His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps

‘I didn’t say that.’ She looked up at him from under her hands. ‘Did I say that?’

‘No.’ He looked as if he was going to say something but clearly changed his mind. Then, after a moment, ‘Did you find her anything more practical to wear in the meantime?’

‘Yes. And then again no.’

‘Well, that’s clear.’ He doubled up opposite her as if to check that her eyes weren’t glazing over.

‘I found her some stuff,’ she said, rousing herself, ‘but she really doesn’t see herself as a sweatshirt and jeans girl.’

‘She can’t spend her entire life in party dresses,’ he objected, not moving. ‘She must have some ordinary clothes.’

‘Your confidence does you credit. But yes, I suppose you’re right. There’s obviously been some kind of a slip-up on the packing front. Fortunately I found this.’ She dug around in her shirt pocket and fished out the photograph she’d found. Her fingers were wet and she wiped it on her sleeve before handing it to him. ‘It’s her mother wearing the same stuff.’

He stared at it for a moment, then returned it to her, without comment. ‘Did it do the trick?’

‘Would you exchange pink taffeta frills for denim bib overalls without a fuss?’

‘Fortunately, I’ve never had to make that choice.’

Was that a smile? Just the tiniest hint of one?

Encouraged, she said, ‘Actually, I had a bit of a brainwave and suggested I take a photograph of her exactly like this one. That seemed to do the trick.’

‘So what’s the problem? You need a camera? There’s got to be one around here somewhere.’

‘Thanks, but I have a camera. I was going on holiday,’ she reminded him.

‘Then why is she still in the pink frilly thing? I mean, there’s no shortage of puppies.’

‘No. But it’s not just the puppy.’ She wasn’t likely to have his undivided attention again any time soon. Best not waste it. ‘You were in the original photograph and she wants one exactly like it.’ Then, because she didn’t want him to say no without giving it some thought, she quickly added, ‘There’s no rush. The clothes are in the wash and it’s not exactly fit to take photographs out there this morning.’ Even if she could see straight. ‘In the meantime I’d better go and have another look for my phone.’

‘Jacqui…’

She made an effort to stand, but her knees didn’t feel quite up to it. It was nothing to do with the way he’d said her name. Very softly, not as if he wanted to make sure she was listening, but just because he wanted to say it…

‘I’m sorry.’

Her mistake.

‘What for?’ There were so many things to choose from…‘It wasn’t your fault I banged my head.’

‘About your holiday.’

Oh, that…

‘I promise I won’t say another word about it if you’ll let Maisie have her photograph.’

‘You provide the sun—’ he didn’t exactly growl, the embryo smile had gone but he didn’t seem bothered by her blatant attempt at a little emotional blackmail ‘—and I’ll turn up for the photo call.’

Which implied that he knew something about the prevailing weather conditions at Hill Tops that she didn’t.

It didn’t matter. He’d promised. And the sun had to shine eventually, if she stuck around for long enough—it had been shining in that old photograph she’d found, hadn’t it?—which was why, instead of responding with something snippy like ‘you’ve got a deal’, she smiled—a real smile this time—and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, rather more weakly, ‘Now we’ve sorted that out, is there any chance of a couple of aspirin?’

‘Only if you’ll lie down for an hour and give them a chance to do their job.’

‘Are you sending me to bed?’

No, no, stupid thing to say. The way she felt at that moment, he’d have to carry her and she didn’t think that lying against his chest listening to his heart being put through its paces—she wasn’t stick-thin like his glamorous cousin—would do her condition any good at all.

‘What about Maisie?’ she demanded, in an attempt to shift that image from her brain.

‘Susan will take care of her.’

‘She’s got other things to do. Chickens, house-work…’

‘That isn’t your problem.’

OK, so she’d been hoping he might have a complete change of heart and volunteer to take care of Maisie himself, but her head hurt too much to worry about it.

‘All right. But there’s no way I’m going to bed. You’ll have to ask those dogs to budge up and let me share their sofa.’

‘I could, of course, insist that you go to the local A&E for an X-ray, since you’re obviously not in your right mind.’ Then, taking pity on her, ‘Come on. You can put your feet up in the library.’

‘The library? You mean you’re letting me back into the posh bit of the house? After this morning?’

She blinked. Had she really said that? The crack to her skull must have been harder than she’d thought.

He clamped his jaw down hard, presumably because it was against medical ethics to yell at someone in pain. Demand that they shut up.

She actually saw the slow breath he took, although if he counted to ten he did it mentally, before he said, ‘I think “posh” might be stretching it a bit, but at least you won’t get covered in dog hairs.’

She thought she should probably say something, but couldn’t think of anything sensible, so left it and he put a hand beneath her elbow, eased her to her feet.

‘Can you walk?’

‘Of course I can walk,’ she said, doing her best to ignore the fact that the room was spinning and clutching the ice-pack to her head. ‘I’m not an invalid.’

‘No, just a pain in the backside. Don’t you ever give your mouth a rest?’

‘Of course I…’ She stopped. ‘That was a trick question, wasn’t it?’

He didn’t answer, possibly to demonstrate that one of them had some control over their mouth, although if she had been a betting woman she might have had a mild flutter on the chance that it was because he was trying not to laugh. Definitely trying not to laugh. Almost definitely.

And, OK, doing a pretty good job of it.

She had a quick glimpse of panelled hall, the bottom of the substantial oak staircase that led to his bedroom and then she was in a room that had the perfect air of shabby comfort only attained through generations of occupation by the same family.

Velvet curtains that had once been green, but which now, except in the deepest folds, had faded to a silvery grey. A richly patterned Persian rug, worn practically threadbare. A huge Knole sofa standing four-square to a handsome fireplace which was laid with logs and only needed a match to send the reflection of flames flickering off the bookshelves that lined the walls.