Lesson To Learn

Lesson To Learn
PENNY JORDAN

Penny Jordan needs no introduction as arguably the most recognisable name writing for Mills & Boon. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection, many of which for the first time in eBook format and all available right now.Gray Philips had hired Sarah to be his son's nanny out of desperation – she alone could reach and comfort the unhappy child.But Gray made no secret of the fact he resented her presence in his home and in his life.Forging a bond between father and son was near impossible task – as was hiding her growing feelings for a man who'd forsaken love and trust…

Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author

PENNY JORDAN

Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!

Penny Jordan’s novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.

This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan’s fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.

About the Author

PENNY JORDAN is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.

Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.

Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Lesson To Learn

Penny Jordan

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

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH settled herself comfortably against the trunk of the willow and closed her eyes. Letting the soft gurgle of the stream gently lull her towards sleep, she firmly ignored the pangs of guilt trying to remind her that she was supposed to be thinking about her future; about her superiors’concern that because of her lack of detachment, her apparent inability to stop herself from becoming emotionally involved with her pupils, she was seriously hindering her career as a teacher.

Ignoring the niggling reminder that her cousin had given her this morning, that sleep could sometimes be used as an anodyne against depression, she told herself that it was as a result of the stress of the recently ended term that she felt so exhausted, so drained, so completely unable to take charge of her life and direct it firmly back into the ambitious channels she had planned for herself during her time at university.

Then it had all seemed so simple: she would get her degree, she would go into teaching; she would progress up her career ladder, perhaps even moving into the private sector for a while before applying for the challenging position of head teacher, and she would attain that goal before her thirtieth birthday.

And yet here she was at twenty-seven, acknowledging—or, rather, being forced to acknowledge—that in her original formula for her career she had neglected to take into account one vital factor, namely that she would become so involved with her pupils, so concerned for them, that her own needs, her own plans, her own life, would become completely submerged in her desire to help them.

Exhaustion was how her doctor had sympathetically described the intense physical and mental weakness which had overtaken her midway through last term; stress—the stress of modern living and of a job that made far too many demands upon her.

Her superiors had confirmed that diagnosis, but had been less sympathetic, telling her that her problems were self-inflicted; pointing out that no one had asked her to take on the extra responsibility of organising out-of-school activities for the twelve-year-olds in her care; that no one but herself was to blame for the fact that she seemed to have no defences against taking her pupils and their problems to her heart and suffering with them.

The enormous comprehensive where she worked had a far too rapid turnover of staff, quickly disillusioned by the problems caused by dealing with such vast numbers of children; the children themselves, many of them from disadvantaged backgrounds, were sometimes difficult to deal with, Sarah had to acknowledge that, but most of them, given time and encouragement, would respond…

She gave a small sigh. Forget about your job, her doctor had advised her. Take yourself off somewhere relaxing; lie in the sun…unwind…

Of course, that would have been impossible. Teachers did not spend the entire long summer break without any work to do, as so many people outside the profession seemed to believe, but then had come the news that, even if she was not actually being formally suspended, her future as a teacher was in grave doubt. Which was why she had come here to Shropshire to stay with her cousin and her husband in their quiet country village, where Sally, her cousin, had promised her she would find all the peace and relaxation she needed.

Ross and Sally had been married for two years; Ross worked for an innovative engineering firm in Ludlow, and Sally was an illustrator, working from a small downstairs study in their pretty ex-farmhouse.

Both of them had made Sarah welcome, but their jobs meant that she was left very much to her own devices during the day. Which was what she wanted…or at least what her doctor had said she needed. And it was true that since she had come to Shropshire two weeks ago the problems of her pupils, and the anxieties caused by her over-involvement with them, were beginning to lessen their grip on her, but even that was causing her to feel guilt, to remind herself that they, unlike her, were not fortunate enough to have kind cousins living in idyllic country surroundings, so that they too could escape from the enervating, choking heat of a city simmering under a very un-English and long-lasting heatwave.

On the news at night there were photographs of parched dry fields and parks, of empty streams, and city streets with melting tarmac, and hard blue skies.

A small plopping sound from the stream caused her to open her eyes and focus on the fish jumping out of the water to catch flies. It was a fair-sized trout, and the sight of it made her smile, remembering childhood fishing trips with her father and brother.

Her parents were in Canada now, visiting John and Heather and their twin sons…which was why Sally’s invitation had been such a godsend.

Sarah had always got on well with her cousin. Sally was her senior by three years and there had always been a bond between them. She had been chief bridesmaid at Sally and Ross’s wedding two years ago, although it had been over a year since she had last seen them.

The shock Sally had tried to hide when she had met her from the train had been quickly followed by her cousin’s verbally expressed concern over her loss of weight and the tension dulling her skin and her eyes.

When she had first arrived no one seeing them together would ever have believed that she was the younger, Sarah acknowledged, but now, as she gave in to her body’s demand for rest and relaxation and tried to put aside her mental and emotional guilt at being so self-indulgent, she was slowly starting to regain some of the weight she had lost so that her five-foot frame looked more slender than gaunt, and her skin had begun to lose its city pallor and strain. That was the trouble with being a redhead: at times of emotional, physical or mental upset one’s skin did tend to reflect those stresses and become so pale in contrast to one’s hair that the effect was over-dramatic.

How the days she had spent outside had given her a warm peachy glow, and Ross had jokingly remarked over dinner the previous night, and Sally had commented as she was coming out this morning, that she was once again starting to look like the stunning sexy redhead who had generated so much male curiosity and comment at the wedding.

Sarah had pulled a face and grimaced at her. She personally would never have described herself as either sexy or stunning. She moved, trying not to recall the problems she had had when she had first entered teaching and some of her male colleagues, and even the older male pupils, had refused to take her seriously because of her looks. It was the combination of red hair and startlingly intense green eyes, plus the high cheekbones and pointed chin she had inherited from her mother, that was responsible for the unintentional sensuality of her looks.

In her teens those looks had caused her endless problems, often antagonising her own sex and making it difficult for her to make friends, and equally often leading the boys she met to assume that she was far more sexually aware and adventurous than was actually the case.

At university she had found that the best way to deal with the problem was to adopt a firm no-nonsense manner in such direct contrast to her looks that it immediately made it obvious that she was at university for the serious business of studying and obtaining her degree and not to have a good time.

By the time she had left university and started her first job she had learned to tuck her long hair into a neat chignon, and to play down her facial features by wearing only a minimum of makeup. She always chose sensible, sturdy clothes, suppressing her own unruly and dangerous urge to wear something more feminine and appealing.

Sally had grimaced with distaste when she had met her from the train, immediately condemning the beige shirtwaister dress she was wearing as unbelievably frumpy and sexless.

Sarah had started to point out that, as a teacher, the last thing she wanted was to be regarded as sexually provocative, but she had been too exhausted, too drained, to bother. Just as she had been unable to find the energy to resist when Sally had dragged her off to Ludlow and ruthlessly insisted on replacing almost everything in the sparse wardrobe she had brought with her.

Which was why today she was dressed in a skimpy halter-necked white top and a pair of cut-off denim jeans, her bare feet thrust into a pair of trainers, her hair caught up on top of her head in an untidy pony-tail to keep it off the back of her neck.

This heatwave was so enervating. It was an effort to think, never mind to move, or was it more because she was so exhausted that it seemed so much simpler to let others direct the course of her life, to simply give in and let herself go with the flow?

Behind her, upstream, a small creature disturbed by the passage of someone along the path made a noise that set the birds off in sharp shrill cries of warning.

Immediately Sarah felt her own muscles tense in response. This path was so quiet that she had almost begun to think of it as her own private retreat. As she drew herself further into the protection of the willow’s overhanging branches she hoped that whoever was coming towards her would walk past her without stopping to chat.

It was a new experience for her, this reluctance to involve herself with anyone. A result, perhaps, of the lecture she had received from her superiors when they had warned her that her over-involvement with her pupils was detrimental to her career.

She closed her eyes, determinedly blotting out the sound of someone approaching her hiding-place, but it was impossible to ignore the timid and very youthful voice that said uncertainly and very anxiously, ‘Excuse me, but is this the right way to Ludlow?’

Unwillingly she opened her eyes.

A child…a boy, no more than six years old at most, was standing watching her. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, a little too thin for his age and with an anxiety about him that her senses quickly registered and recognised.

Even while she was telling herself that, whoever he was and whatever he was doing here all on his own on this remote country footpath, it was nothing to do with her, and that all she had to do was to answer his question and set him on his way, another part of her, that compassionate, caring, womanly part of her that had already caused her so many problems was wondering who he was, and why he was here, so very, very much alone, and so very, very young.

As she sat up and studied him she fibbed, ‘I don’t really know, but I’ve got a map somewhere here with me…if you’d like to come and sit down for a moment I’ll have a look at it.’

That was true at any rate, she did have a map, and she also had the very generous lunch that Mrs Beattie, Sally’s wonderful daily, had packed up for her that morning.