The Course of True Love. Betty Neels

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      “You don’t like me,”

      Dr. Marc van Borsele observed.

      “I don’t know you,” Claribel replied. “But thank you for your help. You were very kind.”

      “I’m not a particularly kind man.” He closed his case, and she opened the door and held out a nicely kept hand.

      “Goodbye, Dr. van Borsele.”

      He shook her hand briefly. “Goodbye. You live alone?”

      She was surprised. “Yes. Well, there are Enoch and Toots…”

      “I trust you don’t open your door to strangers or accept lifts from those you don’t know.”

      Her pretty mouth dropped open. “Well! You insisted on bringing me home and here you are telling me…” She strove to keep her voice at a reasonable level. “I never accept lifts and I certainly don’t open my door. Whatever do you take me for?”

      “The most beautiful girl I have seen for a long time.” He didn’t smile. “Good night, Claribel.”

      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, and her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

      The Course of True Love

      Betty Neels

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      MARCH was doing exactly as it should; it had come in like a lamb, now it was going out like a lion. An icy rain driven by a roaring wind was sweeping the streets clear of all but those unfortunates who had been forced to go out. And these, needless to say, were scuttling along, anxious to get within doors as fast as possible.

      There was a long queue half-way down the street, an impatient line of people under umbrellas, jostling for position, ready to rush forward when their bus arrived. The girl at the end of the queue edged away from the drips running down the back of her neck from the umbrella behind her and sighed resignedly. It had been a long day and she was tired and home was still a bus ride away; she could not even tell if she would be lucky enough to get on to the next bus…

      It came, sending great splashes of water from the gutter as it slowed to a halt. The queue surged forward. The owner of the umbrella gave her a vicious poke in the back as the slow-moving elderly man in front of her stepped back and planted a foot on her instep. She gave a gasp of pain and came to an involuntary halt, to be instantly swept aside by those behind her. Which meant one foot, the injured one, in the muddy water of the gutter.

      The bus went, taking with it almost all the queue, leaving the girl to lift a dripping foot back on to the pavement and hobble to join it once more. But she didn’t reach it; the car which had drawn up behind the bus edged forward and stopped beside her and the driver got out.

      He looked even taller than he actually was in the light of the street lamps and she couldn’t see him very clearly. He said with decided impatience, ‘Are you hurt? I saw what happened. Get into the car, I’ll drive you home.’

      She looked up from the contemplation of torn tights and a trickle of blood. ‘Thank you; I prefer to go by bus.’ Her voice was a pretty as her face but there was a decided chill to it.

      ‘Don’t be a fool, young woman, I’ve no intention of kidnapping you. Besides, you look hefty enough to take care of yourself.’ He ignored her outraged gasp. ‘Don’t keep me waiting, I have an appointment.’ The impatience was even more decided.

      Still smarting from having her Junoesque and charming person referred to as hefty, the girl took his proffered arm and allowed herself to be settled beside him. ‘Where to?’ he asked, and slid into the stream of traffic.

      The girl gave a delicate sniff; the car was a Rolls-Royce and smelled of leather and, faintly, of cologne. She said in her nice voice, still chilly though, ‘You should have asked me before I got into the car, which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t been so impatient. Meadow Road, a turning off Stamford Street. That’s…’

      ‘I know where it is. Which number?’

      ‘Fifteen.’ She added, ‘It’s quite a long way. You could drop me off at a bus-stop; I shall be quite all right.’

      He didn’t answer, and after a moment she realised that he wasn’t going to. She glanced at her foot; it had left a muddy, watery mark on the car’s splendid carpet and it was bleeding sluggishly. Nothing serious, she decided.

      They crossed the river and he turned the car into the busy streets around Waterloo station and then, without being told, into Meadow Road, a dingy street which didn’t live up to its name for there wasn’t a blade of grass throughout its length. Its houses were bay-windowed with steps leading to shabby front doors, and iron railings concealed the semi-basements. Her companion stopped before number fifteen and got out. It surprised her when he opened her door and offered a hand. She stood on the pavement, looking up at him; she was a tall girl but she had to look quite a way.

      ‘Thank you, you were most kind. I hope you won’t be late for your appointment.’

      ‘What is your name?’

      She answered matter-of-factly, ‘Claribel Brown. What’s yours?’

      ‘Marc van Borsele. And now that we are introduced, I will come in with you and see to that foot.’

      She saw then that he held a case in one hand. ‘You’re a doctor?’

      ‘Yes.’

      There seemed no point in arguing with him. ‘Very well, though I’m perfectly able…’

      ‘Let us waste no more time in polite chat.’

      Claribel opened the gate to the basement with rather more force than necessary and led the way down the worn steps to her front door. In the sombre light of the street lamp its paint shone in a vibrant red and there were tubs on either side, holding the hopeful green shoots of daffodils. She got out her key and had it taken from her and the door opened. He switched on the light, too,