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The lights pleased Fred. He pointed his knife at near and distant flames.
“Pretty,” he said to Kirstie, who was gathering up the dirty plates and cutlery.
“What is?” she asked him when he handed her his cup and plate.
“The lights.” He struggled a minute, attempting to find words to express his pleasure. “They’re beautiful.” He smiled at her so winningly that despite herself, she smiled back at him. She wondered what he would look like if his long hair and straggly beard were trimmed. He was certainly a fine figure of a man.
“That’s better,” he said encouragingly.
“What’s better?”
“You. When you smile you look pretty. Do it more often—for me.”
An Innocent Masquerade
Paula Marshall
MILLS & BOON
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PAULA MARSHALL,
married with three children, has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely, has been a swimming coach and has appeared on University Challenge and Mastermind. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor. She derives great pleasure from writing historical romances, where she can use her wide historical knowledge.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Prologue
Villa Dilhorne, Sydney, 1851
Thomas Dilhorne, that proud and serious man once known as Young Tom, but now, by his own wish, always referred to as Thomas, walked into the nursery at Villa Dilhorne, his parents’ home. Thomas’s mother, Hester, had just finished feeding his infant son, Lachlan. When he sat by her, she handed the empty dish to the boy’s nurse and the little boy to his father.
Thomas sat the lively child awkwardly on his knee, fearful that his careful and elegant clothing might be stained. Hester watched him, pain in her eyes, as Thomas carefully lifted Lachlan to his shoulder, kissing him gently on the way, his cold face never relaxing.
Hester loved her eldest son, but sometimes his sobriety, his almost total lack of humour compared with his father and his younger twin, Alan, troubled her. He had always been a serious, earnest child who rarely showed open affection, and as a man he was the same. In intellect very like his father, in appearance and temperament he bore him no resemblance.
The only person who had ever shattered Thomas’s calm severity a little had been his wife, Bethia. Hester sighed again when the coldly handsome face opposite relaxed into the faintest of smiles while the little boy stroked his father’s cheek—and then lost it when Thomas saw his mother watching him.
He stood up. ‘I must go,’ he said, handing the child back to Hester. ‘I have a busy day ahead of me. Master Lachlan will have to wait until the evening for further play.’
His mother smiled at him—a trifle ruefully this time—saying, ‘Don’t forget that we have a dinner party tonight’, but she thought with dismay, Play, he calls that play! Two minutes and then he hands his son back to me like a parcel.
Thomas turned briefly at the door, to see Lachlan crawling towards him. His smile half-appeared, but was soon lost. He turned again and walked, straight-backed, through the door and into the world of work: the only world he now cared to inhabit.
Eleven years ago Thomas had married his childhood sweetheart, Bethia Kerr. Her father had been his father’s best friend and the marriage had been a happy one. Bethia was a loving and gentle girl for whom Thomas was the centre of the universe. She had a gift for home-making and their beautiful villa in the newest part of Sydney was full of love, friends and happiness. The only thing it was not full of was children.
At first this had not mattered but, as time went by, Thomas and Bethia became increasingly disappointed that their happiness was not crowned with a family. At length they became reconciled to their lack, although every time that they heard of an addition to Alan’s a small shadow crossed Bethia’s face.
Suddenly, after years of marriage, the miracle happened. Seated at dinner one evening she told Thomas that their dreams had come true: she was increasing. For once Thomas’s iron control broke and they had wept in one another’s arms. Bethia’s pregnancy was an easy one; even the birth had not been difficult, and she was able to hand Thomas their long-awaited son herself.
Alas, within twenty-four hours she was showing signs of fever; two days later she was dead. Hester sometimes thought that her son had died with his wife. Always reserved, he became impenetrable. Any affection which he had felt for anyone had descended into the grave with Bethia. He had never wept for her, and on the day of her funeral he had stood, cold and rigid, among the crying mourners. He was the only person present to show no emotion, to shed no tear.
Both his parents thought that only the fact that Lachlan was his last link with Bethia was why he tolerated
