Her Hand in Marriage. Jessica Steele

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      ‘Grief—I’m not interested in marriage!’ she exclaimed indignantly. Hadn’t she seen enough of marriage in this very house to know she would rather die an old maid than take the marriage route?

      ‘Your parents are divorced, I believe?’ he queried.

      But if he had any more questions lined up—tough.

      ‘Sorry, Naylor. Would you mind if I got up from the analyst’s couch?’ And, not waiting for an answer, ‘It was no problem for me to tell you what I have, because I know that after tonight I’m never going to see you again. But that’s it! One “date” does not entitle you to an in-depth personal history.’

      ‘And your mother wonders what it is about you that so puts men off, so she decided to let your “latest beau” know how lovely you really are?’

      Latest beau! She’d like to bury a hatchet in his head! Romillie’s dislike of him was back in full force. ‘I’ve never been dumped yet!’ she flared hostilely.

      ‘That’s usually your prerogative?’

      ‘Clear off, Cardell!’ she fumed.

      Naylor looked back at her, those keen blue eyes taking in her hostility. Then, giving her a hard, thoughtful stare, ‘Black, no sugar,’ he ordered, and left her.

      Romillie set about making coffee, never more glad that he had gone. He could find his own way to the studio; she’d had it with him.

      She had expected them back well before the coffee was ready, but when they were not she went in search of them. Perhaps her mother meant her to take a tray into the studio? She hadn’t thought so, but…

      Romillie entered the studio, thinking she could easily collect a tray, but was immediately struck by the fact that, while Naylor was up one end of the studio, her mother and Lewis were down at the other. And, what was more, they were standing close, and were so engrossed in the picture they were studying, and looked so much ‘a couple’ somehow, that it just did not seem right to break in.

      She took a few silent steps nearer to the man she was now certain she had no liking for and noticed he had been looking at her mother’s more recent work, in particular a painting of one section of the rear garden.

      Then suddenly, as Naylor put that picture down and picked up another, so Romillie recalled what other recent pictures were up that end. In a rush, she went quickly to him. But she was already too late!

      She’d opened her mouth to protest when, reaching Naylor, she saw him standing gazing fascinated at the nude sketch her mother had made of her. It was a three-quarter side-on sketch, showing the lovely curve of her back as she bent slightly over, her behind, and the long length of leg from hip, thigh, calf and toe. The sketch showed her tiny waist and moved up to the full globe of her right breast and part of her left breast. Above her unadorned shoulder and the long length of neck her mother had captured in her face a most becoming honest and true smile, a smile that seemed to shine out through her eyes too.

      ‘That picture’s not for sale!’ Romillie found her voice to tell him huskily, while at the same time wanting to snatch it from his hands.

      Naylor studied the sketch for a moment to two longer, taking in the complete beauty Eleanor Mannion-Fairfax had captured. Unhurriedly, then he turned to Romillie. If he had observed that her cheeks had a hint of warm pink about them he gave no sign, but, his eyes telling her nothing, ‘Strangely enough,’ he drawled, ‘I wasn’t thinking of buying.’

      How she kept civil to him after that, Romillie never knew. But as Naylor put the picture down, and Eleanor and Lewis suddenly seemed to notice they had company and came over, Romillie somehow retained enough good manners to not let anyone else feel uncomfortable.

      But she was glad to see Naylor go. As anticipated, he did not ask to see her again. She would have been astonished—and pleased to turn him down—had he done so.

      But the man disturbed her. She acknowledged that. He was in her head again when she awoke on Sunday morning. She half regretted that she had suggested the foursome at all. But then, recalling the way her mother and Lewis were with each other, nothing showy, but quiet and sort of—together, she could only know that at whatever cost to her personally it had been the right thing to do.

      Not that she could say it had cost her that much. Just more intimate than she would have wanted tête-à-tête in the kitchen with Naylor Cardell, that was all. They had soon established that they weren’t going to see each other again—and he was as pleased about that as she was.

      It was a mystery to her why Naylor should still be in her head when she went into work on Monday. She ousted him when the first person she saw was Jeff Davidson. ‘You’re still coming with me to Alex Yardley’s retirement dinner on Saturday, I hope?’ he asked, laying on the charm.

      Romillie had in part forgotten that Friday would be Mr Yardley’s last day in the practice, and had forgotten totally that, although the invitation was for ‘and guest’, she and Jeff had been going to go together.

      ‘Sorry,’ she apologised. And, knowing it would be discourteous not to attend, ‘I’m bringing someone else.’

      He did not like that. ‘The new boyfriend, I suppose?’ he questioned, not very pleasantly.

      Actually, she had been thinking of asking her mother if she would like to come. ‘If he’s free,’ she replied.

      ‘If he’s free?’ Jeff queried, and with a calculating look in his eyes, ‘There isn’t anybody else, is there? You’ve made him up!’ he accused.

      ‘He seemed real enough to me over the weekend,’ she replied, and had Naylor back in her head again. She had to smile to herself, though—he’d be delighted to know he was her new boyfriend.

      Romillie asked her mother how she felt about going to the dinner on Saturday. But as she had expected, although Eleanor had made a start on socialising again, she was not keen on mixing with a load of strangers whom she had never met before.

      ‘Why not ask Naylor?’ she suggested. ‘I’m sure he’d be only too pleased to be your date.’

      Oh, heavens. Romillie did so hope her mother was not worrying that she had such a ‘thing’ about men that she was going to push her in the male direction at every chance.

      ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ she replied, a little fib permissible in the circumstances, she felt. ‘Talking of thoughts, have you thought any more about painting Lewis’s portrait?’

      Eleanor smiled at her, and confessed, ‘I have to say I have.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rom. I’m pulled to do it a lot of the time. Sometimes I feel really keen to have a shot at it. But at others I feel sure I’ll make a complete hash of it.’

      It was plain from that that her mother’s former confidence in her ability had not fully returned. ‘How about accepting the commission on the basis that if you mess it up, or Lewis does not like it, you reserve the right not to sell it to him?’

      Eleanor considered the idea. ‘But what about the time he’ll waste coming here? I shall need at least two or three sittings!’

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