Having left it too late to cut and run, she had no choice but follow through. Breathe…Concentrate, she told herself. One foot in front of the other, the walk functional rather than flirty. Sedate duchess rather than saucy domestic…

Having managed to negotiate the coffee cup and carpet without disaster, she offered her hand and said, ‘How d’you do, Mrs Cochrane?’

She was convinced she looked, and sounded, exactly like Eliza Doolittle at Ascot-just before she let slip the expletive…

Mrs Cochrane, however, appeared to notice nothing amiss in this performance, and offered her an unexpectedly warm smile, waving her away from the desk towards the more informal sofa.

‘We’re both busy women, Lady March, so I’m not going to waste time. I enjoyed the diary pieces you sent me. And the drawings you used to illustrate them.’

‘Really?’Oh, that wasn’t cool. But she’d never been face to face with an editor before, let alone had a ‘chat’ with one. She tried to restrain the idiotic grin, slow the heart-rate to something more stately. ‘Thank you.’

‘The drawings have a delightful spontaneity, as if you’d just doodled your thoughts.’

‘Oh, I did,’ she exclaimed, then inwardly groaned as Mrs Cochrane smiled. This was definitely not the way to do it…Then, in an effort to recover the situation, ‘I did plan to go to art school…’

Which was true. But common sense ran like a seam of iron ore through her family genes, and she’d seen the value of a good solid degree and a teaching qualification. Something practical that she could use all her life. Would fit around married life, children.

She shrugged-then wondered if a ‘Lady’, one with a capital L, would shrug-and left Mrs Cochrane to draw her own conclusions.

‘Clearly you chose marriage and children instead,’ Mrs Cochrane filled in for her, nodding and smiling with obvious approval. ‘Most young women seem to be leaving it so late these days.’