The Hasty Marriage

Reilof raised his eyebrows. “Anywhere you wish, Laura. I usually work in my study for an hour before dinner and again afterwards. I’m afraid I keep late hours, but that shouldn’t bother you.” He added surprisingly, “You’ve put your hair up.”

Laura decided to ignore that. “It won’t bother me in the least,” she assured him cheerfully as she accepted a glass of sherry. “At what time do you have breakfast?”

“Half past seven. If that is too early for you, one of the maids will bring it to your room, or you can come down later.”

She felt like an unwelcome guest treated with the minimum of good manners. “I shouldn’t dream of putting anyone to the trouble, Reilof, breakfast at half past seven suits me very well. You won’t need to talk to me, you know.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so ill-humored. I suppose I’m not used to being married again.”

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

LAURA heard the car draw up outside the house while she was still in the kitchen cutting bread and butter for tea, but she didn’t stop what she was doing. Her father and Joyce would be in the sitting room waiting for their visitors, and there would be a small delay while they were greeted and ushered indoors; she would be able to slip in at the last minute.

She started to arrange the slices on a plate, reflecting that it would be pleasant to see her godfather again; he had always come to England at least twice a year, but now, since his illness, he lived semi-retired from his medical practice and no longer drove a car. It was fortunate that there had been this old friend who had been coming to England anyway and had suggested that they might travel together. She laid the last slice in its place, washed her hands and went from the nice old-fashioned kitchen, down the back hall and into the sitting room. Old Doctor van Doorn de Pette was there, sitting in one of the large, rather shabby armchairs by the window, talking to her father, and she went straight to him and gave him an affectionate hug.

‘Lovely to see you, Godfather,’ she exclaimed in her pretty voice. ‘You must be tired—tea’s all ready.’

He studied her, smiling. ‘Dear Laura—not changed, and glad I am of it. Tea will be delightful, but first you must meet my friend, Reilof van Meerum.’

She had been aware of him, of course, talking to Joyce at the other end of the long, low-ceilinged room, but she hadn’t looked at him. And now, crossing the polished floor to shake his hand, she hardly heard her godfather saying: ‘My goddaughter, Reilof—Laura,’ for she was fighting bewilderment and delight and surprise all rolled into one, because at last here was the man she had been waiting for—standing in front of her, all six feet three inches of him, rather heavily built and no longer young—but then she was twenty-nine herself, wasn’t she?—and so incredibly good-looking, with his dark hair silvered at the temples and dark eyes under heavy brows. With the greatest effort in the world she composed her ordinary features into a conventional smile of greeting, said ‘How do you do?’ with a calm she didn’t feel and made some remark about his journey. He answered her politely, and when Joyce chimed in, turned back to her with every sign of interest—and not to be wondered at, conceded Laura, as she went back to her father to tell him that she would be bringing in the tea tray in a few minutes, Joyce was worth anyone’s interest; pretty—very pretty and fair, with large baby blue eyes, and nine years her junior to boot.

She thought it without envy; from the moment that Joyce had been born, she had been the focal point of the household, and later, of their circle of friends, and although she had been spoilt by her parents, very few had ever discovered the fact. As for Laura, she had quickly come to take it for granted, for when her sister was born she had been a disappointingly gawky child of nine, with light brown hair, straight and fine and worn, for convenience’s sake, in two pigtails, and her small face, its childish chubbiness lost, was already settling into its unexciting mould. Only her hazel eyes were fine, large and richly lashed, but even they stood no chance against Joyce’s gorgeous blue ones.