The Proposal

The Proposal

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE HAZY early morning sun of September had very little warmth as yet, but it turned the trees and shrubs of the park to a tawny gold, encouraging the birds to sing too, so that even in the heart of London there was an illusion of the countryside.

The Green Park was almost empty so early in the day; indeed the only person visible was a girl, walking a Yorkshire terrier on a long lead. She was a tall girl with a tawny mane of hair and vivid blue eyes set in a pretty face, rather shabbily dressed; although her clothes were well cut they were not in the height of fashion.

She glanced at her watch; she had walked rather further than usual so Lady Mortimor, although she wouldn’t be out of bed herself, would be sure to enquire of her maid if the early morning walk with Bobo had taken the exact time allowed for it. She could have walked for hours … She was on the point of turning on her heel when something large, heavy and furry cannoned into her from the back and she sat down suddenly and in a most unladylike fashion in a tangle of large dog, a hysterical Bobo and Bobo’s lead. The dog put an enormous paw on her chest and grinned happily down at her before licking her cheek gently and then turning his attention to Bobo; possibly out of friendliness he kept his paw on her chest, which made getting to her feet a bit of a problem.

A problem solved by the arrival of the dog’s owner—it had to be its owner, she decided … only a giant could control a beast of such size and this man, from her horizontal position, justified the thought; he was indeed large, dressed in trousers and a pullover and, even from upside-down, handsome. What was more, he was smiling …

He heaved her to her feet with one hand and began to dust her down. ‘I do apologise,’ he told her in a deep, rather slow voice. ‘Brontes has a liking for very small dogs …’

The voice had been grave, but the smile tugging at the corners of his thin mouth annoyed her. ‘If you aren’t able to control your dog you should keep him on a lead,’ she told him tartly, and then in sudden fright, ‘Where’s Bobo? If he’s lost, I’ll never—’

‘Keep calm,’ begged the man in a soothing voice which set her teeth on edge, and whistled. His dog bounded out from the bushes near by and his master said, ‘Fetch,’ without raising his voice and the animal bounded off again to reappear again very shortly with Bobo’s lead between his teeth and Bobo trotting obediently at the other end of it.

‘Good dog,’ said the man quietly. ‘Well, we must be on our way. You are quite sure you are not hurt?’ He added kindly, ‘It is often hard to tell when one is angry as well.’

‘I am not angry, nor am I hurt. It was lucky for you that I wasn’t an elderly dowager with a Peke.’

‘Extremely lucky. Miss …?’ He smiled again, studying her still cross face from under heavy lids. ‘Renier Pitt-Colwyn.’ He offered a hand and engulfed hers in a firm grasp.

‘Francesca Haley. I—I have to go.’ Curiosity got the better of good sense. ‘Your dog—that’s a strange name?’

‘He has one eye….’

‘Oh, one of the Cyclopes. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Haley.’ He stood watching her walking away towards the Piccadilly entrance to the park. She didn’t look back, and presently she broke into an easy run and, when Bobo’s little legs could no longer keep up, scooped him into her arms and ran harder as far as the gate. Here she put him down and walked briskly across the road into Berkeley Street, turned into one of the elegant, narrow side-streets and went down the area steps of one of the fine houses. One of Lady Mortimor’s strict rules was that she and Bobo should use the tradesmen’s entrance when going for their thrice-daily outings. The magnificent entrance hall was not to be sullied by dirty paws, or for that matter Francesca’s dirty shoes.

The door opened onto a dark passage with white-washed walls and a worn lino on the floor; it smelled of damp, raincoats, dog and a trace of cooked food, and after the freshness of the early morning air in the park it caused Francesca’s nose to wrinkle. She opened one of the doors in the passage, hung up the lead, dried Bobo’s paws and went through to the kitchen.

Lady Mortimor’s breakfast tray was being prepared and her maid, Ethel, was standing by the table, squeezing orange juice. She was an angular woman with eyes set too close together in a mean face, and she glanced at the clock as Francesca went in, Bobo under one arm. Francesca, with a few minutes to spare, wished her good morning, adding cheerfully, ‘Let Lady Mortimor know that Bobo has had a good run, will you, Ethel? I’m going over for my breakfast; I’ll be back as usual.’ She put the little dog down and the woman nodded surlily. Bobo always went to his mistress’s room with her breakfast tray and that meant that Francesca had almost an hour to herself before she would begin her duties as secretary-companion to that lady. A title which hardly fitted the manifold odd jobs which filled her day.