English Lord, Ordinary Lady. Fiona Harper

page, hoping to garner a little more information on the mysterious Mr Roberts. The site only gave the most basic information, but she could see that he’d done very well for himself, building his company up from virtually nothing.

      Out of the blue, she heard her mother’s voice echo in her head: ‘He might be rich, darling. But he’s hardly one of us, is he?’

      Her mother was such a snob.

      ‘He’s a bit dishy, isn’t he?’

      Josie turned to find Marianne, the librarian, looking over her shoulder. The silence rule was never going to be upheld very well while Marianne worked here. Somehow, a place of serious contemplation and study had turned into a hotbed of gossip. And Marianne was the main culprit.

      ‘I hadn’t really noticed, actually.’

      Marianne whacked her on the shoulder with a paperback. ‘Go on! You can’t fool me. Look at that lovely thick dark hair and those brooding, serious eyes. I bet there’s a fine physique underneath that suit.’

      ‘Marianne, you’ve been spending far too long camped out in the spicier parts of the romance section. Not every woman thinks about a man in terms of hard abs and strong thighs. Some things are more important.’

      Marianne hissed out a laugh. ‘Yeah, right! Just don’t dribble too much on that keyboard, OK?’

      Josie turned back to face the monitor, closed down the page and stood up, whisking her belongings under her arm as she did so.

      ‘Nobody here is going to be doing any drooling, trust me.’

      ‘Whatever you say, Josie.’

      The librarian sauntered off, a smug grin on her face. Josie sighed. Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—she wasn’t going to let herself think about moody looks and washboard abs. Those didn’t count for anything. A man with a heart and a soul was a much rarer, and infinitely more precious, commodity.

      Will Roberts might look ‘dishy’ but he might also be the worst thing to happen to Elmhurst Hall in five centuries. And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

      CHAPTER TWO

      WILL sat in the corner of the tearoom, partly hidden by a hideous piece of garden trellis with faded plastic ivy poking through it. He picked up a leaf that had either fallen off or been picked off by a bored customer and fixed it back onto one of the many waiting stubs.

      Something would have to be done about this place.

      While the hall looked elegantly shabby at present, the tearoom just looked cheap.

      The only possible problem might be its manageress. He’d been here a month—well, not an entire month. Only weekends, really—and he still had no idea how she’d react to the news that he wanted to completely gut and refurbish the tearoom. In the end, he’d had to cut short his work in London and come down here on a Monday afternoon.

      You’d think the pink-haired girl would be pleased he was bringing this beautiful place back to life, but every time he was in her presence it was as if he could hear her tutting at him. Not out loud, of course. But the noise was there all the same. Inside his head.

      He watched her as she chatted to customers, and, clearing their plates, said goodbye. She might look a little strange, but she was good with people. Warm. Engaging. With other people.

      He checked his watch. Only five more minutes and the tearoom would close. Then she’d have to talk to him.

      Over the last few weeks he’d met with all the staff, one by one, to talk through their jobs and find out if they had ideas for improvement. And, while he’d listened carefully to each one of them, he hadn’t been convinced about some of the ideas. Especially Molly’s. She was one of the more enthusiastic volunteer guides. Somehow, a garden-gnome museum didn’t sit right with his vision for the hall. It needed ideas with taste, class—initiatives with a certain sense of respect for tradition and the history of the place.

      He wiggled another leaf on the ivy trail and pushed it back into position. Totally fake and out of place.

      A cup of tea clattered onto the table in front of him. He looked up to find Josie staring at him. Let’s get it over with, then, her expression said.

      ‘Thank you. Why don’t you sit down?’

      She looked away for a split-second then dropped into the moulded plastic seat bolted onto the metal supports that held the table in place.

      ‘I’ve been looking over the accounts for the tearooms.’

      She let out a breath through her nostrils and continued staring at him.

      ‘They’re not good—’

      She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. ‘I do as well as I can under the circumstances. You try running a place like this with only one working oven, not enough staff and a budget that only allows for the cheapest, lowest-quality ingredients. I’d like to see you do better.’

      ‘I said the figures weren’t good. I didn’t say they were terrible. In fact, if you’d let me finish, I was about to say that the tearoom seems to be the only part of the estate that’s made any money in the last few years and, reading between the lines, I’d say that had an awful lot to do with you.’

      Her arms dropped to her sides. ‘Oh.’

      ‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Josie. You’re producing a great menu under severe limitations, but this place is a dive.’

      Her body straightened and her hands flew to her hips, but then she looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the ivy, and she slumped again.

      ‘You’re right. It’s hideous. I told Harry that over and over, but he wouldn’t hear of changing anything. Couldn’t see what the problem was.’

      He took a sip of his tea. It was hot and strong and exactly how he liked it.

      ‘So, you won’t have any objections to a bit of refurbishment, then?’

      ‘A bit? I’d say we ought to rip the whole lot out and start again!’ She jumped off the chair. ‘Just look at this.’

      He almost choked on his tea as she ran to get a wooden chair from near the till, balanced it on the table next to him and vaulted onto the table-top.

      Circus tricks? What the heck was she doing?

      Unfortunately his legs seemed to be half-wedged under the plastic table and he wasn’t about to go anywhere fast.

      ‘Josie! I don’t think you should…’

      She made a dismissive noise. ‘I’m not very heavy. It’ll be fine.’

      Finally his leg came free and he lurched forward trying to grab hold of her. Too late. She was atop the chair and poking at the polystyrene-tiled suspended ceiling.

      There was nothing else to do but join her on top of the table and hope the plastic was stronger than it looked.

      ‘See?’

      ‘Josie, I…’

      And then he did see. Beyond the polystyrene tile she had moved was the original ceiling, beams and all. It was dark and dusty now but if it were restored it would look sensational.

      She was smiling down at him. Even standing on the chair she wasn’t a whole lot taller than him and he suddenly became aware of the rise and fall of her chest, of the glow in her eyes.

      ‘I…um…think we ought to discuss this at ground level.’

      Something in the way she looked at him changed. She closed her mouth and stared at him. Hard, but without the familiar hint of disapproval. ‘OK…Lord Radcliffe.’

      When they’d clambered down and found their seats again he said, ‘Call me Will.’

      She smiled at him.