like several of the other sign-carrying chauffeurs standing near him. He was wearing a black pin-striped three-piece suit and a crisp white business shirt whose starched collar was neatly bisected by a classy maroon tie. A matching maroon handkerchief winked from the breast pocket of the superbly tailored jacket.
Frankly, he looked like an executive. A very tall, very good-looking, very successful executive. In his early thirties, Marina guessed, he had straight black hair—impeccably parted and groomed—straight black brows, and an air of urbane superiority. She could see him sitting behind a desk, in one of those black leather swivel chairs. Or in a boardroom, at the head of one of those long, polished tables.
But the sign he was carrying placed him very firmly as the chauffeur she’d been told would meet her at Heathrow. So Marina set her luggage trolley on an unswerving path straight towards him.
His gaze, which had been staring rather blankly at the steady stream of arrivals, shifted abruptly to hers, and Marina found herself looking into deeply set blue eyes which widened at her approach. Clearly she didn’t fit his idea of a Miss Marina Spencer any more than he did her concept of a chauffeur.
Admittedly, she probably didn’t look like most Englishmen’s idea of a girl from Sydney. Her bright red hair and very pale skin did not fit the clichéd beach beauties from Bondi, sporting honey-blonde hair as long as their legs and a gorgeous all-over tan.
At least I have the long legs, she thought, smiling ruefully to herself over her total inability to tan—inherited, possibly, from somewhere on her maternal side. Unless it came from her father’s distant Irish ancestry. Who knew, where recessive genes were concerned? Luckily, Marina’s mother had lathered her daughter’s sensitive skin with sun factor fifteen her entire life, and she only carried a smattering of light freckles.
Marina stopped the trolley right in front of the chauffeur and smiled politely up into his by now frowning face.
‘I’m Marina Spencer,’ she informed him.
He gave her the longest look in return, one which left her feeling as poorly composed as the twenty-two-hour flight had. She’d hardly slept a wink, for one thing. And something she’d eaten had not agreed with her. All in all, the trip had been a trial, and she wasn’t looking forward to the return flight, regardless of the first-class seat.
She’d done her best to resurrect her appearance in the Ladies just before disembarking, but despite fresh make-up her skin still felt dehydrated, and her normally vibrant red-gold curls hung rather limply around her face and shoulders. Her widely spaced green eyes, one of her best features, had dark smudges under them.
On the plus side, her jeans had survived the trip better than a skirt or a dress. And her favourite and thankfully crease-proof black jacket hid the wrinkles in the white shirt underneath.
But she still felt somewhat the worse for wear.
The chauffeur’s thorough visual assessment irritated her somewhat. Finally, he bent to prop the sign against a nearby pillar, then straightened, still unsmiling, to hold out his hand to her in greeting.
‘How do you do, Miss Spencer? I trust you had a good flight? I’m James Marsden.’ The fingers which enclosed hers were firm and cool. ‘My chauffeur had a problem with one of his knees this morning. Arthritis. So I came to collect you myself. He’s waiting for us out in the car.’
Marina blinked her astonishment. This was James Marsden? This was Rebecca’s great-uncle? This was the Earl of Winterborne?
Her first impulse was to laugh. No wonder he hadn’t fitted the image of a chauffeur. But, my goodness, he didn’t fit her image of the Earl of Winterborne, either. She’d pictured an elderly white-haired gentleman, with a handle-bar moustache, a walking stick and an Irish wolfhound at his feet.
‘That was very kind of you,’ she said, trying to school her mouth into a polite expression instead of an amused grin. She succeeded, but not before the Earl of Winterborne clearly spotted her struggle to suppress a smile. Those straight black brows of his drew momentarily together, and for a brief second she thought he was going to ask her what the joke was. But he merely shrugged and stepped forward to lift her suitcase from the trolley, swinging it easily to the ground at his feet.
‘Is this your only luggage?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is.’ She was glad now that she’d brought only her best clothes with her. Glad too that she’d had a new suitcase to pack them in. The bag she’d brought to England on her previous visit would have proved a right embarrassment.
This one was an elegant tapestry model in smoky blues and greys which she’d bought from one of the chain stores during the after-Christmas sales at the beginning of the year. It had a roomy matching shoulder bag which was at that moment hanging fairly heavily on one of her slender shoulders, filled to the brim with everything she’d thought she might need on the long flight over.
‘You travel light, Miss Spencer.’
She almost laughed again. He wasn’t carrying her leaden shoulder bag. She smiled instead. ‘Do call me Marina. Please.’
Now he smiled, if you could call a slight upward movement at one corner of his nicely shaped lips a smile. ‘Australians have a penchant for using first names quickly, don’t they?’
‘We don’t stand on ceremony, I guess,’ she agreed, and wondered if she had offended him in some way. There was a dryness to his voice which could have been sarcasm. Or disapproval.
The demi-smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. He was as stiffly formal in life as he’d been in his letters, she decided. But where his written words had seemed rather sweet, his blue-blood bearing and autocratic manner were not so endearing. Frankly, they were intimidating. Marina determined not to succumb to the temptation to kowtow and grovel, reminding herself he was just a flesh and blood man underneath the cloak of superiority he wore so arrogantly, yet so very elegantly.
‘So what should I call you?’ she asked. ‘What does an earl get called, anyway?’
There was a minute lifting of his eyebrows, as though her casual attitude was to be expected but only just tolerated. ‘My Lord, usually,’ came his cool reply. ‘Or Lord Winterborne, in my case.’
His pompousness sparked a touch of rebellion. ‘That sounds awfully stiff. How can you stand it? At home you’d simply be called James. Or Jim. Or even Jack. Still, when in Rome do as the Romans do, I guess. I wouldn’t want to do anything which wasn’t appropriate while I’m over here.’
He gave her another of those highly disturbing looks. ‘No, of course not,’ he drawled, and his eyes dropped to her left hand and her diamond engagement ring.
Marina could not believe the thought which flashed into her mind. Immediately prickles of heat whooshed into her cheeks. When his eyes lifted back to her face, she hoped and prayed he could not read the reason behind her most uncustomary blush.
‘Then call me James, by all means,’ he said with starch-filled gallantry. ‘Come.’ He lifted her suitcase from the floor beside him with his right hand while he put his left at her elbow. ‘You must be tired. I will take you to my apartment in Mayfair where you can have some decent food and a rest. Then, this afternoon, I will take you to the hospital to meet Rebecca.’
Marina felt guilty that she’d forgotten her mission for a moment. ‘How is Rebecca?’ she asked anxiously. This is what you’ve come for, she lectured herself
