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His eyes held hers. ‘Did you get my messages?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t want to speak to you.’ She shrugged. ‘I still don’t, Lord Arnborough.’
His mouth twisted. ‘It’s just a title, Joanna. I’m still the same man.’
‘Rubbish,’ she spat at him with sudden heat. ‘You’re the umpteenth Baron Arnborough. And I assume the “sort of flat” you live in is a suite of apartments roped off from the public at the Hall. No wonder you laughed when I said I’d like to marry the heir.’
‘All right, Joanna. If you mean that, there’s nothing more to say. I am who I am. Thank you for supper. Again. I’ll be on my way.’
Jo leapt up in consternation. ‘No. Please. Don’t go yet.’
‘Why not?’
She glared in him resentfully. ‘You could at least try a little more persuasion.’
Suddenly very still, March raised an unsettling eyebrow. ‘If I do resort to persuasion, Miss Logan, it might not be to your taste.’
‘Try me.’
Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. And, instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, and browse in antiques shops.
The Mistress
of His Manor
by
Catherine George
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter One
LOW afternoon sunlight was so dazzling after the gloom of the grafting house he fished dark glasses from a pocket as he walked past the potting sheds and greenhouses to skirt a virtual traffic jam of loaded trolleys on the main concourse. Excellent. Business was good. Even better, one of the trolleys was manned by a very attractive girl. He heaved a sigh as two men joined her, one of them holding a toddler by the hand. Damn. Not single, then. And years younger than her husband. Lucky dog. As he drew level the girl gave him a smile that stopped him in his tracks.
‘Could you give us directions, please? We need winter-flowering pansies.’
‘Of course. I’ll take you there,’ he said promptly. Or anywhere she wanted.
‘Thank you.’ She bent to kiss the child’s cheek. ‘You go with Daddy and Grandpa, poppet.’
‘Come with you,’ the little girl said mutinously.
‘Darling, you’re a bit hot, and it will be even hotter where the pansies live, so ask Daddy to buy you an ice cream.’
The magic words sent the child towards her father, beaming.
‘I’ll meet you all at the main entrance afterwards,’ called the mother, and turned to her guide. ‘Right—sorry to keep you hanging about.’
‘No problem at all,’ he assured her, and led her on a shamelessly roundabout route. Her husband could spare her for a minute or two, he told his conscience. When they finally reached the colourful display of pansies he commandeered an empty trolley and took his customer on a conducted tour.
She gave him the smile again. ‘How beautiful. You have the most gorgeous plants here.’
‘You come here often?’ Hell—couldn’t he have come up with something better than that?
‘No. First visit. My mother trusted pansy selection to me. She wants every shade of pink on offer, plus yellow and white.’
‘No violet?’ he said, surprised.
‘Apparently not. Thank you for your help,’ she added, ‘but you must be busy. I can manage now.’
‘I can spare a few minutes.’ Or hours. ‘You choose; I’ll load up.’
He eyed her covertly as she made her choice, sure he’d seen her somewhere before. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember where or when. She was certainly a pleasure to look at as she moved from tray to tray to pore over the blooms. Nothing size zero about this lady. She was delectably curvy in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, with a sweater knotted by its sleeves at her waist. The straight, heavy hair curving in below chin level was the exact sheen and colour of the conkers it would soon be his interminable job to help clear up, but the eyes she turned on him were dark, almond-shaped, and bright with that traffic-stopping smile again.
‘There,’ she said with satisfaction as he put the last tray on the trolley. ‘Time to call a halt before I break the bank.’
‘Our prices are very reasonable,’ he assured her. ‘Competitive, at least.’
‘I’m sure they are. But we rather went mad today before I even started on the pansies. And now I must find my way back to the tribe. Thank you so much for your help.’
‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, and summoned a hovering assistant. ‘Show the lady where to pay and take her back to the main entrance, please.’
‘You’ve been a long time,’ said her father, Jack Logan, when Jo rejoined the others. ‘Madam here was getting restless.’
‘Sorry. It was a really long way to the pansies.’ She grinned. ‘Funny thing, though, the way back was really short.’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Led up the garden path, were you?’
‘Literally.’ Her eyes danced. ‘Which is flattering. My guide was very tasty under all that earth.’
‘Tired,’ wailed a small voice.
Her
