Love Can Wait

“Waiting for me in my room,” Lady Cowder said. “I’m sure she is glad to have an hour or so to herself.” She added virtuously, “I never keep her late.”

They went presently to the small ballroom where several couples were dancing to a three-piece band. When he had settled his aunt with several of her acquaintances, James excused himself.

“But it’s early, James,” Lady Cowder protested. “Do you care to dance for a while? I’m sure there are enough pretty girls….”

He smiled at her. “I’m going to ask Kate to dance with me,” he told her.

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

MR TAIT-BOUVERIE was taking afternoon tea with his aunt—a small, wispy lady living in some elegance in the pleasant house her late husband had left her. She was seventy and in the best of health and, although a kind woman, very taken up with herself and that health. She had long ago decided that she was delicate, which meant that she never exerted herself in any way unless it was to do something she wished to do. She was his mother’s older sister, and it was to please his parent that he drove himself down from London to spend an hour with her from time to time.

He was standing at the window overlooking the garden, listening to her gentle, complaining voice cataloguing her various aches and pains, her sleepless nights and lack of appetite—aware that her doctor had recently examined her and found nothing wrong, but nonetheless offering suitable soothing remarks when appropriate.

Someone came into the room and he turned round to see who it was. It was a girl—rather, a young woman—tall, splendidly built and with a lovely face. Her hair, a rich chestnut, was piled tidily on top of her head and she was dressed severely in a white blouse and navy skirt.

She was carrying a tea tray which she set down on the table beside his aunt’s chair, arranging it just so without fuss, and as she straightened up she looked at him. It was merely a glance; he was unable to see what colour her eyes were, and she didn’t smile.

When she had left the room he strolled over to a chair near his aunt.

‘Who was that?’ he asked casually.

‘My housekeeper. Of course, it is some time since you were last here—Mrs Beckett decided to retire and go and live with her sister, so of course I had to find someone else. You have no idea, James, how difficult it is to get good servants. However, Kate suits me very well. Efficient and rather reserved, and does her work well.’

‘Not quite the usual type of housekeeper, surely?’

‘She is rather young, I suppose. She had impeccable references—Bishop Lowe and Lady Creswell.’

Mr Tait-Bouverie accepted a cup of tea and handed his aunt the plate of sandwiches. ‘Someone local?’ he hazarded.

‘I believe so. She lives in, of course, but her mother lives locally—a widow, so I am told. Left rather badly off, I hear—which is to my advantage, since Kate needs the job and isn’t likely to give her notice. I must say, it is most convenient that she drives a car. I no longer need to hire a taxi to go to Thame to my hairdresser each week—she takes me and does the shopping while I’m at Anton’s. It gives her a nice little outing…’

Mr Tait-Bouverie, watching his aunt eating sandwiches with dainty greed, wondered if shopping for food could be regarded as a ‘nice little outing’.

‘And, of course,’ went on Lady Cowder, ‘she can cycle to the village or into Thame for anything I need.’

‘A paragon,’ murmured Mr Tait-Bouverie, and passed the cakestand.

He left half an hour later. There was no sign of the housekeeper as he got into the Bentley. He had half expected her to show him out, but it had been Mrs Pickett, the daily from the village, who had opened the door for him and stood watching him drive away.

Kate watched him too, from the kitchen window. She had to crane her neck to do so, for although she had looked at him in the drawing room it had been a quick glance and she wanted to fill in the gaps, as it were.