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‘Falling for you?’ He could see his reply caught her unawares. She had no quick or smart answer for him. ‘Can you not tell?’

Alex shook her head.

‘I feel as though I’m about to ruin your life.’

‘It was already a ruin before you came into it, Harry, and despite what I’ve just said, I welcomed your affections. My granny used to say it takes two hands to clap. You couldn’t kiss me if I didn’t want you to – I can promise you that; believe me, I have a great right hook.’ She balled a fist, then looked to the heavens.

He gusted a relieved laugh. ‘I respect you too much to be a total cad, though.’

‘Because you’re leaving?’ She pushed hard against the door, tutting to herself.

He shrugged. ‘Because we can’t be together.’

The door finally gave. ‘Come inside out of the rain and let’s talk properly.’ She stepped inside, beckoning to him.

The door closed on the damp world outside and cocooned him into a cottage that instantly reminded him of childhood . . . holidays in France, holidays at home with friends in Sussex and Hampshire. The comforting, sombre sound of a clock counted life’s seconds distantly from the mantelpiece, floorboards long used to spreading the strain creaked beneath their shifting weights and the rain drummed gently against uneven windowpanes that distorted the scenes of garden and fields beyond. It felt safe here. In a glance he took in furnishings and decor that were a mix of Victorian lives giving way to the more recent Edwardian style but as though the cottage was in no hurry to relinquish its past. It was surrendering slowly through some of Charlotte’s feminine touches of pastel and florals, but he liked what he presumed were her predecessor’s richly coloured oriental rugs over the dark boards and the forest-green curtains of velvet that framed the brighter greens of outside.

‘Let me get that,’ he said as he noted Alex unbuttoning her coat. If nothing else it was an opportunity to be close, touch her without seeking permission, without guilt. He’d smelled her spiced perfume in the car but now he could savour it against her skin as he stood behind her to ease off her dark gaberdine overcoat. He shrugged off his coat as well, laying them both over the back of a sofa rather than hanging them up, a deliberate move to show he was not making presumptions on a long stay.

He watched with increasing longing as she pulled off her velvet cloche hat. Her hair was pinned up and he imagined in that instant her allowing it to fall loose. She touched it, aware of him staring.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Not in the slightest. I’m admiring your hair; like the colour of your eyes, it reminds me of the chocolate you love.’

‘I plan to cut it, you know.’

‘Don’t . . . please.’

‘It’s the fashion, the modern age.’ She mimicked drawing a line against her neck just below her ear.

‘You know we men love long hair.’

‘Then grow your own,’ she jested and then dissolved into laughter. He felt his spirit revelling in the sound of her amusement.

‘I can’t be bothered with pinning this up daily when I’m making my own chocolates. Besides, I think today’s fashionable cuts are marvellous and sexy.’

‘Sexy?’

‘My new favourite word; I read it somewhere.’

‘Sexy,’ he muttered again, sounding bemused.

‘Why don’t you stoke the fire and I’ll make us a pot of tea?’ Alex suggested.

‘Good plan.’ He nodded. ‘A sexy cup of tea?’

She laughed. ‘Something like that.’ Alex disappeared into the back rooms; he listened to her boot heels hitting flagstones of the parlour while he busied himself poking at the barely burning wood and stacking fresh logs onto the fire, urging them to catch. He lost several minutes, engaged in watching the blaze licking at the new fuel that was dry and ready to burn. Harry could feel the welcome warmth increase as new flames danced up greedily around the fresh wood.

‘Here we are,’ Alex said, arriving with a tray.

Harry turned, feeling a rush of pleasure. ‘You look happily domesticated here.’

‘I am,’ she admitted, setting down the tray on a nearby table. ‘I don’t envy Charlotte her grief but I am often jealous of her independence, living here alone, making her own rules – she even cooks for herself.’

‘Imagine that,’ he said, with only a slight hint of sarcasm.

She gave him a warning look. ‘I’m not given much choice. I dance to the tune of a man, of parents – even Norma!’