The English Bride. Margaret Way
Brod.” He grinned. “He rustled up some gear.”
“It suits you.” She spoke with a nice balance of admiration and teasing.
“Actually you look very sweet yourself.” His eyes gently mocked. She was wearing a sapphire-blue full skirt with a matching strappy little top, the fabric printed with white hibiscus. Blue sandals almost the same shade were on her feet, her Titian hair wound into some braided coil that suited her beautifully. He saw the apricot flush on her creamy skin. He knew it was there because he was coming close.
How did it happen? This longing for a woman that sent a man reeling? He’d been making love to her in his mind at least three times a week for some time now, seriously considering it had to happen, shocked because he couldn’t seem to come to his senses. But what did sense have to do with sexual attraction? He felt compelled to have an affair. He couldn’t make the wider choice, yet he moved right up to her, surprising her and himself by moving her into an impromptu tango, remembering how they had danced and danced at Brod’s then Rafe’s wedding.
There was music in him, Francesca thought. Music, rhythm, a sensuality that was reducing her limbs to jelly. This man was taking her over utterly, making all her senses bloom like a flower.
“I’m in perfect company right now,” he murmured in her ear, just barely resisting the temptation to take the pink earlobe into his mouth.
“Me, too.” The words just slipped out, very soft but not concealing her intensity. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to fall in love with him surely, but his effect on her was so pervasive she could hardly bear to contemplate her holiday on Kimbara coming to an end.
Rebecca, coming to find them, burst into spontaneous applause at the considerable panache of their dance. “You’re naturals, both of you,” she cried. “I’ve never thought of it before but this is a terrific dance floor.” She looked around the very spacious front hall, speculation in her eyes.
“Why would you need it when you’ve got the old ballroom?” Francesca asked, catching her breath as Grant whirled her into a very close stop.
“I mean for Brod and me,” Rebecca smiled, still very much the bride. “Come and join us for a drink. I’ve chilled a seriously good Riesling. It’s beautiful out on the back verandah. The air is filled with the scent of boronia. How I love it. The stars are out in their zillions.” She came forward very happily to link her arm through Francesca’s, her long, gleaming dark ribbon of hair falling softly from a centre parting the way her husband loved it, the skirt of her summery white dress fluttering in the breeze that blew through the open doorway.
They found Brod wrapped in a professional-looking apron, the large brick barbeque well alight, the potatoes in foil already cooking. Ratatouille kebabs prepared by Rebecca lay ready for the grill plate, a leafy green walnut and mushroom salad prepared by Francesca waiting for the dressing.
Grant was given the enjoyable task of opening the wine, and pouring it into the tulip-shaped glasses set out on the long table, while Francesca passed around the crackers spread with a smoked salmon paté she had processed a half hour before. It was light and luscious and the conversation began to flow. These were people, interconnected through family, who genuinely enjoyed one another’s company. The steaks, prime Kimbara beef, were set to sizzle over the hot coals and Rebecca decided she’d like a tarragon wine sauce so went to the kitchen to fetch it. While they were waiting, Grant walked Francesca to the very edge of the verandah so they could see the moon reflected in the glassy-smooth surface of the creek.
“Such a heavenly night,” she breathed, lifting her head from contemplation of the silvery waters to the glittering heavens. “The Southern Cross is always over the tip of the house. It’s so easy to pick out.”
Grant nodded. “Rafe and Ally won’t see it in the United States. The cross is gradually shifting southward in the sky.”
“Is it really?” Francesca turned her head to stare up at him, thrilled because he was so tall.
“It is, my lady.” He gave a mocking bow. “A result of the earth’s precession or the circular motion of the earth’s axis. The Southern Cross was known to the people of the ancient world, Babylonians and Greeks. They thought it part of the constellation Centaurus. See the star furthest to the south?” He pointed it out.
“The brightest?”
He nodded. “A star of the first magnitude. It points to the South Pole. The aborigines have wonderful Dreamtime legends about the Milky Way and stars. I’ll tell you some of them one of these days. Maybe nights when we’re camping out.”
“Are you serious?”
A short silence. “I suppose it could be arranged.” His voice sounded sardonic. “Do you think it would be a good idea, the two of us camping out under the stars?”
“I think it could be wonderful.” Francesca drew a breath of sheer excitement.
“What about when the dingoes started to howl?” he mocked.
“Mournful not to say eerie cries, I know—” she shivered a little remembering “—but I’d have you to protect me.”
“And who’s going to protect me?” Suddenly he put a finger beneath her chin, turning up her face to him.
“Am I so much to worry about?” She cut to the very heart of the matter.
“I think so, yes,” he answered slowly. “You’re out of reach, Francesca.”
“And I thought you were a man who aimed for the stars?” she taunted him very gently.
“Aircraft are safer than women,” he countered dryly. “They don’t preoccupy a man’s mind.”
“So that makes harmless little me a great danger?” Her voice was low-pitched but uniquely intense.
“Except in the realm of my secret dreams,” he surprised himself by admitting.
It was a tremendous turn-on, causing Francesca’s body to quiver like a plucked string. “That’s very revealing, Grant. Why would you reveal so much of yourself to me?” she asked in some frustration.
“Because in many ways we’re intensely compatible. I think we knew that very early on.”
“When we were just teenagers?” There was simply no way she could deny it. “And now we’re to assume a different relationship?”
“Not assume, my lady.” His voice deepened, became somewhat combative. “You were born to grandeur. The daughter of an earl. Journeying to the outback is in lots of ways an escape for you, maybe even an escape from reality. An attempt to avoid much of the pressure from your position in life. I’d expect your father will confidently expect you to marry a man from within your own ranks. A member of the English aristocracy. At the very least a scion of one of the established families.”
It was perfectly true. Her father had certain hopes of her. Even two possible suitors. “I’m Fee’s daughter, too.” She tried to stave the issue off. “That makes me half Australian. Fee only wants me to be happy.”
“Which means I’m right. Your father has high expectations of you. He wouldn’t want to lose you.”
Francesca shook her head almost pleadingly. “Daddy will never lose me. I love him. But he has his own life you know.”
“But no grandchildren.” Grant pointed out bluntly. “You have to give him them. Such a child, a male child, would become his heir. The future Earl of Moray. Inescapably a fact.”
“Oh don’t let’s take that all on yet, Grant,” Francesca burst out. She wanted them to be together, with no conflicts between them.
But Grant had other ideas, seeing where it was taking them. “I have to. You know as well as I do we’re becoming increasingly involved. Hell what am I sacrificing here? I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world, leaving