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      About the Author

      Romance readers around the world will be sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit will live on in all her stories, including those yet to be published.

      CONTENTS

      A CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      WINTER WEDDING

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE girl standing in a corner of the crowded room hardly merited a second glance; she was small, with light brown hair strained back into an unfashionable bun, a face whose snub nose and wide mouth did nothing to redeem its insignificance, and she was wearing an elaborate shrimp-pink dress. But after his first glance the man standing across the room from her looked again. Presently he strolled over to stand beside her. His ‘Hello’ was pleasant and she turned her head to look at him.

      She answered him politely, studying him from large brown eyes fringed by curling lashes. Looking at her eyes, he reflected that one soon forgot the nose and mouth and dragged-back hair. He smiled down at her. ‘Do you know anyone here? I came with friends—I’m staying with them and was asked to come along with them. A birthday party, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes.’ She looked past him to the crowded room, the groups of laughing, gossiping people waving to each other with drinks in their hands, the few couples dancing in the centre. ‘Would you like me to introduce you to someone?’

      He said in his friendly way, ‘You know everyone here? Is it your birthday?’

      ‘Yes.’ She gave him a quick surprised look and bent her head to examine the beaded bodice of her dress.

      ‘Then shouldn’t you be the belle of the ball?’

      ‘Oh, it’s not my party. It’s my stepsister’s—that pretty girl over by the buffet. Would you like to meet Clare?’

      ‘The competition appears too keen at the moment,’ he said easily. ‘Shouldn’t you be sharing the party, since it’s your birthday too?’

      ‘Well, no.’ She had a pretty voice and she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sure you’d like to meet some of the guests. I don’t know your name…’

      ‘Forgive me. Hay-Smythe—Oliver.’

      ‘Bertha Soames.’ She put out a small hand and he shook it gently.

      ‘I really don’t want to meet anyone. I think that perhaps I’m a little on the old side for them.’

      She scrutinised him gravely—a very tall, strongly built man, with fair hair thickly sprinkled with grey. His eyes were grey too, and he had the kind of good looks which matched his assured air.

      ‘I don’t think you’re in the least elderly,’ she told him.

      He thanked her gravely and added, ‘Do you not dance?’

      ‘Oh, I love to dance.’ She smiled widely at him, but as quickly the smile faded. ‘I—that is, my stepmother asked me to see that everyone was enjoying themselves. That’s why I’m standing here—if I see anyone on their own I make sure that they’ve got a drink and meet someone. I really think that you should…’

      ‘Definitely not, Miss Soames.’ He glanced down at her and thought how out of place she looked in the noisy room. And why, if it was her birthday, was she not wearing a pretty dress and not that ill-fitting, over-elaborate garment? ‘Are you hungry?’

      ‘Me? Hungry?’ She nodded her head. ‘Yes, I missed lunch.’ Her eyes strayed to the buffet, where a number of people were helping themselves lavishly to the dainties upon it. ‘Why don’t you…?’

      Dr Hay-Smythe, hard-working in his profession and already respected by older colleagues, a man who would never pass a stray kitten or a lost dog and who went out of his way to make life easy for anyone in trouble, said now, ‘I’m hungry too. Supposing we were to slip away and have a meal somewhere? I don’t imagine we should be missed, and we could be back long before this finishes.’

      She stared at him. ‘You mean go somewhere outside? But there isn’t a café anywhere near here—besides…’

      ‘Even Belgravia must have its pubs. Anyway, I’ve my car outside—we can look around.’

      Her eyes shone. ‘I’d like that. Must I tell my stepmother?’

      ‘Certainly not. This door behind you—where does it lead? A passage to the hall? Let us go now.’

      ‘I’ll have to get my coat,’ said Bertha when they were in the hall. ‘I won’t be long, but it’s at the top of the house.’

      ‘Haven’t you a mac somewhere down here?’

      ‘Yes, but it’s very old…’

      His smile reassured her. ‘No one will notice in the pub.’ He reflected that at least it would conceal that dreadful dress.

      So, suitably shrouded, she went out of the house with him, through the important front door, down the imposing steps and onto the pavement.

      ‘Just along here,’ said the doctor, gesturing to where a dark grey Rolls-Royce was parked. He unlocked the door, popped her

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