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Table of Contents
“You’re wasted—bullied by selfish women and changing babies’ nappies.”
“I like babies.” Emma added tartly, “It’s kind of you to bother, but there is no need—”
“How old are you, Emma?”
“Almost twenty-six.”
Sir Paul smiled. “Twenty-five, going on fifteen! I’m forty—do you find that old?”
“Old? Of course not. You’re not yet in your prime. And you don’t feel like forty, do you?”
“At the moment I feel thirty at the most!” He smiled at her and she thought what a very nice smile he had—warm and somehow reassuring.
About the Author
BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman, and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and a grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. On retirement from nursing Betty started to write, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.
Mrs. Neels is always delighted to receive fan letters, but would truly appreciate it if they could be directed to Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd., 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey, TW9 ISR, England.
The Right Kind of Girl
Betty Neels
MILLS & BOON
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MRS SMITH-DARCY had woken in a bad temper. She reclined, her abundant proportions supported by a number of pillows, in her bed, not bothering to reply to the quiet ‘good morning’ uttered by the girl who had entered the room; she was not a lady to waste courtesy on those she considered beneath her. Her late husband had left her rich, having made a fortune in pickled onions, and since she had an excellent opinion of herself she found no need to bother with the feelings of anyone whom she considered inferior. And, of course, a paid companion came into that category.
The paid companion crossed the wide expanse of carpet and stood beside the bed, notebook in hand. She looked out of place in the over-furnished, frilly room; a girl of medium height, with pale brown hair smoothed into a French pleat, she had unremarkable features, but her eyes were large, thickly lashed and of a pleasing hazel. She was dressed in a pleated skirt and a white blouse, with a grey cardigan to match the skirt—sober clothes which failed to conceal her pretty figure and elegant legs.
Mrs Smith-Darcy didn’t bother to look at her. ‘You can go to the bank and cash a cheque—the servants want their wages. Do call in at the butcher’s and tell him that I’m not satisfied with the meat he’s sending up to the house. When you get back—and don’t be all day over a couple of errands—you can make an appointment with my hairdresser and get the invitations written for my luncheon party. The list’s on my desk.’
She added pettishly, ‘Well, get on with it, then; there’s plenty of work waiting for you when you get back.’
The girl went out of the room without a word, closed the door quietly behind her and went downstairs to the kitchen where Cook had a cup of coffee waiting for her.
‘Got your orders, Miss Trent? In a mood, is she?’
‘I dare say it’s this weather, Cook. I have to go to the shops. Is there anything I can bring back for you?’
‘Well, now, love, if you could pop into Mr Coffin’s and ask him to send up a couple of pounds of sausages with the meat? They’ll do us a treat for our dinner.’
Emma Trent, battling on her bike against an icy February wind straight from Dartmoor
