The Master of Highbridge Manor. Susanne James

       He smiled across at her. ‘I promise to be extremely quiet,’ he said.

      How very informally polite they were being, Ria thought, now that they were alone together for the first time since he’d kissed her. There was nothing in his expression to suggest that it had crossed his mind since—and how was she managing to appear so casual…so completely normal? She’d even stopped herself from blushing—which must be a first.

      Susanne James has enjoyed creative writing since childhood, completing her first—sadly unpublished—novel by the age of twelve. She has three grown-up children who were, and are, her pride and joy, and who all live happily in Oxfordshire with their families. She was always happy to put the needs of her family before her ambition to write seriously, although along the way some published articles for magazines and newspapers helped to keep the dream alive!

      Susanne’s big regret is that her beloved husband is no longer here to share the pleasure of her recent success. She now shares her life with Toffee, her young Cavalier King Charles spaniel, who decides when it’s time to get up (early) and when a walk in the park is overdue!

      

       Recent titles by the same author:

      THE BOSELLI BRIDE

      THE PLAYBOY OF PENGARROTH HALL

      THE BRITISH BILLIONAIRE’S INNOCENT BRIDE

      Highbridge Manor

      by

      Susanne James

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      RIA drove slowly towards the entrance of the large Victorian building, the tyres of her elderly car grumbling along the gravel drive. A faint smile played around her lips as she took in the scene…This was the archetypal daunting place of learning, she thought, as she imagined the scores of palefaced children who would have come to this boarding school for the first time, their stomachs churning, their mouths dry. Something she could easily identify with.

      The school was a long two-storey building, its two sections separated by a bell tower and, although it had obviously stood for a hundred years or more in this rather remote area of the Hampshire countryside, it looked well-maintained and cared for. The lawns flanking the drive were neat and orderly, with white stones placed at regular intervals along the edge to prohibit the unauthorized parking of cars, and over to the left were the four tennis courts, their nets taut and bristling with the anticipation of four hundred boys coming back for the start of the summer term.

      A rush of familiarity filled Ria as she parked a little way away from the pillared-stone entrance and got out of the car. She had spent so much of her own childhood in a boarding school and, although she’d not yet set foot inside Highbridge Manor, she knew it would present her with nothing new. There would be the smell of cleaning materials and polished wood, the distinctive dusty scent of books and paper, and somewhere from away in the distance the unmistakable odour of vegetables being boiled. Not that she would expect there to be any sign of cooking today, she realized, as she reached up to pull the doorbell, because the students were not due to return until next week.

      As the heavy door was opened, Ria found herself looking up into the shrewd blue eyes of a smartly dressed woman in a grey skirt and jumper, her reading spectacles pushed up and planted safely on the top of her slightly greying brown hair. Ria instinctively guessed her to be about fifty, her self-assured manner demonstrating a comfortable familiarity with the place.

      ‘Ah—Ria Davidson?’ The woman’s smile was strangely wary, and Ria answered quickly.

      ‘Yes. I’ve an appointment with Mr Trent at ten-thirty,’ she said.

      There was a pause. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Do come in.’ She gestured for Ria to enter. ‘I’m Helen Brown. I’m the school secretary,’ she added.

      Of course you are, Ria thought. You couldn’t be anything else. In her experience, school secretaries were a breed apart—competent, possessive…and scary.

      Ria followed Helen along the corridor and into a small room which overlooked the tennis courts.

      ‘This is my abode, my study,’ Helen said. ‘Do sit down for a moment. I’ll let Mr Trent know you’re here.’ She picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. ‘Miss Davidson has arrived,’ she murmured. ‘Shall I bring her along now?’ Then, ‘Oh, yes, OK—we’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

      Glancing at the small clock on the wall in front of her, Ria noticed that it was still only ten-twenty—she’d arrived rather early. But, clearly, Mr Trent was sticking to the arrangement, she thought. Ten-thirty was ten-thirty—not ten-twenty! She sighed inwardly. He was going to be one of those, she thought—a stickler for precise detail.

      Helen replaced the receiver. ‘He’s caught up with the caretaker at the moment,’ she said. ‘But he won’t be long.’

      Ria sat back, glad of a brief opportunity to find out a few things. ‘The agency only contacted me yesterday about this position,’ she began, and Helen interrupted.

      ‘I know; it’s been an absolute pain.’ She paused. ‘One of our English tutors left very unexpectedly just before the end of last term—which was somewhat unfortunate, but frankly…’ and, speaking slightly from the corner of her mouth as if she might be overheard, Helen added, ‘…it was something of a blessing in disguise. No tears shed, I can tell you.’ She sighed. ‘We’ve already interviewed three candidates, only one of whom was suitable—and she turned us down! So, we’re in a bit of a fix at the moment.’

      ‘Yes, I gathered this was a rush job.’ Ria smiled.

      ‘It’s only a temporary post until the end of next term, in any case—as you know, I’m sure,’ Helen went on. ‘It should be easier to find someone permanent for September.’

      ‘Have you been here a long time?’ Ria asked Helen.

      The woman smiled, studying her well-kept nails for a second. ‘About fifteen years,’ she said, ‘so I feel I’ve earned my apprenticeship!’

      ‘I understand it’s always been a private school,’ Ria said.

      ‘Oh, yes—owned and run, very successfully, by the Trent family for as long as the school has been in existence,’ Helen said. ‘Which I think is quite a record of continuity, don’t you?’

      Presently, Helen stood up. ‘I think we can go now,’ she said, glancing up at the clock. It was exactly ten twenty-eight.

      They walked together along the polished floor of the long corridor, arriving at a door at the end which stated ‘Headmaster’ in bold lettering. Helen knocked timidly and waited and, after a moment, a strong voice answered, ‘Come.’

      As she followed Helen inside, Ria had to shade her eyes against the strong sunlight which shafted in through the windows, but as she quickly adjusted her vision she was almost bowled over by the awesome vision of Mr Jasper Trent.

      He was young—not old at all—which she’d thought he would be, probably only in his late thirties, and was six feet four at least, she guessed, broad-shouldered and well-built, and dressed formally in a dark suit and tie. His black hair was fashionably cut, his strong, bold features dominated by the most all-seeing dark eyes Ria had ever seen in her life. My goodness, she thought; there wouldn’t be any problem with discipline in this school! Would anyone like to argue with Mr Jasper Trent? And, when he spoke, his crisp, authoritative voice answered that question!

      ‘Miss Davidson? Please come in and sit down,’ he said, the rather