Red Dirt Duchess Read online

  Turquoise-coloured velvet banquettes curved around small tables lit by low-hanging pendants that pooled soft light on the tables. It seemed very chic and about as far away from Bin as you could get.

  Jon led her to a table and she pulled off her beanie, then shrugged off her coat and stuffed the beanie in a pocket.

  His eyes widened at the sight of her thin jumper. ‘That’s all you had on under that coat?’ He had unwound a woollen scarf and was starting on the buttons of the jacket.

  She pulled down the sleeves. ‘Yep. Didn’t realise it got so cold in England. But it’s lovely in here.’ She rubbed her hands together to warm them then blew on her fingers. A fire crackled in a grate on the far wall, the ashy scent of wood hanging in the air.

  ‘We’ll need to get you some gloves, for a start,’ he stated, then gave a guffaw of laughter. She couldn’t see that it was so funny. Gloves sounded like a bloody excellent idea right now. He watched her ruminatively for a moment then shook his head in disbelief. ‘They make you tough in Australia, don’t they?’

  Charlie let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. It was going to be okay. Maybe he’d had a bad day, or his editor hadn’t liked his story, but it was obviously nothing to do with her.

  ‘This is definitely shiraz weather, okay? Let me order something and I’ll be right back.’ He dropped his jacket on the banquette and headed for the bar. It gave her a good opportunity to check out his backside. Yep, just as fine as she remembered. She liked the way he leaned on the bar, in discussion with the bartender. That way, she could take her sweet time looking.

  He returned carrying two glasses and set them on the table, then slid around the banquette until he faced her.

  ‘I take it you’re surprised to see me,’ Charlie began. ‘But you did say I should come.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘And once the idea got into my head, I couldn’t shake it.’ She also couldn’t shake the idea of ripping Jon’s clothes off and exploring every inch of his body, but she didn’t add that.

  His fingers drummed on the table. ‘So, you’ve come to see the painting, right?’

  Charlie’s heart sank. The painting. ‘Um, right. The painting is definitely on the list. Top of the list, actually. Which is why I came to find you straightaway.’

  ‘List?’ His eyebrow quirked with amusement.

  ‘You know, Buckingham Palace, changing of the guard, Crown jewels.’

  ‘There’s no changing of the guard in December.’

  ‘Really? I thought it was held every day for the tourists. Strike one. Anyway, I’m sure there must be other things to do in London.’

  ‘Possibly. If one tries hard.’

  He continued to stare at her, an intense scrutiny that made her shift a little in her seat. But there was something else there, a kind of wariness, as though he didn’t know quite what to do with her.

  ‘How did you manage to get away?’

  ‘Rhonda doesn’t mind holding the fort from time to time. At this time of year, there’s hardly anyone travelling the outback so she spends most of the day reading. It was 46 degrees yesterday. Yikes, that’s hot – even for me.’

  ‘Ah, the excellent Rhonda.’ He fell into another long silence, his fingers working up and down the stem of his glass.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said back in Bin,’ Charlie started. She picked up her glass and took another sip of wine. It was deep and rich, like the wines Cliff had bought long ago when he’d sold a painting. Back in the happy times.

  ‘Oh?’

  He wasn’t making this easy. She took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table. ‘Cliff always told me that one day I’d have questions and that I’d need to leave Bindundilly to find the answers.’

  She remembered the horrible day he’d told her that. They’d gone down to Sydney to bury Maddie. Charlie had been sixteen years old and the idea of leaving the peace and security of Bin had terrified her. But Cliff had insisted that she’d know when the time was right.

  Jon said nothing. He just sat and stared at her.

  ‘So …’ Did she need to spell it out? ‘I’d love to see the painting,’ she pushed on, ‘to see if it really is one of Cliff’s. When would be a good time?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s a little complicated,’ he said. ‘You see, it’s not here.’

  She’d done something to her eyes. They were rimmed in a smudgy, seductive darkness that accented the colour. In Bindundilly they’d been a bright, sunny blue but in the snug, dim cosiness of a London bar they were a dangerously sexy shade of indigo.

  They made him think of bed. Of tossed sheets and lost afternoons. Of languorous caresses and gentle moans.

  A wedge of chocolate-coloured hair fell across her forehead and she lifted a hand and brushed it aside. Her lips, a deep, rich red, curved at the corners as she brought the glass to her mouth and sipped.

  He closed his eyes. He was gone. So very gone.

  When he opened them again she was watching him with a surprised, slightly hostile air, her elbows propped on the table, the overly long sleeves of her pullover almost covering the bunched fists supporting her chin.

  On the Cessna out of Bindundilly he’d tried to imagine her in London and failed, perversely pleased that she was so inextricably linked with the outback that he couldn’t picture her in London. That way he could forget that crazy challenge, made on the spur of the moment and teased out of him by a kiss. He could shove the troubling image of the mural into the back of his mind – as he so obviously had years ago with his father’s painting – and life could get back to normal.

  He could get on with finding a suitable wife.

  When he’d seen Charlie on the street he’d resolved to push her away with some glib excuse. Yet not ten minutes later, he was talking about buying her gloves and thinking about getting her naked.

  He tried to remember how he’d left his flat this morning. He had changed the sheets since he’d arrived home, hadn’t he? Because he would take her to dinner and maybe afterwards …

  And then it washed over him, like a tide breaking relentlessly on a shore. Despite his personal feelings she was another totally unsuitable woman, one he suspected had the ability to break his heart.

  As a potential mother to the future earl, that yet-to-be conceived child he was really beginning to resent, she was not going to cut the mustard.

  At least not with his mother.

  But she’d come all this way to see a bloody painting he’d been trying most of his life to forget. He’d almost succeeded and now here she was, ready to let that monster out of the box. The painting would be examined in forensic detail, no doubt. He’d have to quash his revulsion and actually look at the damn thing.

  He had no one to blame but himself.

  Now he looked at her crestfallen face. So it really had been the painting she’d come here for. He guessed that was something to be thankful for, although he’d need to do a better job convincing himself.

  ‘I meant it’s not in London,’ he amended. ‘It’s at my family’s home in Wiltshire.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He’d been planning to go to Hartley Hall this weekend. He hadn’t phoned his mother, putting off the inevitable interrogation, but he’d intended to drive down tomorrow for the final rout. It would be the triumph of his mother’s campaign. He’d simply announce that he was on the market, take a good book to his room and let her go for it. He might have to get married, but he didn’t have to like it.

  But this changed things somewhat. He could hardly arrive with a strange woman in tow and then announce that he was ready to submit to his mother’s schemes. There was nothing for it. He’d have to postpone the interview with his mother. His mood instantly lifted as he furled an imaginary white flag and tossed it aside.

  He’d take Charlie to Hartley Hall and he’d show her the painting. He’d make sure she had a fabulous English weekend and then he’d say goodbye. Call it a last fling before surrender. And it would be fun to see his mother’
s face.

  He leaned forward and tipped his glass against her. ‘What I mean to say is, I’d love to take you to Hartley Hall tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘That’s it?’ Jon stared at the small holdall in Charlie’s hand. She was waiting outside the hotel, shivering in her coat and stamping her feet in the brisk morning chill.

  She handed the bag to him. ‘That’s it. Actually, that really is it. All the luggage I’ve got.’

  His eyes bugged. ‘Well, this is a first. Every woman I know would have a mound of luggage and I’d spend ten minutes working out how to fit it all in.’ He broke into a smile as he slammed the boot. ‘Let’s go.’

  He coaxed an aged and belligerent MG, smelling of old leather and with gears that crunched and groaned, through the interminable suburbs of London, past row upon row of identical houses, in ranks of almost identical streets. There was no beauty here, no space to breathe. Just looking at those houses made Charlie wonder; was this the sort of place Cliff had left?

  Jon looked happier this morning, almost buoyant. He was humming a little under his breath, as though listening to some cheerful inner tune. It eased some of the tense lines she’d seen in his face yesterday. Her glance dropped to the hand covering the gearstick. Strong, with long fingers that curled reflexively around the knob as he shifted gear. One long stroke of that hand down her naked body would do a lot to warm her up right now. She dragged her gaze back to his face.

  ‘You look pleased to be going home.’

  A cynical smile tugged at his mouth as he pulled up at a pedestrian crossing. ‘I wasn’t, particularly.’ He turned to her, amused. ‘Not until you turned up.’

  Oh. They sat in silence as a woman pushed a huge navy-blue pram with gold trim across the road. Charlie tried to remind herself that her feeling for this man was temporary, a quickly conceived knee-jerk reaction to a few sizzling kisses and an enigmatic invitation. It was about the painting, that was all. She needed to remember that, because in no time she’d be refastening her seatbelt and on her way home to Australia.

  ‘It must be nice to get out of London for a while,’ Charlie added.

  ‘You got that in one.’ He thrust the car into gear and they moved forward.

  Happy but not talkative. Well, you couldn’t have everything. And maybe, just maybe, he was happy to be with her. Either way, he seemed to have thrown off the mood that had puzzled her yesterday.

  ‘What will you do if it’s his?’ Jon asked.

  It took Charlie a few moments to make the connection. She’d pushed the painting to the back of her mind as her thoughts had continued to circle around Jon. It would be interesting to see the painting, of course, but it was unlikely to be one of Cliff’s.

  ‘I hadn’t put a lot of thought into it. If it looks like it might be Cliff’s work perhaps I could go to some of the art schools and see if he studied there. If not,’ she glanced at him and shrugged, ‘well, let’s just wait and see.’

  He shifted his gaze from the road to look at her. ‘Just wait and see.’ He gave a small huff of incredulous laughter and shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’ She hadn’t come to England to conduct a full-scale examination of Cliff’s past. If he’d wanted her to know, he’d have told her. She was just curious about a painting on the other side of the world that may or may not be her father’s work.

  ‘You’re not some sort of Buddhist, are you?’ he asked with mock suspicion.

  ‘Nope, no religion but live and let live. It’s a handy outlook in Bindundilly.’

  ‘I expect it is.’

  They reached the M3 and started heading east, and before long they’d left London and joined a multi-laned throng of traffic.

  ‘Hmm, there are a lot of people over here.’ Charlie stared out the windows as trucks and cars sped past.

  He flicked on the indicator and changed lanes, shaking his head. ‘Yes. And this is the country where you think you’ll just wait and see what turns up.’

  She could tell it amused and puzzled him. Maybe he even thought her naïve. Cliff and Maddie had never had plans, just drifted along snatching at opportunities as they presented themselves. It had given life a cheerfully haphazard quality. Cliff loathed a schedule; any kind of list, really.

  The suburbs gave way to country, although it seemed a village or town was never far away. About half an hour later they turned onto a smaller road and threaded through villages full of old houses, their front doors opening almost straight onto the road.

  ‘Everything seems so close here,’ Charlie remarked. ‘We’ve only just left the last village and now we’re on the outskirts of another.’

  ‘I expect it’s a lot to take in, being so different to Bindundilly.’

  She loved the way he said the name, enunciating each syllable carefully instead of the casual slurring of consonants that in Australia rendered the name as Bindinilly, until it was easier to just call it Bin.

  ‘We’re here.’ Jon changed gears and the car slowed. They’d been travelling beside a high, stone fence for some time and now he steered the car between two enormous gateposts, each topped by a statue of a rearing hound. Inside the gates stood a pretty Georgian-style house.

  ‘The gatehouse was built in 1784 by the twelfth earl and is noted in Pevsner’s county guide,’ Jon said then started to laugh. ‘Don’t worry, no more history. This place is like a museum. Everything is designed to bring credit to the family name. The place is filthy with history but I promise I won’t give you the lecture. I had too many of them as a child.’

  Before she had time to comment they’d entered a long, wide avenue, lined by columns of enormous trees. The trunks were like pillars, straight and true and covered in moss, but at the top they exploded into bare, twisted branches like the gnarled arthritic fingers of ancient beings, reaching for one other. Light flickered through them, into the deep, mysterious cavern of the drive. It was like an enchanted forest. Or maybe it was a place where you could get as lost and scared as in the outback.

  ‘What amazing trees.’

  ‘They’re beech.’ Jon seemed to look at them for the first time. ‘I guess they do look amazing.’

  Finally they broke cover of the drive into open parkland. To the left there was a folly, the round, stone, temple-like structure embellished with columns and statues and commanding a view of the landscape. As they drove, Charlie shrank lower into the seat. She’d known Jon’s family would have a beautiful home. It just made sense. But she’d been expecting something more modest.

  He glanced across at her. ‘Okay?’

  It was all she could do to nod. He took a hand from the steering wheel and closed it over hers where it rested on her blue-jeaned leg. ‘It will be fine. Don’t worry.’ It was the first time he’d really touched her, a comforting gesture she’d been craving. But on a deeper level, she wanted more. She wanted a continuation of what they’d started in Bin. She wanted to explore and learn his body, find out what made him sigh and what made him groan with pleasure. She’d tease that frown from his face. If he’d let her.

  But it was hardly likely to happen in his parents’ home.

  ‘I should have worn something better,’ she said, scratching a nervous finger on her jeans.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Ha! Every woman’s perennial problem.’ He allowed his gaze to travel slowly over her with a look that made her nipples bud. ‘You look fine to me.’ Then he jerked his head forwards. ‘There’s the house.’

  A large, three-storey house of warm, honeyed stone sat on a rise, the stone glowing in the weak sunlight. Dozens of chimneys clustered along steeply gabled rooftops. The view, breaking from the arcade of trees into the open parkland with the house ahead, was designed to dazzle. Charlie sucked in an awed breath.

  ‘It looks like it’s been there forever,’ she murmured.

  ‘Just about. There are records from the thirteenth century, although the house is largely Elizabethan. But we’ve been adding to it for centuries so there’s a bit of something
for everyone in there. It’s horribly expensive to maintain and about as uncomfortable as it gets.’

  The drive ran straight towards the central front door with its imposing entry, but split to the right and left along the front of the house. Jon steered the car around to the right-hand side where there was a slightly less elaborate entrance, flanked by two bay windows. A number of large vans were parked towards the back of the house with men unpacking stacks of chairs and trestle tables.

  There was a faint movement at one of the windows, a twitch of a drape perhaps, or someone standing back a little from the glass, observing them.

  He pulled up next to an old Land Rover, shut off the engine and nodded at the vans, ‘We don’t use the formal reception rooms much any more. Our newest money-making venture is hiring them out for functions.’ He sat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment, then turned to her. ‘My family can be a little hard to take at times.’

  Hard to take? He wasn’t helping her nerves, and Charlie wondered what he meant. In her world, ‘hard to take’ was a drunk who needed to be turfed out of the pub or a traveller who complained about the beer. What made people who lived in houses with dozens of chimneys hard to take?

  Was he regretting bringing her? The girl from Bindundilly in her jeans and loose jumper might have been fine to kiss in the outback, but now, sitting outside this stately home, the place where he belonged, had he changed his mind?

  As if reading her thoughts he leaned in and kissed her. His lips lingered on hers only a moment but it was the kiss she’d been craving, sweetly sexy and designed to bolster her confidence. She wished they could stay right here in this warm, cosy cocoon but as they drew apart, the curtain at the window twitched again.

  White gravel crunched beneath their feet as they crossed the forecourt, and Jon bounded up half a dozen wide steps flanked by gently curving stone balustrades. He held out his hand to her and they entered a small porch. Inside, she could hear dogs barking.