CHAPTER SIX

      HARRY INSISTED ON serving their meal. Ashley insisted on his joining them at the table. It improved William’s table manners no end, and the ham salad followed by ice-cream and freshly cut strawberry mangoes never tasted better.

      It was a marvellous evening. Ashley didn’t have to do a thing except enjoy Harry’s company. In between delving into all the important events of her life as though he was fascinated by everything that had contributed to the person she was now, he cleared the table, whizzed the plates into the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen, made and served coffee, saw William off to bed and generally performed all the duties of a housekeeper and parent while making Ashley feel special and extraordinary.

      She had never been so pampered, never been the focus of such concentrated attention, never been so appreciated, never had her needs catered to with such charm and finesse. Certainly Roger had never done that. Harry had to be very close to the perfect man, she decided, feeling as intoxicated as though she had drunk a bottle of champagne.

      William had not been ignored, either. Harry had generously committed himself to taking him to the Sydney Cricket Ground to watch a day of the test match between England and Australia, since cricket was William’s abiding passion at the moment. That was only if Ashley could spare him for a day, which of course she could, for her son’s pleasure.

      The more Harry committed himself to staying with her and William, the more chance she had of really getting to know him. Ashley had the feeling she could be very happy with Harry Cliffton. He was a giver, a listener, a man who didn’t have to prove himself a superior being by reducing women to nothing. Everything he had demonstrated so far put him on a completely different plane to Roger.

      Could he be weaned away from his life at Spring-field Manor? As long as it takes, Ashley thought, deeply pleased that she had a considerable amount of time on her side before any decisions had to be made.

      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