Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding. Helen Dickson

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      On returning to Lansbury House, Lady Lansbury broached the matter with her son of Miss Mortimer accompanying them to Chalfont to help take care of Octavia. She found him unexpectedly obdurate and impatient.

      ‘Why this girl? How can you be so certain about her on such short acquaintance? Of course Octavia took to her. It is what she does when anyone shows her kindness.’

      ‘You dislike Miss Mortimer?’ Lady Lansbury was puzzled by his vehemence. ‘I find her quite charming.’

      In a voice that was matter of fact rather than critical, he continued, ‘I cannot be accused of being either uncharitable or unaccommodating in this instance. And contrary to what you might think, I have formed no opinion of her whatsoever. It’s just that...’ He faltered, avoiding eye contact with his mother. ‘I don’t dislike Miss Mortimer. Why should I?’

      Lady Lansbury eyed her son closely. Why should he, indeed? For the first time in years she thought of the girl—Lily, her name was—Christopher had fallen for and how it had almost destroyed him when she had left him. Could it be that in Jane Mortimer he saw similarities to Lily? Perhaps that was it, but apart from the colour of her eyes, in her opinion there the similarities ended. Jane was not in the least like Lily.

      ‘I am glad to hear it. Has it not entered that arrogant, stubborn head of yours that you might even like her? You may be pleasantly surprised.’

      ‘Even for an arrogant, stubborn man like me it is not beyond the realms of possibility,’ Christopher conceded.

      ‘My fear is that when she is faced with your formidable manner—a daunting prospect for any girl—it will alienate her from the start.’

      ‘What I dislike is wasting time on such a trivial matter when Octavia is perfectly happy as she is. Actually, there are one or two minor problems associated with your plan,’ he said drily, but he couldn’t bring himself to dampen his mother’s enthusiasm completely. ‘Miss Mortimer will be the latest in a long line of young ladies we have employed to care for Octavia in the past. Not one of them lasted more than a month and each time they left Octavia was distressed. I doubt Miss Mortimer will be any different. Why don’t you give the entire project some careful thought and we’ll discuss the various aspects of it when we reach Chalfont?’

      ‘No, Christopher. I have made up my mind. Octavia’s care is my concern and it would help me a great deal knowing that when I have to I can leave her with someone I can trust.’

      Christopher sighed. He was not completely heartless. Looking after Octavia, worrying about her, wearied his mother. Finding the right person to care for her had proved a problem in the past. ‘I’m sorry, Mother. Of course you must do as you see fit. Go ahead and employ Miss Mortimer if it makes you happy.’

      ‘More importantly, Christopher, is that she makes Octavia happy.’

      * * *

      Chalfont House was the Lansbury seat in the heart of Oxfordshire. Jane was irrevocably touched by its timeless splendour. A wide stretch of stone steps led up to the colonnaded front door, while on either side two great wings stretched out to portray, in perfect proportions, the great arched dome which surmounted the centre of the building. Inside, the pomp and grandeur, which the countess took for granted, left her breathless.

      As soon as she entered the house she was greeted with unaffected warmth. She felt this was a house where courtesy and mutual affection ruled in perfect harmony.

      A maid appeared and whisked a tired Octavia to her room, leaving Jane with Lady Lansbury. She stood in the hall, looking about her with interest. And then, as if she was seeing a dream awaken before her, Lord Lansbury appeared from one of the many rooms leading off from the hall and strode toward them.

      It was strange, but it was as if she had first seen him only yesterday. He had made such an impression on her on the ship and it had remained, only now it was stronger. He had a look she saw rarely—the complete indifference of inherited position. It was something that could not be acquired or even reproduced. It had to develop over time. Attired in a dark-green jacket and pristine neck linen, tall, lithe, his features strong and darkly, incredibly attractive, he moved with the confident ease of a man well assured of his place in the world and completely unconcerned about the world’s perception of him.

      Accustomed all her life to foreigners and older men of her father’s acquaintance, men who gave thought of nothing other than their work and gave no thought to their appearance, she had never seen anything like Lord Lansbury. Unable to tear her eyes away from him, she was bowled over anew by that same dark, delicious magnetism she remembered vividly from her first glimpse of him on the ship.

      His hair was thick and dark brown, as shiny as silk brushed back from his brow, his glorious grey eyes the colour of smoke. He had a long aquiline nose and his eyelids were heavy, drooping low, giving him a lazy, sleepy look. At over six foot tall, he was built like one of those Greek athletes she had read so much about, lean and muscular, all supple grace, and when he spoke his voice was deep and throaty, reminding her of thick honey and making her think of bodies, of bedrooms and the erotic engravings she had seen on her travels through the far east and Europe with her father.

      Lord Lansbury had travelled to Chalfont ahead of Lady Lansbury. When Lady Lansbury introduced her, he looked at her, inclining his head courteously. But he did not see her, not really, and she hadn’t expected him to. He did not look at her in the way a man would look at an attractive woman. His eyes were startling and distracting, not so much for their silver-grey colour or the size, which was substantial. What gave them their unique power seemed to be the fact that the centre of his eyes filled the clear white from top to bottom and the thick lashes both obscured and revealed his gaze, depending on his whim.

      ‘Miss Mortimer is here to take care of Octavia, Christopher. You will remember that she was the young lady who saved Octavia’s life on the ship. I informed you she would be coming today.’

      ‘Yes, so you did.’ He fixed Jane with a cool gaze. ‘We are in your debt, Miss Mortimer, for what you did that day. But your work will not be easy. Getting Octavia to do anything she doesn’t like is like piloting a ship into the harbour. It needs a steady hand on the tiller.’

      Jane laughed, suddenly nervous. She felt Lord Lansbury was only being polite and sensed he was uncomfortable and wishful to escape. A sense of disappointment rippled through her. How she wished he would look at her differently, that he would find her attractive.

      ‘Please don’t be concerned. My navigational skills are quite exceptional.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it. Your father was a well-known writer and antiquarian, I believe.’

      ‘He was Matthew Mortimer, a knowledgeable writer on many things—Roman and Greek history and antiquities were his passion.’

      ‘He must have been an interesting man. My mother tells me you have spent a great deal of your time abroad.’

      ‘Yes. Together we travelled to many countries—Europe and beyond. We lived in India for five years.’

      ‘Really?’ Jane felt and saw his interest quicken. ‘You must find life here very different indeed from that hot clime.’

      ‘Very different,’ she said, trying not to let herself sound too regretful.

      ‘And dull.’

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