Australia: In Bed with Her Groom

Harry woke before his watch alarm went off. It suited him to be up early. Last night he had inadvertently ended up stirring feelings that had driven Ashley away from him. That had not been his intention, although he didn’t regret their conversation.

Ashley’s directness had somehow acted as a catharsis for him. She had drawn a perspective he hadn’t considered before, and she was right. He was lucky to have had Pen in his life. The question now was whether he could or should attempt to make Ashley feel lucky to have him in her life.

On sheer impulse he had embarked on a light-hearted game that had promised to be an amusing challenge, a titillating battle of wits and wills with the added interest of considerable sexual attraction. As George had observed, he had been skating along on the surface of life, not caring if the ice beneath his feet broke. Ashley jolted him into the realisation that he was playing with deep waters.

It behove him to tread very carefully with Ashley Harcourt’s feelings. Roger had not been good for her. Harry did not want to inflict any more hurt and disillusionment. He liked her. Very much. She had guts and a firmer grip on self-direction than most of the people he knew. It was wrong to play with the life she had made for herself, yet Harry didn’t want to deal himself out of Ashley Harcourt’s life at this point.

Nevertheless, he was in two minds about the deception he had so frivolously entered into. He pondered whether he should state his real position as he washed and dressed. He heard William go downstairs and followed him, intent on subtly pumping the boy about the more personal side of Ashley’s life.

‘Good morning, William,’ he started, smiling at the huge bowl of breakfast cereal the boy had helped himself to. ‘When does your mother usually wake?’

‘Morning, Mr. Cliffton. Mum sets the alarm for seven,’ he promptly answered.

Harry had twenty minutes up his sleeve. ‘Does she have tea or coffee first thing in the morning?’

‘Coffee.’ William put his spoon down, deciding to tackle the important question without any beating around the bush. ‘Are you going to be my uncle?’

‘That’s a fairly close blood relation, William. I don’t qualify.’

‘I don’t mean that kind of uncle. I know I haven’t got any of those, unless you count step-uncles. Mum’s parents got divorced and married other people with kids who are now mostly grown up but we hardly ever see them. And my dad was an only child. I’m not talking about real uncles.’

William looked at Harry meaningfully as though he should know the correct import of his question now. Harry didn’t care for the flavour of it at all. He found himself recoiling from the idea of joining a queue of live-in relationships that had failed to meet Ashley’s needs, then pulled himself up for making unfounded assumptions.

Ashley hadn’t struck him as a woman who would lightly invite men into her life. But she had struck him as a woman who would kick out anyone who tried to take over.

‘Precisely what kind of uncles are you talking about, William?’ he asked, seeking clarification before making any judgements.

William sighed, suspecting an evasion. He spelled it out so there could be no misunderstanding. ‘Some of the kids at school don’t have their dads living with them. Other men move into their houses and live with their mums. Mostly they call them uncle. Rodney Bixell’s had three different uncles. He’s scored pretty well out of it, too. He got a go-cart from the first, a trampoline from the second and a bike from the third.’

Rodney clearly knew how to play every angle.

‘Mum won’t let me have a bike until I’m ten because we live on this hill and she reckons it’s dangerous,’ William continued with obvious exasperation at his mother’s judgement on this sore point. There was hope and devious calculation in his eyes as he added, ‘Maybe you could talk her into it, Mr. Cliffton. You look as if you could talk Mum into anything.’

Harry had his doubts about that but he hoped it was true. ‘Have you had any uncles?’ he asked, wanting this point settled unequivocally.

‘Nah. No luck yet. That’s why I haven’t got a bike. Mum’s never even gone out with any guys. So I figure since she let you move in, Mr. Cliffton, it has to mean something.’

‘No guys at all, huh?’

William wrinkled his nose. ‘She only has boring old girlfriends who don’t give you anything.’

Ashley was clearly not into sampling whatever was available. Such complete abstinence was, however, a measure of how gun-shy she was of men in general. Which made her acceptance of him highly intriguing. And flattering. It also loaded Harry with a heavy sense of responsibility. He didn’t think Ashley would appreciate the concept of having fun, especially if carried into intimate realms while she was still misled as to who and what he was.

‘You’re a big improvement, Mr. Cliffton,’ William assured him, giving him an encouraging grin. ‘None of Mum’s girlfriends would think of taking me to a test cricket match.’

‘Well, I do happen to like Cricket myself,’ Harry remarked dryly feeling more of a fraud by the minute. George had already fixed a private box for him in the Brewongle Grandstand at the Sydney Cricket Ground.

‘That was a great catch you made yesterday,’ William said admiringly. ‘It saved a window and a bit of Mum’s wrath. She wouldn’t have stood back and thought what a fantastic hook shot it had been. She wouldn’t have thought of anything else but the broken window.’ He paused to let Harry appreciate the different patterns of the male and female mind, then pointedly added, ‘I wouldn’t mind at all having you as an uncle.’

Was Ashley considering the same possibility? Or did being a butler put him in a different category, someone safe, leaving her in control of what did or didn’t happen between them? Would she instantly show him the door if he confessed the truth? He had a strong suspicion she would, despite the attraction he was sure they shared.

‘Thank you, William, but I’m here as a butler, not an uncle,’ Harry said firmly. ‘I think your mother would be very upset if you referred to me as an uncle. It would give people the wrong idea.’

‘Oh!’ William’s face fell. He reconsidered the situation and presented another argument. ‘But you are going to stay here for a while. I mean there’s the cricket and Mrs. Stanton’s party and it would be real good if you took my side on a few things. Like you did yesterday about the photos. Mum gets a bit fussy. Not like Mrs. Stanton. But, you know…she worries about small things that are really okay.’

Harry smiled his understanding. ‘Good parents are like that, William. You’re very lucky to have a mother who cares so much about your well-being.’

‘It can be overdone,’ William muttered.

Harry cocked a reproving eyebrow. ‘William, I have a lot of respect for your mother. She’s achieved a great deal by herself. It couldn’t have been easy being a young widow with a young child to take care of.’

‘She had me to help.’

‘Of course.’ Harry smothered a smile. ‘That slipped my mind for a moment.’

‘But she could do with a lot more help. It would be a good idea if you stayed as long as possible,’ William pressed, obviously seeing many advantages to himself in having Harry at hand. ‘I’d like to get my soldiers painted and have a few regiments ready to move by next week. Otherwise I can’t pretend to be Napoleon.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather be the Duke of Wellington?’ Harry couldn’t imagine William wanting to lead the losing side in any war game.

There was a gleam of pure animal cunning in William’s blue eyes as he answered, ‘I thought you’d rather play Wellington, Mr. Cliffton, being English and all that.’

William was clearly a master at holding out carrots. Harry was quite a dab hand at it himself.

‘Whether I stay or not will be your mother’s decision, William. Right now I’m going to make her coffee and take it up to her.’ Harry winked conspiratorially. ‘Show her what a good butler I am.’

The boy laughed his delight in their mutual understanding. ‘That’s how I get into favour. Especially when I want something a bit tricky.’

Tricky was definitely the word, Harry thought as he set a tray for the coffee. As William had pointed out, he was already involved here to the extent of taking him to the cricket match and transporting Ashley in the Rolls to Olivia Stanton’s party. Letting either of them down after giving his word went against Harry’s grain.

He had to maintain the role he had cast himself in until a decision about the future was made, either by Ashley or himself. Confession might be good for the soul, but Harry had little doubt that he would be banished from the household before he could blink if he stopped being the butler. That would not serve the purpose of getting George an heir for Springfield Manor, nor the purpose of getting to know Ashley Harcourt better.

The latter purpose was far more on Harry’s mind as he carried the coffee tray upstairs. He had picked a red rose from Ashley’s garden and laid it beside the coffeepot. The romantic touch appealed to him. He hoped it would appeal to her, too. It was wrong that so much of her life had been barren of romance.

He heard the clock alarm go off as he approached her bedroom door and waited until it clicked off before knocking.

‘Yes?’ A drowsy question.

‘It’s Harry with your coffee,’ he answered.

‘Oh!’ A pause filled with rustling movement. ‘Come in.’

Harry fixed a bright smile of greeting on his face as he opened the door. ‘Good morning, Ashley.’

It was just as well he had the words ready to trip off his tongue, because desire hit him in the solar plexus with breathtaking speed, stopping him in his tracks. She was sitting up in bed, a sheet pulled up to cover her breasts but not the two red lace straps that were obviously attached to a very feminine nightie. The pale silk of her hair fell in tangled skeins around the smooth roundness of her bare arms and shoulders. Her face was no less lovely without makeup, and her eyes held a soft, uncertain appeal that pummelled his heart.

Harry knew in that moment it was criminal to deceive this woman in any way whatsoever, yet he was trapped in his own contrived scenario. He didn’t want her to reject him. He wanted to take her in his arms, assure her that she was safe with him. He wanted to kiss the slight quiver from her lips, wanted to fill the emptiness inside her with the wonder and pleasure of not missing out on anything. He wanted to give what Pen had given to him.

Perhaps it was another mad impulse, a quixotic urge that could backfire with disastrous consequences. This was not a time for dancing on the edge, he cautioned himself. This was a time for taking things slowly, but his hastily summoned control was severely tested by the sad searching in her beautiful grey eyes. He felt her need and wanted to answer it. Common sense hammered out that it was too soon to know if he could.

Keep it light, Harry, he sternly advised himself, pushing his feet forward again. ‘William told me you preferred coffee first thing. Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes. Yes, thank you,’ she answered distractedly, her cheeks pinking as she turned to clear some space on the bedside table for the tray. ‘And you? Were you comfortable enough?’

‘Very much so.’ He set the tray down and proceeded to pour her coffee. Best to keep his hands busy. It was so tempting to reach out and touch her hair, feel its silkiness sliding between his fingers. Her warm, womanly fragrance was, fortunately, superseded by the aroma of coffee. ‘Bacon and eggs and toast for breakfast?’ he asked, hoping to put her at ease with him.

‘I usually have a bowl of muesli. But please help yourself to whatever you’re used to, Harry,’ she added quickly.

‘It’s just as easy to cook for two.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. She was more composed now. ‘Is the muesli a matter of healthy conviction or a symptom of not wanting the bother of cooking and cleaning up afterwards?’

It drew a rueful smile. ‘A bit of both.’

‘Well, let the bother be mine. I’m here to serve you, Ashley, and I want you to enjoy the pleasure of being served.’

‘Then I guess I might as well…once in a lifetime,’ she added with a self-mocking twist.

‘It needn’t be,’ he reminded her. ‘It could be your lifestyle if you choose to take up residence at Springfield Manor. Everything should be tried…once in a lifetime,’ he repeated, feeling somewhat exonerated.

She shrugged. ‘What would I do with myself there?’ Her eyes flashed derisively. ‘In between being waited on hand and foot.’

‘Interest yourself in the occupations of others. As you do now. There are estate farms and a village and—’

‘I’d be welcome to poke my nose into their business?’

‘Helping and interfering are two different things.’ ‘I’d be an outsider, Harry. A fish out of water.’

‘We’re all outsiders at one time or another. I’m an outsider here, but that doesn’t stop me from getting involved and being helpful and caring. Saying you’re an outsider is an excuse for do-ing nothing.’

‘Is it your duty as a butler to hand out homilies with coffee?’ she asked dryly as he put down the coffeepot.

He flashed her a smile. ‘I’m a man with a mission. You can’t expect me not to argue my case.’

‘You do it very well.’

His eyes held hers. ‘I think you could make a place for yourself anywhere, Ashley. Given the desire to.’

Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I think you could, too.’

The zest of contest rippled through Harry again. A defiant pride and a will of steel had overlaid the vulnerability that had so touched him when he had entered her bedroom. The simmering challenge in her eyes put him and his beliefs and his heritage on notice that she was not about to be bowled over by any of them. Anything he won from her would be hard earned. But worthwhile.

Harry’s blood stirred. ‘You’ll join me for bacon and eggs?’ he asked, pressing for a crack of compliance.

‘I’ll dance with you, Harry, but don’t assume I’ll accompany you home,’ she answered.

He grinned. ‘Then let’s make the dance a merry one.’

His feet were light as he exited from her room. Ashley had accepted the game, come what may, and it was fun again. Apart from which, playing the butler wasn’t so deceptive because she would have all that he represented if she came with him in the end.

And more.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ASHLEY PONDERED HER position as she dressed for the day. Harry had reaffirmed his mission, leaving little room for the pipedream that she might be able to keep him in Australia with her. He would go back to England. That was the inevitable reality, and it ill behove her to let it slip from her mind and think other foolish thoughts.

England represented Roger’s side of the family. It also represented closer memories of Harry’s beloved Penelope. The prospect of taking up residence in Springfield Manor held no attraction for Ashley. Unless Harry overcame all her objections to it.

He had openly declared that he would test her resistance to the limits and he was not inclined to take no for an answer. Ashley wondered how far he would use the tug of attraction to get his own way. He found her desirable. She no longer had any doubt about that.

For several electric moments, when he had first entered her bedroom, she had felt the strong swirl of wanting from him like a physical touch on her skin, a clamp on her heart. He had tried to hide it, tried to ignore it, but it had been still pulsing from him as he poured her coffee. All her senses had been alive to it, treacherously responding to it even as she struggled for the same self-control he imposed upon himself.

But desire wasn’t love, Ashley cautioned herself. Desire could be manipulated for purposes that had nothing to do with love. Men and women had been doing that to each other since Adam and Eve. Desire could be a trap that would cost her dear in the end if she succumbed to it. Ashley had been the victim of one man’s ego. She didn’t intend to ever let that happen again.

Was winning uppermost in Harry’s mind?

Did he want to be with her as much as she wanted to be with him?

The wise thing to do, Ashley decided, was wait, watch and listen while keeping a good sparring distance from Harry Cliffton. Having settled on this sensible course of action, she headed downstairs for breakfast, confident of holding true to herself despite all the persuasive tactics Harry could come up with.

William was discussing the merits of spin bowling with Harry, swapping reminiscences of the great masters of the art. There was not the slightest hint of being patronising from Harry. They chatted away as equals, and William was very much enjoying the company.

Ashley suddenly felt inadequate as a single parent. It was impossible to be both mother and father to a child, to be the full complementary mixture that answered all needs. Not many people achieved that ideal, she assured herself, dismissing a twinge of guilt at her emotional rejection of her dead husband and her indifference about actively looking for another.

‘Hi, Mum!’ William greeted her cheerfully. ‘I’m going to have bacon and eggs, too.’

Ashley’s guilt returned and persisted when the three of them sat down to the cooked breakfast. Like a proper family, she thought, beginning the day together, sharing amiable conversation. Usually William had his cereal and was about his business before she got up in the morning. Her routine was to read the newspaper as she ate her muesli. They only really shared the evening meal, and more times than not the television was on so conversation was mainly limited to ad breaks.

She remembered Harry saying that although there were television sets at Springfield Manor, interesting conversation always took priority over watching programmes. Ashley decided to revise the habits she and William had fallen into. Good communication was important and time should be made for more of it. Families that talk together, stay together. Harry was right about that.

‘Do you have a busy day ahead of you, Ashley?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ She explained what had led up to Gordon Payne’s visit yesterday and Cheryn Kimball’s present predicament. ‘Cheryn thought she had a good, secure job and was counting on the income. Given the circumstances, I doubt he’ll even pay her what he owes for the week’s work. I must try to place her again as quickly as I can. The poor girl was completely distraught yesterday.’

‘Can I help you with anything?’

‘No. It’s kind of you to offer but this is my job and I know how to handle it.’

‘You can help me paint my soldiers,’ William chimed in, eager to fill in any gap in Harry’s time.

‘This afternoon,’ he agreed. ‘Since your mother doesn’t need me here, there’s a few other things I’d like to do this morning. Reprovision the fridge and pantry, for one. I can’t be eating all your mother’s food without contributing something.’

‘There’s no need…’ she started.

He smiled, melting the protest on her tongue. ‘I want to. Let me surprise you. It will give me great pleasure to provide a few special meals for you.’

‘The kind of meals you have at Springfield Manor?’ she asked sharply.

He tilted an eyebrow. ‘Is that forbidden?’

It probably made her a closed-minded bigot if she said it was, yet she resented the subtle pressures Harry was applying to undermine her negative attitude to his mission. She forced a smile. ‘Please feel free to provide whatever you like. As I understand it, you take full responsibility for the money you spend on us.’

‘You do?’ William’s eyes lit up like Christmas trees. ‘Can I come shopping with you, Mr. Cliffton?’

‘You might find it boring, William,’ Harry warned.

‘Are you going in the Rolls Royce?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I won’t find it boring.’

‘You need your mother’s permission.’

‘Mum?’

Ashley eyed her son sternly. ‘You may go, William, but you are not to ask Mr. Cliffton to buy you anything.’

‘I promise I won’t ask him,’ he agreed quickly. A fair bit of hinting could easily be achieved, William thought, his mind leaping to certain shops that could be artfully included in the itinerary.

Ashley retired to her office once breakfast was over, leaving Harry and William to make whatever arrangements they liked between them. She heard the Rolls Royce arrive and hoped William wouldn’t find it too pleasant and addictive. They popped their heads into the office to say goodbye, and the house felt strangely empty when they were gone.

Ashley did her best to settle to work. She carefully scanned the Positions Vacant lists in the local newspaper, mentally matching them against the files of her clients for possibilities to pursue. There was nothing that would really use Cheryn’s abilities.

She made several telephone calls, scouting employers who had used her agency to find good employees in the past. One of them had a friend who had mentioned a need for an attractive front-office girl with superior secretarial skills. Ashley wasted no time in making the contact and interesting him in the service she could provide. An appointment was made to discuss the matter further, and Ashley hoped it would result in a suitable position for Cheryn.

A few calls came in asking for temps. Ashley had no problem in filling these requirements. She wondered how Gordon Payne was getting on with finding someone to fit his needs and was glad the responsibility was no longer hers. She couldn’t, in all conscience, place anyone in such a demeaning situation.

Her gaze drifted to the Lladro clown that Harry had rescued for her, and the scene replayed itself in her mind, pausing over the sense of connection when their eyes had first met. Had it merely been some spark of chemistry ignited by the tension of the moment, or was it an instinctive recognition of fellow travellers on a plane that was subtly removed from other people?

Ashley realised that since her escape from marriage to Roger, she had been content to hibernate emotionally from all other men. She suspected Harry had done the same after Pen’s death, withdrawing himself from any close involvement with other women. Had their meeting snapped them both awake, seeding an awareness of needs they had buried? Were they meant to come together or was this encounter simply a turning point in their lives, a spur to reappraising where they had been and where they would go from here?

The realisation came to her that she had been building a safe self-containment. Harry tapped a yearning in her for all she was missing out on. Perhaps it was self-defeating to cling to the control she had achieved. Could what she most wanted be gained without risk? What if she was to go to Springfield Manor with Harry… .

She shook her head over such impulsive madness. She had only known the man one short day. It was far too soon to consider throwing up everything on the chance that Harry Cliffton was the man to fill the empty places inside her with the satisfaction she craved.

The buzz of the telephone was a pertinent reminder she should be concentrating on work. She picked up the receiver and crisply identified the agency and herself.

‘Ah, Mrs. Harcourt…Gordon Payne here.’

Ashley instantly tensed, expecting his demands and threats to be renewed. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Payne?’ she said coolly, determined not to lose her temper this time no matter how provoked she was.

He cleared his throat. ‘I was out of line yesterday, Mrs. Harcourt. Said things I didn’t mean. I’m a man who’s set in my ways and I like things to run smoothly, you know?’

‘Perhaps mistakes of judgement were made on both sides,’ she offered, astonished at the conciliatory tone and happy to meet it halfway.

‘Very upsetting. A bad day all round. I regret my behaviour with you, Mrs. Harcourt, and I hope you’ll accept my apology.’

Incredulity billowed through Ashley’s mind. Roger had never apologised. Maybe she had overinflated Gordon Payne’s ego and it wasn’t quite so monstrous, after all. ‘Thank you, Mr. Payne,’ she said, struggling to gather her wits and say something gracious. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t have reached a better understanding.’