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If Alex hesitated, she’d lose her courage but this situation was dangerous. ‘I wonder if you’d help me? I have a favour to ask of you.’

The woman frowned as she deftly pulled away the floral silk scarf that was tucked loosely around her neck. Its bluish hues were the perfect match to crimson. ‘A favour? How odd. Surely we’re strangers.’ She glanced towards her companion, who seemed more interested in trying to catch the eye of the maître d’.

‘That’s just it,’ Alex murmured with a nervous yet rueful grin. ‘I’m wondering if you would kiss my cheek as though you recognise me. It’s my husband, you see. I . . . well, something’s happened with another man and —’

Alex was stunned that the woman barely took further breath. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she exclaimed and wrapped long arms delicately around Alex’s shoulders and kissed both cheeks with affection, before holding her back to admire her. It was feigned friendship but even Alex could believe it. ‘How wonderful to see you again,’ the woman said, loud enough to be heard and at the very least for those cherry lips to be read easily from a distance. ‘To be friends,’ she continued, in a far lower volume, ‘I should know your name.’

‘Alexandra Frobisher . . . er, Alex to you.’

‘Oh no, Lexie for me, I think,’ her new friend replied with a lazy chuckle. ‘I do love a little . . . chicanery,’ she said, choosing the word with obvious delight. ‘I’m Eloise Ransome and this is Jennifer Spalding.’ The companion cast her a polite smile, not fully privy to their discussion. ‘Are we childhood friends?’ Eloise asked, dark-green eyes sparkling with intrigue behind a slow, disarming blink.

‘Our parents were friends in Scotland . . . Argyll.’

‘How fortunate for you that I know the area. Oban is divine but only in summer. I’m struggling enough with York at this time.’

‘You’re up from London?’

Eloise nodded. ‘We thought we’d take the spa waters, although we realise we’re a bit late for the season. I’ve had my special glass of the prized water this morning in that delightful glazed annexe of the Pump Room. But enough of my ails. Tell me, are you having an affair? How deliciously naughty,’ she said, without waiting for an answer. She glanced over to the table. ‘Oh, my, I don’t know which man is your husband, dear Lexie, but I’ll take whichever one you cast aside. They’re both darlings, although that dark one looks incredibly broody. He would kiss very well, I’m thinking.’ She looked back at Alex. ‘Ah, you don’t even have to admit which is the lover now, my dear. I hope he makes you feel outrageously desirable and adored.’

Alex swallowed. ‘Thank you for doing this.’

‘Sisterhood is a powerful thing. Who knows, one day I may need you!’

Alex had to smile. ‘In that case, let me give you a card; it will look like we’ve exchanged addresses. I told my husband that I’d lost track of you.’

‘By all means, then we can officially be friends,’ Eloise chuckled. She took the card and placed it in her small handbag, withdrawing one of her own. ‘If you and that hunk of a lover ever need a place to stay in London, do call. We’re always travelling.’

‘We?’

‘My husband, Dickie Drake.’

Alex frowned. ‘But isn’t he . . .?’ She wasn’t sure how to say it.

‘Yes, ancient, darling, but if I can give you one iota of advice, you should always marry an old man. Then he’ll adore you for life and shower you with whatever you want, from property to jewels, because you’ll always make him look good.’ She chortled deliciously. Alex couldn’t be offended by her sentiment; besides, it had a pragmatic sensibility to it. ‘Oh, look, darling Lexie, the waitress is here. Is our table ready, Jen?’ Her friend nodded. ‘Better dash, then.’ She leaned in to give Alex a hug. ‘Hope he’s worth it, darling. Don’t throw your lifestyle away over sex, though . . . trust me, it’s always available and especially to someone who looks like you. Come to London and visit.’ She patted her hand knowingly and then kissed Alex afresh. ‘Glad I could help.’

With a wave to the pair of women, Alex made for the bathroom and behind a closed door she allowed herself a moment of despair. What now? Why had she taken so long to discover it was Kitty whom Harry was hunting? How would she explain to him that the woman he had come to find was in fact her?

Best to just say it. Be honest, come clean. Be direct. But when? She might never get the opportunity. Today was about farewell. She had to let him go so that he could marry Bethany. Perhaps it was for the best that he never learned who Kitty was. Yes, why make it any harder for him? Oh, what a mess! She’d convinced herself that having some affection and male attention lavished on her was harmless, providing no one ever knew. She had managed to persuade herself that only her conscience would be the burden and in time she would learn to live with this episode, consider it a sweet, secret interlude that had made her feel special and desired for the briefest period.

Witnessing Matthew and Harry together in the same breathing space was like pouring vinegar into an open wound. Couldn’t fate have kept them apart? Couldn’t she have had time to say goodbye to Harry without Matthew being present? Now her farewell would have to be polite and detached with the only man who had ever found his way to her heart. Why couldn’t Henry Blakeney have walked into her life a few years earlier?

No. She smiled sadly to herself. The universe had a sense of humour and wanted to tease her with glimpses of what might have been. Alex dabbed away the telltale tears, swallowed their salty aftertaste and emerged from her cubicle to check her face was not stained. She pinched colour into her cheeks, added a light sweep of a lipstick in a colour called Ashes of Rose and stepped out again into the lively atmosphere of Betty’s.

It had felt like a lifetime but the clock on the wall told her she’d only left their table six minutes previously.

‘Tea’s brewed,’ Matthew said in welcome, pouring some of the contents of his pot into his cup.

‘May I?’ Harry offered.

Their gazes met like an invisible kiss. Both let them linger; Alex was sure that Harry was also recalling real kisses in the cottage, which had been tender and searching, tongues speaking to each other without talking. It was Harry who held her gaze longer than she thought was safe – he wanted the intimacy to last and that buoyed her. She gave a soft, lopsided grin.

‘Please,’ she answered, glancing at her small silver teapot.

He blinked away towards his task and she focused on his brow, shadowed in frown as dark lashes closed above his cheeks. She could still feel the freshly shaved smoothness of his jaw that was nevertheless gritty like gentle sandpaper against her skin . . .

‘Blakeney was just telling me more about his search.’

‘Oh, yes?’ she said.