Australia: In Bed with Her Groom: Mischief and Marriage / A Marriage Betrayed / Bride of His Choice

She wandered out to the back veranda while Harry saw William to bed. It was a beautiful balmy night, the sky littered with bright stars, a three-quarter moon beaming enough soft light to take away the darkness, a gentle breeze wafting cooler air in from the sea. The house was only a few kilometres from the beach, and Ashley fancied she could hear the distant sound of surf breaking on the sand.

It was a night made for romance, and Ashley felt her body quivering with the need for it. So many years had been barren of any romance since Roger. She hadn’t trusted it, hadn’t wanted to invite more disillusionment, hadn’t met anybody who attracted her enough to give it a chance.

Would Harry answer that need, she wondered? Would he succumb to more than a professional involvement with her?

The glass door to the family room slid open. ‘Can I get you anything, Ashley? An iced drink?’

The caring tone in Harry’s voice made her pulse quicken. She flashed him a smile. ‘No, thank you. I was just having a breath of fresh air before going to bed.’

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Please do.’

He had taken off his waistcoat and tie. His white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, shone starkly in the moonlight as he stepped out and quietly closed the door behind him. He moved over to the veranda railing beside Ashley and looked at the brilliant sky.

‘Where’s the Southern Cross?’

Still concentrating on all things Australian, Ashley thought with a twinge of uncertainty. Was he simply being obliging, the ultimate professionalism of a butler? She didn’t want duty from him now. She wanted the man, not the man with a mission. She wanted truth, spontaneity of feeling and confirmation that he felt the same attraction she did.

‘There it is,’ she said huskily, pointing the constellation out to him, willing him to move closer to her.

‘So that’s what Captain Cook steered by,’ he murmured, maintaining a proper distance. ‘It’s very distinctive.’

‘The Polynesian and Portuguese and French navigators also used it, long before Cook,’ she informed him dryly, wishing he wasn’t quite so focused on English history. She remembered the Harcourt family line he had shown her earlier, tracing it through to William. A spurt of resentment made her ask, ‘Why did Roger’s great-grand-father leave England to come to Australia if everything’s so marvellous at Springfield Manor?’

Harry gave her one of his quirky smiles. ‘He disgraced the family with the dishonourable act of publicly revealing he cuckolded a duke.’

‘And, of course, the British considered Australia the dumping ground for undesirables.’

His eyes caught hers, searing away their mockery with intense seriousness as he quietly answered, ‘It also provided the opportunity to start a new life.’

Was he making a personal statement or simply soothing any ruffled feelings she might have over her country’s convict and colonial past?

‘That’s been true for many people,’ she warmly agreed. Although there were some who clung to an old heritage, looking back instead of embracing what a new country offered. Like Roger’s mother. ‘William is fifth-generation Australian, Harry. I’m seventh generation,’ she added, wanting to impress on him that they were well-rooted here.

He smiled. ‘What I’ve admired about the Australians I’ve met is their attitude of anything being possible for them.’

‘Have you ever thought that other things were possible for you?’

‘I’m beginning to.’

Hope leapt through her heart. ‘Promise me you won’t tell William he’s the heir to Springfield Manor.’

‘I had no intention of doing so.’

‘Circumstances can change.’

‘Yes, they can,’ he agreed without the slightest hesitation, giving Ashley’s hope a further boost. ‘Though I must say William is a fine lad, Ashley. A credit to you.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled on a glorious lilt of optimism. ‘He likes you, too.’

His gaze dropped to her mouth. Ashley’s skin prickled, reacting to the sudden tension charging the air between them. He wants to kiss me, she thought exultantly. But he didn’t move. There was a quality about his stillness that screamed of iron-willed restraint. Duty and discipline stamping on desire, denying it free rein, Ashley surmised, and that in itself was exciting, feeling the tug of war taking place inside him.

She sensed the gathering of purpose. His gaze flicked to hers, and there was certainly nothing impersonal in the dark blue intensity of his eyes. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he wanted to scour her soul. Even before he spoke, she felt herself tensing defensively, knowing instinctively that he had moved beyond physical attraction to a far deeper need.

‘What went wrong with Roger, Ashley?’

The shock of the question set her mind spinning. How did he know? She had never spoken of the crushing nature of her marriage. Even at the time, pride had insisted she maintain the public appearance of being happy with Roger. She had not confided her problems to her parents, let alone anyone else. She had hidden the guilty relief she had felt when Roger and his mother had died, accepted the condolences given, and closed the door on a hard-learnt experience that she never wanted repeated.

‘Why should you think anything went wrong?’ she countered, unaware of the guarded tone in her voice, the retreat from openness in her eyes.

‘What people don’t say is often more revealing than what they do say,’ he answered quietly. ‘You’ve told me a lot about your life. Roger Harcourt was your husband and William’s father, yet you did not once refer to him.’

‘Roger died seven years ago,’ she stated flatly. ‘I’ve spent far more of my adult life without him than with him.’

‘Happy times usually engender fond reminiscences.’ He shrugged and offered an apologetic smile. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. If it’s a sensitive subject…Perhaps you miss him so much it’s still too painful to recall.’

‘No. I don’t miss him,’ Ashley confessed bluntly, recoiling from the idea of letting Harry think she was nursing a long grief that had never been assuaged. ‘If he was still alive, we’d be divorced.’

‘Why?’

‘I guess I stopped hero-worshipping him. I was only nineteen when we married.’ Her eyes flashed with irony. ‘A pity you didn’t come looking for an heir then, Harry. Roger would have leapt at being lord of the manor.’

‘He acted that way with you?’

‘It had its attractive side for a while,’ she acknowledged. ‘I didn’t realise I was supposed to become totally subservient to another person’s will.’

‘Do you fear that would be expected of you if you came to England?’

‘I don’t fear it because I wouldn’t accept it.’

‘It isn’t the situation anyway,’ he assured her.

‘Well, I guess you’d know,’ she said lightly, aware that any other judgement by her would be blind prejudice.

‘Yes, I do. I’m sorry you had that experience with Roger, Ashley. I hope you don’t judge all men by it.’

‘If I did, you wouldn’t be staying here.’

As soon as she spoke the words, they seemed to hang in the air between them, gathering nuances, laying bare the fact that she thought him special as a man and that being her butler was completely irrelevant. Still he didn’t move, and Ashley felt heat creeping up her neck as she recalled the sad way he had spoken of the woman he had loved. Did the memory of her remain in his heart, keeping it closed to any other woman?

She turned away and stared blankly at the night sky, fiercely arguing to herself that Harry had brought up Roger, so it had to be acceptable for her to ask questions that were just as personal.

‘What was her name…the woman you spoke of, Harry?’

The ensuing silence shrieked of dredging into deeply private areas. Was it too sensitive a subject? Did he miss her so much it was too painful to recall? They were the words he had used in referring to Roger.

‘Pen,’ he said at last. ‘Penelope.’ He gave the longer version of her name a soft, lilting cadence that filled Ashley with envy. It left no doubt in her mind that Pen had been very precious to him.