The Mistress of His Manor

by Catherine George

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘Being Jack, he certainly didn’t take it lying down. Kate was utterly appalled with me and flew to his defence, but he took the wind out of my sails by freely admitting his sins where the sexy Dawn was concerned.’ Jo took in a deep breath. ‘Then he looked me in the eye in that daunting way of his and told me I was wrong about the rest. He had never stopped loving my mother during all those lost years, he still did and always would. At which point Kate told me to go to my room and stay there until I could behave like a civilised human being. Not what I wanted to hear. I had expected Kate to take my side, and resented Jack even more when she didn’t.’ She shrugged. ‘But something good came out of all that teenage angst. I worked like a demon to get into Oxford. But in retrospect it’s pretty obvious I hooked up with Charlie there just to get at Jack.’

  March’s arm tightened. ‘But your relationship with your father must have improved if you work together now.’

  ‘It has. Though there were stormy scenes when I refused to go back to Oxford. But I knew very well that Jack loved my mother. Still does. He was so worried about this pregnancy he could hardly bear to let her out of his sight.’

  ‘I can understand that. My father felt just the same about my mother. Which,’ March added dryly, ‘was fairly rare in the circles they moved in. It scotched any ideas that Lord Arnborough had married Miss Frances March for her money.’

  ‘But she was so beautiful no one would have thought that anyway, would they?’

  He shrugged. ‘My father’s shortage of cash was well documented. But, much against Randall March’s wishes, his daughter chose a lowly baron in preference to the belted Earl dangling after her. She married for love and never regretted it.’ March turned to look at Jo. ‘Theirs was the perfect marriage.’

  ‘Even though it caused your father so much grief when your mother died?’

  ‘They had twenty-five years of happiness together first.’

  She shivered. ‘I’d rather settle for a nice, everyday kind of relationship, rather than a consuming passion which leaves you in pieces when it’s gone.’

  ‘Does your parents’ relationship embarrass you, then?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. At school I knew so many girls whose parents were divorced I thought it was romantic to have parents madly in love with each other. Though I’ve probably given you the wrong idea about Kate and Jack. They don’t crawl all over each other in public, or whatever. It’s just that having wasted so much time apart they spend every minute possible together.’

  March eyed her closely. ‘You say you resemble your grandmother, Joanna. Does that mean you look nothing at all like your mother?’

  ‘The hair’s the same, and we’re built on the same lines, but that’s it.’ Jo smiled. ‘Kitty’s the spitting image of Jack, so I hope young Tom takes after his mama to even the balance.’

  ‘You obviously love your little siblings. Would you like to have children of your own?’

  ‘One day, maybe,’ she said evasively.

  March raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t sound enthusiastic.’

  ‘That awful endless day when Kate was in labour with Tom I got in such a state all my old resentment against Jack was revived and I cursed him for getting Kate pregnant again at her age.’ Jo’s chin lifted. ‘I got over that the minute the baby arrived safely, but the experience rather damped down my personal desire to procreate just yet.’ She smiled at him. ‘And now I’ve embarrassed you quite horribly. I do apologise.’

  March shook his head. ‘Joanna, I’m the one who’s sorry for bringing it up. But thank you for telling me your story. I was intrigued. Certain things about you didn’t add up.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I asked permission to put you in the picture.’ She smiled as they went downstairs. ‘And after all that talking I’m hungry.’

  ‘Good. Mrs Dean, my housekeeper, has left lunch ready for us in the dining room. But first I’ll show you the kitchen.’

  Daunted by the thought of lunch in that huge formal dining room, Jo eyed him in surprise. ‘Surely she doesn’t cook in that great cavern of a place I saw on the tour?’

  ‘God, no. That’s purely for show—to demonstrate the baronial lifestyle in times past. Mother turned the old scullery into a more viable kitchen during her makeover.’ He smiled. ‘I wanted to have this first time here alone with you, so I gave Mrs Dean the weekend off once she’d put everything ready this morning.’

  Jo was relieved to hear it. She had not looked forward to scrutiny from Lord Arnborough’s housekeeper.

  The newer kitchen had once been the preparation area for the great baronial version adjoining it. Now it was a pleasant place, with bigger windows and modern appliances, and a huge scrubbed table with several unmatched chairs ranged round it.

  ‘A bit bigger than my kitchen,’ Jo commented.

  ‘But nothing as haute as your type of cuisine ever comes out of it unless I’m entertaining,’ March assured her. ‘Mrs Dean is a good plain cook, and I’m grateful to her. But you, Miss Logan, are an exceptional—and beautiful—cook.’

  Jo shot him a narrowed glance, but then flushed slightly as she saw he meant what he’d said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I never burn to make love to Mrs Dean, either,’ he said casually, and led her through a door at the far end into a small dining room with a table laid for two. Its vaulted ceiling was a work of art, and the chairs grouped round the refectory table looked as though Oliver Cromwell had sat there at one time, but even so the effect was so much less intimidating than the grandeur of the state dining room Jo heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ demanded March.

  ‘Nothing.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I thought we were eating in the other dining room.’

  ‘With all the paying public passing through?’ he said, laughing.

  ‘So I was wrong,’ she said crossly. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. Your home tends to have that effect on me, Lord Arnborough.’

  ‘Do I have the same kind of effect on you?’ demanded March, pulling out one of the chairs for her.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she lied, though his throwaway line had taken her breath away. She watched as he filled two soup bowls from a pan sitting on the warming plate of a heated trolley. He put the bowls on the table, then reached into trolley for a basket of hot rolls and put it in front of Jo.

  ‘Voilà!’ he said, and sat down. ‘Lunch is served. Mrs Dean wanted to put on a three-course meal and stay to serve it, but she can do that next time. Today I want you all to myself.’

  Jo was in full agreement. She was all for getting used to March’s way of life by degrees. Degrees? Did that mean she wanted to do this again?

  ‘That’s a strange look,’ he commented. ‘Don’t worry. I promise you a proper meal this evening.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried. This soup is delicious,’ she assured him. ‘Are we going back to the Arnborough Arms tonight?’

  ‘No. I’ve booked dinner at Easthope Court. It’s a longish trip, but the food is worth it.’

  ‘And now you’ve shed your disguise I needn’t offer to go Dutch any more,’ she said tartly, and eyed him uncertainly. ‘But I’m not dressed for anywhere grand, March.’

  ‘You look perfect just the way you are,’ he said emphatically. ‘More soup?’

  ‘No, thanks. If we’re going to Easthope Court I’ll save myself for dinner.’ To her embarrassment, Jo yawned a little as she put her spoon down. ‘Sorry. It’s the after effects of catharsis.’

  March looked at her steadily. ‘It was a privilege to hear your story, Joanna. Though it’s hard to imagine you as a horrible teenager.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Believe me, I was.’

  ‘If you say so. Would you like some coffee now, or shall we go straight back up to the solar and we can have some tea later? I’ll light a fire, and you can put your feet up for an hour or two before we take off. It’s a fair drive, so I booked an early meal. We’ll leave about six.’

  �
��I’m full of soup, so I’ll go for tea later,’ she said, getting up. ‘You first. I need time for that spiral of yours.’

  ‘Built to repel the enemy. But we’ll take the kinder stairs this time.’

  Once up in the solar again Jo felt warmer from sheer exercise. ‘You need to be fit to live here,’ she said breathlessly, ‘no matter which stairs you use.’

  ‘I am fit,’ he assured her.

  ‘I know.’ Their eyes met.

  ‘Right,’ said March huskily. ‘You wrap yourself up in that rug on the sofa until the room warms up, while I do what man has always done—provide fire for his woman.’

  ‘That was only so she would cook for him,’ retorted Jo, and gave a shout of laughter as he flipped a switch beside the cowled stone fireplace and ignited the deceptively authentic pile of logs in the fire basket into leaping flames. ‘What a cheat! I thought the fire was real.’

  He grinned. ‘Did you really think I haul baskets of logs up those stairs?’

  ‘Of course not. I thought someone hauled them up for you.’

  ‘Parts of this house may date from the fourteenth century, but I live in the twenty-first, Joanna Logan,’ he assured her. ‘If you’re cold, there’s another electric heater in my bedroom.’

  ‘No. I can feel the heat from the fire already. I don’t even need the rug.’

  ‘My sister Hetty’s husband never ceases to marvel at life here. Cal is American, and his awe at the sheer age of the place is only outdone by his awe at its inconvenience.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘In LA, in a house with a pool and every convenience known to man. They also have a base here in this country—a house near the Thames at Sonning. But Hetty comes home to Arnborough regularly. Unlike Rufus, who does not,’ added March, sobering.

  ‘Does your brother live alone?’

  He nodded. ‘As I told you, Hetty took him to stay with Italian friends of hers after the accident. Now he rents a small house on the edge of a lake on their property. They have staff who see that he’s fed, and Mario and Silvana get in touch if Rufus needs anything. Not that he does very often—other than more paint and canvas. And the money left to him by my grandfather more than covers that. So,’ said March with emphasis, ‘if you’re still harbouring any guilt about him, believe me, Joanna, you don’t have to. Rufus is leading his life in exactly the way he wants.’

  ‘It’s a relief to know that,’ she admitted, and leaned her head back against the sofa cushions, smothering another yawn.

  March sat down and put an arm round her. ‘Lean on me and have a little snooze, if you like. I shan’t complain if you snore.’

  ‘I don’t snore,’ she said indignantly, then grinned. ‘Or maybe I do, for all I know.’

  ‘Relax, Joanna. Just close your eyes and float away for a while.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she protested sleepily, but the leaping flames and March’s warmth were too much for her. Against her will her eyelids drooped, and with a sigh she surrendered to sleep.

  Jo woke to the rattle of teacups to find she was stretched out alone on the sofa under a rug, and shot up, eyeing March in dismay. ‘I do apologise.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Good heavens. Is that the time?’

  ‘You’ve been out for the count for two hours,’ he informed her, and handed her a cup of tea. ‘Your life has been so hectic lately you obviously needed the rest, Joanna.’

  ‘Bad manners in the circumstances,’ she said, embarrassed.

  ‘I’m flattered that you felt comfortable enough in my company to enjoy a little sleep,’ he assured her.

  ‘If you say so.’ Jo sipped gratefully. ‘This is nectar. Thank you, March.’

  ‘My pleasure. And now you’re awake I shall hand you today’s paper to read while I get ready.’ He bent down and dropped a kiss on her hair, then slid back the panel and went down to his quarters on the floor below.

  Jo made no attempt to read. She finished her tea, then folded the rug and sat back on the sofa, her eyes on the authentic flames as she wondered about the woman March had asked to marry him. He had obviously been madly in love with the unknown Lavinia. The woman must have been plain mad to turn a man like March down. After all he was no pauper. He was also the most attractive man Jo had ever met in her life—not only physically, but in every way possible that a woman could want in a husband. If she wanted a husband—which she herself did not. Falling madly in love with a man did not equate with happiness. Something she knew only too well from her parents’ experience. Kate and Jack were together now, but they’d travelled a thorny path apart before reaching their present state of bliss.

  And love as a consuming passion was not for everyone. She could, Jo admitted, fall in love very easily with March Aubrey Clement. In fact, if she were honest, she already had. If only he wasn’t part of all this! Jo got up restlessly and walked over to the windows to watch the light fading over the rolling green hills of Lord Arnborough’s domain. She looked down on the formal lawns, where people were making for the gatehouse and the car park as the last of the visitors left, then turned abruptly away and went back to the sofa to stare into the flames again. March wanted a wife, and he was giving out signs that she qualified for the post. But he wasn’t madly in love with her, as he had been with Lavinia. And, because she’d been kept in the dark about her true origins until she was in her teens, Jo had a tendency to be wary about all romantic relationships, let alone the kind March wanted.

  She had one last dark secret she had not told March and never would. Nor anyone else. Even now she felt sick with shame at the memory of her jealousy when her parents had told her they were expecting a baby. Jo, at twenty-one, had been appalled at the prospect of sharing her mother with another child. But she had managed to hide it so well neither Kate nor Jack had suspected it. And when Kitty arrived the jealousy had changed to euphoric relief that her mother was safely through the birth. At first sight of her baby sister Jo had fallen so completely in love with Kitty it was impossible to believe, now, that she had ever been prey to jealousy. But a couple of years later the news that Kate was expecting another child at her age had filled Jo with emotion of a different kind. She had been furious with Jack—who had been well aware of it. Kate had been aware of it too, and had told Jo in no uncertain terms that it took two people to make a baby, which was the result of two people’s love for each other, not a deliberate ploy to annoy their senior daughter.

  Jo had come to terms with it mainly because Jack had not. He had been so frantic with worry about Kate right through the pregnancy that Jo had soon put aside her own qualms in her efforts to comfort him. Because, in spite of the stormy passages in their relationship, she loved her father very much. And calling him Dad for the first time had been a conscious effort to let him know that. Something Jack had been swift to understand and appreciate.

  ‘You look deep in thought,’ said March, startling her. ‘Penny for them?’

  Jo got up quickly, surveying his elegant suit and snowy shirt in admiration. ‘Wow, don’t you look gorgeous, Lord Arnborough?’

  ‘I do my best,’ he said modestly, and took her in his arms to kiss her so long and so hungrily her lips were swollen when he released her. He smiled into her startled eyes as he raised his head. ‘I knew I wouldn’t have a hope of that once you were ready.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said breathlessly, then looked down at her dress, relieved to see it had survived her nap remarkably well. ‘Are you sure this will do?’

  March gave her an all-encompassing scrutiny from head to toe. ‘Oh yes. I’m sure.’

  Chapter Seven

  EASTHOPE COURT had once been the very grand home of a social-climbing Victorian industrialist. Now it was a privately owned hotel, recently refurbished to such splendour Jo wished she was wearing something more in keeping with her surroundings. Her dress fitted her to perfection, and it had been so expensive Kate had hidden the price tag, but it was nevertheless a black knit dress. Which would have looked a lot better with th
e new shoes she’d worn to Molly’s, which had heels two inches higher than the black suede boots she was wearing.

  Relieved of her coat in a ladies’ room tricked out in Hollywood boudoir style, Jo touched up her lipstick, wished she’d worn more jewellery than just a watch and the plain gold studs in her ears, then, impatient with herself, went out into the foyer, where March was chatting with a man he introduced as the manager. The man personally led them through the palatial room, which was only half filled this early in the evening. He seated Jo at a window table, wished them a pleasant evening and left them to the care of a brace of waiters.

  They were provided with huge menus, and their order was taken for wine, but Jo’s eyes were riveted to the view of floodlit lawns and tree-fringed lake.

  ‘Glitzy place,’ she said, when they were alone.

  March eyed her closely. ‘You don’t like it?’

  She laughed. ‘What’s not to like? Fantastic view, and if the food lives up to the surroundings it should be wonderful.’

  ‘It usually is. Though no better than the dinner we had at your friend Molly’s restaurant.’

  Jo smiled warmly. ‘That’s a kind thing to say.’

  March touched a caressing finger over the back of her hand. ‘It’s the truth.’

  Feeling the touch right down to her toes, Jo took refuge in her menu. ‘What do you recommend?’

  The dishes they ordered were exquisite to eat, and works of art to look at, but Jo’s pleasure in the evening came to an emergency stop halfway through her main course when a husky female voice exclaimed, ‘March! How lovely to see you.’

  March rose to his feet as a blonde vision in sapphire-blue silk swept up to kiss him on both cheeks. ‘Hello, Lavinia.’

  The woman eyed Jo with interest and beamed at March. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled down at Jo. ‘Allow me to present Miss Joanna Logan. Joanna, meet an old friend of mine—Lavinia Fox-Hatton.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Jo politely, with the warmest smile she could muster, and won a brilliant smile in return.