His Australian Heiress (7 page)

“I did
not
know that, Charlie,” he said. “Roses do it for me.” He stooped to savour the fragrance of the apricot Just Joey.

“They're your favourite flower?” Charlotte asked.

“Of course. They're glorious.”

She smiled on him. “Who doesn't love a rose, especially the David Austin roses?”

“And your favourite?” He realized he wanted to know all there was to know about Charlotte. For some reason he thought she might name the exquisite camellia.

She surprised him as usual. “I love all flowers, Bren. I couldn't live without them. My grandmother created and tended this wonderful garden all her married life. It's a garden to dream in. Monet said his garden was his masterpiece. ‘I must have flowers. Always and always flowers,' he said, but if you really want to know my favourite flower, it's the arum lily.”

“Really? You mean, all those white lilies growing around the pond?”

Charlotte nodded. “I love white flowers in particular. The arum lily with its pure white, hood-shaped flowers has an architectural appeal for me. It was Yves Saint Laurent's favourite flower. I've loved them since I was a child. Grandma loved them, too, but like you, the roses were her favourites. There's a pink rose named after her. Lady Julia. That's it.” She pointed to a beautiful tea rose of a delicate true pink. “Why don't we go and sit in the summer house?” she suggested.

“Why not? I don't fancy going back inside,” Brendon answered in a brooding voice. “Your relatives are a weird lot.”

“Yours are pretty mucked up, as well,” she returned, tartly.

“Thank God for you and me,” he said sardonically, taking her arm. “So what's the betting Simon is made to apologize so he can get invited to the party? Whatever he
says
, he couldn't bear to be left out. He's such a snob.”

“What's he got to be snobbish about? I hate pretentious people and I've met a few. I've the idea our Simon didn't make it in the Big Apple.”

“He won't tell it that way,” Brendon said in an educated guess.

The summer house was a romantic small structure at the bottom of the garden. It was the ideal place for quiet contemplation. Surrounded by mature shrubs, in this case the gorgeously scented, drooping white and purple wisteria, it offered repose. The bell-shaped roof and finial over the retreat had mellowed over time to a soft blue-grey. White fluted posts held up the structure, with five of its arched bays enclosed by white lattice that invited one in.

Together they walked into the cool, perfumed interior, Charlotte with her lovely light girlish movements, Brendon so much taller and stronger not far behind her. A slated white bench encircled the area with a box nearby that contained an array of plump cushions.

“I used to come here often,” Charlotte remarked, waiting for Brendon to cover the hard slats with a few cushions. “I must have been the world's loneliest kid.” To her consternation, her voice wavered a little, so she broke off. She prided herself on being made of sterner stuff.

“You always mattered to me, Charlie,” Brendon said. Nothing else on earth mattered more to a child than a loving mother and father, he thought. Even
one
surviving parent. Charlotte had not been so lucky. Her cousin, Simon, had been doted on by his mother. He knew how much his own parents loved him, how proud they were of him. Charlie's happiest school vacations would have been spent with one or other of her school friends, all vetted carefully by her grandfather. It would have been so much different if his own mother had taken Charlie under her wing. Inexplicably she had not. Maybe she saw too much of the beautiful Alyssa in Charlie? God knows what the true story had been. He feared it would never be told.

“What are you thinking about?” Charlotte asked, reading his sombre expression.

“Looking back,” he said.

“On the things I've missed?”

“Charlie,” he said supportively, “there are going to be great things for you in the future.”

She smiled an enigmatic little smile, taking a seat and settling her short skirt, which exposed her knees and slender legs. “Lovely old you! As long as I count, Bren. As long as I can do some good. I've got too much money. It's more a great burden than a reward. I know how Sir Hugo has everyone who comes in contact with me checked out.”

“For your own safety,” Bren said quietly, joining her on the bench. For years past his grandfather had had a series of “minders” in place. They were so good at going unnoticed, Charlotte would have had no idea she was being watched over.

“It's not safe to be an heiress,” she said, thinking of past tragedies she had read about.

“You're a lot safer than some innocent young woman snatched off the street,” he pointed out. “You're a lot safer in this country than anywhere else.”

“There's that.” She nodded her agreement. “Don't mind me, Bren. With an approaching milestone birthday, I'm feeling a bit emotional.”

“Why wouldn't you be?” he said, his illusions about families staying together, long destroyed.

“Yes.” She took the camellia he had given her out of her hair and began twirling it around in her fingers. “I sometimes think I might not ever get what I want.”

“Do you know what you want, Charlie?” he asked.

“Life. Ordinary, love-filled life. Love is the flower of life. It's a vision. It's a . . .” She broke off, as involuntary tears sprang into her beautiful emerald-green eyes.

“Charlie!” His heart smote him. He had never seen Charlie cry. Not at the funerals of her parents. Not at the very public funeral of Sir Reginald. Those tears had been dammed up, but surely the dam had to be full to bursting point? On impulse he leaned sideways, intending to kiss her smooth cheek, only simultaneously she turned her blond head.

What happened next came as a shock to both of them. The chaste kiss Brendon had intended landed directly on her full-lipped, parted mouth. The thrill of impact was
enormous.
It strained every bit of Brendon's willpower not to deepen this kiss that was already perilously on the brink of becoming intense. Her lips seemed to part even more. That excited and moved him unbearably. This wasn't the gentle understanding kiss of a long, close friendship. This wasn't a “cousinly” kiss. His heart was beating violently. He had the wildest impulse to pull her across his knees, make love to her—to
her
, little Charlie—in the dazzling afternoon light. It was proving extraordinarily difficult to let her go.

Both tripped each other up to speak. “There's nothing like a kiss, is there?” Charlotte quavered, visibly unnerved.

“Well, you would turn your head,” he said, shaken right out of his normal composure. “I don't think you need ever worry about being a
cold
person.”

“I'm never cold with you, Bren,” Charlotte said. “You were my one ray of sunshine for yonks. As a matter of fact”—she was getting her breath back—“as an unintended little peck, it was pretty good.” Trying hard not to show her wildly unruly emotions, Charlotte sat upright, locking her hands together. “You might not guess this, but that was my very first kiss. A good thing I'll be able to remember it with pleasure.”

“Your
first
kiss?” It wasn't like Charlie to tell a lie. “Charlie, I can
not
believe you've never been kissed.” In his view she was a natural. He had never received such pleasure from a single kiss.

“Believe what you like,” she said, tilting back her golden head. “I'm a very old-fashioned girl. Besides, I have a need to always be safe. My generation of friends wants everything at once. A lot of the girls I know believe they have to accede to whatever their boyfriends want, and we all know what that is. I'm
different
, Bren. There's plenty of time for me to get into sex if I want it. First I have to be sure. That kiss was
real
, wasn't it, Bren?”

He should have said, “
You know it was
.” Instead he backed off. “Kisses can be dangerous, Charlotte.”

A faint shiver ran through her. “You mean, we're living with the memory of the sins of our family? Dangerous kisses lead to dangerous sex?” she asked. “The dangerous things that were done in the past?”

“We have to forget that, Charlotte,” he warned. “We've passed the test of friendship. Of bonding. We look out for one another.”

“Well, you look out for me,” Charlotte said and stood up. “Why don't we go back to the house? Is dinner in the village still on?”

A deep seriousness had fallen on him. “Are you going to make me pay for kissing you, even if it was mostly your fault?” he asked.

She only smiled enigmatically. “I'm not going to allow anything to mess with what we have, Bren. I can't lose my dearest friend.”

“Then dinner is still on,” he said.

“And an end to kissing.” She could say that, when she could still feel the warmth of Bren's sculpted mouth on her own. The sensations that had shot through her lingered, the near-painful leap of her heart, the sharp little prickles that ran through her body, deepening the further down they went. There wasn't going to be a simple solution. In a few unplanned moments they had crossed over a line from which there might be no coming back.

T
he jacarandas had been slow to bloom that year. By mid-November, though, the entire city was awash with the city's purple “Christmas” trees. They were out in all their glory in the suburbs, the front yards, backyards, parks, streets, schools. A magnificent specimen flourished at the city's famous Circular Quay, the hub of Sydney Harbour, with wonderful views of the Harbour Bridge and a lovely walkway to the Opera House.

As happened in Queensland, the blossoming of the jacarandas signalled the posting of high school and University results. Charlotte received a huge buzz when she was awarded her bachelor of laws with honours. As a further bonus for all her hard work, she had emerged top of her class, something that had put at least two of her male colleagues' noses out of joint. Word of her high standing had gone out to the top law firms around the country. It was thought by no means certain that Charlotte Mansfield, granddaughter of the late Sir Reginald Mansfield, would enter the law chambers he had founded with Sir Hugo Macmillan, both men having been knighted for their services to the law not long before the honours system had been scrapped by the then labour prime minister. There were those who knew there had been many tensions between the two families. Plenty of gossip, rumour, speculation. Further, Sir Hugo's grandson, Brendon Macmillan, was making a name for himself as a formidable young barrister and future candidate for Queen's Counsel. There could be further clashes in store for the Mansfields and the Macmillans as Ms. Mansfield was well known to be equally as ambitious.

The end-of-year celebrations had started. Parties were held. Charlotte attended quite a few of them with a bodyguard, still unbeknownst to her, close by. Everything was in place for her twenty-first. Her dress had been delivered, a real sparkler, iridescent green covered by multicoloured sequins and beads. With it she planned to wear her grandmother Julia's multicoloured necklace of precious and semi-precious stones. The pièce de résistance would be appended to it, an enhancer featuring a large diamond daisy. The daisy would fall neatly into the vee of her cleavage. More than ever before, she wanted to look glamorous on her night of nights. She knew her girlfriends, all of whom Brendon knew, would be going all out to draw attention. Well, they had better move over. She was the belle of the ball. Nothing was going to spoil her big night.

* * *

A magnificent Christmas tree stood in the entrance hall of Clouds, decorated with all manner of glittering baubles. An exquisite little antique white porcelain angel with golden wings, holding her golden harp, topped the tree less than a foot below the high ceiling. It was Brendon who had offered to help Charlotte decorate the tree she had ordered: the quintessential Christmas tree, a European silver fir.

Artificial as it had to be, it captured perfectly in colour and texture the real thing. Charlotte left Brendon temporarily to it while she had a word with Aunt Patricia in the living room.

Aunt Patricia had not been pleased at Charlotte and Brendon's turning up on that Saturday, though she had done her best to hide it. It seemed from henceforth their every meeting would be a challenge, Charlotte thought.

“That tree is much too big, Charlotte,” Patricia Mansfield gave her unsolicited opinion as though astonished at Charlotte's choice. She waved Charlotte into an armchair. “Worse, it will drop its needles all over the floor of the entrance hall, making such a mess! Especially for the party.”

Charlotte tried her best to answer politely. This was the season of goodwill, after all. “It's
artificial
, Aunt Patricia, though I can see why you thought it wasn't. It captures perfectly the colour and texture of the real thing. I don't like to speak bluntly, but you leave me little option except to point out that this house is mine. As a courtesy, I have let you know when I'm coming, but I don't expect to be treated like an unwelcome guest when I arrive.”

Patricia Mansfield wasn't accustomed to having salvos fired at her. “My dear girl, that's simply not true,” she exclaimed, adopting a wounded expression. “I wonder how you can suggest it. Surely as your uncle and I live here, I'm entitled to my concerns. I really did think the tree was
real
.”

“Then I got my money's worth,” Charlotte said. “I know you and Uncle Conrad love living here at Clouds. Who would blame you? But it's not the only house in the world, Aunt Patricia. There are beautiful houses and apartments overlooking the harbour. So they carry a big price tag! Uncle Conrad is well able to afford a mansion.” Even two. One for each of them.

Patricia Mansfield's arched brows shot even higher. “You may well point that out,” she said, wondering which way was best to handle this imperious young woman who was looking more and more like her late, too-often-remembered mother. “But where else would your uncle get the peace and quiet to write his book?”

“You've read some of the unfinished manuscript?” Charlotte seized the opportunity to ask.

Patricia flushed and pinched in her lips. “Of course I have.”

“Lucky you! What's the working title?
Cries of the Heart
was a great title.”

Patricia Mansfield gave Charlotte a withering look. “Your uncle has a splendid mind.”

“My
father
had a splendid mind, too,” Charlotte said, aware that little chinks of light were opening up in her head again. “How I wish he and my mother were here with me today,” she breathed. “You didn't like my mother, did you, Aunt Patricia?”

Patricia Mansfield stared across at Charlotte, her expression frozen. “How could you accuse me of that, Charlotte?” she said, clearing her throat with a slight choke. “I was devastated by Alyssa's death. I suppose your mother never told you it was she who disliked me, when I so wished everything could have been different. She didn't want your uncle or me getting too fond of you, either.”

“When I thought you did it on purpose!” Charlotte said. “The thing is, I don't believe you, Aunt Patricia. For some reason I've been experiencing a lot of flashbacks these days. Or perhaps they've been there all along, but I chose to be blind. I can
hear
my mother speaking. I swear I remember my father using the exact words ‘
cries of the heart
,' which Uncle Conrad obviously picked up and used. My father was passionately in love with my mother.”

“Which made her adultery all the more painful,” Patricia shot back with barely disguised satisfaction. “We all wanted to spare you the fact your mother and your self-appointed protector, Brendon Macmillan's father, were having an affair.”

“Malicious
rumour
said they were having an affair. I
don't
accept it. Neither does Bren.”

Patricia gave a tight smile. “I understand that. Your loyalty is to be expected. I hope you realize, Charlotte, that the young man has his aspirations?”

“Of course he does. Eventually he hopes to take silk. No one doubts he will.”

“His family would be pushing him to get closer to you, Charlotte,” Patricia Mansfield said, apparently warning Charlotte of her fears. “You're supposed to be highly intelligent. You can see where I'm going?”

“Do please put it more plainly,” Charlotte invited, outwardly calm, inwardly getting angrier by the minute. “I don't care for innuendo.”

“My dear Charlotte, what I'm saying can't be unexpected. The Macmillans will be looking for a union of the two families. Many women, I believe, have succumbed to Brendon Macmillan's undoubted charms—”

“
You
being one of them, Aunt Patricia?”

“I hope I comport myself with elegant manners,” Patricia said, completely unfazed. “Too few do these days. My impeccable behaviour is unsurpassed. I'm always pleasant to Brendon, my dear.”

“But you're warning me against him, is that right?” Charlotte asked, caustically.

“In the absence of your mother, I regard it as a duty,” Patricia declared. “The Macmillans are highly enough placed, but if Brendon were to marry you it would raise the level, don't you agree? In no time at all, the Macmillans would be controlling the Mansfield fortune.”

Charlotte felt a white-hot jolt of anger, but she held on to it, mainly because Brendon was in the house. “I can't feel you have any right whatever to interfere in my life, Aunt Patricia. You made yourself too scarce. You can
never
speak or act for my mother. I
know
you disliked her. Maybe even hated her?”

Anger sharpened Patricia's features. “This when I'm only trying to help you, Charlotte?” she said, in her unassailable, arrogant way. “I held your mother in the highest regard until we as a family found out about the affair. It was never spoken about, but Alyssa could have been planning to leave Christopher and take you with her. She must have known all along she was skirting disaster. Then it happened. Your uncle and I have always believed your parents got into an argument in the car. One could have struck out at the other for all we know. The rest is history and our family's tragedy.”

“You may have convinced yourself of this, but you haven't convinced me,” Charlotte was quick to reply. “Poppa wasn't convinced, either. You'll remember, he had the Mercedes taken apart.”

“Only to find absolutely nothing mechanically wrong. It was a dreadful accident. Your grandfather took it out on your innocent uncle for being the one to survive. Conrad had to bear the brunt. We all knew Christopher was the ‘chosen one.' ”

On impulse, Charlotte went a step further. “Did you hate my father, too?”

Patricia burst into shocked laughter. “I'll forget you said that, Charlotte. You're quite wrong and you show no respect. You have no realisation of how your uncle and I were made to feel. Not even second best. Your cousin, Simon, the perfect boy, overlooked for you!”

“It's what our grandfather wanted,” Charlotte said. “Your ‘perfect boy' has an offensive manner, Aunt.”

“Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte!” There was a bitterly disappointed break in Patricia Mansfield's voice. “I know for a fact that people find Simon utterly charming.”

“Was that in New York, was it?” Charlotte asked. “It certainly isn't here. Simon had better come down from his very high horse if he wants to be liked. He did ring to ask if he and Carol are invited to the party.”

“And?”

The question had a placid, accepting sound. “I said
no.
I don't want my party to turn into a fight zone. Sadly, Simon is not capable of your unsurpassed, impeccable behaviour, Aunt Patricia.”

“You mean, you won't let him in?” Patricia Mansfield flushed darkly.

“Call it a desire to have my twenty-first go well. A few drinks in, and Simon will be telling everyone how he was robbed. And it's
he
, you know. Simon isn't unhappy about what happened to his father. It's what happened to
him.
It's time you took the blindfold off regarding Simon, Aunt Patricia. You and Uncle Conrad are invited, as you know. If you're unhappy about Simon's exclusion and you find yourselves unable to attend, I accept that. Now, I must get back to Brendon. I'm supposed to be helping him decorate the tree.”

Patricia Mansfield considered Charlotte with a look of great irony. “That's not his only mission, my dear,” she said.

* * *

Brendon was whistling softly to himself as he went about decorating the tree. “You took your time,” he said, as Charlotte joined him. “Everything okay?” He searched her face.

“Everything's great.”

He knew at once it wasn't. “You told her about Simon?”

“You mean, the
perfect boy,
now the
perfect young man
?”

“And what did your aunt have to answer?”

“As expected, she was upset. Am I being selfish, Bren?” She had a great desire to become a woman of integrity. She wanted her dead parents, Poppa, and Grandma Julia to be proud of her.

“God, no!” Brendon reacted forcefully. “Simon can't keep his unfortunate mouth shut for five minutes. He was robbed of a fortune, you know.”

“That's the way they see it.”

“Move them out,” Brendon advised. “Maybe not tomorrow, but early in the New Year. Get a married couple to come in as caretakers. There must be a couple you could trust in the village who'd jump at the chance.”

“I know that. The Devlins would be perfect. That's if they're prepared to take on the job. Paddy knows all there is to know about roses. He worked here, you know. I remember all the great conversations he and Grandma used to have. He left when Grandma died. It's a big decision turning my own uncle out, rich man or not. By the way, Aunt Patricia claims to have read chapters of the new book,” she confided in a low voice.

“Why should we believe her?” Brendon asked cynically, hooking on another frosted silver bauble. “Well?” He looked down at her in her summery white cotton and lace dress.

“Actually, I
don't
. I'm going to tell you another very strange thing.”

“You're kidding me,” Brendon mocked, though he was paying close attention.

“I seem to remember my father saying certain words to me. We were alone together. My mother had fled into Sydney. He said, ‘
Cries of the heart, Charlie, my darling. Cries of the heart
.' ” As she spoke, her voice sank to a near whisper.

“Good God!” Brendon stared down at her, clearly startled.

“At least I
think
I remember it. These moments come, and then they slip away again. I had to have been a traumatized child. I can't tell you why, but something about Uncle Conrad frightens me.” She looked up into his dynamic face. “You don't seem surprised, Bren.” All of a sudden, her heart was beating suffocatingly.