The Mistress of His Manor

by Catherine George

  ‘Life must have been a lot different when you transferred to college here. Peel’s fault,’ he added.

  Jo shook her head. ‘Something Charlie said tonight has rather changed my mind about that. He was utterly sure I was the determined type who would finish no matter what. Much as it grieves me to agree with him, he’s right.’ Jo sighed as she collected plates. ‘I should have stuck it out and graduated.’

  ‘Do you regret that now?’

  ‘Only because I didn’t finish what I started. My business qualifications are far more practical career-wise. And what I’m doing now with Jack suits me down to the ground.’

  March got to his feet, his eyes sombre as they followed her. ‘Which is going to work against me, of course.’

  Jo stacked the plates in the dishwasher then turned to face him. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I want you with me at Arnborough. You can hardly commute from there to keep working for your father, Joanna.’

  ‘I know. Which is precisely why I’ve asked you for time.’ She yawned again. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a busy day—and evening.’

  ‘Me too,’ said March, and kissed her. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  ‘I thought you just wanted to talk!’

  ‘I want to hold you in my arms while we do.’

  When Jo showed him into her room March grinned. ‘What a bed!’

  ‘Kate’s maiden aunt left it to her. Though I think single is the word rather than maiden.’ Jo smoothed a loving hand over the curved footboard. ‘I can’t believe she always slept alone in it, like me.’

  ‘Not like you tonight, my darling,’ he said huskily, and picked her up to lay her on the bed.

  With senses heightened by their quarrel, their loving was feverishly short—but so utterly fulfilling they lay entwined together afterwards, savouring the pure pleasure of being together as March whispered some very satisfying things in Jo’s ear.

  ‘Time for the talk,’ he said at last, and raised her hand to his lips. ‘You know that I can’t offer you a very luxurious lifestyle. My assets are all I have.’

  ‘That part of it wouldn’t worry me at all—if we do marry.’

  ‘Of course we’re going to marry. You’re mine, Joanna Logan,’ said March, and began to make love to her in a way designed to remove any last lingering doubts she might have on the subject.

  Jo rang Isobel next day, and arranged to spend the evening at her flat over a bottle of wine and whatever fast food she desired.

  ‘I need your opinion,’ said Jo that night, when only pizza crusts were left.

  Isobel’s blonde curls and cornflower-blue eyes often misled the uninformed about the brain behind them. At that moment the blue gaze was trained like a laser on her friend. ‘About your love-life?’

  ‘No. I’ll sort that for myself.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. So, what’s up?’

  Jo reached for the laptop she’d brought with her. ‘Some pictures were e-mailed to me today.’

  ‘Not naughty ones, I hope!’

  ‘Certainly not. These are paintings. And in my opinion they’re good.’

  ‘Then they probably are. Let me see.’

  Jo opened up the laptop and brought Rufus Clement’s paintings up on the screen.

  Isobel looked at each one in complete concentration as Jo put the laptop in slide-show mode. ‘Who painted these?’ she asked, going through them for the second time.

  ‘Rufus Clement—March’s brother. What do you think?’

  Isobel blew out her cheeks. ‘I can’t say for sure, without seeing them in the flesh, as it were, but they’re good. Really, really good. So what’s this tale of woe you hinted at on the phone?’

  Jo launched into the saga of Charlie and the website.

  Isobel heard her out, then nodded. ‘He could sell the paintings that way, of course. But if Charlie’s going to act for Rufus Clement as his business manager why doesn’t he arrange an exhibition first?’

  ‘You mean in this country?’

  ‘It would be a bit coals-to-Newcastle to arrange one in Florence. Plenty of paintings there already, darling.’

  Jo laughed. ‘So where, then?’

  ‘In my gallery downstairs, for starters. Plenty of interest—reasonably local artist and so on—and his aristocratic connections wouldn’t hurt, either. Or,’ Isobel added with a dramatic pause, ‘they could be shown at the family seat. There must be a likely venue in your lover’s stately home.’

  ‘How do you know he’s my lover?’

  The blue eyes looked sceptical. ‘Are you going to tell me this March of yours is just a friend?’

  ‘No.’ Jo gave her friend a wry smile. ‘In fact, he wants to marry me.’

  Isobel’s answering screech was deafening. ‘You’re going to be Lady whatever-it-is?’

  ‘It’s Lady Arnborough—which I’d rather not be.’

  ‘You haven’t gone all socialist all of a sudden, have you?’ demanded Isobel. ‘Why shouldn’t you be Lady Arnborough?’

  Jo thrust a hand through her hair. ‘It’s not just the title, Bel, it’s everything that goes with it.’

  ‘March goes with it, which is the most important thing. Are you in love with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he in love with you?’

  ‘That’s the rub,’ admitted Jo with a sigh. ‘He assures me I’m ideal for the post of wife—because I’m intelligent and capable and so on. To blazes with capable! I want him to be crazily in love with me, Bel. Am I asking too much?’

  ‘Are you good together in bed?’

  Jo flushed. ‘Yes.’

  Isobel beamed. ‘Then for heaven’s sake grab him and live happily ever after. When do I get to meet him?’

  ‘How would you like to go to a ball, Cinderella?’

  Chapter Twelve

  DUE to its surprise relocation to Arnborough Hall, the charity ball promised to be the event of the season. But when the invitation arrived at Mill House Jo couldn’t persuade her mother to accept.

  ‘It’s too soon after Tom’s arrival, darling,’ Kate said firmly. ‘Both for my figure and my energy. But there’s no reason why Jack can’t go.’

  ‘He won’t without you!’

  Jo was right. Jack Logan gave his daughter a very extravagant cheque—enough to cover the cost of a ball dress and a donation to the charity—but much preferred to stay home with his wife. ‘You’ll have Isobel for company on the journey, Jo,’ he told her, and grinned. ‘And you’ll enjoy yourself far more without your father keeping tabs on you.’

  To her dismay, Jo saw nothing of March for the week before the ball because, to his intense irritation, he’d caught—as he complained to her thickly—a very unromantic cold.

  ‘So to be up to par for the big event I’m dosing myself with pills and keeping out of everyone’s way. Which is driving me mad while Hetty and her crew cause mayhem everywhere.’

  ‘Look on the bright side. You’re avoiding Candia Birkett.’

  He gave a snort of laughter which turned into a hacking cough. ‘Sorry!’ he said breathlessly. ‘I can’t remember when I last had a cold. I’m feeling sorry for myself, Joanna.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘I miss you like hell.’

  ‘I miss you too. So hurry up and get better. I’ve splashed out on a very expensive dress, and I’d hate to waste it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t come if I’m not fit to turn up?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘I feel better already. Come early on Saturday—before all the others.’

  ‘Will do. How’s Rufus?’

  ‘Keeping out of the way at Sonning. Though Hetty’s insisting he turns up on Saturday.’

  ‘Good. He can talk shop with Isobel.’

  ‘I can think of better things to do with you,’ said March huskily.

  ‘You’re supposed to be ill!’

  ‘A cold, it seems, does not damp down the libido,’ he informed her. ‘I want you bad, Joanna. Be
warned—I’m hellish tired of this waiting game.’

  His parting shot was hard to forget—even when Isobel joined her in Park Crescent to get ready for the ball together.

  ‘We look pretty damned good,’ said Isobel, as they finally stood together in front of a cheval mirror.

  ‘We certainly do,’ agreed Jo. ‘On my first visit to Arnborough I fancied myself twirling round the ballroom there in a dress something like this. Never thought it would happen.’

  ‘But it has. And a lot more could happen if you’d stop dragging your heels about marrying March,’ said Isobel bluntly. ‘He won’t be able to take his eyes off you in that creation.’

  Jo eyed herself doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure now that I should have gone for strapless. You don’t think the cut is too low?’

  ‘Only in your dad’s eyes. Your mother thinks it’s perfect. Your man will, too.’ Isobel eyed her own asymmetric layers of chiffon critically. ‘Why do I always end up buying blue?’

  ‘Because it looks good with your eyes!’ Jo smiled a little as she held out her flowing topaz satin skirt to curtsey to her reflection. ‘Whereas mine is the exact shade of my Lord Arnborough’s.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Isobel laughed and gave her a hug. ‘That’s why you shelled out a small fortune for it.’

  ‘Right, then,’ said Jo, suddenly on fire with excitement as the limousine came to collect them. ‘Time we were off to the ball.’

  The weather had answered Hetty’s prayers, and a full moon was painting a wide silver path over the waters of the moat as they were driven through the floodlit grounds at Arnborough.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Isobel as they left the car. ‘What a magical place, Jo.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo tersely, her stomach cramping with sudden nerves.

  Then the doors were thrown open and March, tall, dark and unbelievably handsome in formal black and white, came hurrying to take Jo in his arms and press a lingering kiss on both cheeks. Then he gave her a look which made it clear he wanted to kiss a lot more of her than that. ‘You look very, very beautiful, Miss Logan,’ he said huskily, and released her to smile at Isobel. ‘So do you, Miss James. Welcome to Arnborough.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to this wonderful home of yours,’ Isobel told him, standing back to survey it with an artist’s eye.

  ‘Are you feeling better, March?’ asked Jo.

  ‘I am now you’re here,’ he assured her as they entered the warmth and welcome of the Great hall, which was already packed with people as waiters circulated through the crowd of convivial guests laughing and talking at full volume—which stopped dramatically as March appeared with a girl on each arm.

  Hetty, in clinging strapless black worn with a diamond pendant, rushed forward to hug Joanna, and turned with her irresistible smile to welcome Isobel. ‘Hi, I’m March’s sister, Hetty. Let me introduce you to everyone. First and most importantly to my husband, Calvin Stern. Cal—meet Miss Joanna Logan and Miss Isobel James.’

  Cal Stern, long of leg and kind of face, his eyes twinkling behind gold-rimmed glasses, greeted them both with friendly warmth before Hetty swept Jo and Isobel off to meet Candia Birkett and the rest of the charity committee, plus their assorted husbands and partners.

  March rescued them a few minutes later. ‘Forgive me for stealing them, everyone, but my guests must be thirsty.’ He found them drinks, then led them over to introduce Isobel to Rufus, in front of the great fireplace, and smoothly isolated them into a private group of six with Hetty and Cal.

  ‘You’re the artist,’ Isobel said to Rufus, and raised her glass in salute. ‘I’m deeply impressed by your work.’

  ‘Isobel owns an art gallery. She’s also a very accomplished watercolourist,’ said Jo, as Rufus flushed in response to the compliment, looking a lot more like the boy she remembered.

  ‘You really think I’m any good?’ he asked Isobel.

  ‘Why don’t you two talk painting for a while?’ said March. ‘I want to show Joanna the ballroom. Hetty, I’ll leave you and Cal to deal with the people in here. There’s half an hour to go before the actual dancing.’

  ‘You go on, love,’ said his sister, patting his hand. She smiled at Jo. ‘He’s been feeling pretty rough, Joanna. He needs some tender loving care.’

  Conscious that all eyes were on them as March took her from the Great Hall into the vestibule, Jo fluttered her eyelashes at him when he hurried her up the staircase instead of to the ballroom. ‘Are you carrying me off to your tower, Lord Arnborough?’

  ‘Can’t wait to get that far,’ he muttered, and rushed her up the private branch of stairs and along the landing to his bedroom. He shut the door. ‘Do you have a lipstick in that excuse for a handbag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God,’ he said, and pulled her into his arms to kiss and caress her with hunger fuelled by their ten-day separation, his eyes glittering into hers as he raised his head at last. ‘I missed you, Joanna.’

  ‘I missed you too,’ she said breathlessly, and smiled shakily. ‘But now I need a minute or two for repairs, and then you’d better show me the ballroom. Hetty’s bound to ask what I think of it.’

  March kissed her fleetingly again, the raw tension fading from his face as he stood back to look at her in slow scrutiny from head to toe. ‘Glorious dress.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Jo twitched the top back up into place over breasts throbbing from his caresses. ‘Now, let me have a minute in front of your mirror, and then we must go back. Isobel will think I’ve deserted her.’

  ‘She’s almost as beautiful as you,’ commented March, watching as Jo repaired her lipstick. ‘And if she can talk art with him Rufus will stick to her like glue. I try to take an interest, but sometimes his tunnel vision about the subject is a bit hard to take. Hetty has more patience than me.’

  ‘I like her husband—he reminds me of someone,’ said Jo, and scrubbed lipstick from his mouth with a tissue, her breath catching as he sucked on her finger.

  ‘I always think Cal’s a bit like Gary Cooper in glasses,’ said March, as they started back downstairs. ‘Or are you too young to remember him?’

  ‘Of course not. Who can forget High Noon?’ she retorted, then smiled in delight as they reached the dining room, which looked very different from its daytime persona. It was festive, with flowers everywhere, and caterers hurrying about in preparation for the buffet supper that would be served during the interval. ‘This room looks so much less daunting now it’s in party mood.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it as daunting,’ he said, surprised.

  ‘Because you’ve lived with it all your life.’ She smiled at him. ‘Come on. I want to see the ballroom in party mood, too.’

  The ladies of the Arnborough branch of the charity had done long-dead Aurelia proud. The ballroom was a scene straight out of Cinderella, with great displays of flowers foaming out of urns along the walls and either side of the dais, where the band was in the process of setting up. Small tables surrounded by gilt chairs were arranged in groups around the walls, and overhead the newly cleaned chandeliers gleamed like waterfalls of diamonds, their light reflected in the gleaming floor and in the long windows which formed the two outer walls of the ballroom.

  ‘How absolutely magnificent,’ said a hushed voice behind them, and Jo turned to smile at Isobel, who was standing with Rufus, her eyes wide as she drank in the scene. ‘But it looks so familiar, Jo.’

  ‘Probably spotted it in a film,’ said Rufus prosaically. ‘March is always hiring the place out to some film company or other.’

  ‘Great location to exhibit your pictures,’ said Isobel. ‘Don’t you agree, March?’

  ‘I do,’ he assured her. ‘Any time Rufus wants. But right now its function is to bring Hetty and her coven money for their charity. Let’s rejoin them for a minute or two. I must do my meeting and greeting bit for a while with Hetty. I suppose it’s no use asking you to join in, Rufus.’

  His brother blanched at the thought. ‘I thou
ght I’d take Isobel up to the long gallery and show her our art collection.’

  ‘As long as you bring her back sooner rather than later,’ said Jo, and grinned. ‘And then you have to dance with her. And with me.’

  Rufus looked less appalled by the prospect than expected. ‘Only too happy. But don’t expect me to dance with Candia Birkett.’

  ‘Poor woman—why not?’ said Isobel. ‘She seemed rather charming.’

  ‘She was at school with Hetty, and at one time she was forever wangling invitations to Arnborough.’ Rufus leered at his brother. ‘She had designs on March.’

  ‘Quiet,’ growled March as they reached the Great Hall. ‘Candia fancies herself as a collector these days, and she’s not short of cash. She might buy one of your paintings.’

  Rescued from a session of social intermingling, Jo and Isobel managed to eat a couple of much-needed canapes from a tray Cal appropriated from a waiter.

  ‘It’s a long time until supper,’ he reminded them.

  ‘True,’ said March, helping himself to a couple of morsels. He smiled at Jo. ‘You need to bolster up your strength for that first waltz with me.’

  ‘I don’t waltz very well,’ she warned.

  ‘Don’t worry, honey, neither do I,’ said Cal. ‘But when Hetty says dance, I dance. The Clement family is big on giving orders.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ agreed Jo, sending a sparkling look at March.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Isobel, smiling at him, ‘you’d do better with a request than an order?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll have to try it some time.’

  ‘The band has begun to play,’ said Hetty. ‘Brace yourselves, everyone—it’s showtime.’

  Rufus promptly sneaked Isobel out of the main door. ‘I’ll take her up by way of the tower stairs.’

  ‘I just hope she’ll be fit to dance afterwards,’ said Jo, as she went into the vestibule with March. ‘I’ll keep in the background.’

  He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Coward. Hide behind us with Cal, then. He doesn’t like the meeting and greeting bit, either.’

  For a while it was one long repetition of greeting and handshaking while Jo talked to Cal, grateful for his company.