The English Lord's Secret Son Read online

  He was a mite surprised at how beautiful Sydney was, how dynamic, very cosmopolitan. It was a world-class city with a harbour that was a splendid asset. Then there was the climate! Day after day of glorious sunshine, beautiful and balmy breezes off the harbour. Catrina had always made jokes about their English “never ending” rain but he had sometimes thought she secretly enjoyed it. Or a certain amount of it anyway. She had certainly enjoyed the snow. She had never seen snow in her entire life or the wonderland it created. So many times over the years he had kept coming back to their walks in the snow.

  * * *

  Fresh snow had fallen during the night. He had prayed for it. The months of October and November had been unusually warm, but in these days before Christmas the snow had set in. A Godsend! They badly wanted to be alone together. He was amazed at the strength of the bond that had grown so swiftly between them. It was as though they had known and loved one another in another life. Was that possible? Millions of people believed in reincarnation. What he did know was, she was everything...everything...he wanted in a woman: beautiful, glowing, clever, full of curiosity with such a broad range of interests. He knew she was ambitious. She had plans. He knew she was the sort of girl who would have and he approved of that. Only he needed to be a part of her plans. She already was with him. In the deepest caverns of his heart he knew she was the answer to his dream.

  He helped her into her warm topcoat, then for extra measure wound a cashmere scarf around her neck. She wore an emerald cap on her head that accentuated the colour of her eyes. He had found a soft pair of gloves for her hands. They were ridiculously big.

  “You love looking after me, don’t you?” She looked up at him, flipping her thick blonde braid over the collar.

  “I want to look after you all our lives.” There didn’t seem to be any other kind of answer.

  “Terrific!” At eighteen she might have been fearful of such an early declaration. No, she embraced it, holding up her face for his kiss. Her face was so radiant he thought he had never seen anything so glorious in his life. “You’ll make a wonderful husband, a wonderful father,” she told him as soon as her mouth was free. They were too close to the house. They found it restricting with so many eyes on them.

  “That shows what an excellent judge of character you are,” he joked. Their emotions were so deep, so overwhelming, their falling so passionately in love had transformed their lives. They hadn’t had sex. They had come close. But not yet. It was enough for now for the two of them to be together. He knew he was going to make love to her the way he wanted. He knew he wouldn’t be able to help it. All her responses incited him. He knew her flame of desire would fire up to meet his.

  Snowflakes fell through the chilly air, landing on their heads and shoulders.

  “Angel dust strewn from the heavens,” she cried, lifting her lovely face. “God’s gift to the world.”

  “The grounds look even better in midwinter,” he told her. “The contrast between dark and snow-white is surreal.”

  “Like stepping into a dream.” She was laughing, hugging him like this was such an adventure. She talked about the way Turner had painted the most sublime and romantic Alpine snowscapes. She told him it had actually snowed in Bethlehem the Christmas before. She told him she could roller skate. She was sure she could perform as well on ice. There was so much they wanted to do together. They had plenty of time. He would make sure of that, although he had to return to Oxford to complete a joint honours degree in Law and Economics. The family retained an apartment in London. He would find somewhere else. Somewhere suitable for just him and Catrina.

  To doubt they would always be together was to doubt that destiny had brought them to this moment in time.

  * * *

  At least he had been destined not to die before seeing her again, he thought grimly. Such were the glories and tribulations of life. Breakdowns in relationships brought a lot of stress into lives. People did die, some chose to die, of a broken heart. He had responsibilities and his own brand of pride. What he felt now was a deepening need to address the events of the past. So much of it didn’t make sense. Or was he only seeing clearly now. As he sat there staring up at the house where she lived memories began tugging at him again. They were so poignant they caught at his heart. She had snared him that very first day; ended by sabotaging his life.

  * * *

  “How many acres to the estate?” she asked, looking around her. The sheen of excitement, almost rapture, had brought a flush of colour to her cheeks.

  It was a lovely face, perfectly symmetrical, the eyes a crystalline green, the creamy skin flawless, the mouth with a luscious fullness. She really was a beautiful woman. “Approx two hundred,” he said, pretending offhandedness when he was amazed to find things were actually getting pretty heavy. For that matter he had felt a bolt of pleasure the instant his eyes had fallen on her spirited, challenging face. Now she was staring up at the hall as if at a vision, something from a fairy tale. One would have thought she’d travelled halfway around the world just to see it. He couldn’t quite grasp the extent of her interest. It seemed a shade extreme.

  “How splendid!” she breathed. “Go on, how many rooms?” She had looked to him for the answer.

  He obliged. “The reception hall, four reception rooms, I’m not sure how many bedrooms, certainly a dozen. Quite a few bathrooms. No en suites. Housekeeper’s accommodation, stables, coach house, tennis court. There’s a lake with white swans, a stone bridge over it. Thinking of buying it, are you?” he asked very blandly. It was a defence mechanism. A lot of emotions were stirring in him. He had to slap them down fast. She was reeling him in much too easily for his liking. They’d only just met!

  “How do you know I’m not an heiress?” she retorted, sounding amused.

  He gave her another appraising glance. She looked back. They went on looking at each other. For much too long. He would have to take care not to run off the road. Or he could sneak glances at her when she was looking the other way. “Heiresses usually travel in their own private limousines,” he said crisply.

  “Easier to travel incognito,”she replied airily. “Do we take the main driveway to the house or do we have to go around the back, the tradesmen entrance?”

  “Why not make it an exhilarating experience for you?” he suggested. “How come the English accent, by the way? That’s a bit of a puzzle unless your parents are English and migrated.”

  “For a better life,” she said shortly.

  For a moment he had thought she was on the verge of saying more but stifled it. “Or they never worked a day in their lives? That’s an English public-school accent with a trace of Oz thrown in.”

  She weighed up what he said with a frown. “You obviously have remarkable powers of deduction.”

  “Too close for comfort maybe?” he shot off.

  “Don’t be absurd.” There was an edge to her voice. She tossed back her golden head. “My...mother is English.”

  It was clear she wasn’t going to say anything more.

  Woman of mystery. She looked exactly the part. It was a great pity his best girl, Marina, didn’t look or act a bit more like her. He shouldn’t really be comparing the two. Marina certainly didn’t lack a very attractive appearance. She was a good friend—he had known her from childhood—a lovely person, but she didn’t have what Catrina had. More was the pity. Marina was an earl’s daughter, but extraordinarily enough she lacked the cool arrogance of this Australian beauty. Neither did Marina have the sweeping confidence in herself. Their positions could have been reversed. It suddenly struck him it was possible to become obsessed by a woman. He had never understood it before. He’d never had a lot of sympathy for men who allowed it to happen. Now a young goddess with exceptional powers had crossed his path. He was already wondering what it would be like to kiss her. He knew, somehow, he would. He definitely didn’t want her to disappear.

  Which was exactly what she did. How wicked was that?

  * * *

>   He was just about to restart the car, when a silver car looking slightly the worse for wear pulled up at the foot of the incline. A moment later a good-looking, stylishly dressed woman in her late forties-early fifties stepped gracefully out of the back seat followed by a boy around seven, wearing a school uniform. He was a very handsome boy with a shock of thick blond hair that shone in the sun. He was dragging what looked like a too-heavy schoolbag behind him. Another boy seated in the passenger seat wound down his window to throw his friend his school hat.

  “See you tomorrow, Jules,” he called breezily. “Goodbye, Mrs Hamilton.” This time the tone was very respectful.

  For a moment he felt his brain seize up. Jules? Mrs Hamilton? “God, oh, God,” he muttered. “No, it can’t be.” There was a roaring in his ears; pain in his body as though a car had collected him, throwing him against a brick wall. He was having what was loosely termed an epiphany.

  Jules? His friend Bill Gascoyne often called him Jules, rather than the preferred Ashe. But he couldn’t possibly consider what was before him. Not for a moment. Yet he found himself straining to see the faces of the woman and the boy as they started up the incline. How he needed his binoculars! The driver of the car who had decided against driving up the slope took off with a wave. He knew exactly where the pair was going. To the elegant sandstone house with the delicately ornate cast-iron lace balustrades, decorative posts and valances.

  Catrina’s home.

  The slim, dark-haired woman had to be her mother. The boy was Catrina’s son. She had said he was five. A lie. His sister Olivia and her husband, Bram, had a six-year-old boy, Peter. This boy was taller and more developed. He had to be going on seven. He couldn’t shake a profoundly disturbing thought. Was it possible this fair-headed boy was his own son? The thought nearly made his head cave in. Even Catrina wouldn’t have done such a cruel, cruel thing. His eyes still hadn’t left the pair, woman and boy. The boy had his head uplifted, talking in an animated fashion to his grandmother. Probably giving her the news of the day. Clearly they were devoted to each other. There was something about the woman that suggested perhaps he had met her before? Not possible. Yet he felt a very strong reaction inside.

  He sat there a little longer. What to do? He was more shaken than he could have imagined. Even the first sight of Catrina hadn’t done this. He knew he was never going to get an invitation to the house. He had to act. Put an end to this. Catrina wouldn’t be home for some hours yet. He would go to the house, introduce himself. He needed to see the boy’s face. For that matter he needed to see the woman’s face. She reminded him of someone. He didn’t know who. He could come up with some excuse for calling in on them. A courtesy call to all appearances when inside he was ferociously intent. Had he known it, his blue eyes were blazing. The boy had obviously inherited Catrina’s glorious blonde hair. He wanted to believe the boy’s eyes would be a crystalline green or even dark. The woman had dark hair. He had a clear sense her eyes would be dark as well.

  He got out of the car, locked it with the button on his key. His expression was grim. He was intent on the task ahead. It could be a big mistake he was making. On the other hand it could prove to be a mind-blowing revelation.

  He crossed the road, struggling for control.

  The woman opened the door, a look of enquiry on her face. “Can I help you?” As she looked up at the tall, arrestingly handsome man at her door her expression splintered and her body began to shake slightly.

  * * *

  Stella’s brain had turned to mush. She lost all track of time. Here before her in the flesh was a Carlisle. No doubting it. The Carlisle sapphire-blue, thickly lashed eyes. The height, the military-type bearing, the outstanding good looks. She remembered his late father, Geoffrey, had that thin aristocratic nose, the fine carriage, the set of the shoulders. An Englishman. Geoffrey had married that dreadful girl, Alicia Scott-Lennox, who had thought herself more royal than royalty itself. God knew why! She had hidden her worst side from Geoffrey. One had to wonder for how long?

  “I think you can,” the stranger who was never a stranger responded, unable to keep the shock and outrage out of his tone. Wyndham was stunned to see that the woman before him, the woman who had disappeared from all family life for more than a quarter century, was Stella Radclyffe. It was her sister, Annabel, who had remained. Annabel, the flighty one, the acknowledged beauty who had married a man old enough to be her father. Money, of course.

  Well, the game was over now.

  “You know who I am?” The tension in his tall, lean body revealed the extent of his shock. Indeed shock radiated off him.

  Stella, too, was making a tremendous effort to pull herself together. “You’re Lord Wyndham, of course,” she said, with open hostility. “You became my father’s heir.” Here was the man who had not only broken Cate’s heart, but had now returned to disrupt their happy lives.

  “Which makes you a kinswoman of mine, Stella Radclyffe that was.” It was a statement, not a question, delivered with what she considered magnificent arrogance.

  “I suppose there’s no point in denying it.” Stella threw back her head.

  “No point at all,” he agreed. “May I come in?” Behind her he could see into the spacious hallway, elegantly furnished with a curving staircase beyond it.

  “I’m sorry.” Stella stood firm, holding on to her not-

  inconsiderable nerve. “Cate should be here. She won’t be home until well after six. Why do you want to see her anyway? You’ve done nothing but harm.” Her breath rasped in her throat.

  Harm? That gave him a jolt. He decided not to pursue it. “I’d like to see the boy,” he replied. “Don’t be afraid I will say anything to him. I just want to see him.”

  Stella’s face had turned bone-white, but her tone was tightly controlled. “Not possible. My grandson has nothing whatever to do with you.”

  “Spare me,” he groaned, having trouble processing what the hell was going on with this woman. “Why are you so frightened? What could you possibly have to hide? You and Catrina.” His blue eyes slashed.

  Stella’s tongue, for once, was unguarded. “Aren’t you the man who betrayed her?” she challenged. She was going out on the attack, feeling near hysterical under an avalanche of deep resentments.

  “For goodness’ sake!” He didn’t deign to respond, the expression on his striking face openly contemptuous. “Allow me to see the boy and I’ll go away. I give you my word.”

  He didn’t need to add: But I’ll be back.

  Stella held up a hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” he asked simply. “What did Catrina tell you about me—a pack of lies?”

  “You’re married, aren’t you? You have children?”

  Tell her.

  He was about to when a child’s voice called loudly and, it had to be said, belligerently from somewhere at the top of the stairs. “I’m here, Nan.” The tone signalled the boy was ready to defend his nan and the house if need be.

  “Do not upset him,” Stella was reduced to begging.

  “As if I would,” he said shortly, maddened by her attitude. The next moment a boy who had to be around seven years old raced down the stairs, his expression growing more protective the closer he came to the front door. “Who are you?” He looked up at Wyndham, taking his grandmother’s trembling hand. “Why are you standing there? What do you want?”

  Wyndham’s heart bounced, but remarkably his reply was both calm and quelling. “I was simply paying my respects to your grandmother. She happens to be a kinswoman of mine.”

  So why the strained faces? Jules pondered. “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly, though he was fairly certain the man was telling the truth.

  “I could provide you with proof. I’m Julian Carlisle, by the way, and you’re Jules, Catrina’s son.” Wyndham held out his hand.

  It was such an authoritative hand, Jules was compelled to take it. This man had to be okay. He looked important.

  “It’s a great plea
sure to meet you, Jules.” Wyndham shook his son’s hand, looking down into the Carlisles’ vivid blue eyes. No mistaking them. Though the boy had Catrina’s blond hair as he grew he would display more and more Carlisle physical characteristics. The height. The chiselled features. Right now he was just a beautiful, brave little boy coming swiftly to his grandmother’s defence. Anyone would admire that. Wyndham did.

  “How come my first name is the same as yours?” Jules asked, staring up at the man, his brain seeking answers.

  Stella put a protective hand on his shoulder. “Jules,” she hushed.

  “Well, it’s not such an uncommon name, is it?” Wyndham suggested and smiled.

  That smile directed right at him made Jules’ breath catch somewhere in his chest. He didn’t know why except it was a great smile. People always told him he had a great smile. It struck him that despite the funny atmosphere he liked this man. He looked one hundred per cent trustworthy. Anyone would be proud to have him for a...for a...dad.

  Jules turned his head to stare up at his grandmother, saw the worry on her face. “What’s wrong, Nan?” he asked. Why wasn’t Nan inviting their visitor in? She was normally softly spoken, but he had heard Nan speaking with frost bite in her tone. Was she really a relative of his? Then it hit Jules. The voices. Same kind of posh accent. Nan was English. His gaze flashed back to the man. The man was too. “You’re Lord Wyndham, aren’t you?” he asked as a door in his mind opened.

  Wyndham could only nod. He felt like a man who had been robbed of what he would have held most precious.

  His son.

  His son denied him for long, empty years. He had thought of it as the abyss. What Catrina had done was diabolical. All right she had cut him out of her life. She had no right to cut out his child. He wanted to do something drastic. He wanted to rant and rage as he had never done. He had locked it all in. He wanted Catrina right there before him. Preferably on her knees, her slender neck bent, ready for the sword. He wanted the truth. He felt capable of forcing it out of her. But when he spoke it was with an air of apology. “My fault, Jules, I’m afraid. I gave your grandmother a shock. I should have rung ahead, but I wanted to surprise her.”