Who should rule – your head or your heart?

When sisters Marianne and Elinor Dashwood are forced to leave their family home to live in a rural Northumberland cottage, Marianne is convinced her social life is over. Somehow, she can’t see kitten heels coping well in the countryside – and being stuck in the middle of nowhere, miles from London, sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry. Not to mention her arrogant new boss, Dr Brandon, who doesn’t seem to think much of her city ways.

When she meets the gallant, charming and handsome Mr Willoughby, Marianne begins to think that country life might not be so bad after all…especially when he suggests that marriage might be on the cards. But the countryside still has a few tricks up its sleeve for Marianne…after all, love rarely blooms in convenient places!

Also by Katie Oliver:

The ‘Dating Mr Darcy’ trilogy:

Prada and Prejudice

Love and Liability

Mansfield Lark

The ‘Marrying Mr Darcy’ series:

And the Bride Wore Prada

Love, Lies and Louboutins

Manolos in Manhattan

The ‘Jane Austen Factor’ series:

What Would Lizzy Bennet Do?

The Trouble With Emma

Who Needs Mr Willoughby?

The Jane Austen Factor

Katie Oliver

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Katie Oliver 2016

Katie Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474049450

Version date: 2018-07-23

KATIE OLIVER

loves romantic comedies, characters who ‘meet cute’, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in South Florida with her husband, two parakeets, and a dog.

Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully better) stories. She even finishes most of them.

So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com, and have a look.

Here’s to love and all its complications…

Special thanks to the Jane Austen community for your generous support – specifically, The Jane Austen Society of North America (New York); The Austen in Boston book club; Jane Austen Variations; Leslie L. Diamond; Maria Grace; and Maria Grazia of The Jane Austen Book Club.

Thanks also to the many wonderful bloggers and reviewers who hosted me, particularly Elle Uecker at The Review From Saturday; Holly at Bookaholic Confessions; Petra at Sparkly Word; Writers and Artists UK; Teresa at TCakes; Jody at A Spoonful of Happy Endings; Kerry-Ann McDade at A Bookish Redhead; Vicky Oliver at Lit Buzz; the fabulous Blossom Twins at Sweet is Always in Style; Kameron Brook at Kam’s Place; Jade Craddock at We Heart Writing; and Aimee at Hello Chick Lit.

And of course, many thanks to my agent, Nikki Terpilowski, my editor, Clio Cornish, and everyone at HQ Digital UK/Harper Collins.

My sincere gratitude.

To you, the readers…I hope you enjoy my little Northumberland tale as much as I enjoyed writing it.

And to Miss Jane Austen, who remains a source of inspiration to us all.

Contents

Cover

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Endpages

About the Publisher

“I wish, as well as everybody else, to be perfectly happy; but, like everybody else, it must be in my own way.”

—Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

Chapter 1

“The kitchen’s not very large.”

So saying, Harriet Ferrars-Holland glanced with disdain at the worn linoleum and the plain oak cupboards, at the wallpaper that had seen better days, and frowned. “It’s actually very poky. And disappointing.”

“But there’s a garden view,” her brother Edward pointed out. “And the bay window in the breakfast nook lets in plenty of light. You can sit and watch the sunrise while you drink your morning coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee, I prefer tea,” Harriet replied, “and I have very little use for sunrises. You know I seldom get up before nine.”

Her statement made Marianne Holland, seated nearby with her mother and her sister Elinor at the dining room table, bristle.

“What bollocks! She sleeps until noon because she stays up every night binge-watching The Real Housewives of Cheshire and knocking back a half bottle of wine. Thomas told me so.”

“You shouldn’t say such things about our sister-in-law, even if they’re true,” Elinor whispered back. “Harriet might hear you.”

“I wish she would. Then she’d know exactly how much I despise her.”

Mrs Holland cast her daughter a glance of warning, and Marianne crossed her arms against her chest and subsided into silence.

With their eldest – and only – half-brother Thomas’s recent death, Norland, the house in Litchfield he’d let out to them at a reasonable rent for the past eighteen years (and their home for all of Marianne’s life) was now to be taken away and given over to his widow, Harriet.

As he passed by the dining room to follow his sister upstairs, Edward Ferrars paused in the doorway and raked his hand through the thick brown hair that fell across his forehead. “I apologise for the intrusion, ladies. We won’t inconvenience you much longer, I promise.”

To his credit, Marianne noted, he seemed as uncomfortable with the present situation as they were.

“It’s no inconvenience,” Elinor assured him. Her words were polite but cool. “After all, Norland belongs to your sister now.” She took a deep breath. “She has every right to inspect her new home.”

Edward regarded her in surprise. “Oh, Harriet won’t be living here, believe me.” He smiled and lowered his voice. “It’s not centrally located in London, for one thing, and it’s not nearly impressive enough to suit my sister’s lofty standards.”

“No,” Elinor agreed after a small, frigid silence, and pressed her lips together. She did not return his smile. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

Dismay flickered over his face. “Oh, damn. Sorry…but I meant no insult. It was a joke. A rather lame joke, I suppose. I certainly didn’t mean to dismiss your home, which is really nice, by the way –”

“No insult taken, Mr Ferrars,” Mrs Holland hastened to assure him. “It’s a – difficult situation all round.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, it certainly is.”

“Edward,” Harriet called out, her voice ringing down the stairs. “Where are you? I’m waiting.”

His face reddened. “I’m sorry, ladies. If you’ll excuse me –?”

“Of course, Mr Ferrars,” Mrs Holland murmured.

He left and made his way upstairs, trailing after his older sister as she assessed the rest of the house, complaining and finding fault all the while.

“I can’t stand that woman,” Marianne muttered. “I never could. But Edward’s nice.” She glanced at her sister. “And really nice looking, too. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Elinor retorted, but blushed. “He barely noticed me.”

“Why didn’t you talk to him?” Marianne asked. “And why were you so rude? He was only poking fun at his cow of a sister, he wasn’t insulting Norland –”

“Please don’t refer to Harriet as a ‘cow’ again, Marianne,” her mother admonished. “She’s your half-brother’s widow and as such, she deserves our sympathy, and our respect. But I do agree that her brother Edward is very nice. And quite nice looking.”

A few minutes later, Harriet and her brother returned downstairs.

“Would you like to see the back garden?” Edward inquired of his sister as he followed behind her. “The roses are in bloom, and there’s a terrace –”

“I’ve seen quite enough, thank you.” Harriet took out her car keys and dangled the Mercedes key fob from one finger as if to be sure they all saw it. “Your stepbrother Robert might be interested in living out here in the back of beyond; God knows, I am not.”

She turned to Mrs Holland and her daughters as they rose to follow her into the entrance hall, and inclined her head in a brief nod. “Thank you, and good day to you all.”

“Good day,” everyone but Marianne echoed.

Edward hesitated, obviously embarrassed by his sister’s abrupt departure. “Thank you, ladies, very much.” His gaze lingered, just for a moment, on Elinor. “I apologise for the intrusion and thank you for letting us have a quick look round.”

Then he, too, fled.

The minute the front door closed Marianne whirled on her mother. “‘Thank you, and good day to you all’? That’s all Harriet had to say, after taking away our home?”

“It belongs to her now,” Mrs Holland said. “There’s nothing we can do.” She looked, suddenly, very tired. “We’ll need to begin packing our things right away. Elinor, can you try and locate a reasonably priced removal van?”

Elinor nodded. “I’ll start making inquiries right away.”

“But – where will we go?” Marianne demanded. “Where will we live?”

“It’s all been arranged,” Mrs Holland said. “Come into the sitting room, girls, while we may still call it our own, and we’ll discuss it.”

Elinor and Marianne exchanged puzzled glances, but followed their mother into the small but comfortable sitting room and sat beside each other on the worn sofa.

“I’ve spoken with Lady Valentine,” Mrs Holland began as she settled herself in the armchair across from them. “She’s offered a very generous solution to our problem.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. Lady Violet Valentine was a writer of romance novels of the most revolting, flowery kind, and an acquaintance on their dead father’s side; he’d always spoken highly of her, and of her great kindness. But Marianne suspected it was the lady’s great wealth that had most impressed her father.

“There’s a house standing empty on her property in Northumberland,” their mother went on. “A cottage. The late baron often hosted hunts on the estate; the cottage was used as a guesthouse. It all belongs to Lady Valentine now.”

“Northumberland?” Marianne echoed. “But that’s practically in Scotland.”

Elinor shushed her. “Has Lady Valentine made the house available to us? That’s very kind.”

“She has, and it is,” Mrs Holland said, and nodded emphatically. “Very kind indeed. She’s agreed to let it out to us at such a low cost that she’s practically letting us live there for free. If not for her offer, I don’t know what we’d do. We’ll need to sell what we can, pack what we can’t, and prepare to move house very soon.”

“How soon?” Marianne asked.

“We have until the end of the month.”

“But…that’s barely three weeks.” She stood up and began to pace the confines of the room in outraged agitation. “How can we possibly pack, and move house, and leave our home behind, in such a ridiculously short amount of time?”

“It won’t be easy,” Elinor agreed, “but we’ll manage. I’ll organise a removal van, and call round to the shops in Litchfield to see if they’ll buy our furniture.”

“We can’t take our furniture along? But what’ll we sleep on, how will we eat our dinner or have tea with no table, and no silverware, no plates or cups –?”

“The house is already furnished,” Mrs Holland said with a trace of impatience. “As for the plates, of course we’ll pack those up and take them along. I suggest you go upstairs and begin sorting through your things.”

“How can you both be so calm? Life as we know it is ending and we’re losing our home.”

“And you’re being a drama queen,” Elinor said, and lifted her brow. “Again.”

“Better a drama queen than a rude cow. You were horrible to Edward just now, for no reason.”

Elinor regarded her in surprise. “I wasn’t. I barely know him. And I was perfectly polite.”

“You didn’t say more than two words to him…even though he looked at you like he was starving and you were the last Galaxy bar in the box.”

Elinor flushed. “He didn’t.”

“He did.” Marianne flung herself into a chair and sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to have a man look at me like that…”

“Never mind Edward Ferrars,” Mrs Holland said. “He’s neither here nor there. What matters is that thanks to Lady Valentine’s offer, we’ll have a decent place to live.”

Marianne snorted. “Right. If you consider a poky little cottage in Northumberland to be a decent place to live. The fireplace probably smokes and doesn’t half work, and we’ll freeze to death in the winter –”

“That’s enough, Mari.” Mrs Holland pressed her lips together. “I’ll hear no more complaints. We should all be grateful to her ladyship for offering us a home, no matter if it’s a distance away.”

Marianne pushed herself to her feet. “I’m not grateful. I refuse to be grateful for Lady Valentine’s charity. And I’ll never call Northumberland – or her cottage – home.”

So saying, she turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the room.

Chapter 2

Marianne hated to wait.

Other people could stand in queues, absently staring into space or fiddling with their mobiles; they could sit in waiting rooms or airline lounges without a word of complaint. But Marianne could not.

Which was why, as she waited on the front steps for Lady Valentine’s arrival, she switched on her mobile phone and opened the e-reader app. She’d downloaded His Lordship’s Touch, the new (and no doubt completely nauseating) book by Lady V last night out of curiosity. She sighed and began to read it now, expecting to be bored senseless inside of a few paragraphs.

But as she read the first chapter, her eyes widened and her brows rose skyward. Cripes – this wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Marianne blushed and hunched over her mobile, glad that no one, particularly not her mother or sister, could see the racy words as she devoured them.

“I want you,” Lord Selkirk growled as he tugged at the fastenings on Annabelle’s bodice. “I mean to make you mine.”

Although her blood raced and every inch of her yearned for his touch, Annabelle refused to yield to Selkirk’s desire. She closed her eyes as his lips moved hotly down her neck. His breath warmed her skin, and his mouth chased every sensible thought from her mind.

“But we’re not married, my lord,” she breathed. Her wits had not entirely gone wanting. “This is wrong.”

His mouth moved to the delicate skin behind her ear. “Tell me to stop, then.”

Annabelle wanted to push him away. She wanted to slap him, and leave, and flounce away in high dudgeon. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Instead she reached for him, and slid her arms around his neck, putting a dark and dangerous glint of desire in Selkirk’s eyes…

“Did you pack your allergy medication?” Mrs Holland asked her youngest daughter as she appeared behind her in the doorway. “And your driving licence?”

With a guilty start, Marianne switched the mobile off and dropped it into the rucksack at her feet. “Yes, I brought my licence. Even though,” she couldn’t help adding, “we no longer have a car.”

“We’ll find another one once we’re settled.” Her mother sighed. “God knows Northumberland is remote, but it’s cheaper than South Devon. And we must have a car. I’m sure we’ll find something at auction after we arrive.”

Marianne didn’t share her optimism. With the house now belonging to Harriet, they’d sold everything of value – furniture, paintings, their old Peugeot – to finance the move to Lady Valentine’s cottage.

And as a result, there wasn’t much money left.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Marianne agreed, having vowed to try and keep her complaints about the move to herself. “I brought plenty of sun cream – not that I expect I’ll need it up there – and my mobile phone, too.”

“Just be sure and call the minute you arrive and let us know how you’re getting on. Your sister and I will be along in a week or so, after all of this –” she gestured vaguely at the front door behind her “is dealt with.”

Marianne looked up at the long black car gliding slowly up the drive and turned back to her mother. “Here’s my ride. I promise I’ll call, mum, and I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Her throat thickened and she thought, for one tiny second, that she might cry. She’d never been gone from her mother or Elinor for more than a few days.

Now she was about to leave Norland, her home – their home – for a new and unknown place in the north of England.

“I’ll try.” She held her daughter tightly. “I don’t mean to fuss,” she added as she drew back, “but it’s your first time away from home without us, and I can’t help it. However, I know you’ll have a lovely trip and a wonderful time at Lady Violet’s. Do you have your letter?”

Marianne nodded and felt in the side pouch of her handbag, where the response from Dr Matthew Brandon, Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, was folded and tucked safely away. “I still can’t believe I have a chance to work in a real veterinary clinic this summer.”

“I know how much it means to you.”

A wave of excitement swooped over her. She’d loved animals from the time she was small. Her room had played host to a number of creatures including a box turtle, a hamster, and a budgie; she’d even had a goat (Billy, of course), kept in a pen near the orchard.

It was a good thing that Lady Valentine had seen the advert for a veterinary assistant in one of the Hadleighshire newspapers and informed Marianne. She didn’t need to take the letter out of her bag to know exactly what it said. She knew it off by heart.

…pleased to offer an interview for a permanent position…assisting in the daily care and feeding of a variety of small animals…some administrative duties required as well…expect your arrival on or about 22 August.

She wondered what he looked like, this Dr Brandon, RCVS. Probably middle-aged, with bushy brows and a stooped back like Dr Edmund, whose wife manned the reception desk. It was hard to tell, just from a letter.

This job, if she got it, would be the first step in her journey to qualify as a veterinarian.

And more importantly, a paying job meant she could help mum manage the household bills.

“Here comes Lady Valentine now,” Mrs Holland observed, interrupting her thoughts.

Marianne bit back a groan.

At her mother’s suggestion, her ladyship had agreed to escort Marianne to Northumberland. The Holland family would stay under Lady V’s roof at Barton Park until the cottage on her property was readied.

Marianne sighed. That was the problem with having a wealthy benefactor. One had to show unfailing gratitude for the charity offered, even if one did not, in truth, particularly want it.

Still, she was grateful. They all were.

“You’re not really making me share a train compartment with Lady V all the way to Hadleighshire, are you?” she complained, even though she already knew the answer.

Mrs Holland’s face set itself in a determined expression. “We’ve talked about this before. I won’t let you travel – and nearly to the Scottish border at that – by yourself, and there’s an end to it.”

Elinor appeared in the doorway. “The removal van’s coming on Tuesday morning to empty out the house and load the rest of our things up.”

Marianne exchanged a glance with her sister. They both knew there’d be precious little left to move once all of the bits and bobs – furniture, paintings, lamps, and rugs – were carried off by the local antiques dealers and junk-shop owners who’d already purchased most of their worldly possessions.

“Good.” Mrs Holland smiled at Elinor. “I was just telling your sister how lucky it is that we’re invited to stay at Barton Park until our cottage is ready.”

“It’s very nice of Lady Valentine,” Elinor agreed.

Her mother beamed. “Yes. It’s a stroke of luck of the very best kind, isn’t it?”

Luck? Personally, Marianne didn’t think so. Sharing a train compartment with the unknown, and very possibly tiresome, Lady Valentine for hours on end was bad enough; but sharing a house, no matter how ginormous Barton Park might be, with her as well –?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Mrs Holland turned to greet the plump, generous-bosomed woman as she emerged from the car in a dress patterned with violets and hurried towards them. “Lady Valentine, what a pleasure to see you again after such a long time.”

“And you, Mrs Holland. A very great pleasure.” Ignoring the woman’s outstretched hand, she held out her arms and enveloped her in a violet-scented embrace. “I was so very sorry to hear of your dear husband’s passing. I regret I was unable to attend Mr Holland’s funeral; but I had a number of pressing business matters to attend to, unfortunately.”

“I quite understand.”

Lady Valentine settled her shrewd but kind brown gaze on Marianne and held out her hand. “Hello, my dear. And you must be Marianne, all grown up, and as pretty as a candy box!”

“Thank you.” Marianne blushed as she was swept forward and all but smothered against the woman’s shelf-like bosom.

“But where’s the rest of your luggage, Miss Holland?” Lady Valentine asked as Marianne extricated herself. The baron’s widow frowned down at the single, worn rucksack at the bottom of the steps. “Surely you have more than that –?”

Marianne didn’t like to admit that she didn’t; she really hadn’t anything else to bring along. “This is it, I’m afraid. I, erm…I like to travel light.”

“Light?” the woman echoed. “You’ve barely packed enough for an overnight stay, much less a permanent residence in the uplands. You’ll need a jacket, at the very least, and trousers…a jumper, and a cardigan, and proper walking shoes. Not to mention a cocktail dress or two, should some nice young man invite you out to dinner.” She beamed.

“Sorry, but I won’t be going out to dinner, Lady Valentine,” Marianne said firmly. “I’m interviewing for a position at the veterinary clinic – the position you found for me – and I have an interview next week. That’s why I’m going with you to Barton Park ahead of mum and Elinor.”

“Quite right, my dear, yes, quite right. And do call me Lady Violet, please. No need to stand on ceremony here. But you’ll still need more than one bag.”

“But it’s summer. All I need are a few pairs of shorts, some jeans, and a couple of T-shirts, surely?”

“It’s not nearly so warm up there as it is here,” Elinor pointed out, ever the practical one.

Mrs Holland turned to Marianne. “I’m afraid she’s right, darling. Perhaps you should run back inside and throw a few more appropriate items in a suitcase –”

“No need, we’ll go shopping for more suitable attire once we arrive and settle in,” Lady Violet announced as she consulted her wristwatch. “We’ll miss our train if we don’t leave straight away.” She nodded at the driver. “Take Miss Holland’s bag, please.”

“Yes, my lady.” He picked up the rucksack and stowed it in the boot next to his employer’s jumble of Vuitton suitcases, then opened the rear passenger door and waited.

Marianne turned to her mother and sister and took it in turns to hug them goodbye. “I guess this is it. I’ll see you both soon.”

“Bye,” Elinor said, and squeezed her hands in reassurance as they drew apart. “Don’t worry,” she added in a low voice. “You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks.” She cast her sister a quick, grateful smile. Ellie might be irritating sometimes, with her calm efficiency and Zen demeanour, but she knew Marianne better than anyone.

Mrs Holland took her youngest daughter in her arms once again and held her tightly. “Have a safe trip, dearest,” she murmured into her daughter’s tangle of dark blonde hair. “I know I can trust you to stay out of trouble.”

Marianne drew back. “What sort of trouble could I possibly get into in the wilds of Northumberland? Catch a cold? Turn my ankle on a stone? Step in a pile of sheep poo?”

“I expect I’m being overprotective,” her mother agreed, and sighed. “I know you’ll be fine. Go and enjoy yourself, then, and don’t give me or your sister another thought.”

“I’ll try. But I will miss you, both of you. Goodbye.”

“You’ll see so many new things, and meet so many new people, you won’t have time to miss us,” Elinor assured her. “Safe journey.”

With a tremulous smile, Marianne turned and made her way to the limousine. She slid onto the back seat, scooting over to make room for Lady Violet, and settled herself beside the window.

Her journey – to Northumberland, and eventually, to a new life, and a new job as a veterinary assistant – was finally underway.

Chapter 3

At some point past midnight the car glided to a stop at the end of a long, twisting drive, and Marianne woke from a half-doze to realise that she and Lady Violet had arrived at Barton Park.

The train had stopped several times during their journey northward to pick up and disgorge passengers before they finally reached their destination. After driving for miles through the darkness, past thickets of trees that lined the hilly upland roads, Marianne saw no sign of a house, nor any indication of a town or village – only trees, and rocks, and swathes of impenetrable blackness.

How the driver found the turning to Barton Park in the tree-crowded darkness was a mystery.

It felt, she thought now as she followed Lady Violet up the steps to the front door, as if they’d been traveling for eons.

She shivered. It was bloody freezing up here, too.

“I did tell you it was colder here,” the woman informed her as she drew her bouclé jacket closer against the chill. “When Tuppy had his grouse hunts, the fireplaces roared continuously.”

“Tuppy?” Marianne echoed. She felt stupid with tiredness after travelling all day; it was only the cold that kept her awake.

“Theodore, my dear departed,” Lady Violet explained. “Everyone called him Tuppy. No idea why, but I’m sure there was a reason, once upon a time…”

Marianne made no reply. She had a vague impression of a hulking pile of stone looming up before them as they reached the front door. All she really wanted at the moment, she realised as she hid a yawn behind her hand, was to crawl into bed under masses of blankets and sleep, preferably for the rest of the summer…

The door swung open.

“Welcome, Lady Violet,” the woman who opened the door said. She nodded at Marianne. “Hello, Miss Holland. I’m Mrs Fenwick, the housekeeper. Bertie,” she called out sharply over her shoulder, “come and fetch the ladies’ luggage upstairs, please.”

“I’m gan as fast as ever I can,” he grumbled. A man – Marianne assumed he was Mr Fenwick – gave the two of them a brief nod and bent to pick up their luggage. “Where to?”

“Please show Miss Holland to one of the guest bedrooms at the end of the hall,” Lady Valentine replied as she made her way up the stairs with Marianne and Bertie trailing behind her. “I assume they’re all ready?”

“Oh, aye. The purple room, then, is it?”

“As long as it’s not the red room,” Marianne said.

But her reference to Jane Eyre and The Shining elicited no reply from either Bertie or Lady V, and she fell silent.

She was far too tired to talk, anyway. Her brain felt like day-old porridge.

At the top of the stairs the hallway stretched off in two directions. After depositing his employer’s luggage in a room on the right, and after Marianne bid Lady Violet a polite goodnight, Bertie turned and led her in the opposite direction, down the left side of the hallway to a door at the far end.

“Here t’are, miss.” He opened the door and set her rucksack down on a chair just inside. “It’s off I go nae, divvn’t you kna, so I’ll say goodnight to ye.”

Marianne stared at him blankly. She didn’t know if it was her sleep-deprived brain or just a Geordie language barrier, but she didn’t understand a word he’d said.

“Um…okay. Thanks, Mr…Bertie.”

But he was already gone.

With a sigh Marianne shut the door and sagged back against it. She knew she ought to take a shower, but decided it could wait until morning. With another yawn she stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and crawled, shivering, under the thick pile of blankets on the bed.

Within seconds, she was asleep.

***

The ringing of a bell woke her late the next morning.

How quaint. Sleepily, Marianne opened her eyes and stretched, like a contented feline, in the patch of sunshine that painted her bed with stripes of golden light. There must be a church nearby.

The ringing came again, and she shot up in bed as she realised it was her mobile phone. Bloody hell, but she’d forgotten to charge it last night…

“Hello?” she croaked as she grabbed the mobile from the nightstand and held it to her ear.

“Marianne!” her mother cried. “Did you arrive safely? You never called.”

“Sorry, mum. I only just woke up…we got here late – very late – last night.”

“Good. We were a bit worried when we didn’t hear from you. Is it very nice there?”

“I didn’t get much of a look round last night,” Marianne admitted, and lowered her voice in awe as her glance swooped around the room, “but my bedroom’s brill.”

She admired the four-post Jacobean bed piled high with white and purple duvets, and the cushioned window seats, perfect for curling up with a book, that looked out over hills thick with yellow gorse and purple heather…and blue skies adrift with clouds as puffy and white as the eiderdown that covered her.

And although the room was lovely, with a lavish, old-fashioned charm that was impossible to resist, she still felt a pang of loss at the thought of the bedroom – and the home – she’d left behind.

“Where’s Elinor?” Marianne asked as she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet dangled at least six inches from the floor.

“Overseeing the packing. You know how organised your sister is, always planning ahead and managing the finances.” Mrs Holland sighed. “Such as they are.”

“It’ll all come right, mum, don’t worry. Ellie’s great at financial…stuff. She’ll get it all sorted. At least we’ll have a place to live in the meantime, and I’ll soon have a job.”

“A job? I’d much rather you both found husbands. I won’t lie about that.”

Marianne laughed. “I doubt we’ll find husbands up here,” she said as she went to the window and curled up on the cushioned sill. “Unless we marry a farmer, or a sheepherder.”

“There’s no shame in marrying a farmer. Perhaps Lady Violet can introduce you to a few eligible young men of her acquaintance –”

“No, thank you,” Marianne retorted. “I can only imagine the sort of boring old aristos she’d consider “suitable”. No way.”

“Oh, well, time enough for all of that later, I suppose. I’ll ring you when our plans are firm. Elinor’s sold her horse to one of the neighbour’s farms so we can buy train tickets to Northumberland.”

Dismay swept over her. “Ellie sold Jingle? But she loves that horse.”

Elinor and the bay stallion were inseparable from the time their father presented him to her on her fifteenth birthday. She rode him nearly every day and groomed and curried the animal herself. She’d worked at the dress shop in the village on weekends to help pay for Jingle’s oats and tack and farrier bills.

“She won’t show it, of course,” Mrs Holland said with a sigh. “You know how stoic your sister is. She hides it, but I know she’s upset. Still – needs must. We can’t afford the care and feeding of a horse any longer, not that we ever really could; we need the money to pay for our train fare and moving expenses.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Someone’s here,” Marianne said. She eyed her phone’s power indicator and saw it was down to one bar. “Plus my mobile’s about to die. I’ll call you later, okay? And give Ellie my love.”

“Of course I will. And don’t forget to call us.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and ended the call.

She was bent over, with her knickers-clad arse in the air as she plugged her phone into its charger, when another, sharper knock followed the first, and the door opened.

Marianne gasped and whirled around, crossing her arms ineffectually over her bra as she did.

“Miss Holland,” Lady Violet chirped as she peered around the edge of the door, “so sorry to interrupt – are you decent?”

“Um…yes, sort of. Come in, please.”

She came in and shut the door after her. “Are you coming down to breakfast, dearest? Only it’s half past nine and Mrs Fenwick won’t hold the buffet over much longer. She’s a dragon about promptness.”

“Sorry. I’ll be right there, promise.”

“Quite all right. I don’t want you to miss breakfast.” She eyed the girl’s bra-and-knickers clad body with barely disguised envy. “What I wouldn’t give to be young again! To have a trim figure and all of my life before me once more…all those pretty clothes…all the parties…all those handsome young men…”

Marianne scrabbled through her rucksack and withdrew a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and stepped into the jeans. “Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Lady Valentine. Everyone’s always trying to fix me up with someone,” she added, “or asking when I plan to get married and how many children do I want to have. It’s beyond tiresome.”

“Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sorry.”

Marianne paused with one leg thrust in her jeans and regarded her hostess in dismay. “Oh, it’s okay – I didn’t mean any offence, Lady Valentine–”

“Lady Violet, please. None taken, I assure you. As one gets older, one tends to forget the downside of being young. Now, please do hurry so that you might have breakfast before Mrs Fenwick puts it all away.”

***

Midway through her eggs scrambled with salmon and a piece of toasted granary bread, Marianne paused to sip her orange juice and studied the dining room in amazement.

She and Lady Violet were the only two sitting at one end of the runway-length table. A hunt board against one wall was laid out with a lavish buffet of eggs, smoked haddock, porridge and fresh berries, as well as locally made honey and sausages and stacks of oatcakes and toasted bread.

It was enough food to feed twenty people.

“Won’t you have some fried mushrooms and tomatoes?” Lady Violet inquired. She eyed her guest’s plate with a frown. “You ought to eat more than that. You could stand to gain a bit of weight.”

“No thank you,” Marianne demurred as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “It’s berries and Greek yoghurt for me most days. Now, if you’ll excuse me –” She pushed her chair back and grabbed her mobile. “I think I’ll take some snaps of the breakfast buffet to share on my InstaPost feed before Mrs Fenwick takes everything away.”

And she began, with great care and intensity, to frame photos of the silver loving cup arranged with red and yellow roses, the stacked linen napkins, the antique silverware and the perfectly poached haddock on its Limoges platter. To get a better angle, she dragged one of the side chairs forward and knelt on it.

“What on earth are you doing?” her ladyship asked, one hand resting against her chest in surprise.

Marianne didn’t look up. “Taking photos. I’m documenting my time in Northumberland and posting pictures online.”

“I never heard the like, taking photos of one’s breakfast to post online to a bunch of – of strangers! Is that a common thing these days?”

“Oh yes, it’s a thing,” Marianne assured her as she returned the chair to the table and resumed her seat. “Actually, I’m surprised you’re not on InstaPost yourself. Since you’re a famous romance writer, and all. It’s a great way to promote yourself.”

“Oh – do you know about my books?” Lady Violet flushed with pleasure.

“I’ve got His Lordship’s Touch on my mobile right now. I started reading it yesterday.” Marianne grinned. “Phwoar! And that Lord Selkirk –?” She fanned herself. “He’s hot.”

The woman’s flush deepened and she let out a trill of laughter. “You put me to the blush, Miss Holland.”

“Marianne, please. No – it’s brill. I can’t wait to finish it and read all the rest. I admit, though,” she admitted, and leaned forward over her plate, “I expected one of those flowery, old-school books. You know – all blushing virgins and brooding heroes and things that go bump in the night.”

Lady Violet tittered. “Well, I can assure you – the only things that go bump in the night in my books, my dear, are the hero and heroine!”

Marianne grinned. “I doubt mum would approve.”

“Well, I certainly don’t condone such behaviour in real life, mind,” the baron’s widow hastened to point out. “A young lady should always behave with decorum.”

“Of course.” Marianne took a sip of her tea to hide the smile that still curved her lips.

Lady Violet set her coffee cup back down in its bone china saucer and eyed her houseguest with interest. “What are your plans today, Marianne?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I thought I might explore, maybe take a walk around the grounds after breakfast…”

“Of course you must make yourself at home.” Lady Violet nodded. “I regret to say that I, however, won’t be here this afternoon. I’m off to Edinburgh to visit my dear friend, Lady Campbell. I don’t expect to return for a week or two.”

Marianne eyed her in surprise. A week or two? She’d have seven to fourteen entire days of freedom before her mother, sister, or Lady Violet returned. Perhaps she could venture to the local pub for lunch today, she decided, and perhaps she might even meet someone promising.

Of course, most of the males hereabouts were probably rural types who split logs for fun and entered their dogs in sheepherding contests. Still – all of that axe wielding and log-chopping must surely lead to some seriously ripped abs and muscled biceps.

Maybe with a bit of luck, Marianne thought with a quickening of her pulse, she’d lose her virginity to a handsome, strapping north-country bloke who looked just like Jamie Fraser –

“Are you listening to me, Miss Holland?”

Guiltily, Marianne returned to the present, and her place at the dining room table across from the older woman. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Mrs Fenwick and Bertie will be here to see to your needs. You won’t have use of the car, as George is driving me up to Draemar,” Lady Valentine went on. “But there’s an estate car in the garage if you absolutely must go out. The keys are on a peg by the pantry door. It doesn’t go very fast but it’ll get you where you need to go.”

“Thanks. Although I doubt I’ll need it, except to go into Endwhistle for my interview at the veterinary clinic.”

“And when is that, again?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“Very good. Now, you must excuse me.” The older woman removed her napkin from her lap and laid it down on the table. “I need to go and pack a suitcase.” She studied Marianne with a twinkle in her eye. “I know I can trust you to behave yourself and stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“I should hope so,” Marianne said. “I’m not Annabelle, after all.”

“No, but like Annabelle you’re a young woman, and a pretty one, at that,” Lady Violet remarked. “Which proves a much more dangerous state of affairs when it comes to things like temptation and the opposite sex, you know.”

“I very much doubt I’ll encounter either one during my walk,” Marianne said, and pushed her own chair back. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have a look round, and drive into the village later. And I promised I’d give mum a call this afternoon.”

Lady Violet nodded as she rose from the table. “Yes. You must do just as you like, my dear. There’s a credit card in my desk in the library; use it to buy yourself some suitable clothes.”

Suddenly ashamed of her ungrateful behaviour upon learning she and her family would be living here at Barton Park, Marianne gave the older woman a warm smile. She vowed to remember that she and her mother and Elinor owed Lady Violet a great deal for her generosity. “Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

“I’ll come and find you and say goodbye before I go.”

Marianne stood as well. “Please do. I’ll be in my room. I haven’t unpacked yet.”

“As little clothing as you brought? Unpacking shouldn’t take you above five minutes.”

“No, I suppose not.” As she followed Lady Violet out of the dining room and across the entrance hall to the staircase, Marianne could barely conceal her excitement.

Soon her chaperone would be gone, and she’d have this entire, ginormous place to herself – well, except for Bertie and Mrs Fenwick, of course.

At the top of the stairs she gave Lady Violet a demure smile and continued on to her room.

You must do just as you wish, my dear.

“Thanks, Lady V,” Marianne murmured, and smiled as she shut her door and leant back against it. “I plan to do just that.”

Chapter 4

The limousine containing Lady Violet and her driver had barely cleared the property two hours later when Marianne, freshly showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, made her way downstairs.

She was halfway across the entrance hall to the front door when Mrs Fenwick appeared.

“And where are you off to, miss?” the housekeeper asked as she dragged an ancient Hoover from the closet and plugged it in.

“I’m borrowing the car –” she held up the key she’d retrieved from the peg by the pantry door “to go have a look at our house. Then I think I’ll go to the village and have a shop and a look round. I should be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

“Does her ladyship know of your plans?”

Marianne felt a flicker of annoyance. “Yes, she does. She said I might use the car – and her credit card, so I can buy myself some clothing. I didn’t bring the proper north country things, apparently.” She shrugged. “Only shorts and T-shirts.”

“And do you know where the cottage is, Miss Holland? Barton Park’s a rather large estate.”

Marianne’s smile faded and she reddened slightly. “No, I don’t. But I expect I can find it.”

“It’s at the north end of the property, where the grazing land adjoins Allenham.”

“Allenham? I don’t know it.”

“Allenham Court,” Mrs Fenwick explained. “It belongs to Eugenia Smyth. Lovely place it is, too, though not half so large – or grand – as Barton Park. Just follow the dirt road behind the stables until it brings you round to the apple orchard. You’ll see the cottage by the stream. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. It sounds really…erm, picturesque.” Marianne opened the door. “I have my mobile if I should get lost. I’ll see you later, Mrs F.”

Mrs Fenwick grunted. “Right. No shenanigans, mind, or I’ll call Lady Violet straight away and let her know. Then I’ll call your mother.”

“No shenanigans,” she promised. “After all,” she added as she went down the steps, “what sort of trouble could I possibly get into up here in the back of beyond?”

***

Marianne made several wrong turnings in the estate car until, jolted nearly to death by the rutted road, she finally found their new home.

It stood at the top of a gentle rise, surrounded by fields and a stone wall, bordered on one side by a stream and a somewhat neglected apple orchard on the other. Fruit hung heavy on the trees and perfumed the late-August air with the scent of apples. Bees droned and branches snapped underfoot as she got out of the car and approached the former hunting lodge.

It’s perfect, Marianne thought. Just like something out of a fairy tale.

She tried the door, but it was locked, and she didn’t have a key. Disappointed, she went to one of the front windows and cupped her hands against the glass to peer inside. She saw a drawing room. The floorboards were dusty, and the furniture – what little there was of it – was draped with sheets.

But such was to be expected. The house was larger than she’d imagined, with spacious rooms and a wide, central staircase in the entrance hall. A chandelier draped in cheesecloth hung from the ceiling; the windows had deep sills, and the fireplace, although empty, was clean and swept clear of ashes.

A mutter of what sounded suspiciously like thunder rumbled off to the south, and Marianne stepped away from the window. The sky had darkened and the wind had picked up, sending leaves scattering. Clouds gathered and skimmed across the sky.

It was time she headed back to find the village.

She was nearly to the car when she spied a tree house nestled in the crotch of a great, gnarled oak behind the cottage. Curious, she made her way up the grassy slope to investigate further. A rope ladder dangled from the branch. It looked old, but sturdy.

Marianne eyed it in consideration. She’d love to have a peek inside the tree house. But the clouds were scudding across the sky and the first few drops of rain fell.

She hesitated, undecided. I really ought to get in the car and go back to Barton Park. But the temptation to see the tree house’s interior won out over her hesitation, and she decided to climb up and have a look.

Marianne gripped the rope in both hands and thrust her foot on the lowest rung, testing it to see if it would hold her weight. It did. Encouraged, she continued to climb.

She was nearly at the top when one of the ropes groaned, creaked, and gave way with a snap. Marianne let out a gasp and clutched at the remaining rope, hanging on as tightly as possible even though her palms began to burn and her heart pounded so fast she feared it might burst. The ground was now an alarming distance below her dangling feet.

Stay calm, she told herself, and forced down panic. You’re nearly to the top. Just pull yourself up the rest of the way, it’s not that far, climb inside the tree house, and wait out the storm in there.

She’d almost reached the deck when it began to rain in earnest – no spring shower, this, but a driving, cold, relentless rain that left her drenched in seconds. Her hand slipped on the rope, slick now with damp, and as she did her best to hang on, she wondered how much longer before she lost her grip and fell. Her throat constricted.

This storm – or whatever it was – had literally come up out of nowhere. If I can just focus on holding on, she thought, and not panic, I’ll be inside the tree house in no time –

Just then, lightning struck a tree a few yards away with a terrifying, ear-deafening crack. Marianne screamed, and her grip slackened and she fell, hurtling downwards and landing on her back. The fall knocked the breath from her.

For what was probably a few seconds but seemed much longer, she lay stunned, as thoughts whirled like a flock of panicked birds in her head.

Mrs Fenwick thinks I’ve gone shopping after my visit to the house. She won’t worry or wonder where I am until the sun goes down.

I could lie here for hours – days! –before anyone finds me.

There are creatures in those woods and fields. Crows…and deer ticks…and adders.

She knew this, because Elinor had read up on Northumberland wildlife once they learned they’d be staying at Barton Park.

Marianne let out a piercing scream as another bolt of lightning seared the sky. She had to get up off of the ground and out of here – she had to.

Over the sound of the wind and the growling of thunder, she felt the ground beneath her begin to vibrate, and fresh fear gripped her.

Oh, arsing hell, she thought wildly, what is it now, a bloody earthquake?

But she soon realised that the steady, rhythmic sound she heard drawing ever closer was a horse’s hooves.

Marianne lifted her head just in time to see a horse and rider silhouetted against the sky, and relief swept through her. A man sat astride the horse.

He saw her then, and cried out hoarsely, “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

Without expecting or waiting for an answer, he leapt down from the saddle and ran towards her. Dark hair was plastered to his head and rain dampened the hard line of his jaw. His riding boots were soon muddied as he pelted across the field and knelt on one knee beside her.

“Are you hurt? Can you move?”

She nodded slowly. “I – I think so. I couldn’t for a moment.”

“You’ve had the wind knocked out of you.” He glanced up at the frayed rope ladder and turned back to her in disbelief. “Good God – you didn’t try and climb that old rope, did you? It’s hung from that tree above twenty years.”

“I confess I did. It was stupid of me.”

“Never mind that. Good thing you landed in the grass.” He reached out, and gently touched her leg, her ankle. “Can you feel that?”

“Y-yes.”

“What about your foot? Can you move it?”

Again she nodded, and – feeling a bit silly – complied.

“Good.” He eased off her shoe and took her foot in his hand, rotating it gently. “Any pain?”

She winced. “It hurts a bit, but it’s probably just a sprain.”

“I’m no doctor, but I’d say you’re right. Nothing seems to be broken. Here, let me help you sit up. Slowly, now.”

Gently, with the utmost care and concern, he slipped his arm round her shoulders and helped her to sit up.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, and shivered as the rain chilled her skin. “I-I think I’m all right.”

“I’m taking no chances,” he said, his words decided. He eyed his horse. “There’s a stable nearby; I need to secure Jasper. Will you be all right here until I return? I shouldn’t be gone above a few minutes.”

She stared at him, oblivious of the rain running down her face. He was quite the most handsome man she’d ever had the good fortune to meet, with a sweep of thick dark hair and firm, kissable lips –

“Miss –?”

Marianne blinked. “Holland. Marianne Holland,” she said, embarrassed. “Sorry, I don’t seem to be myself at the moment. And yes, to answer your question, I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t move,” he instructed. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded and watched as he rose and ran back up the hill to the horse and swung himself up. With an urgent command, her rescuer dug in his heels and pulled at the reins, and the horse galloped off into the rainy darkness.

Marianne shivered and wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to panic. What if he didn’t come back? she wondered. What if he changed his mind? What if she had a concussion and was having one of those hallucinations? It didn’t bear thinking about.

But she’d barely processed the thought when, true to his word, he returned barely five minutes later, breathless and soaked through.

“Now, let’s get you home,” he said, and glanced behind them. “Is that your car over there?”

She nodded. “It’s Lady Violet’s. She’s let me use it while I’m visiting.”

“Oh – you’re staying at Barton Park?” The news pleased him. “Then we’re practically neighbours.” He held out his hand. “Kit Willoughby. My aunt lives at Allenham Court.”

Marianne’s hand was eclipsed in his larger, warmer one. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Willoughby.”

“I’m glad I happened along when I did.” He frowned. “Do you object if I carry you to your car? I don’t think you’ll make it, otherwise. The ground’s a bog at the moment.”

She blushed and shook her head. “Not at all. I don’t think I can stand up without someone to lean on. To tell the truth, I feel a bit…muddled,” she confessed.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. I’m happy to take you home.”

So saying, Mr Willoughby scooped her gently into his arms and swung her up without effort. Rain dripped from the end of his nose and ran down his jaw, but as he carried her down the slope and across the muddied field to her car, Marianne thought that she’d never known a more handsome or gallant man in all of her life.

Chapter 5

Mrs Fenwick opened the door to let them in a few minutes later. With a great deal of fussing and tutting she led Mr Willoughby into the drawing room, and hovered nearby as he lowered Marianne to the sofa.

“Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” the housekeeper inquired anxiously. “No broken bones? Should I call the doctor, or Lady Violet, perhaps –?”

“No need,” Willoughby assured her. “Miss Holland’s had a fall, and she’s a bit dazed, but otherwise seems fine. At least,” he added, “so far as broken bones are concerned.”

He smiled down at Marianne, and she caught her breath as his blue eyes crinkled attractively.

“Thank you, Mr Willoughby,” she said, and smiled back. “You’ve been really kind.”

“Kit, please. It was my pleasure, I assure you.” He turned to Mrs Fenwick. “Since Lady Valentine isn’t at home, would it be all right if I visit Miss Holland again tomorrow and see how she’s getting on, do you think?”

The housekeeper nodded, charmed. “I see no harm in’t. We’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mr Willoughby.”

“But how will you get back to Allenham, and Jasper?” Marianne asked.

“I’ll walk,” he replied easily. “The stables aren’t above a mile or two from here.”

“You can’t possibly walk all that way in this storm.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Please, Mrs Fenwick,” Marianne implored, “can’t someone drive Mr Willoughby back to the cottage?

“That’s not necessary,” he assured her.

“It most certainly is,” the housekeeper said firmly. “I’ll have my stepson Jack take you back. It’s the least we can do after you brought Miss Holland safely home.” She led the way to the front door. “This way, if you please, sir.”

Mr Willoughby took up Marianne’s hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes, so darkly blue and intense, met hers. “Goodbye, Miss Holland. Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,” she whispered, enthralled.

***

The next afternoon, as promised, Kit Willoughby returned to Barton Park with a lavish bouquet of wildflowers in hand.

He followed the housekeeper into the drawing room, where Marianne was ensconced on the sofa with her foot resting on a cushion.

“I’ll have you know I spent all morning picking only the best examples of local flora for your bouquet,” he told Marianne as he gave her the flowers.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, and breathed in their scent. “I love wildflowers.”

“And…” he withdrew a slender white box tied with red ribbon from behind his back. “Chocolates, handmade and liberally sprinkled with Malden sea salt.” He smiled and laid the box on a nearby table. “I have it on good authority – my aunt’s – that they’re the best chocolates Carywick has to offer.”

“I’m sure they are.” A smile dimpled her cheeks. “You’re too kind. Thank you so much.” She indicated the chair opposite her and handed the flowers to Mrs Fenwick, who bustled off to put them in water. “Please, sit down.”

He dragged the chair closer and sat. “And how’s my patient this afternoon? Is your foot on the mend?”

“It is. I must’ve twisted it when I fell. It still hurts a bit, but not nearly so much as it did yesterday.” She eyed him. “What about you? Did you get Jasper back to Allenham in that awful storm? Is he all right?”

“Fit as a fiddle. He got extra oats and three carrots when we got back, so he did pretty well, all in all.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And I’m very glad you happened to find me, Mr Willoughby.”

“Not half as glad as me. And please,” he added, his blue eyes meeting hers, “call me Kit.”

“Kit,” she murmured, and blushed. “But you have to call me Marianne.” She paused. “Is Kit your real name, or a nickname?”

“Nickname. I was christened Christopher but almost no one calls me that. I doubt I’d answer if anyone did, I’m so unused to it.”

A smile dimpled Marianne’s cheeks. “You don’t look like a Christopher; Kit definitely suits you better.” She hesitated. “Thank you again, so much. If you hadn’t come along when you did…” her voice trailed away. “It was really stupid of me to try and climb up that old rope.”

“I often ride along the border of the two estates. I was on my way back to Allenham when I heard you scream.” He leaned forward and took up her hand, all traces of prior amusement gone. “I’m glad I found you as well, Miss Holland. Very glad.”

His eyes met hers, and he brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it so tenderly that Marianne found herself blushing more deeply, both charmed and captivated by her gallant rescuer. Was there ever a more handsome or solicitous man in all of Hadleighshire?

No, she decided as he entertained her with amusing anecdotes and jokes and Hadleighshire gossip for the better part of the afternoon, there most certainly was not.

Perhaps, she thought as she smiled over at him, Northumberland wouldn’t prove to be nearly so bad as she’d feared, after all.

Chapter 6

On Tuesday morning, Marianne had a cup of coffee and a few bites of toast before heading upstairs to get ready for her interview at the veterinary clinic.

She stood before the cheval mirror in her bedroom and studied her reflection with a critical eye. She smoothed her hands nervously over her skirt. It was a bit prim for her tastes – she felt unlike herself in the pencil skirt and blouse and low heels – but it was the only suitable outfit she’d found in the village clothing store.

And at least she looked professional.

Even better, Marianne reminded herself as she grabbed up her handbag, Kit Willoughby had asked to see her again at the weekend. The thought of it put a spring in her step as she hurried down the stairs to the front door.

“Off for your interview, miss?” the housekeeper asked as she pushed through the baize door that led to the kitchen. She held a tray of tarnished silver in her hands.

Marianne nodded. “I’m taking the estate car. I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll probably stop and have lunch in Endwhistle.”

“Your mum and sister will be here tomorrow,” Mrs Fenwick reminded her. “At least then you’ll have a bit of company.”

“I know, and I can’t wait. I miss them both so much.”

“Well, I’m sure they miss you just the same. But at least,” she added with a gleam in her eye, “you’ve had your share of excitement, not to mention meeting that handsome Mr Willoughby, since you got here.”

Marianne blushed. “Bye, Mrs Fenwick.”

“Goodbye, lass. And good luck to you.”

***

The veterinary clinic was located two miles outside of Endwhistle. She found it without too much difficulty. A two-storey stone farmhouse, modest but well cared for, stood on the left of the treed property and a smaller, low stone building occupied the right.

“’Endwhistle Small Animal Veterinary Clinic,’” Marianne said out loud as she parked the estate car in the gravel car park and got out. The words were etched in gold script across a wide bay window. A riot of purple-and-white-striped flowers decorated the window boxes.

Her gaze swept from the bright green door to the nearby pet runs and a fenced exercise enclosure, and a flutter of nervousness ran through her. She liked this place already. She wanted – badly – to work here.

Of course, Marianne reminded herself as she approached the door, she didn’t have much experience.

Who am I kidding? she thought. I have none. But how hard could it be to schedule appointments and bandage up a few injured dogs and cats?

Feeling somewhat reassured, she took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

A tiled floor and the faint scent of disinfectant greeted her as she entered the waiting room. Plastic chairs lined the walls; most were occupied with anxious pet owners and their ailing animals.

Marianne had a quick glance around as she made her way to the reception desk. Despite the bare floor and the institutional green of the walls, the room had a cheery, welcoming feel thanks to the paintings on the walls and bright touches like a vase of roses on the counter and a basket heaped with pet toys in one corner.

“Hello, miss,” a smiling young woman behind the counter said. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I wondered if I might speak to Dr Brandon? My name is Marianne Holland and I’m here to interview for a job at the clinic,” she added.

“Oh. Well, I’m that sorry, but he’s gone out on an emergency call. One of the farmers’ dogs ingested something, and he’s afraid it might be rat poison.”

“Oh, no,” Marianne exclaimed. “How horrible. I do hope the poor dog will be all right.”

“Well, if anyone can help Maddie, Dr Brandon can.” She smiled. “I’ll let him know you stopped by. I can reschedule you for tomorrow morning, if you like?”

“Yes. That’d be perfect. Thank you.”

Marianne waited as the receptionist wrote out an appointment card. A cocker spaniel, a cockatiel, and a crated Siamese cat sat beside their owners, all of them subdued as they waited to be seen.

“Here you are.” The girl – Lynn, according to her nametag – handed her a card with tomorrow’s date and her appointment time written down. “Same time, nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be here,” Marianne promised, and turned to go.

“Good. Oh, and Miss Holland?”

She stopped halfway across the floor and turned back. “Yes?”

“Don’t you worry about Maddie,” she assured Marianne. “Dr Brandon’s the best there is. She’ll be fine.”

***

Just a few kilometres outside of Endwhistle, with a cough and a shudder and a cloud of steam, the check engine light came on and the estate car coughed and sputtered to a stop.

Marianne turned the key in the ignition; she checked the gas gauge (nearly full); she got out and lifted the bonnet to allow the billow of steam to escape; then she peered down at the engine in hopes that looking at it would help her figure out what was wrong.

It didn’t. The car was officially and irrevocably dead.

What to do now?

“I’ll call someone to come and get me, of course,” she said out loud. Surely one of the local petrol stations would have a mechanic and a towing truck on hand.

Marianne reached in her pocket for her mobile. And although she called every petrol station in the area – all two of them – no one answered.

“Right, I’ll call Mrs Fenwick,” she decided, and tried to tamp down her panic. “She can send Bertie or Jack to fetch me.” She took her phone out and stared at it, her fingers poised over the screen.

Marianne groaned. She didn’t know the bloody number. She’d never bothered to programme it into her phone.

“Oh, that’s just great, that is.” She slumped against the side of the car. “I don’t know a soul, the petrol stations won’t answer, there’s another arsing storm on the way –” she glared up at the lowering skies “and I haven’t even got an AA card.”

Just then, over the distant rumble of thunder, she heard the sound – the wonderful, welcome sound – of a car approaching. Marianne whirled around to see a yellow Hyundai Accent motoring towards her.

Immediately she ran into the road and began to jump and wave her arms back and forth like a demented boy-band fan.

As the car got closer it slowed and stopped, and two men got out. “What seems to be the trouble, miss?” the driver, a youngish bloke in jeans and trainers asked.

“Do you know anything about cars?” Marianne asked hopefully. “Mine’s just died.”

“A bit,” he said, and frowned. “Is the engine petrol or diesel?”

“Erm…petrol.”

“Right. I’m Brian,” he said by way of introduction, and smiled. “I tinker a bit with cars. Let’s have a look at the dashboard works.” He slid in behind the wheel and turned the key until the gauges and dashboard info came to life. “Ah, there’s your problem. The temperature gauge is pegged high.”

“That’s not good, is it?” Marianne ventured.

He didn’t answer, but called out to the other man in the Hyundai. “Danny, fetch me that water jug from the boot.”

“Aye.”

Brian walked around to the engine and peered under the bonnet. “Just as I thought, your coolant’s low. You’ve probably got a crack in the water pump. I can fill it with water, and it should get you wherever you’re going, but you’ll need a new pump soon as you can manage it.” He took the jug from Danny and poured water into the coolant tank.

“A new water pump,” she echoed. “Right.”

He lowered the bonnet. “Now let’s see if she’ll start back up. If she does, you can be on your way.”

“Thank you,” Marianne breathed, “thank you so much. I’ve an interview in Endwhistle tomorrow – in fact, I just came from there – and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back home.”

Danny, she noticed, had returned to the Accent, opened the driver’s side door, and got in behind the wheel. She frowned. Strange. Hadn’t Brian been the one driving?

“Let’s start ‘’er up,” Brian said. “I’ll just have a look at your temperature gauge and make sure the engine’s cooled properly afore you take off again.”

“That’s so kind,” Marianne exclaimed. “Thanks.”

With a nod, he slid once again behind the wheel as she stood on the side of the road and waited.

As Brian reached down to start the engine, Danny did the same, loudly revving the Accent’s engine; then he shifted into gear, peeled away from the layby, and sped off with a spray of gravel.

Marianne stared after him. She scarcely had time to wonder where he was off to in such a hurry when Brian turned the estate car’s ignition and started the engine.

“It’s started,” she called out, excited. “Thank you!”

But her joy was short-lived.

Without warning, the driver’s door slammed, nearly catching the hem of her skirt as it shut; and the car lurched forward with a spray of gravel and a squeal of tyres. Marianne, her mouth rounded in shock, stood at the edge of the road and gawped stupidly at the estate car’s rapidly retreating rear end.

She let out a shriek of delayed outrage and ran forward, shouting, “Wait – come back here! That’s my car, you sneaky bastard!”

Although she gave chase, it was no use. The lumbering old estate car picked up speed, and with a cheery wave of his arm out of the window, Brian floored it, and he and Lady Violet’s car were soon lost to view.

Chapter 7

Marianne couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it. Brian and Danny had stolen Lady Violet’s bloody car right out from under her.

The cheeky bastards!

“Have to…to call…the police,” she huffed, winded after running down the road in fruitless pursuit.

She grabbed her mobile and notified the local police, who took down the information and said they’d file a report straight away.

“Can you send a car to pick me up?” she asked.

“It’ll be a while, miss. The only squad car’s gone off to Carywick to check on a reported robbery.”

“It’s probably mine,” Marianne snapped, and rang off. “Idiots.”

Another growl of thunder rumbled overhead.

She’d barely finished the call when rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Within seconds – déjà vu all over again – she was wet through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head.

At least the slime-sucking, lying bastards who’d stolen Lady Violet’s car hadn’t got her handbag…or her mobile.

But how, she thought with a sinking feeling, was she to get back to Barton Park now?

Marianne was about to turn around – to do what, exactly, she had no idea – when a pickup truck, battered and faded, approached and slowed down. Three dogs – border collies, one black, one reddish-brown, and one white and tan – occupied the truck’s bed.

She froze and eyed the vehicle warily as the driver let his window down. He had rumpled brown hair and wore a quizzical expression on his face.

“Having a bad day, are you?” he inquired in a broad Northumberland accent.

“I’ve had better,” Marianne retorted, and kept walking.

The truck kept pace and drew alongside her once again. “It’s not the right sort of weather for a walk today.”

“Do tell,” Marianne snapped.

“What’s happened? Did your car break down? And if it did,” he added, frowning as he surveyed the road behind and ahead of him, “where is it?”

“Yes, my car broke down. A lovely man named Brian stopped to fix it,” she informed him grimly, still walking, “and after he started it up, he stole it right out from under me.”

“Did he, now?” His eyebrows shot skyward. “So did you call the police?”

“I did,” she said. “But there’s nothing they can do, apparently, aside from filling out forms and making excuses, and they told me their only squad car’s out on a robbery call.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “that’ll be the hardware store in Carywick, I reckon. Someone threw a wrench through the front window this morning and broke in.”

“Was one of them driving a yellow Hyundai?” Marianne asked. “If so, they’re the same bastards who stole my car.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Did you call a petrol station?”

Her feet were beginning to ache, but she kept walking. “Yes, I did,” she snapped. “I called all two of them. No one answered.”

“Well, the one in Lambert’s closed, now that I think of it. Bobby’s wife just had their sixth this morning. Six kids!” He shook his head. “And if you call the Endwhistle station, you need to hang on the line for at least seventeen rings before old Malcolm’ll hear and answer the phone.”

“Good to know,” she gritted.

“I’m headed to Endwhistle now. I can give you a lift if you like. If you don’t mind sitting in the back of the truck with the sheepdogs, that is,” he added.

She stopped. “Why should I have to do that? Why can’t I sit up front?”

“I’ve a passenger already.”

She peered past him. “But I don’t see anyone –” Just then, she glimpsed a small, black-faced sheep curled up on the seat beside him.

“Oh, how cute! Who is she?” she asked, and lifted her brow as she met his gaze. “Your girlfriend?”

His eyes darkened. “That’s Emily,” he said shortly. “She often rides with me.”

“Well,” Marianne said, trying hard to hold on to her temper as the rain plastered her shirt to her skin, and uncomfortably aware that her bra was plainly visible through the thin cotton, “do you think you might make room for the both of us?”

He grunted and heaved Emily into the center of the bench seat, and Marianne, wet and shivering (not to mention highly annoyed), pushed the wellies on the floorboard aside and climbed in.

With a reproachful look from Emily and a slight, bemused shake of the head from the driver, they set off.

***

“I hope the police find my car,” Marianne said.

“I wouldn’t bank on it,” he informed her. “Those lads – and your car – are probably long gone.”

She turned to glare at him. “Thanks so much for your reassuring words of comfort.”

He shrugged. “Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say.”

“You would,” she retorted. “Listen…do you think you could take me to Hadleighshire instead? I don’t have enough money for a taxi back.”

“Hadleighshire?” He let out a snort of disbelief. “But I’m not going to Hadleighshire. I’m not a taxi service, you know.”

“It’s only sixteen kilometres. More or less.”

“Only sixteen kilometers, she says!” He scowled. “Petrol’s expensive, in case you didn’t know. And I’ve got the dogs.” He reached out to ruffle the lamb’s ears. “And Emily.”

“At least it’s stopped raining,” she pointed out. “The dogs can dry out on the way.”

“And tell me – why should I go so far out of my way for you?”

She glared at him. “Because you’re obviously such a kind, considerate person.”

“If – and that’s a very big ‘if’ – I decide to take you there,” he said after a moment, “I’ll have to charge you.”

Marianne’s eyes widened in outrage. “Charge me? Are you serious? Well, so much for north country hospitality.”

“Twenty-five pounds. Take it or leave it.”

She gasped. “Twenty-five pounds to drive me sixteen kilometres? That’s outrageous!” Furious, she reached for the door handle and flung the door open. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

She slammed the door; she was certain he’d apologise, and tell her to get back in the truck.

“Suit yourself.”

And with a shifting of gears, he gave a shrug, and drove off.

Chapter 8

Walking downhill on gravel in a pair of kitten heels was not, Marianne soon found, an easy thing to do.

Nevertheless, her fury at farmer what’s-his-name propelled her onward. What an arsehole. What a rude, money-grubbing, inconsiderate arsehole.

“‘Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say,’” she mimicked him under her breath. “Well, you’ve certainly helped me to face reality, you – you sheep-loving jackass!”

She was nearly at the bottom of the hill when she heard it – the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

Marianne walked faster. She hoped it was him. She hoped it wasn’t him. She never wanted to see that smirky, jaded face of his, ever again –

The truck drew alongside of her. “Get in,” he said gruffly.

She kept walking. “I won’t, thank you all the same. I can’t afford it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those – those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes.”

“They’re not ‘faffy little shoes’. They’re brand new; I just bought them. And I’m surprised you even know who Audrey Hepburn is,” she retorted, and kept walking.

“Who doesn’t? I’d have to live under a rock not to know who she is.”

“I thought you did live under a rock, actually,” she shot back. “With all the rest of the gremlins and trolls.”

“Trolls live under bridges.”

“Whatever. Just go away.”

“Fine,” he said grimly. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do this the hard way.”

So saying, he cut the wheel sharply to the right, and she jumped back as the truck’s cab blocked her way. He reached out to fling the door open.

“Now, stop acting like a dafty wench and get in,” he ordered.

Marianne stared daggers at him. But her feet really, really hurt. And her brand new shoes were covered in mud. And she felt perilously close to tears.

“Fine.” She spared him one more glare, then climbed back into the cab of the truck next to Emily and slammed the door. “Let’s go.”

“Mind, it’ll still cost you twenty-five pounds,” he said as he shifted into gear and turned back onto the road. “It’s a fair price, the cost of petrol bein’ what it is.”

She didn’t have the energy left to argue. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll pay you when we get there. I don’t have that much money on me.”

“Suits me. But I’ll come in to make sure you keep your word, if you don’t mind. No running into the house and slamming the door in my face.”

“I do mind. And it’s all you deserve.”

He didn’t favour her with a reply, only scowled and shifted gears once again, and headed south, towards Hadleighshire.

***

The truck slowed to a stop in front of Lady Violet’s country estate forty minutes later.

“Holy shit,” the driver muttered as he took in the impressive stone face of Barton Park. “Should’ve asked you for a hundred pounds, at least.”

“You’ll get twenty-five, as agreed,” Marianne snapped, “and not a penny more.”

She slammed out of the truck and marched up the front steps to the door and rang the bell.

“Can’t let yourself in?” he asked as he unfolded his long legs and got out to follow her up the steps. “Did you forget your key?”

“I don’t live here, I’m only staying for a bit.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, and nodded sagely. “Summering in the country at your best mate’s stately pile, are you? Must be exhausting being rich, I reckon, what with all of that travelling and jet-setting and whatnot. Wears a girl out.”

Marianne didn’t bother to correct him. Let him think what he wanted, she thought grimly as the door swung open and Mrs Fenwick regarded them both in surprise.

“Miss Holland, there you are. I was that worried after your last mishap, I was ready to call her ladyship and tell her you’d not come home yet, so I was.” She peered around Marianne at the truck. “Who’s this? And where’s the car?”

“The car…broke down.” Marianne regarded the farmer with a flinty look and dared him to say a word to the housekeeper about the car’s theft. “Watch my friend here while I go upstairs and fetch him the outrageous sum of twenty-five pounds for bringing me home.”

If she thought he’d be shamed into telling her to forget about the money, she was disabused of the notion when he gave her a cheeky smile and touched a finger to his forehead. “Much obliged.”

She pressed her lips together and stalked upstairs to her room.

Five minutes later, it was done. Marianne handed over the money and showed him to the door.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said, stiffly.

“It was my very great pleasure.” He folded the notes and tucked them into his jeans pocket.

Marianne turned to their guest. “Well, it’s been most interesting, Mr –?” She stopped as she realised she didn’t know his name.

“Just call me Farmer Brown,” he said, and cocked his brow. “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’ve dogs and sheep to feed and a lamb to see to. A good day to you both.”

With a nod of his head, he returned to the truck and got inside, and drove away down the drive, back to Endwhistle.

“However did you meet that fellow?” Mrs Fenwick wondered.

“Honestly, Mrs F,” Marianne said as she made her way back upstairs, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

***

After taking dinner in her room – there was little point in dining alone at that huge table – Marianne stood before the wardrobe and wondered what to wear for her interview tomorrow. Her clothes were filthy and her shoes – thanks to Brian and Danny and Farmer Brown – were now covered in mud.

More to the point – how would she even get to Endwhistle without a car?

“Miss Holland?” Mrs Fenwick knocked and thrust her head round the door. “You’ve a call from Lady Violet on line one.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

Marianne went to the desk by the window and picked up the telephone receiver. What on earth could Lady V want? she wondered as she punched the blinking button. “Hello?”

“Hello, Marianne. How are you managing so far?”

Well, aside from the car breaking down and getting stolen by two not-so-Good-Samaritans, walking for miles in the rain and mud, and getting picked up by an extortionate uplands farmer, Marianne wanted to tell her, life is grand.

“I’m fine, thanks, Lady Violet,” she said instead. She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell her about the car just yet. “How’s Edinburgh?”

“Very well, thank you. I’m having a lovely visit with Lady Campbell. Although,” she added in a low, troubled voice, “that’s the reason I rang you. She’s feeling poorly and they’re putting her in hospital for some tests.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sure she’s glad you’re there.”

“She is. In fact, I’ve changed my plans. I’ll be staying on here for at least another week. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she assured the woman. “Mrs Fenwick and Bertie are taking good care of me. I should start my new job at the clinic in a week or two, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Wasn’t your interview today?”

Marianne bit her lip. “It was. But the doctor got called away on an emergency and so I have to go back tomorrow.” Which was true. “Stay in Edinburgh as long as you need to, and don’t give me another thought.”

“Very well,” Lady Violet said, a trace doubtfully. “If you’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’m positive. Mum and Elinor will be here tomorrow, after all, so I’ll have all the company I need. And give my best wishes to Lady Campbell.”

After exchanging a few more polite pleasantries, Marianne rang off.

“Mrs Fenwick,” she called out as she ran down the stairs, “I’ve another teeny-tiny favour to ask…”

Chapter 9

After Marianne confessed that Lady Violet’s car had been stolen and the incident reported to the police, Mrs Fenwick allowed that there was nothing more to be done and gave Marianne the use of their Peugeot.

“Only so you can go off to your interview, mind,” she added firmly. “No faffing about all over town. Petrol’s expensive.”

“So I’ve heard,” Marianne retorted.

“Only sixteen kilometres, she says! Petrol’s expensive, in case you didn’t know.”

Good thing she’d never see that money-grubbing cheapskate of a farmer again. Although, she admitted, he wasn’t so bad to look at. He was almost attractive. And his little Blackface lamb, Emily, was beyond adorable.

Too bad he was completely personality-challenged.

On Wednesday morning, with a full tank of gas and the phone number to Barton Park programmed in her mobile, Marianne headed back to Endwhistle and drove to the veterinary clinic.

“Hello, Miss Holland,” Lynn greeted her as she made her way across the crowded waiting room. If she noticed that Marianne wore the same outfit she’d worn the day before – freshly laundered, of course – or that her shoes still bore traces of mud, she made no comment. “Dr Brandon’s with Poppy – a border collie with an eye infection – but I’ll let him know you’re here. Please have a seat.”

With a nod of thanks, Marianne sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs. She hadn’t waited above fifteen minutes when the receptionist announced the vet was free for a few minutes between appointments and could see her.

She stood and made her way through the door the girl directed her through. “SURGERY”, it stated. “NO ADMITTANCE”.

With another breath for courage, she pushed it open and went inside the clinic proper. She saw more tiled flooring, and a surgery equipped with several treatment tables, x-ray machines, and a lot of other intimidating-looking equipment she didn’t recognise.

“Back here,” a gruff male voice called out from somewhere behind her.

She turned to see an office at the far end of the surgery, with a brass nameplate on the door – Dr M Brandon, RCVS. On unsteady legs, she made her way across the floor and came to a stop just inside the door.

When she saw him, sitting behind a desk heaped with folders and papers and forms, Marianne froze.

“Oh, no,” she said, and blinked. “It can’t be.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

She took some small satisfaction in the fact that his shock was as great as her own. Farmer Brown, for once, was at a loss for words.

“I’m here to interview for the job.”

He stared at her. “What job?”

“The veterinary assistant position,” she said. Was he thick as well as rude? “I sent my résumé in last month.”

He frowned and reached behind him, searched a table under the window, unearthed a folder, and riffled through it. He leaned back in his chair and scanned it. “Ah, here we are. No. The only interview letter we sent out went to an applicant named Mark Holland in Devonshire.”

“But I have a letter.” Marianne reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter she’d received and held it out. “Asking me to come in and interview for the job.”

He took it and glanced down. “Marianne Holland, of South Devon. Ah. There’s obviously been a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“You weren’t meant to get this offer. Mark Holland was.” He handed the letter back. “The files for Mark and Marianne must’ve got mixed up.”

“Did they, really? Or is the fact that I’m a female the issue?” she challenged him. “Did you offer Mr Holland an interview because he’s a man? Are you one of those sexist gits?”

His eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not ‘one of those sexist gits’, I offered Mr Holland an interview because he had excellent qualifications. But looking at this –” he picked up her résumé and scanned it. “Your qualifications are nonexistent. You’re not remotely suited for the job.”

“Why?” she bristled. “Because I’m a woman?”

“No.” He eyed her kitten heels, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse and leaned forward. “Because I suspect the only animal you’ve ever dealt with is one of those faffy little dogs you carry round in your purse like a furry accessory.”

She bristled at the astonishing injustice – not to mention sexism – of his assumption. “It’s not a purse,” she snapped, “it’s a handbag.”

And before she could form a further, more suitably scathing reply, he tossed her résumé aside.

“Have you ever worked in a professional capacity with animals before, Miss Holland?”

“Not…not as such, no.”

“Have you calved a cow, or foaled a mare?”

“No.”

“What do you know of animal husbandry?”

She blinked. She suspected he wasn’t referring to female chickens looking for rooster husbands. “A little,” she hedged.

“Good God,” he muttered, and ploughed a hand through his hair. “Do you know what colostrum is? Do things like the sight of blood or open wounds or placenta make you queasy?”

She blanched. “It all sounds a bit horrid, to be honest.”

“Then how do you expect me to hire you on to help me in the surgery?” he demanded. “You haven’t any qualifications at all, have you?”

Marianne bit her lip. “I got a bit of work experience at the local veterinary clinic in Litchfield last summer,” she admitted. “And I’m a hard worker,” she added, and tilted her chin back, “and a quick learner. And –” she hesitated. “And I really need this job.”

“How long did you work in the clinic?”

“Two and a half months.”

“And what, exactly,” he inquired, his eyes like flint, “did you do there?”

She thought of lying, or fudging the truth; but she’d already told him she had no real experience. “I kept Dr Edmund’s diary,” she confessed, “and answered the phone and dealt with customers, and I filed insurance forms.”

“You worked the reception desk.” It was a statement of fact.

“Yes.” She drew herself up. “It’s true I haven’t much experience tending to animals. But I can learn. I’ll do whatever needs doing. And I promise, I won’t complain.”

Scepticism showed plainly on his face. “I’m sorry, Miss Holland, but I need someone who knows his – or her – way around a surgery. I need someone who can stitch up a wound, or help birth a lamb that’s misdirected. I need someone who can comfort the owner when their dog, or horse, or cat has to be put down. I need someone with commitment and stamina and empathy, someone who cares about animals and doesn’t mind the long hours or the middle of the night calls to deliver a breech calf or put a suffering animal out of pain. And that’s obviously not you.”

“I may not have done any of those things,” Marianne said evenly as she plonked her handbag down on the desk, “but I do love animals. I’ve had rabbits and cats and dogs all of my life, and I took care of them all. I fed and cleaned and exercised them, and I made sure they had their shots. My sister Elinor had a horse until recently, when we couldn’t afford to keep him any longer; I’ve mucked out his stall and groomed him dozens of times. But if you won’t hire me, or give me a proper chance –” she turned away, unwilling to let him see how much – how very much – she suddenly wanted this job “then I won’t waste any more of your time.”

She turned to go, wondering as she did what she’d do now. Without this job, she’d never get the work experience she needed to get into a veterinary course. Worse still, she wouldn’t be able to do her part and help her mother with the household expenses.

“Miss Holland,” Dr Brandon called out after her. “Wait.”

Marianne turned back, her heart quickening. Hope flooded through her. Had he changed his mind? Was he so impressed with her impassioned, heartfelt speech that he meant to give her a fair chance?

“You forgot your purse,” he said, and held it out to her, dangling from the end of his finger.

“Handbag.” She snatched it away. “Thanks,” she bit off, and marched back out of the surgery.

“You might try the Endwhistle Café,” he called after her. “I hear they’re hiring waitresses.”

She whirled around and glared at him. “Is that right? And do you ever eat there, Dr Brandon? At the Endwhistle Café?”

“On occasion.”

“Good. Then I might just take your advice. I’ll get a job as a waitress. It’ll give me the perfect excuse to dump a pot of hot coffee right in your smug, sexist lap!”

She stormed out, aware as she did of his laughter ringing out behind her.

Chapter 10

Too furious and upset to go back to Barton Park, Marianne sat in the car for a moment to have a cry and tried to pull herself together. She searched in the glove compartment until she found a crumpled tissue and blew her nose.

She hated Matthew Brandon. Hated him. He obviously thought she was some kind of spoiled rich girl who’d never worked a day in her life and had no need of a job. He was the rudest, most unreasonable man she’d ever had the misfortune to know. Heartless, too. Not to mention self-centred, ill mannered, and avaricious –

There was a tap on her window. With a gasp of fright, Marianne looked up to see the veterinarian standing there. He leaned down until his face was on a level with hers.

She swiped at the black streaks of mascara under her eyes and rolled her window down. “What is it?” she snapped.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, “but I just had a thought.”

“Is that right? What thought was that? Did you figure out a way to charge me for wasting your time? Or breathing the air? Or is there a parking fee I wasn’t aware of?”

“No. Although charging for parking’s not a bad idea.” He ran a hand through his already rumpled dark hair. “My receptionist’s leaving in two weeks, going off to Hull. Her sister’s just had a baby and Lynn’s staying with her for the rest of the summer.”

Marianne was silent. She wouldn’t give in to even the tiniest, teeniest flicker of hope, she wouldn’t. Not this time.

He paused. “I’ve got a girl in mind to take her place.”

“I just bet you do,” she snapped, picturing a busty blonde in a short skirt with a blouse open to her navel.

“She hasn’t much experience,” he went on, “but I reckon she can answer phones and schedule appointments easily enough.”

“No doubt.” Why was he telling her this? She didn’t want to hear it.

“I expect she might take issue with working reception instead of assisting in the surgery, though.”

“Well if you ask me, she sounds like a pillock,” Marianne sniffed, and blew her nose. “How can she expect to help in the surgery if she hasn’t the proper experience?”

“Exactly my thoughts.” He regarded her without expression. “I’m glad we’re finally on the same page, Miss Holland.”

Confusion, surprise, and hope warred on her face as she stared at him. His eyes, she noted distractedly, were an odd sort of silvery-grey. “We…we are? But – you don’t mean –?”

“I mean,” he said, his eyes steady on hers, “you can have Lynn’s job for the summer. If you want it,” he added. “And if you don’t object to answering phones, mopping up dog urine, and filling out an endless lot of forms. Otherwise –” he straightened “I’ll give the job to someone else. I’ve a long waiting list of qualified applicants.”

“I’m sure you do.” Marianne scrambled out of the car and stood facing him. “I’d be very happy to have the job,” she said, her eyes shining. “Extremely happy. Ecstatic. Thank you, Dr Brandon. So much.”

He took her hand in a firm grip. “Welcome aboard, Miss Holland. You can start next week and we’ll see how it goes. Lynn can show you the ropes before she leaves.”

“Is Maddie all right?” she asked suddenly. “Lynn told me all about her yesterday, that you suspected rat poisoning. Poor dog… Did she make it through?”

“She did. It was touch and go for a bit, but she pulled through the surgery with flying colours. She’s on a course of vitamin K to ensure her blood clots properly. Her family’s overjoyed.” He eyed Marianne. “I’m sure they’d appreciate your concern.”

“I love animals. I really do. You won’t regret hiring me, Dr Brandon, I promise,” she called out after him as he turned to go.

He glanced back at her. “Too late. I already do,” he retorted, and returned to the clinic.

***

When Marianne returned to Barton Park, a removal van stood near the front steps and a taxi was just leaving.

With a racing heart she parked the Peugeot and all but flew out of the car, rushing up the steps and through the opened front door.

“Mum!” she cried out. “Elinor!”

She flung herself, laughing and crying all at once, into their arms. There was a flurry of hugging, exclaiming, and more than a few hastily wiped-away tears before Mrs Holland drew back to inspect her youngest daughter. “You’re looking very well, I must say. Northumberland agrees with you.”

“You won’t believe half the things I’ve been through since I got here,” Marianne told her. “I’ll tell you both all about it over lunch. Why did you take a taxi?”

“Because someone had the car, that’s why,” Mrs Fenwick retorted. “Bertie couldn’t go and fetch them from the train station.”

“Oh.” Marianne turned to her mother in dismay. “I’m sorry. That must’ve cost a fortune.”

“It did, but we managed, and we got here all the same. The housekeeper tells us you had your job interview today?”

“Yes, that’s why I had to borrow the car. It was meant to be yesterday, but Dr Brandon was on an emergency call and couldn’t see me.”

“And did you get the job?” Mrs Holland asked.

“I did.”

Elinor let out a gasp and hugged her sister. “Well done, you. That’s wonderful news.” She drew back and glanced around the entrance hall. “Where’s Lady Violet? Is she not here?”

“She’s gone to Edinburgh to stay with a poorly friend. She won’t be back for at least another week.”

“She’s a trusting woman,” her sister observed with a smirk, “to leave you alone to your own devices in her house.”

“I’ve been the model of good behaviour, I’ll have you know,” Marianne retorted, and glanced over at the housekeeper. “Haven’t I, Mrs Fenwick?”

“I won’t answer that as it might incriminate me,” she said, and turned away. “Now if you’d care to follow Bertie upstairs, ladies, he’ll take your luggage up and show you to your rooms. When you’re settled, you can all come back downstairs and have yourselves a lovely lunch.”

***

The dining room rang with chatter as Marianne and her mother and sister took their places at the table to catch up on all of the latest news.

“So tell us, what have we missed since you arrived here at Barton Park?” Mrs Holland asked.

“Yes, do please bring us up to speed, Mari,” Elinor agreed. “What’s happened since you left Norland?”

“Not much, really,” Marianne said airily as she helped herself to one of Mrs Fenwick’s pasties. “Only, Lady Violet’s car was stolen out from under me, and I met the most rude and impossible man – who turned out to be the local veterinarian, Dr Brandon – oh, and I fell from the top of a tree house behind the cottage during a storm and was rescued by a handsome stranger on horseback.”

“Goodness,” her mother exclaimed, and froze with a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. “It all sounds like something out of one of Lady Violet’s books. Are you all right?”

“Fine. I twisted my ankle but it’s mended now. Kit –” she blushed and amended “I mean Mr Willoughby, carried me to the car and brought me back, and he made quite sure I was all right before he left.” She paused as the doorbell rang and her mother half rose. “Do sit down, mum – Mrs Fenwick’ll get it.”

“Never mind the door,” Elinor said with a trace of impatience, “tell us more about your rescuer. Kit, did you say his name was? How did he find you?”

“He heard me scream when I fell. Oh, Ellie – it was so romantic. A storm came up out of nowhere, a really bad one, and the wind kicked up, and it got horribly dark. Lightning struck right next to me when I was climbing a rope ladder up to the tree house. I nearly made it to the top, but I was so scared, and the rope was so wet, that I lost my grip, and fell.” She bit into her pasty. “Mr Willoughby came back the next day to visit me, and brought me flowers, and chocolates.”

“That was very considerate of him,” her sister remarked. “Who is he, this mysterious Mr Willoughby?”

“He’s Mrs Smyth’s nephew, Christopher,” Marianne answered, “and he’s visiting her at Allenham Court. Her estate’s just next door, not at all far from our house.”

“And what does this cottage of Lady Violet’s look like?” Mrs Holland asked apprehensively. “I’ve not seen it yet. Is it as poky and small as you feared?”

“Not at all. It’s really quite lovely, and larger than I expected, with fireplaces and a chandelier and a sweeping stairway in the entrance hallway. It’s the grandest cottage I’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve been inside the house, then?” Elinor asked.

Marianne shook her head. “No, I hadn’t a key.” She added, “So of course I peeked in through the windows, as you do.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” her sister declared. “I’m consumed with curiosity.”

“What of Harriet?” Marianne asked her mother as she took up her spoon and dipped it into her soup. “Has Robert moved into Norland yet?”

“Oh, yes. We’d barely vacated the place when his removal van turned up,” Mrs Holland said, and pressed her lips together in disapproval. “Awful man.”

“Just like his stepsister,” Marianne agreed. She turned back to Elinor. “What about Edward?”

Elinor cast her a startled glance. “What about him?”

“Have you seen him again? He was so very nice that day he and Harriet came to Norland. So handsome and well mannered…and so obviously taken with you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I understand he’s coming to Barton Park before very long, to see Lady Violet,” Mrs Holland offered. “Her daughter mentioned it to me the last time I chanced to speak with her. It was a week ago. Or was it two –?”

“Here?” Elinor froze. “Edward’s coming here, to Northumberland, to Barton Park?”

“Yes. Isn’t that great news?”

Elinor flushed and gazed down into her soup, and didn’t answer.

They heard voices and footsteps echoing down the hall towards the dining room, and looked up to see a handsome man with dark hair and an engaging smile standing in the doorway just behind Mrs Fenwick.

“Mr Willoughby’s here to see you, Miss Marianne,” the housekeeper said.

“Kit,” Marianne exclaimed as she stood and pushed her chair back. At a quelling glance from her mother she blushed, and a demure smile dimpled her cheeks as she sank back down in her seat. “I mean, Mr Willoughby. What a nice surprise.”

He wore jeans with an open-necked shirt, and his legs were encased in a pair of riding boots. A light sheen of perspiration gilded his forearms.

“Hello, Marianne, everyone. I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch, ladies,” he added as his smiling glance went round the table. He looked down at himself in embarrassment. “Sorry. I’ve been riding, and as you can see, I’m in no fit state for company. I’ll come back another time.” And he turned to go.

“You most certainly will not.” Mrs Holland’s words were pleasant but firm. “We’ve only just heard about your amazing rescue of my daughter. I’m Lydia Holland, Marianne’s mother,” she added, “and this is my eldest daughter, Elinor. We owe you our sincere thanks for helping Marianne. I’d be very pleased if you joined us for lunch.”

He hesitated. “If I’m not intruding –?”

“You’re not.”

His lips curved into a warm smile. “Then I’d love to join you. Thanks.”

“We were just discussing Lady Violet’s cottage,” Mrs Holland told him as he took the empty seat beside her youngest daughter. “I haven’t yet seen it.”

“Then I’ll take you all,” Mr Willoughby said. “This afternoon, if you wish.”

“But you just told us you rode here,” Marianne pointed out. “I doubt we could all fit on your horse.”

He laughed. “No. But the walk’s a good one, not above a mile or so to the cottage. And,” he added, with a glance at Marianne, “this time, the weather’s perfect; there’s not a cloud in the sky or a trace of a storm to be seen.”

“Thank you,” Mrs Holland said, “but we only just arrived this morning, and I’m still a bit tired. I believe I’ll stay behind and take a nap after lunch.” She turned to Elinor. “But you and Marianne must certainly go.”

“And this time,” Marianne said, “I’ll be sure and get the key from Mrs Fenwick first.”

So it was decided, and when lunch was done, Marianne and Elinor accompanied Kit Willoughby across the fields and made their way to Barton Park.

“It isn’t poky at all,” Elinor said a short time later as she caught her first glimpse of their new home. “It’s every bit as big as Norland. Bigger!”

“Wait till you see inside.” Marianne went ahead of them and inserted the old-fashioned key into the lock. It turned easily, and with a creak of the door hinges, they stepped inside the front hall.

“It’s gorgeous,” Elinor breathed, looking around her in surprise. “Much nicer than I expected.”

Willoughby reached up and plucked the cheesecloth covering down from the chandelier. Dozens of prisms of crystal shimmered and tinkled in the afternoon sunlight with the action. A staircase with wide, curved treads stretched up to the second floor, and the oak floorboards, recently polished, gleamed underfoot.

Marianne darted from room to room. The windows were large and spilled plenty of light into the house, and all of them boasted deep sills – perfect places to sit and read and gaze out at the countryside.

“I love it,” Elinor avowed as she followed her sister and Willoughby up the stairs. “It’s absolutely perfect, isn’t it?”

“A perfect house for three perfect ladies,” Kit agreed.

Elinor looked over her shoulder at him. “You’ll spoil us with compliments, Mr Willoughby.”

Marianne saw that the removal men had left their belongings – what little they had – upstairs, in a jumbled pile of boxes and cartons and luggage at one end of the hall. She sighed. “We should stay and unpack, I suppose.”

“You two go ahead.” Elinor went to one of the boxes and pulled back the flaps. “I’ll get started on this lot.”

“I’m more than happy to help,” Willoughby offered. He lifted his brow. “And I’ll try to keep my compliments to a minimum.”

“Thank you, but it won’t take me above an hour or so to get this sorted. Go on, both of you, and have fun. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure –?” Marianne said, even as her heart leapt as she caught Kit’s eye. “I’d love to take another look around outside.” The thought of spending the rest of the afternoon with him was too, too delicious.

“Go,” Elinor ordered. “I’ll find my own way home.”

Without further argument, Marianne and Willoughby made their way back downstairs, out of the front door and into the drowsy warmth of the late August afternoon.

Chapter 11

“I’ve brought you something, Marianne.” Willoughby took her hand and led her behind the cottage and pointed at the tree she’d fallen from on the night of the storm.

“For me?” She looked at him in surprise. “What?”

He indicated a coiled length of rope in the grass.

“What do you think?” he asked as he bent down and held it up, obviously well pleased with himself.

Marianne stared at it. “Well – it’s…a rope.”

“Not just a rope,” he corrected her. “It’s a new ladder for your tree house. I’ll take the old one down and install this one before I go. Then you can climb up whenever you like in perfect safety, and I won’t need to worry about you getting hurt.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s…that’s really nice of you… Not to mention incredibly thoughtful. Thank you.”

“I don’t want you falling again. I might not be here to rescue you the next time.”

He turned and made his way up the slope to the base of the gnarled old oak.

“But…how will you get up there?” Marianne inquired. “That old rope’s not safe, it won’t hold your weight.”

Willoughby pointed to a ladder lying in the grass nearby. “With that. I noticed it the other day. Should do the trick, I think, and very nicely.”

He rested the ladder against the trunk. In minutes, it was done – he’d secured the new rope ladder several times around a thick, low branch – and after climbing to the deck of the tree house, he stood and kicked the ladder aside.

Marianne shaded her eyes. “Are you coming back down, Mr Willoughby? Do you trust your own handiwork enough to put the new ladder to the test?”

“Completely.” He swung his leg over the edge of the deck and climbed nimbly down the rope ladder. After reaching the ground he turned and gave her a half smile. “There; safe as houses. If it’ll hold my weight, there’s no chance it won’t hold yours.” He held out his hand. “Let’s try it out.”

She smiled and took his hand. “Why not?”

Marianne stood there for a moment, with her hand clasped in his, and felt a wash of pure happiness like she’d never known before. His blue eyes met hers, and she thought – for the tiniest, teeniest second – that he might lean in and kiss her.

But he stepped back and let her hand go. “I believe we’re being watched,” he said to her, his voice low and warm with amusement. “I’d best behave myself.”

Startled, Marianne followed his gaze up to the second floor of their new house. Sure enough, Elinor stood at her bedroom window looking down at her and Kit Willoughby with undisguised curiosity.

“Oh, honestly,” Marianne exclaimed, irritated. “I can see I’ll have no privacy now that mum and Elinor are living here at Barton Park.”

He smiled. “None at all.”

On impulse, Marianne lifted her gaze to the window and waved at Elinor. With a flush of embarrassment at being caught out, the curtains twitched, and her sister left the window altogether.

***

As Marianne climbed up the rope ladder a few minutes later, she was all too aware of Mr Willoughby just behind her.

“Almost there,” he called out behind her. “And try not to fall. I don’t want a repeat of the other day.”

“I won’t fall,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place, if that crack of lightning hadn’t scared me half to death.”

She reached the top and clambered up onto the deck, her breath coming quick after the climb. She bent down and glanced inside the tree house. The room was just large enough for two people, with small windows on three sides and barely space enough to stand up in.

“I love it,” she called back over her shoulder as she climbed inside and sat down. “It’s perfect.”

Willoughby’s head and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. “I’m glad you approve.” In a moment, he climbed in beside her, smiling and out of breath, and stretched his long, boot-clad legs out before him.

“Was it yours, this tree house?” she asked, surprised. “You never said.”

“My uncle built it for me, years ago. I was never so excited as the day he finished it.”

“I can imagine. I would’ve been over the moon to have a tree house like this tucked up under the leaves,” Marianne said, and drew her knees up to her chest. “I wouldn’t have let anyone in, not even Elinor.”

Willoughby turned to her, his blue eyes steady on hers. “Not even me?”

Her heart quickened. “That’s a ridiculous question,” she said lightly, and smiled. “I didn’t know you then. And besides, you were just a boy.”

“But you know me now. And I’m not a boy any longer.”

“No, you’re not.” She looked at him, at his face so near to hers, and blushed. “But your question is still irrelevant.”

He laughed. “Is it? And why is that?”

“Because…” She stopped. “Because you’re here now.”

“Yes. And very glad to be, too,” he said. “So I suppose,” he added, his smile softening and all traces of teasing gone, “that answers my question.”

“Obviously,” she agreed, and made no protest as his hand came out to cup her face and his lips found hers.

It started out as the briefest of kisses; tentative and gentle, searching and sweet. His lips brushed hers for the merest, most tantalising moment before he drew back.

“Do you mind if I kiss you, Marianne?” he asked, his brow creased and his forehead warm against hers. “Only say the word if you do, and I’ll stop.”

In answer, she took his face in her hands and stroked the thick whorl of dark hair back from his forehead. “Please kiss me again, Willoughby,” she breathed. “I think I might die if you don’t.”

Without another word of conversation between them, he pulled her closer and slanted his mouth once again over hers.

His kiss was all Marianne had imagined it would be – assured, tentative, gentle and impassioned, all at once. Her thoughts whirled and scattered as he deepened their embrace, and with a sigh, she parted her lips under his.

Unlike other men she’d kissed (although, admittedly, the number was few), Kit Willoughby’s mouth on hers was neither crude, nor demanding. He asked nothing of her; he did not thrust his tongue rudely down her throat, or let his hands wander where they shouldn’t. All the ardency and tenderness of his affections was contained in his kiss.

“Marianne,” he said as he dragged his mouth reluctantly from hers a moment later, “I’m sorry. We should stop. It’s no use me wanting what I can’t have, what I have no right to even wish for.”

“Bollocks,” she murmured, her eyes luminous with desire for him. “Kiss me again. Please.”

After a moment’s hesitation he complied, and tightened his arms around her as he pressed her hard against him and covered her mouth with his.

Marianne was soon lost once more in the warm enticement of Willoughby’s lips when she heard the sound of a branch cracking below.

She stiffened and drew back. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, stricken. “Someone’s down there.” She met his eyes, her heart knocking against her chest. “Someone’s spying on us.”

Chapter 12

“Marianne?” Elinor called out. “Marianne, are you up there?”

Sagging back against Kit in relief, Marianne kissed him once more. “Back to reality, I suppose,” she whispered against his lips, and sighed.

“No. Not yet.” He caught her face in his hands once more and kissed her lingeringly.

“Marianne? I know you’re up there.”

She let out a breath of irritation and scrambled to her feet. “Yes, Ellie,” she called back. “We’re here.” There was no point in trying to hide the fact that Willoughby was in the tree house with her; Elinor had seen them earlier, after all, and she’d never believe he’d left.

Willoughby sighed and stood up as well.

“You’ve had a telephone call from Dr Brandon’s office. Mrs Fenwick just sent me a text. They want to know if you can start work tomorrow.”

Marianne stepped outside onto the deck that surrounded the tree house and looked down at her sister in dismay. “Tomorrow? But I wasn’t supposed to start until next week.”

“Evidently the receptionist’s sister is having her baby a bit early. They need you to come in for training straight away.”

“Oh. All right.” Her heartbeat quickened. “Then I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do.”

***

At dinner that evening, Marianne was quiet. Her thoughts were preoccupied with Kit Willoughby, and with her new job at the veterinary clinic. She hoped that she and Matthew Brandon would find a way to rub along. He was such a prickly, hard-to-read sort of man –

“You’ve barely touched your lamb,” Mrs Holland observed. “What’s wrong? Your thoughts are obviously elsewhere tonight.”

“Sorry.” Marianne laid her fork aside. “Just thinking about starting my new job tomorrow. I’m feeling a bit nervous,” she confessed. “I hate starting new things.”

“Not all new things, apparently,” Elinor remarked, and tucked in to her lamb.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Only, you’ve had no trouble making a new friend of Kit Willoughby.”

“And why shouldn’t I? After all, if not for him, I’d still be lying on the ground under that tree, waiting for help.”

“That’s true,” their mother interjected. “You have a very good point, darling. It’s lucky he found you.”

“Lucky for him, and for me.” Somewhat mollified, Marianne picked up her knife and fork. “He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met – kind, and thoughtful…”

“And handsome,” Mrs Holland added with a smile. “Don’t forget that.”

“What does he do, your Mr Willoughby?” Elinor asked.

“Do?” Marianne echoed. “I don’t know. He’s never said, and I’ve never asked. And he’s not ‘my’ Mr Willoughby.” Although she wished he was…

“If I remember rightly,” their mother offered as she took a roll from the basket and buttered it, “Lady Violet said he expects to inherit his aunt’s estate.” She frowned. “Oh, now – what was the name of the place –?”

“Allenham Court,” Marianne supplied.

“Then we’ve established he’s not only handsome, but rich, too – or will be, one day,” Elinor said.

“So does that satisfy your curiosity and lessen your doubts?” Marianne asked tartly.

“It’s not that I have doubts, exactly,” her sister replied. “I’m just saying we don’t know Mr Willoughby very well. Although he seems nice, and agreeable enough, we – you – really don’t know him. Maybe you should keep that in mind, and get to know him a bit better before you go on.”

“I’m not planning to run off to Gretna Green and elope with him,” Marianne snapped. “We only just met.”

“And that’s exactly my point.”

Silence descended over the table.

“I must say,” Mrs Holland offered in an effort to ease the tension, “Mrs Fenwick’s rack of lamb is the best I’ve ever tasted. And her mint sauce is nothing short of superb.”

“Yes,” Marianne agreed, her glance shooting daggers at her sister. “Her mint sauce is very nice, and agreeable enough, too. Isn’t it, Elinor?”

And although Elinor pressed her lips together and glared back at her, she made no comment, and they finished their dinner without further conversation.

***

Marianne’s fingers trembled the next morning as she gripped the wheel of the Fiat Bertie Fenwick had found for them the day before at the Endwhistle auction.

“She’s old,” he’d admitted as he showed the car to Mrs Holland and the girls, “with a bit of rust on the back fender, and she won’t go above seventy-five kilometres an hour, but the price was right and within your budget. Got a clean bill of health from Malcolm, too.”

“Who’s Malcolm?” Elinor asked, puzzled.

“A mechanic,” Marianne informed her. “He works at the petrol station in Endwhistle – the only petrol station in Endwhistle,” she added, remembering her frantic call to the station when the estate car broke down on the way to her interview.

“…and if you call the Endwhistle station, you need to hang on the line for at least seventeen rings before old Malcolm’ll hear and answer the phone.”

What a place Hadleighshire is, Marianne thought now, crossly. But it wasn’t the possibility of mum’s Fiat breaking down that worried her. No, her hands shook this morning because it was her first day working at the veterinary clinic with Dr Brandon…and she was more than a little nervous.

Not that answering phones or scheduling appointments was difficult; it was nothing she hadn’t done before, after all. It was Matthew Brandon himself who unsettled her. The man was a puzzle. At first she’d supposed him to be a farmer, one of the many local men who raised sheep or cattle for a living, and he’d done nothing to disabuse her of the notion.

But he was a doctor of veterinary medicine. He was educated and, according to Lynn, an excellent veterinarian. He’d saved the life of a dog who’d consumed rat poison, a dog who, without his help, might have died.

And for whatever reason, he’d decided to give her a chance in his clinic. And she had no illusions that he wouldn’t sack her in a heartbeat if she cocked up.

So…she couldn’t cock it up. She wouldn’t.

Nothing like a bit of pressure, Marianne thought grimly as she shifted into gear and headed the Fiat down the driveway to the road. Although it was true that Dr Brandon was infuriating – Why should I go so far out of my way for you? – and insulting, as well – You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes – there was no denying that, in the end, he’d helped her.

He’d come back and picked her up, and he’d driven her home…even if he’d charged her twenty-five pounds for the privilege.

Which was why, Marianne decided as she turned onto the road that led to Endwhistle, she owed it to herself – and to Matthew sodding Brandon – to be the best damned receptionist the Endwhistle Small Animal Veterinary Clinic had ever seen.

And she would be, she vowed – no matter how difficult Dr Brandon might make it.

Chapter 13

“Good morning, Miss Holland.”

Lynn smiled at Marianne as she opened the door promptly at eight o’clock – the clinic was still closed to the public – and ushered the girl inside.

“Good morning. I’m a tiny bit nervous,” Marianna admitted. “First day jitters.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” the receptionist assured her. “I’m so glad you could come in a few days early,” she went on as she took the girl’s handbag and stashed it in the top drawer of a filing cabinet. “My sister Mary’s due to have her baby at any time. It’s her first.”

“That’s great! Will you get back in time for the birth, do you think?” Marianne asked.

“I hope so. I’d like to be with her. She had a few contractions yesterday but they turned out to be Braxton Hicks.”

Having no idea who – or what – ‘Braxton Hicks’ was, Marianne said nothing.

“The phones are busy at times, but mostly you’ll fill out and file paperwork, and schedule appointments.”

Lynn showed Marianne where the kitchenette and soda machine was and pointed out the ladies’ loo. “The surgery’s in through here,” she added as she pushed the door open. “Which you’ve seen already, very briefly.”

Marianne’s gaze wandered over the examining tables and wire animal hutches and the small, glassed-in surgical centre. Everything was shiny and new and spotless.

She bent down in front of one of the hutches to admire a guinea pig. “It’s all so…clean,” she marvelled.

Lynn smiled. “Dr Brandon runs a tight ship. And the clinic is fairly new. He usually arrives at nine, except Wednesdays, when the surgery has extended hours. During the week we’re open from nine to four, and from nine till noon on Saturdays. A 24-hour answering service covers emergency calls on nights and weekends.”

“I see. And does Dr Brandon have a pager?” Marianne asked.

“He does. He’s often called out in the middle of the night, especially during lambing. We’ve an assistant vet two days a week who also helps out with the emergency calls. Even so, there’s more work lately than the two of them can manage. Which is why,” Lynn added as she led her back out of the surgery, “he’s looking to hire another assistant.”

A short time later, after a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup and a quick run-through on the phone switchboard, Marianne took a seat behind the reception desk beside Lynn.

“You can watch me for a bit,” Lynn told her. “Get the hang of things. When you feel ready, I’ll let you answer a few calls and schedule some appointments.”

The bell over the main door jingled, and Matthew Brandon came in.

“Good morning, ladies.” His glance went to Marianne. “Is Lynn showing you the ropes, Miss Holland?”

She nodded. “She is. I know where to find the kitchen, the soda machine, and the loo. My work here is done.”

“So it is,” he agreed dryly. “We none of us could function without that swill we call coffee around here. Any messages, Lynn?”

The receptionist turned and picked up several pink ‘While You Were Out’ message slips and handed them over. “Just the usual inquiries, Dr Brandon. Oh – and Mrs Dawson wants to know how often to dose Bingo with his antibiotic.”

“Right. I’ll give her a call now. Thanks.” He thrust the messages in the breast pocket of his white lab coat and made his way to the kitchenette. “Anyone else for a coffee before I disappear into the surgery?”

Marianne lifted her cup. “Thanks, but I’ve already got my swill.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He gave her a half smile then turned and strode, whistling, towards the kitchen.

“He seems nice,” Marianne said in a low, surprised voice. “Not grumpy or rude at all.”

“Oh, believe me, he has his moments,” Lynn said, and smiled. “But he’s a good man for all that. He has a real way with the animals…and the locals all love him.” Her smile faded. “He was engaged not so long ago, but it didn’t work out.”

Marianne filed that fact away to take out and ponder later. “What happened?”

“Well, I don’t know, precisely; but I suspect it had to do with the fact that he has little time for a fiancée. Between the clinic and Greensprings he’s got his hands full.”

“Greensprings?”

“His farm. I’m sure you’ve seen it; it’s the stone farmhouse just across the way from the clinic.”

“Oh. I didn’t know the farm belonged to him.”

“Yes, he inherited it from his grandmother. He raises chickens and sheep – for the fleece, not the meat – and sells the eggs at the farmers’ market on Sundays…if he’s not out on an emergency call, that is.”

“Goodness. He is busy,” Marianne said.

Lynn handed her a pad and paper. “He is indeed.” She lowered her voice. “He’ll inherit Delaford too, when his father passes away.”

Marianne’s eyes widened. “Delaford? But – isn’t that the big place on the hill, near Barton Park?”

She’d glimpsed the great stone mansion from her bedroom window at Lady Violet’s and often wondered who lived there.

Lynn nodded. “Matthew wants no part of it,” she confided.

“Why ever not?”

“He and his father don’t see eye to eye, you might say – on a lot of things. Right,” she added briskly, “that’s enough of my gossip. Now I want you to write down what I’m about to tell you and commit it to memory. Don’t ever put Mr Jenkins through to Dr Brandon; he calls at least once a day and he talks nonstop.”

“Why does he do that?”

Lynn shrugged. “He’s lonely, I expect. His wife died last year and he’s all alone out on the farm. I think the sound of Dr Brandon’s voice reassures him, somehow.”

“Oh.”

“And never, ever schedule Fifi the poodle and Billy the cocker spaniel to come in at the same time. They despise each other and they very nearly tore the waiting room up on their last visit…”

***

The morning passed quickly. The clinic was busy, just as Lynn had warned her, with a steady stream of ailing birds, rabbits, dogs, and guinea pigs coming through the door, some scheduled and some not. There were phones to answer and the occasional puddle of dog wee to mop up; appointments to make; and owners to chat with about everything from the fine weather to the state of their pet’s bowel movements.

Before Marianne knew it, four o’clock arrived, and it was time to get her handbag and go home. Every bone in her body ached and her ears still rang with the sound of the door’s bell jangling and the shrilling of the phone lines as she got ready to leave.

Dr Brandon pushed through the surgery door, his lab coat rumpled and a stethoscope hung around his neck. He looked tired. “Are you off home now, Miss Holland?”

“Yes. And please…call me Marianne.”

“What did you think of your first day, Marianne?” he asked as he peeled off one of his surgical gloves. “Will you run screaming off to Barton Park never to return, or will you be back again tomorrow?”

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