The Mistress of His Manor

March opened the door for her. ‘I’d be only too happy to help.’

‘I may take you up on that later.’

Left alone, March took a look round the room, hoping to learn more about Joanna from her taste in literature. An alcove alongside the fireplace held an eclectic mix of classics, large illustrated books on fine art, and rows of paperback bestsellers with the accent on gruesome crime. No romantic fiction. He pulled out a dog-eared anthology of poems, and grinned as he saw the flyleaf. Joanna Sutton, Form 3A. He put it back and moved on to the watercolour studies grouped on two of her walls. He nodded, impressed. The subtle tints were exactly right for the understated charm of the room.

March turned as the door opened. ‘I was just admiring your artwork.’

Joanna smiled. ‘Good, aren’t they? All local scenes. A talented friend of mine painted them. Right, then, come with me—dinner is served.’

In the small dining room candles flickered in crystal holders to highlight the central platter of colourful vegetables surrounding a golden-crusted Beef Wellington.

‘What a wonderful sight,’ said March in awe.

‘Do sit down.’ Jo filled their glasses, then took up a carving knife. ‘I should have done this in the kitchen, but I wanted you to see my creation in all its glory first.’

‘Glory is the right word,’ he agreed, as she served him a substantial slice of rare beef encased in perfect crisp pastry.

‘Help yourself to the rest,’ said Joanna. She served herself, then sat down and held up her glass. ‘Happy eating.’

March raised his own. ‘To the beautiful chef.’

They fell on the food with equal enthusiasm. ‘I enjoy my own cooking,’ she admitted. ‘My artist friend, Isobel James, cooks great meals. But, unlike me, by the time she gets them to the table she can never eat much herself.’

‘This is superb,’ said March indistinctly. ‘It would be tragedy if you couldn’t eat it. What’s the bit between the meat and pastry?’

‘Duxelle of mushrooms. Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Nice? It’s glorious!’

‘Have some more.’ Joanna got up to serve him.

‘Who taught you to cook like this?’ March asked. ‘Your mother?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘I learned this kind of thing from Molly Carter, who used to be Jack’s cook and housekeeper before he married Kate. Molly owns a restaurant in town these days.’

‘I’ll take you there next time, then,’ said March promptly, and grinned at the look on her face. ‘Or am I breaking the speed barrier again?’

‘Not exactly.’ She smiled. ‘But let’s enjoy this evening before we move on to the next.’

‘Enjoy is the word.’ He applied himself to the rest of his dinner. ‘Tell me more about yourself, Joanna. I noticed several books on art on your shelves.’

‘I did Fine Art in college for a while.’

‘Where?’

‘Oxford.’ She put down her knife and fork and drank some wine.

‘Weren’t you happy there?’

Her face shadowed. ‘In the beginning I loved it, but it didn’t work out for me. So at the end of the first year I left the dreaming spires and came back here to take a business course at the local technical college.’

March eyed her with respect. ‘That must have been a big adjustment after Fine Art at Oxford.’

‘It certainly was.’

‘It must have helped to have this house to get back to?’

She shook her head. ‘I had to wait for the tenant’s lease to expire before I could move in.’

‘You lived with your parents until then?’

‘For almost a year.’ She smiled at him wryly, her eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. ‘I’d been away at school since I was eight, and went straight from there to Oxford. No gap year for me. So, much as I love my parents, it was quite an adjustment to live permanently at home in Mill House.’ Hey, watch it, she warned herself, and collected the plates to change the subject. The man was so easy to talk to she’d be telling him all her secrets if she wasn’t careful. Not her usual policy with someone she knew so little. Or even with people she knew well. She smiled brightly. ‘I didn’t have time to make a pudding, but I can give you cheese with home-made biscuits—another of Molly’s recipes.’

March got up, curious about the shutter she’d suddenly pulled down between them. Ignoring her protests, he picked up the heavy platter to follow her into the kitchen.

He was obviously someone used to doing things for himself, noted Jo, and it was making her more and more curious about him. ‘Just leave it on the counter,’ she told him. ‘I don’t put this in the dishwasher.’

‘I’m good at washing up. Let’s do it now.’

She shook her head. ‘If there’s a next time, you can do it then.’

‘Next time,’ he said, moving closer, ‘I’ll take you out to dinner. But,’ he added deliberately, ‘I’ll insist on washing up the time after that. Shall I take the cheese in?’

‘Thank you. I’ll make some coffee.’ Glad to be alone for a moment, Jo frowned while the coffee-maker did its thing. She liked this relaxed, self-assured man very much, but the way he took so much for granted was a bit unnerving. She smiled wryly. On the other hand it was only human to feel gratified when a man of March’s calibre made it so plain he was interested in her.

‘I couldn’t resist trying your biscuits,’ he confessed when she rejoined him. ‘You’re a very talented cook, Joanna. Have you ever thought of it as a career?’

She pulled a face. ‘Lord, no. When I came back here after—after Oxford, I worked for Molly that summer, then did weekends and holiday periods for her when I started the new course. So I know what fiendishly hard work it is. I enjoy a little social entertaining now and then, but that’s as far as it goes.’

‘Who do you entertain?’

‘Josh and Leo Carey mostly—twin brothers I’ve known for years. And I don’t exactly entertain them—just feed them whenever they’ve got an hour off. Then there’s Isobel, the artist whose work you liked. We met at a party when we were thirteen, and we’ve been firm friends ever since. She lives in an attic flat above the art gallery she manages in town.’

March looked at her steadily. ‘But no boyfriend for you, Joanna?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘If there were you wouldn’t be here tonight.’

‘Point taken. But you’re a pleasure to look at, gainfully employed, you own a jewel of a house—and you cook like an angel.’ He spread his hands. ‘Why hasn’t some man snapped you up long since?’

Joanna kept her eyes on the coffee she was pouring. ‘Because I don’t want to be snapped up.’

‘Is that written in stone?’ He took the cup she handed him. ‘Because be warned, Joanna. I intend to know you better. Much better.’

‘Are you suggesting we become lovers?’ she said bluntly.

March drained his cup and set it down with a click. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘I had to ask.’