Frank had been the biggest mistake of her life. The consequences of that were hard to live with, yet she saw no way out of it, not if she wanted to stay with Jack. And she wanted that with all her heart and soul.

His voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Are you ready for home, Amy?’

‘Yes,’ she answered with a smile. ‘Whenever you are.’

Home for Amy was now a big, grand house down by the River Ouse in a beautiful suburb of Bedford. Built in Edwardian times, it had spacious rooms and huge windows that overlooked the park at the back and the river at the front. The sturdy furniture had been bought with the place, and from the moment Amy walked in the door, she had felt at home.

She had the same feeling now, as they parked the black saloon and walked up the garden path. Shoving the key in the lock, Jack flung open the door and waited for her to pass inside. ‘Fancy a nightcap before we go to bed?’

Amy shook her head. ‘Not tonight.’ Too many memories seemed to have crept in on this, her fortieth birthday. Normally, Molly would come home with flowers for her, and the children would sit round the table after dinner and make something very special; a card, or a picture for her to stick up on the scullery wall.

If she had to choose again, to be with Frank and the children, or to be with Jack, she would still make the same choice. But it was hard not to have the children with her; harder than even Jack realised.

As she undressed in the bedroom, Jack watched from the doorway. He saw her roll the stockings off her slim legs, and take down her panties. He smiled when she folded them with the same meticulous care she took with all the beautiful underwear he had bought for her. Now, when she raised her arms and slid out of her clothes, he caught his breath at her beauty.

As she went to slip the pretty pink nightgown over her head, he hurried across the room to stop her. ‘Don’t,’ he murmured, and the passion was alight in his eyes. ‘Let me look at you first.’

Amy laughed. ‘You say the same thing every night.’

Taking her in his arms, he kissed her on the neck. ‘What man could blame me for that,’ he murmured, and held her away from him, his gaze admiring her every curve. ‘All those children,’ he said, ‘and you still have the figure of a young girl.’

‘I have not!’ Turning to look at herself in the mirror, she saw what he obviously didn’t – the sag of her stomach muscles and the way her breasts had begun to droop; she knew this because where once the nipples had been upright and pert, they were now not so prominent. ‘I’m forty today,’ she said. ‘And it shows.’

‘Not to me,’ he answered, and bending his head, he teased her nipples with the tip of his tongue. When he felt her responding, he slid his hands round her waist and drew her to him.