The English Lord's Secret Son. Margaret Way
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into the car, making a business of squirming before cranking back the seat as though the car had previously been driven by a midget. He then switched on the engine, which kicked over briefly, then gave up the ghost. “The reason for your breakdown—tempestuous little Aussie that you are—is you’re out of petrol,” he announced as he got out.
For a moment Cate was seriously embarrassed. “Nonsense! It was reading a quarter full. Or near enough. And stop staring at me as though I’m from another planet.”
He laughed. “To be perfectly honest I didn’t know extraterrestrials came ravishingly pretty.”
Had she blushed? Damn it, she had. “Don’t feel the need to flatter me.”
“I thought it was a plain statement of fact. As for my opinion of your manner? Prickly as a rose bush. Now, the petrol gauge is obviously not reading true. Where are you going anyway?”
She backtracked. “How did you know I’m an Australian?” she asked as though that created a definite barrier.
“I’d rather not say.” He shut his mouth firmly. It was a very good mouth, a clean sensual line above his chiselled jaw. The edges were faintly upturned. She found herself noting all the little details. She really had to concentrate on something other than his mouth. She felt in her bones he would be a great kisser. It would be interesting to see what happened if he suddenly grabbed her.
“Why would that be?”
“Maybe I’m frightened you’ll attack me.” His sapphire eyes were alive with mockery.
Did her heart turn over? Something in her chest did. Even her legs were feeling a bit flimsy. Nevertheless she took a step forward. “You find Australians threatening?”
Instantly he took a step back, holding up his elegant hands in a gesture of appeasement. “On the contrary, I like Australians. Within reason.”
Cate gave up. He had a very engaging laugh. It made her want to laugh back. “I was on my way to Radclyffe Hall. You would know it.”
“Why exactly?” he asked, with an unexpected frown. “Why Radclyffe Hall?”
Cate’s turn to frown. “Look, can’t we drop the interrogation? I just want to look at it.”
“Then you’ll have to do it from afar,” he said.
“I never said I wanted to drop in for tea and scones.” She tilted her chin. God, he was tall! “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Ashe.”
“Ash?” She raised a supercilious brow. “Your parents called you Ash?” she asked, feigning incredulity. “I’ve never met anyone called Ash. I take it that’s Ashe with an e?”
“Julian Ashton,” he informed her, looking impossibly, unbearably superior. “And you are?”
She considered not telling him. Only she could use his help. “Catrina Hamilton. My family and friends call me Cate.”
“Then I shall call you Catrina.”
“That’s okay. Please do, Ashe. So are you going to help me out?”
He shrugged a shoulder. His body was perfectly proportioned, giving the strong impression of superb physical fitness. “How can I? I’m heading in the opposite direction,” he retorted carelessly.
Cate didn’t know what to make of that. “I understood Englishmen were gentlemen,” she said with sudden dismay. “You must be a rare species.”
He shook his head, loosening the satiny black wave that had stuck to his forehead. “Our womenfolk are much sweeter and more persuasive than you.” He sounded deeply grateful for the fact.
“You must know only quiet, controllable creatures. Does this mean you’re going to leave me stranded on a lonely country road?”
He considered a while, looking this way and that. “An apology might be in order,” he suggested.
“We take it in turns, do we?” she asked. Goodness, he could only be a handful of years older than she, maybe twenty-three or four, but with an imperiousness well beyond his years.
“Okay then. I’m off.” From nonchalance he was energised, turning purposefully towards his parked four-wheel drive.
“So much for being a gentleman, then,” she called after him severely. “Go on. Drive away.” He looked very much as if he was going to. “All right, sorry.” She only said it because that was what he wanted.
Immediately he swung back, beckoning her towards his vehicle, a dusty banged-up Range Rover. “Come along,” he called briskly as though it were possible he’d change his mind. “I’ll run you up to the hall, then send someone back with a can of petrol to pick up your old bomb. The only thing that surprises me is you didn’t finish up in a ditch.”
Cate swallowed a put-down. No need to antagonise him further. Maybe his turning up was an omen?
Good or bad she couldn’t yet tell.
Courteously he held the door for her. His fingers brushed against hers, setting off such an explosion of sparks it almost had her crying, “Ouch!”
Inside the battered Range Rover, the sparks continued to jump the distance between them. It radiated a heat through her body, to her arm, her breasts, her stomach, working its way lower. Every last nerve ending seemed to be on fire. What she had to do was separate her body from her mind. Difficult. She was experiencing the sort of dizziness one had when in the company of someone overwhelmingly attractive. He was definitely not gay. She had gay mates. Love was love wherever cupid’s arrow fell was her reasoning. This guy was powerfully heterosexual. Married? She found herself hoping he wasn’t. He was too young for a start.
* * *
He stopped the Range Rover at a certain point. She could see why. It offered a sublime view of Radclyffe Hall. It sat high on a hill overlooking the beautiful countryside and the rolling hills.
It was an extraordinary moment for Cate. She felt a disconcerting prick of tears, blinking them back before he saw them. Whatever she had been expecting, the postmistress’s “great white elephant of a house” in an advanced state of decay, it surely wasn’t this. She couldn’t remain in the vehicle. She threw open the door and jumped out onto the lush green verge, holding a hand to her sunstruck eyes.
He joined her, staring down at her as though faintly perplexed. “Not what you expected?”
Her tone was soft, almost reverent. “Wow, oh, wow! To be honest I’m a bit in shock.”
“Why exactly?” He sounded as though he really wanted to know.
She almost told him why. It was on the tip of her tongue. The moment when she would confide her adoptive mother was Stella Radclyffe that was. Only caution, grounded in childhood, took over. She didn’t know it then but her secret history was in the making.
“Well, it’s some house, so grand. Georgian, I think. The symmetry, the balance, the adherence to classical rules. Chimneys rising to either side of the gabled roof.” One-storey wings had been built to the left and right of the imposing central building most probably at a much later date.
“Correct,” he said briefly, his eyes glittering. “The hall was built in the late fifteen hundreds by Thomas Willoughby-Radclyffe of Cotswold stone. It’s stood for over four hundred years but for a long time now it’s been in great need of repair. The house and the estate—it’s been reduced to around three hundred acres with tenant cottages—belong to Lord Wyndham. He hasn’t enjoyed good health for some time now. In fact he’s quite frail.”
Four hundred years?
Shock wasn’t too strong a word. Why had it been so important to Stella to cover up her past? “Do you know Lord Wyndham?” she turned to ask, her eyes on his profile. Oddly enough she was getting used