English Lord, Ordinary Lady

‘I hadn’t really noticed, actually.’

Marianne whacked her on the shoulder with a paperback. ‘Go on! You can’t fool me. Look at that lovely thick dark hair and those brooding, serious eyes. I bet there’s a fine physique underneath that suit.’

‘Marianne, you’ve been spending far too long camped out in the spicier parts of the romance section. Not every woman thinks about a man in terms of hard abs and strong thighs. Some things are more important.’

Marianne hissed out a laugh. ‘Yeah, right! Just don’t dribble too much on that keyboard, OK?’

Josie turned back to face the monitor, closed down the page and stood up, whisking her belongings under her arm as she did so.

‘Nobody here is going to be doing any drooling, trust me.’

‘Whatever you say, Josie.’

The librarian sauntered off, a smug grin on her face. Josie sighed. Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—she wasn’t going to let herself think about moody looks and washboard abs. Those didn’t count for anything. A man with a heart and a soul was a much rarer, and infinitely more precious, commodity.

Will Roberts might look ‘dishy’ but he might also be the worst thing to happen to Elmhurst Hall in five centuries. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

CHAPTER TWO

WILL sat in the corner of the tearoom, partly hidden by a hideous piece of garden trellis with faded plastic ivy poking through it. He picked up a leaf that had either fallen off or been picked off by a bored customer and fixed it back onto one of the many waiting stubs.

Something would have to be done about this place.

While the hall looked elegantly shabby at present, the tearoom just looked cheap.

The only possible problem might be its manageress. He’d been here a month—well, not an entire month. Only weekends, really—and he still had no idea how she’d react to the news that he wanted to completely gut and refurbish the tearoom. In the end, he’d had to cut short his work in London and come down here on a Monday afternoon.

You’d think the pink-haired girl would be pleased he was bringing this beautiful place back to life, but every time he was in her presence it was as if he could hear her tutting at him. Not out loud, of course. But the noise was there all the same. Inside his head.

He watched her as she chatted to customers, and, clearing their plates, said goodbye. She might look a little strange, but she was good with people. Warm. Engaging. With other people.

He checked his watch. Only five more minutes and the tearoom would close. Then she’d have to talk to him.

Over the last few weeks he’d met with all the staff, one by one, to talk through their jobs and find out if they had ideas for improvement. And, while he’d listened carefully to each one of them, he hadn’t been convinced about some of the ideas. Especially Molly’s. She was one of the more enthusiastic volunteer guides. Somehow, a garden-gnome museum didn’t sit right with his vision for the hall. It needed ideas with taste, class—initiatives with a certain sense of respect for tradition and the history of the place.

He wiggled another leaf on the ivy trail and pushed it back into position. Totally fake and out of place.

A cup of tea clattered onto the table in front of him. He looked up to find Josie staring at him. Let’s get it over with, then, her expression said.

‘Thank you. Why don’t you sit down?’

She looked away for a split-second then dropped into the moulded plastic seat bolted onto the metal supports that held the table in place.

‘I’ve been looking over the accounts for the tearooms.’

She let out a breath through her nostrils and continued staring at him.

‘They’re not good—’

She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. ‘I do as well as I can under the circumstances. You try running a place like this with only one working oven, not enough staff and a budget that only allows for the cheapest, lowest-quality ingredients. I’d like to see you do better.’

‘I said the figures weren’t good. I didn’t say they were terrible. In fact, if you’d let me finish, I was about to say that the tearoom seems to be the only part of the estate that’s made any money in the last few years and, reading between the lines, I’d say that had an awful lot to do with you.’

Her arms dropped to her sides. ‘Oh.’

‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Josie. You’re producing a great menu under severe limitations, but this place is a dive.’

Her body straightened and her hands flew to her hips, but then she looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the ivy, and she slumped again.

‘You’re right. It’s hideous. I told Harry that over and over, but he wouldn’t hear of changing anything. Couldn’t see what the problem was.’

He took a sip of his tea. It was hot and strong and exactly how he liked it.

‘So, you won’t have any objections to a bit of refurbishment, then?’

‘A bit? I’d say we ought to rip the whole lot out and start again!’ She jumped off the chair. ‘Just look at this.’

He almost choked on his tea as she ran to get a wooden chair from near the till, balanced it on the table next to him and vaulted onto the table-top.

Circus tricks? What the heck was she doing?

Unfortunately his legs seemed to be half-wedged under the plastic table and he wasn’t about to go anywhere fast.

‘Josie! I don’t think you should…’

She made a dismissive noise. ‘I’m not very heavy. It’ll be fine.’

Finally his leg came free and he lurched forward trying to grab hold of her. Too late. She was atop the chair and poking at the polystyrene-tiled suspended ceiling.

There was nothing else to do but join her on top of the table and hope the plastic was stronger than it looked.

‘See?’

‘Josie, I…’

And then he did see. Beyond the polystyrene tile she had moved was the original ceiling, beams and all. It was dark and dusty now but if it were restored it would look sensational.

She was smiling down at him. Even standing on the chair she wasn’t a whole lot taller than him and he suddenly became aware of the rise and fall of her chest, of the glow in her eyes.

‘I…um…think we ought to discuss this at ground level.’

Something in the way she looked at him changed. She closed her mouth and stared at him. Hard, but without the familiar hint of disapproval. ‘OK…Lord Radcliffe.’

When they’d clambered down and found their seats again he said, ‘Call me Will.’

She smiled at him. It transformed her face. Without the eyeliner and pink hair she’d be an absolute knockout. ‘That wouldn’t really be appropriate, would it?’

‘It wouldn’t?’

She shook her head. ‘Barrett told me you’re a real stickler for doing the right thing—all that social-etiquette nonsense. It wouldn’t do to get too familiar with the hired help. Creates the wrong impression.’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m new to this.’

‘I can tell.’

‘Is it really that obvious?’

She looked him up and down. ‘Your clothes are expensive, all right, but not really suitable for the country. You look like a London city-slicker.’

‘Well, I am a…I do work in London.’

‘Then wear the Armani to the office. Your dry-cleaning bills will be astronomical if you don’t get something practical to wear down here.’

He raised an eyebrow. He wouldn’t have pegged Josie as being a girl who knew Armani from her elbow.

‘The suit makes you look out of place.’

And her clothes didn’t? However, it would do no good to mention that now. He was on a mission to build bridges. That piece of news could wait till a later date. For the first time since he’d met her, he couldn’t hear the tutting in his brain. And that was seriously good news.

If his instincts were right—and when it came to money and business, they invariably were—she was the only reason this place hadn’t closed down by now. She’d be a useful ally and he needed to keep her that way. So he nodded and filed her advice away for future use.

‘OK. Thanks.’

The door opened and Hattie skipped in. Josie rose to greet a woman he presumed was another of the village mothers. As they chatted in the doorway of the tearoom, Hattie made a beeline for his table.

‘Hello, Will,’ she said and plonked herself down on his lap.

Will held his breath.

What on earth was he supposed to do now? He didn’t know how to talk to kids, let alone play with them. He looked over to Josie for help, but she was still deep in conversation with the other woman.

He looked at Hattie. She looked back at him.

No smiles. No infantile chatter. Just a look.

A look that said she didn’t care who he was or how many grand buildings he’d restored, or even that he owned every stick and stone of Elmhurst Hall. She liked him, and that was that.

Odd.

But nice.

They were still staring at each other when Josie returned, eyebrows raised. He looked up at her, pleading, and saw a hint of a grin flicker across her face.

‘Why don’t you go and help yourself to a muffin, poppet? There’s a choice of blueberry or lemon and raspberry.’

Hattie was across the room in a flash and Will took no time in untangling himself from the table and chair and getting to his feet. He brushed himself down, although he didn’t know why; Hattie didn’t have a speck of dirt on her.

‘About the renovations. I’ll get my architect on to it straight away.’

She didn’t say anything, just nodded, and as he left the tearoom he still wasn’t sure if she was friend or foe.

Harrington House was visible from a good mile away. Josie’s heart sank into her stomach and the car complained as she crunched it into third gear.

‘Hooray!’ Hattie yelled from the back seat.

If only she could share her daughter’s enthusiasm. How Josie could feel claustrophobic in a house with nearly a hundred rooms was a mystery. But she did. Always had.

As they approached it seemed to grow and loom over her. Odd. She never felt that way about Elmhurst Hall. Mind you, it was probably less than half the size of this place and, whereas the hall sat in rolling countryside, framed by trees and old woods, Harrington House was almost the only vertical feature in view, built to dominate its surroundings. Built to intimidate.

She was determined not to let it work on her.

Still, she felt awfully small as she climbed out of the car and pulled the driver’s seat forward to let Hattie out of the back.

Hattie ran to the front door, which had opened while Josie had been locking the car, and disappeared inside. Josie pushed the keys into her pocket and walked slowly towards the woman waiting at the threshold.

They both ignored the awkwardness and leaned in for a stiff kiss.

‘Hello, Mum. Lovely to see you.’

Her mother looked her up and down, her eyes hovering on the pink bunches. She didn’t bother with a reprimand, which was very sensible. It would have done no good.

‘You too, Josephine. Your brother is already here.’

She made her mouth curve. ‘Great. What time’s lunch?’

‘We’ll be sitting down at one-thirty.’

They started the walk across the gargantuan hallway, the heels of her mother’s court shoes giving voice to the tension like the drumbeats of a Hollywood thriller. As they entered the drawing room, Josie’s smile approached something close to genuine.

‘Congratulations, Alfie!’ She ran to her older brother and gave him a squeeze. His sandy hair flopped over his forehead as usual and he wore his trademark silly grin, although it was possibly wider and sillier than normal—almost certainly due to the slender girl standing next to him who was staring at her with unabashed curiosity.

She slapped Alfie on the arm. ‘Didn’t you warn her about me, big brother?’ She gave the girl a kiss on the cheek. ‘Nice to meet you, Sophie. Your fiancé should have filled you in on his naughty little sister. Then again, perhaps he thought it wiser to keep me out of the way until you’d said yes. Let’s see the ring, then.’

Sophie obediently displayed her left hand.

Josie made all the motions of admiring the obscenely large diamond. It was so huge and Sophie was so skinny it was a wonder she wasn’t dragging it around on the floor.

Sophie was still staring at her. ‘Your hair’s…I mean, it’s very…’

Her eyes widened even further. She probably hadn’t meant to let that slip out, but the poor thing seemed to be in shock, like a startled pheasant from one of her father’s shooting parties.

‘I think the word you’re looking for is pink. The name on the box was “Hot-Pants Pink”, if I recall rightly.’

‘Really, Josephine!’

She turned to face her mother and shrugged. She wasn’t apologising for looking as she wanted to look and being who she wanted to be.

Dinner was as long and tortuous as she’d expected it to be. At least Hattie seemed content to demolish two bowls of some fancy apple tart with mountains of ice cream.

Poor Sophie—Josie had only known the girl two hours and she already couldn’t think of her without adding the ‘poor’ in front of her name—was almost too scared to chew. Although she needn’t have bothered being so petrified, not with Josie there to suck up all the negative vibes.

Next to Josie, Sophie looked like a perfect angel. And she certainly seemed like one with her quiet demeanour and impeccable manners.

Poor Sophie. If she really knew what she was marrying into she’d run a mile, screaming all the way.

After the meal, when they had retired to the drawing room once again, Josie saw her mother fix a smile to her face and walk over to her.

‘Hattie is such a darling, isn’t she?’

Here we go, thought Josie. Mother was working up to something, she just knew it.

‘Yes, she’s a very special girl.’

Her mother’s face softened as she watched Hattie, lying on the floor with her head bent over a colouring book, the tip of her tongue poking out as she concentrated.

No doubt her mother approved of the frilly concoction her granddaughter had insisted on wearing. Josie shook her head. Hattie’s tights were spotless and unladdered and there wasn’t a spot of ice cream down the front of her dress.

Her mother must have been reading her thoughts. ‘She looks charming, doesn’t she? Quite the little lady. When I remember you at her age…’

Any comparisons were not going to be favourable to Josie. Her mother might as well come straight out and say it: she didn’t know how such a disappointment as Josie had produced something so perfect.

Truth was, Josie wasn’t quite sure she knew herself. All the seriousness and particular neatness definitely hadn’t come from her.

And, as far as she remembered, it hadn’t come from Hattie’s father either. Miles was the archetypal playboy. Plenty of charm and sophistication with just a hint of danger. And a smile that had been able to melt her knees at twenty paces. She hadn’t stood a chance.

And they’d both had too much money and too little sense to behave responsibly. Cue one pregnant eighteen-year-old and two very shocked sets of parents.

‘…maybe spend the holidays here?’

She suddenly became aware she’d drifted off and her mother was asking her a question.

‘Pardon, Mum?’

There was that look again. ‘I was asking whether Hattie should come and spend the summer holidays with us. She could learn to ride.’

‘I don’t know what our plans are yet.’

She knew she couldn’t keep stalling her mother for ever, but a vague answer would give her a bit of breathing room, time to plot and plan.

No way was Hattie going to spend six weeks at Harrington House. Short visits every couple of months were OK, but a month and a half was too long. She’d be brainwashed by the beginning of the autumn term.

All that innocence and joy at discovering life would be lost and replaced by a feeling that, no matter how hard she tried, she just wasn’t living up to the standards expected of a Harrington-Jones. Every activity, every decision would be measured by whether it was ‘right’ or ‘appropriate’, not by whether it was good for her soul.

Her mother was watching her.

‘I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but it’s no excuse to keep Hattie away from us.’

‘That’s not it at all.’

Her mother raised an eyebrow.

‘You know what it’s like in the summer months. I’m going to be so busy with work. It’s difficult to plan ahead.’

‘How convenient.’ Her mother pulled a finger along the mantelpiece to inspect for dust. ‘But you don’t have to work. I’ve said many a time that you and Hattie could come and live here with us—have your own apartments even, if you wanted a little independence.’

It wouldn’t be the same. A different front door would not stop the magnetic pull of her mother’s iron will. Before she knew it, she’d be married off to some minor lord who would put up with the skeletons rattling—no, lindy-hopping—in her closet and Hattie would be ‘coming out’ as a debutante.

‘I got myself pregnant, Mum. It should be me who deals with the consequences.’

Her mother brushed the few molecules of dust she’d found off her finger with her thumb. ‘Just don’t punish Hattie because you don’t want to live here.’

‘Mum, Hattie is hardly deprived! She’s got a lot more than some children have. I’m just letting her have a happy childhood. Not everything I do is a way of getting back at you.’

There was no warmth in her mother’s voice as she answered. ‘Well, that’s a relief to know.’

‘I know what you think, Mum. I know I messed up big time in the past, but that’s changed. Having Hattie made me grow up and take a good look at my life. I might not wear cardigans and pearls and have married into a good family—’

‘You had the chance.’

Well, she’d let her parents think that. Miles had disappeared in a cloud of dust when she’d told him the news. It was less humiliating to let them think she’d turned him down. She had turned down the appointment to ‘get rid’ of the problem at a Harley Street clinic.

‘I know you don’t understand, Mum, but I want the chance to work life out for myself rather than following some pattern laid out for me from generations past.’

Her mother stopped rearranging the ornaments on the mantel. ‘Josephine, the whole point of learning from history—and our family has a rich and successful history—is that it means we don’t have to make the same mistakes over and over again.’

She could talk until she was blue in the face and her mother would never get it. To be a lady, to live in a ghastly heap of stone like this, was all her mother had ever wanted.

‘Making my own mistakes, learning my own lessons is what makes me feel alive.’

And she had learned from other people’s mistakes, just not from her distant ancestors. The generation she had learned most from was right in this room.

She looked over at Hattie, absorbed in her drawing of a princess, and her heart pinched a little.

No way was Hattie going to grow up feeling as if she had to earn every little bit of love that came her way. And while she knew her own teenage years had been pretty wild, all it had been was attention-seeking. Hopefully Hattie would be grounded enough to never feel the need to do some of the things Josie’d done.

She looked over at Hattie, lying on her front and kicking her legs in the air behind her.

It was fine to talk about letting her have her wings when she was this age, more interested in frilly dolls and secret clubs with her best friends, but in a few years’ time it would be a whole different kettle of fish. Boys. Drink. Drugs. Avenues for self-destruction would be beckoning to her at every turn.

The urge to keep Hattie at Elmhurst for ever, playing trolls and fairies, was sudden and overpowering. She looked over at her mother again, who was staring into the flames of the fire.

She wanted to lean forward and give her mother a kiss on the cheek, to say she understood her protective urges but wouldn’t be confined by them, but before she’d managed to move her mother broke out of her trance and walked away.

‘Hattie? Look out of the window and see who’s at the door, will you?’ Josie raised her head from where she was kneeling over the bath, ignoring the pink drips plopping onto the bath mat. ‘Hattie?’

Silence.

Blast! She turned off the water and dropped the shower head into the tub, then grabbed the carrier bag she’d got when she’d bought the hair dye and fixed it over her hair as she ran down the stairs. Her slippery fingers closed round the door handle. She yanked it open and froze.

Will was standing there, his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide.

Double blast! No one wanted to open the door to their boss with a plastic bag wrapped round their head. Not even if they were the sort of girl who didn’t normally care what other people thought about their appearance.

She stared right back at him, issuing him a challenge. Go on, say something. The corner of his lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile. He’d better not laugh at her.

She gestured to her hair then reached to catch a drip running down the side of her head. Her fingers were a dark magenta when she pulled them away.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s about the tearoom. I can…come back later if…’

‘No! I mean…no. Come in. I’ll just…’

She opened the door wide and let him pass. As soon as it was closed again she sprinted upstairs and into the bathroom. He would just have to wait while she sorted her hair out.

Ten minutes later, when the water had finally run from fuchsia through pale pink to transparent, she stood up and rubbed her head vigorously with a towel.

There were no sounds at all coming from the living room as she walked down the stairs. Had he left? The last thing she needed right now was to have to search the estate for him. It was almost Hattie’s bedtime.

She flicked a strand of damp hair out of her eye as she entered the room and stopped. Two heads were bent over a game of snakes and ladders. Not a word passed their lips. They rolled the dice, moved their counters, scaled ladders and slid down snakes in complete silence.

It wasn’t long before Hattie’s counter occupied the winning square. She looked up at Will and they smiled at each other. ‘Thanks, Will.’

Josie walked over and ruffled Hattie’s hair. ‘Come on, princess. Time you got into your PJs and brushed your teeth.’

Hattie smoothed her hair down with the flat of her hand and disappeared upstairs.

Josie turned to face Will and shrugged. ‘Sorry about that.’

He looked puzzled.

‘Trapped into a game of snakes and ladders. I hope you weren’t too bored.’

He shook his head. ‘It was fun.’

Fun. Really? Then where had been all the shrieks of joy and cries of despair? He was just being polite.

‘What brings you to my doorstep on a Sunday evening, then?’

He picked up a briefcase propped neatly against the leg of the table and removed a manila folder. His fingers were quick and precise, every action clean and efficient.

‘My architect has drawn up some plans for the tearoom. I thought you’d like to have a look. If you have any suggestions, please let me know.’

He handed her the file.

Well, there was a turn-up for the books. Somebody actually wanted her opinion on something for a change. All the years she’d spent trying to get Harry to listen to her…

That was the problem with being labelled an enfant terrible. Nobody took her seriously. This was her chance to show the world she was more than just a disaster on legs.

Will really seemed to want to do the best for the hall. And, since he had no knowledge of her infamous past, he looked at her without the blinkers—saw the potential instead of the danger. She liked that feeling.

Now, if only she could make sure he kept seeing her in that light. She mustn’t do anything stupid to change his opinion of her.