Beresford's Bride. Margaret Way
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landed establishment, a cattle baron of influence and power. A man impossible for anyone to ignore, much less a member of the opposite sex.
“Byrne!” She took a deep breath and put out her hand. He not only took it but bent his dark head to brush his mouth against her cheek. A smooth slide that had a profound effect on her. She not only felt it on her face but right through her body.
“Antoinette, welcome home. How are you? You haven’t changed at all.” Which was absurd. She had blossomed like some wondrous rose. She had a perfect creamy skin with a light fragrance that seemed to engulf him. Damn. It rattled him, being so effortlessly charmed.
“How wonderful to see you! It’s been years!”
“Five next March,” he responded, regarding her. “You’re all grown up.” But definitely off-limits, even if she was far more than he was prepared for.
“Paris has been good to me. How is everyone? You must tell me.”
“Everyone’s fine,” he told her. “Why don’t we go in? Have a drink before dinner.” He took her arm with his refined, assured manner, his fingers momentarily pressing into her bare skin.
She felt scorched, a hot lick of excitement against her ribs. It might have been the first time a man had touched her. Slow down, she thought, shocked by the speed and intensity of her reactions. This man was unique.
A waiter led them to a table in a room lined with mirrored panels. Huge crystal chandeliers on dimmers threw a flattering illumination over their heads.
“What will it be?” He looked at her expectantly, his extraordinary light-filled gaze all the more disturbing for the fact he cared nothing for his own magnetism. It was part of him, like the aura that hung over him, the power and prestige, the great wealth his family had accumulated through successive generations.
“A glass of champagne would be lovely.” She turned her blond head, catching their reflections repeated many times over in the cross fire of mirrors. They looked like a study in black and gold.
“Champagne. Why not? We do have something to celebrate.” As he spoke to the waiter, Toni found herself studying his profile. His was a bold face in every particular, a face of very definite planes and angles. Not gentle. Strongly sculptured. He had the Beresford cleft chin, not shallow like Joel’s, his younger and much more approachable brother, but deeply indented. She thought he would find it a hassle to shave.
“So, have I changed?” He turned swiftly, catching her out.
“Sorry. Was I staring?”
“Just a little.”
She shook her head as though to free herself from currents it would be all too easy to plunge into. “I was thinking how familiar your face is to me, yet so unfamiliar. If you can follow my meaning.” She broke off.
“Well, we were never contemporaries. You’re more of an age with Joel.”
“How is he?” she asked.
“Actually, he’s thrilled you’re coming home.”
“Why make it sound like you thought I wouldn’t?”
“You haven’t bothered before.” It came out more harshly than he intended, but she was having the damnedest effect on him. An unwanted rush of desire, under the desire hostility, and deeper yet, a need to put an end to it.
Opposite him, acutely aware of it, Toni’s eyes glittered with tears. Her voice fell, as though she was talking to herself. “We’ll never be forgiven, will we?”
Those eyes, he thought. Lotus lilies. Blue into violet. “It’s done, Toni,” he said. “All over with.”
There was a pause. “I don’t think so, Byrne.” She wanted to speak candidly, bridge the gulfs, but there were aspects of Zoe’s life she needed to keep private. “You can’t know the difficulties. Zoe was using her maiden name. It complicated things terribly. We were at sea. When we finally got the message, it was too late.” She stopped abruptly, anxious not to implicate her mother further. Zoe had an immense capacity for poor judgment. She had kept the news from Toni for days as she battled her own demons.
“Well, it’s the nearest you’ve got to explaining,” he said in a terse voice.
Her look of pain was almost physical. “We’re still raw with the memory.” The whiplash of grief.
The gray eyes assessed, calculated, found her wanting. “Forgive me, Toni, but that’s a little hard to believe. Zoe didn’t have the slightest difficulty walking out on your father.”
“Am I expected to make expiation?” Her nerves tightened powerfully.
“Certainly not to me.” His voice was clipped. She was getting too close to him. Under his skin.
“I don’t want to have to bear your constant disapproval, Byrne. We are going to be in-laws.”
“I wasn’t aware I was showing any. You’re very lovely, Antoinette.” He gave her a glance that left her shaken. “Paris has put a fine polish on you.”
“I wasn’t talking about my looks,” she countered a little sadly.
“Good Lord, doesn’t everybody?”
Sometimes her looks were a downright disadvantage. Deliberately she changed the subject, picking something safe. “Cate must be very excited.” .
“She is,” he agreed, watching the different expressions chase across her face. “The wedding is having a big impact on all of us. The first wedding on Castle Hill since my grandfather’s time. My parents. were married in Sydney, as you know.”
“And Dad was best man. I suppose it was inevitable both families would be united at some time. Cate and Kerry have always been great friends. They radiate such warmth and ease when they’re together. I suppose it was only natural they would fall in love. They’re the lucky ones.”
“Surely you’ve fallen in love yourself?” he asked.
“I thought so. Once or twice. It didn’t work out.”
“Take your time,” he advised. “Marriage is a huge risk.”
“Could that be another dig?”
“Not at all,” he returned. “Clearly you have a chip on your shoulder. How is Zoe?”
She frowned defensively. “She’s staying with friends at the moment.”
“Morocco, isn’t it?” Byrne said.
She nodded. “A villa a few miles from the centre of Marrakech. It’s very beautiful, a French colonial style farmhouse surrounded by date palms, cedars and lots of silver gray olive trees. Pink bougainvillea smothering the walls.”
“You’re really making it sound terribly attractive. You’ve been there, I take it?”
“Some time ago,” she acknowledged in a low voice. “Patrick is hoping to marry my mother.”
“No! ” He feigned shock. “Surely that’s a little difficult even for Zoe. What does her husband think about it?”
“Shut up, Byrne,” she said through clenched teeth. Lord, had she said it? She had.
“No, really.” His smile was cool. “There are a few rules.”
“Mamma hates rules. Besides, Claude is resigned to losing her. He’s many years her senior.”
“So that makes a difference, does it?” His brilliant eyes were diamond hard.
“It does to Zoe. If a thing doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”
“Of course, one must be happy at any cost. assume Patrick’s rich?”
The gibe nipped sharply. “Of course, he is. We both know Zoe must have money.”
“She