Waiting for Deborah

Waiting for Deborah
Betty Neels

A wait in need of his care…that was obviously how dynamic consultant Sir James Marlow saw Deborah. Otherwise why would he bother to keep rescuing her? Deborah knew it couldn't be because of her looks - she had carrot-colored hair and no figure to speak of. That was the only explanation she could come up with - unless he wanted something else from her altogether?

‘You would make a good doctor’s wife.’

Deborah blushed. Dr Wright was a nice young chap and Deborah had blushed twice at his name. Sir James wasn’t sure why he felt a vague regret. As for Deborah, the blush hadn’t been for Dr Wright; she had at that very moment made the discovery that if she were to be a doctor’s wife she would want Sir James Marlow to be that doctor. Just for the moment nothing and nobody else mattered while she digested this exciting fact before she suppressed it sternly as a load of nonsense.

Dear Reader

With the worst of winter now over, are your thoughts turning to your summer holiday? But for those months in between, why not let Mills & Boon transport you to another world? This month, there’s so much to choose from—bask in the magic of Mauritius or perhaps you’d prefer Paris … an ideal city for lovers! Alternatively, maybe you’d enjoy a seductive Spanish hero—featured in one of our latest Euromances and sure to set every heart pounding just that little bit faster!

The Editor

BETTY NEELS spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman, and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.

Waiting for Deborah

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u95abaa9b-22dc-5c17-be70-9259898263fd)

Excerpt (#u52df6633-5b4b-538c-adb3-9160af2a2b0e)

About the Author (#u832f2c26-722c-52f6-bbab-c0e840e61ac4)

Title Page (#u70f5647f-2331-5304-a53d-fdba30ca8174)

CHAPTER ONE (#u30e517ef-f002-5fae-8e1c-a8ee172c4e4f)

CHAPTER TWO (#u73b8ae18-7393-55de-ae73-453a0a07cec8)

CHAPTER THREE (#u93858452-aa1c-58a0-9f8b-8e99f9fc47d9)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_8c415419-6150-5a24-8c90-22743372d9e0)

THE man standing in front of the empty fireplace was short and stockily built with a long thin face and light brown hair already receding from his forehead. He was dressed in a pin-striped suit, a coloured shirt and a perfectly dreadful tie, and he was obviously pleased both with his appearance and his attire. When he spoke it was with a pomposity which was quite unsuited to his age and his appearance.

There were two other persons in the room, a young woman, elegantly dressed and faultlessly made up, her dark hair brushed into a carefully careless cloud around her good looks, who was lounging on a sofa, and another girl, considerably younger, sitting on a small chair by the window. Unlike her companion, she had carroty hair which was straight and pinned rather carelessly into a knot at the back of her neck. She had no looks to speak of and she was far too thin; only her eyes, when she glanced at the man, were beautiful: vividly blue, large and fringed with curling lashes several shades darker than her hair. She sat composedly, her hands clasped in the lap of her tweed skirt, and listened to the man as he talked.

‘Of course I shall sell this place and the furniture. I may have to wait for my money but I have my flat and you, Barbara, have yours.’

‘I haven’t a flat,’ observed the girl with the carroty hair in a matter-of-fact voice.

They both looked at her. ‘My father was good enough to allow you to live here in comfort with him while he was alone, very generous of him considering that you are no relation …’

‘My mother married him.’

Her stepbrother waved that away with a podgy hand. ‘And since her death he gave you a home—a very comfortable home too—you have lived at your ease, Deborah, and I consider that I owe you nothing.’

‘Yes, well—I thought you might think that.’ She added in a small calm voice, ‘You and Barbara have never liked me.’

‘Well, you have no need to wallow in self-pity,’ said Barbara nastily. ‘You’ve had plenty of experience running a household, you get yourself a job—a mother’s help or something. Anyway this is all very boring. Walter, I’ll leave it all to you; just let me have my share when you’ve got rid of this place.’ She got up gracefully and went to rearrange her hair in front of the old-fashioned mirror above the fireplace.

‘Very well, it may take some time. I suppose Deborah can stay here and caretake until the house is sold.’ He didn’t ask her if she were willing but went on, ‘I’ll see that you have money for food and so on.’

He joined his sister on the way to the door. ‘And don’t think that you can throw my money around; I shall want accounts kept of every penny you spend.’

‘There won’t be any accounts,’ said Deborah reasonably, ‘because I have no money; you took the chequebooks as soon as my stepfather died and probably any cash there was in the house as well.’

Walter went an unbecoming puce and gobbled. ‘Don’t be impertinent, you know nothing about such things.’ He took his wallet from a pocket and counted out some notes. ‘You will need very little money; this should be sufficient for some weeks.’

He bustled Barbara out of the room and banged the door after him only to open it again. ‘And kindly remember that this house and its contents are now mine.’

She sat quietly until she heard the bang of the front door—banging doors was Walter’s way of expressing his annoyance. She got to her feet then, picked up the money and put it in her handbag and went along to the kitchen to make herself some lunch. She was alone in the house; there had been a cook and a housemaid when her stepfather had been alive but Walter had dismissed them with a month’s wages the moment the funeral was over. Unnecessary mouths to feed, he had told Barbara; he wouldn’t need to pay Deborah anything if she stayed at the house until he had sold it. She had nowhere to go, no family living near by, and her only friends were elderly ones of her mother. She had lost touch with them anyway, for his father had discouraged any social life which she might have had; her place, he had told her frequently, was at home, looking after him. It was, Walter had observed in a satisfied voice, a most satisfactory arrangement.

Deborah ate her lunch, got her outdoor things and left the house, walking briskly in the chill March wind. The bus stop was some minutes away, for her stepfather’s house was in one of the secluded roads in Hampstead, but she enjoyed the short walk, her head full of plans. She was free; never mind what Walter had said, she would find a job as quickly as possible and leave the house. She could leave the keys with the house agent …

In Oxford Street, off the bus, she bought an evening paper and scanned its columns for agents’ addresses. There was any number. She chose the nearest, stated her wish to work as a mother’s help, paid her fee, and made her way to the second address she had marked on the newspaper. She visited four agencies and the fees made a considerable hole in Walter’s money. Set a sprat to catch a mackerel, Deborah told herself, getting on the bus again to go back to Hampstead and the large unfriendly house she had called home for some years.

She had tea and supper together for it was already early evening, sitting in the kitchen, pencil and paper on the table beside her, doing optimistic sums. She had given her telephone number to the agencies; they would ring if there was anything suitable. In the meanwhile she would pack her clothes and—since it hadn’t entered her head to do otherwise—clean and dust and Hoover the gloomy rooms until she was able to leave. She locked up presently and went upstairs to her room and got ready for bed. She didn’t like being alone in the house but, since she had no choice, she tried to ignore the small noises and creaks which somehow only sounded at night. Tonight, however, she was too excited at the thought of her future to worry about that.

She didn’t expect to hear anything the next day but by the end of the fourth day she was getting worried. A man from the house agent had been, inspected the house and told her that he would be in touch with her stepbrother, and it seemed to her highly likely that Walter would pay a visit in the very near future. She phoned the agencies the next morning and the first three had nothing for her but the fourth was more hopeful; if she would go along to the office perhaps she would like to consider a post which might suit her.

Deborah lost no time. The rush-hour was over, the bus made good time, and she found herself in Oxford Street, five minutes’ walk from the side-street and the agency.

She was at its door when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Debby—it is Debby? My dear, such a long time since I saw you last—your stepfather died recently, did he not? Two weeks ago, wasn’t it? Are you living with your stepbrother?’

The speaker was elderly, well dressed and still pretty and her smile was warm.