Surely her heart realized he was totally unsuitable?
Arrogant, overbearing and dictatorial! What was there to like about brilliant pediatrician Dr. Valentine Seymour? Not much, Daisy Pelham had to admit. Yet, his small patients seemed to adore him.⦠Daisy was mystified. She could only think that perhaps there was another side to him, one that he didnât want her to see.â¦
âHave you seen any more of young Philip?â
He gave her a friendly smile and she quite forgot that she had no wish to be friendly, too. âOh, yes, he came to see me the other evening. He met Sister Carter, though.⦠It was really very strangeâ I mean, they just looked at each other as though they had known each other all their lives. Iâve never believed in love at first sight, but now I do.â
She glanced at him and saw the little smile and felt her cheeks grow hot. âGood night, Dr. Seymour,â she said coldly, and opened the door wide.
His âGood night, Daisyâ was uttered with great civility and he said nothing else. She stood at the door, keeping still and not looking as he got into his carâ¦. She had made a fool of herself talking to him like that. He would be sitting in his car, smiling that nasty little smileâ¦. Her face was scarlet at the thought.
The doctor was indeed smiling, a slow, tender smile that made him look years younger.
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. Bettyâs 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, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.
CHAPTER ONE
THE hazy sunshine of a late July afternoon highlighted the steady stream of small children issuing from one of the solid Victorian houses in the quiet road. It was an orderly exit; Mrs Gower-Jones, who owned the nursery school and prided herself upon its genteel reputation, frowned upon noisy children. As their mothers and nannies, driving smart little Fiats, larger Mercedes and Rovers, arrived, the children gathered in the hall, and were released under the eye of whoever was seeing them off the premises.
Today this was a small, rather plump girl whose pale brown hair was pinned back into a plaited knot, a style which did nothing for her looks: too wide a mouth, a small pert nose and a determined chin, the whole redeemed from plainness by a pair of grey eyes fringed with curling mousy lashes. As Mrs Gower-Jones so often complained to the senior of her assistants, the girl had no style although there was no gainsaying the fact that the children liked her; moreover even the most tiresome child could be coaxed by her to obedience.
The last child seen safely into maternal care, the girl closed the door and crossed the wide hall to the first of the rooms on either side of it. There were two girls there, clearing away the results of the childrenâs activities. They were too young for lessons but they spent their day modelling clay, painting, playing simple games and being read to, and the mess at the end of the afternoon was considerable.
They both looked up as the girl joined them. âThank heaven for Saturday tomorrow!â exclaimed the older of the girls. âPay day too. Ronâs driving me to Dover this evening; weâre going over to Boulogne to do some shopping.â She swept an armful of coloured bricks into a plastic bucket. âWhat about you, Mandy?â
The other girl was wiping a small table clean. âIâm going down to Bournemouthâsix of usâitâll be a bit of a squeeze in the car but who cares? Thereâs dancing at the Winter Gardens.â
They both looked at the girl who had just joined them. âWhat about you, Daisy?â
They asked her every Friday, she thought, not really wanting to know, but not wanting to be unfriendly. She said now, as she almost always did, âOh, I donât know,â and smiled at them, aware that though they liked her they thought her rather dull and pitied her for the lack of excitement in her life. Well, it wasnât exciting but, as she told herself shortly from time to time, she was perfectly content with it.
It took an hour or more to restore the several play-rooms to the state of perfection required by Mrs Gower-Jones; only then, after she had inspected them, did she hand over their pay packets, reminding them, quite unnecessarily, to be at their posts by half-past eight on Monday morning.