and Violette grew up together. That’s all.”
“Oh, please!” It came out with more vehemence than Alana had intended. “Are you trying to tell me they’ve never been lovers?” She bit her lip, regretting her betraying outburst, though Simon—bless him—didn’t appear to notice.
The very thought of Guy and Violette being lovers made her ill. There really was something weird about her feelings for Guy. On the one hand she pretended scorn; on the other hand just to catch sight of him induced the most extraordinary quickening in her body. Was it possible she was actually two people when it came to Guy Radcliffe? The Alana on the outside and the Alana on the inside?
“Now what deep thoughts are you thinking?” Simon startled her by asking. Mercifully he didn’t wait for an answer. “Guy’s no playboy, but he’s no monk either. Women fall for him in droves. We all know that.”
“He’s too sexy for his own good.”
There I go again!
“Lucky devil! I wish I had a bit of it.” Simon spoke with a mix of admiration and lamentation. “But it’s natural, Lainie—just like your sex appeal. You’re either born with it or you aren’t. Don’t believe anything Violette has to tell you. She’s only trying to put you off Guy, for some reason. Like I said—she’s not the right woman for Guy.” He put down his coffee cup, staring soulfully into Alana’s eyes. “But you are the only girl in the world for me.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Alana said.
Simon left soon after, leaving Alana feeling on edge and jittery. If Simon suddenly started coming over all romantic, she would have to join her father and take to the drink.
CHAPTER TWO
WANGAREE’S lovely mansion homestead stood on top of a knoll in the most beautiful part of the Valley. Everyone knew the magnificent rural property had been acquired by an Englishman, Nicholas Compton Radcliffe, in the early 1850's. Radcliffe, a man of vision and enviable private means, and set about building a homestead to rival any in the colony of New South Wales, and the style he’d chosen was Colonial Georgian. A double-storey central section dominated a serenely imposing façade flanked by one-storey wings with big handsome bays at both ends. To accommodate the hot Australian climate, canopied verandahs had been added at a later date. Rosy brick married wonderfully with the frosting of classical white pillars and beautiful white cast-iron lace. When the building had been completed it had been described in the colonial gazette of that time as “a splendid gentleman’s residence.”
These days only a rich family could maintain it, Alana thought, staring up the hill at the mansion. It was ablaze with lights, putting her in mind of the great liner Queen Mary II at night. She and Kieran had seen the ship make its majestic entry into Sydney Harbour a few months before.
They were late. She had fretted about it at first, and then she had begun to worry when Simon hadn’t turned up on time. Finally he had arrived at the farm, a good forty minutes overdue. He’d looked handsome in his dinner suit, but pale and upset. It had only taken Alana a few seconds to establish why. Simon and his mother—known rather cruelly behind her back as The Widow—had had “words”. But then Rebecca would much rather have “words” than bid her son a fond, Goodnight, darling. Drive carefully. Have fun.
“About what?” Alana had asked.
“Oh, let’s forget it,” Simon had begged, putting his arm around her and giving her an exquisitely gentle kiss.
She hadn’t been able to think of a thing to say that wouldn’t have sounded dreadfully impolite. It was high time Simon stood up to his mother.
Now they were going to be the last to arrive. She could see all the parked cars, among them Kieran’s. He had left on his own, almost an hour before, with the wry comment, “Simon won’t want me along as a passenger.”
Did even her own brother think she and Simon were an item? Alana found herself oppressed by the idea. As fond as she was of Simon, she shrank from being so labelled. The only one on her side appeared to be Simon’s mother, who always greeted her so grimly she might have been hatching some plot to snatch Simon away. Even on the odd occasion when Rebecca offered afternoon tea, she never left them alone, but stood guard.
Together, they mounted the broad sandstone steps to the pedimented portico, waiting quietly in line behind other late arriving couples to gain admittance to Wangaree’s delightful entrance hall. Alana had been inside the house often enough to be familiar with it—the black and white marble floor tiles, the coffered ceiling with rosettes, the dazzling chandelier and the romantic sweep of the staircase.
There was an antique console that stood against the wall to the right of the front door, with its lovely fanlights and side lights, flanked by Chippendale chairs. She knew they were Chippendale. Guy had told her years ago when she had asked. A tall gilded mirror hung above the console, and tonight it reflected a marvellous arrangement of yellow and white liliums trailing green vines. Gilt framed watercolours of the valley had been placed precisely to either side of the antique mirror.
It suddenly struck her she really loved Wangaree homestead. She just loved it. There was no question Violette that would look perfectly at home there. Perhaps not perfectly, she consoled herself.
“You look gorgeous!” Simon mouthed reverently.
She might have been a National Treasure. “Thank you, Simon.”
It was maybe the fourth time she had thanked him, but she wasn’t going to knock back a compliment. She thought she looked rather gorgeous too, considering it was her eighteenth birthday party dress, halter necked, golden green, with a tiny waist and a lovely full skirt. She hadn’t put on an ounce of weight. Rather she had lost a few pounds since then.
For tonight she had gone to a lot of trouble. An incredible lot of trouble, for her. Who was she trying to impress? Not her best mate, Simon. The results, however, were pretty good, if she said so herself. And she could rely on her hair not to let her down. Great hair, inherited from her mother. Its honey-gold thickness and shimmer gave a girl a lot of confidence.
They were moving now. Alana counted herself lucky to be invited. Did Guy think she was Simon’s girl? Perhaps she should seize a moment to set him straight? Why, exactly? Would the knowledge make him rush to rearrange his life? Hardly. Simon took her arm, drawing her so tightly to him she might have been trying to make a break for it. For a minute she considered socking him—but there was the mesmerising Guy.
She had never seen a man look so intensely, magnificently male. Guy Radcliffe could be the archetypal hero of some heart warming romance. She thought she could safely speak for all the women of the Valley.
With that, however, came a warning.
Fall in love with him at your peril!
Wasn’t she blessed that she attended that warning? She had no intention of allowing herself to fall in love with Guy Radcliffe—not even in an abstracted kind of way, like a daydream. Nevertheless, her eyes absorbed him. He looked wonderfully elegant in his evening clothes. They fitted as though they had been cut for him by a master tailor—which they probably had.
She wanted to present herself in the best possible way, but instead of the cool composure she prayed for, she felt as though she had come madly alive, and shifted up several gears.
Warily,
