.’ As an exit line, it was as good as any. With a last smile, she walked out. She wanted very badly to laugh.

‘A ghastly evening,’ Adam commented as they stepped outside.

‘Yes. I don’t think we endeared ourselves.’

‘Were we meant to?’ he drawled.

She laughed. ‘And if that is a sample of Rye hospitality…’

‘It isn’t, and this isn’t Rye. It’s a small village. Probably inbred,’ he commented indifferently as he headed towards the gate.

‘Well, you would know. You were born here.’

‘But I haven’t lived here since the age of eight. And eight-year-olds, my dear Miss Newman, aren’t known for their perspicacity.’

‘No,’ she agreed as she walked with him along the narrow lane. The well-manicured, immaculately hedged lane. Twenty or so detached houses and a small general store seemed the sum total of the community. Adam’s house was the last one on the right-hand side. Not that it could be seen behind its high brick wall, but that was where it was, and where she would be living for the next few months.

They walked in silence for a few moments, and then she asked curiously, ‘What was she like?’

‘Who?’

‘Bernice Long. The young woman you were talking to.’