standing beside a broken marble column, staring up at the sky: moon free from clouds now, silver beams melting against the black-gray expanse overhead. It was a romantic night, I thought, a night made for lovers.
I frowned, thinking about Craig Stanton. In truth, I really hadnât stopped thinking of him. I was furious with him, and yet I wondered if the anger wasnât merely a self-imposed smoke screen to cover up deeper emotions I refused to acknowledge. The man had allure, quite plainly. I couldnât deny that. Was I really a stiff little prude, running away from him as he had suggested? Of course not, I told myself, moving on along the rows of rosebeds. I was just wary, and rightly so.
There had been other men in my life. A few years ago I had been smitten with a handsome young poet with soulful brown eyes and thick blond hair and a wide, sensuous mouth. I was still working as a secretary then, and Eric had seemed the epitome of all a young girl could dream of. He was attentive and kind, gentle and considerate but very male. He was also quite poor, living in a slum attic and scrounging for enough to live on. I gladly bought his lunches, his dinners. I even bought him a lovely brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin so he wouldnât catch cold. My secretaryâs wages werenât all that grand, and Eric found someone else, richer, better able to promote his poetry in the right circles. I was stung by theâ experience, yet I could afford to laugh at it now. I had been quite foolish, but I had learned to beware of too-tender sentiments.
Last year, while visiting my mother in Sydney, I had met a rich Australian rancher who tried to sweep me off my feet. He was robust and bursting with hormones, determined to take me into the bush and make me his bride. Quite handsome, he was, with unruly black hair and sapphire-blue eyes, and he owned half a dozen ranches. My mother was enthusiastic about my prospects and couldnât understand why I resisted. Reggie was a bit too aggressively male for my taste. He was like a force of nature, strong, obstinate, knocking aside all obstacles. He threatened to kidnap me if I didnât give him an answer soon. I booked immediate passage back to England, bidding my mother a fast farewell. Poor Reggie was probably still prowling the streets of Sydney, trying to abduct a suitable bride.
So I wasnât completely without experience. I had certainly had enough experience to be wary of a man like Craig Stanton. Actually, Paul Matthews was more my type: solid, strong, dependable, attractive with his craggy face and big, healthy build. A man like that would wear, with none of the mercurial, quicksilver qualities that were so dazzling and, ultimately, so elusive. But I wasnât ready for any kind of man. I was too content with my life the way it was. I had my career, my freedom, my cozy little habits. I wasnât about to cast all that aside because some man decided to give me a break and take over. I had resisted Reggie, who had wanted to marry me, and I could certainly resist Craig Stanton, whose intentions were hardly that honorable.
Forcing all these thoughts aside, I concentrated on the gardens and the beauty of the night. Crickets chirped raspily, and there was the rustle of leaves and, from down near the lake, the solitary song of a bird hidden among the trees. I walked under a trellis of honeysuckle and found myself at the edge of the gardens, the lawns sloping down toward the wooded area that surrounded the lake. I remembered the black marble mausoleum there on the edge of the water and decided to go and look at it.
The lawns were spongy, already damp with night moisture, and my high heels were hardly the appropriate shoes for such activity, but I walked on nevertheless, the grounds gilded with silver and spread with long shadows that moved slowly as clouds drifted across the face of the moon. The woods were very dark, and I hesitated just a moment, not really
I frowned, thinking about Craig Stanton. In truth, I really hadnât stopped thinking of him. I was furious with him, and yet I wondered if the anger wasnât merely a self-imposed smoke screen to cover up deeper emotions I refused to acknowledge. The man had allure, quite plainly. I couldnât deny that. Was I really a stiff little prude, running away from him as he had suggested? Of course not, I told myself, moving on along the rows of rosebeds. I was just wary, and rightly so.
There had been other men in my life. A few years ago I had been smitten with a handsome young poet with soulful brown eyes and thick blond hair and a wide, sensuous mouth. I was still working as a secretary then, and Eric had seemed the epitome of all a young girl could dream of. He was attentive and kind, gentle and considerate but very male. He was also quite poor, living in a slum attic and scrounging for enough to live on. I gladly bought his lunches, his dinners. I even bought him a lovely brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin so he wouldnât catch cold. My secretaryâs wages werenât all that grand, and Eric found someone else, richer, better able to promote his poetry in the right circles. I was stung by theâ experience, yet I could afford to laugh at it now. I had been quite foolish, but I had learned to beware of too-tender sentiments.
Last year, while visiting my mother in Sydney, I had met a rich Australian rancher who tried to sweep me off my feet. He was robust and bursting with hormones, determined to take me into the bush and make me his bride. Quite handsome, he was, with unruly black hair and sapphire-blue eyes, and he owned half a dozen ranches. My mother was enthusiastic about my prospects and couldnât understand why I resisted. Reggie was a bit too aggressively male for my taste. He was like a force of nature, strong, obstinate, knocking aside all obstacles. He threatened to kidnap me if I didnât give him an answer soon. I booked immediate passage back to England, bidding my mother a fast farewell. Poor Reggie was probably still prowling the streets of Sydney, trying to abduct a suitable bride.
So I wasnât completely without experience. I had certainly had enough experience to be wary of a man like Craig Stanton. Actually, Paul Matthews was more my type: solid, strong, dependable, attractive with his craggy face and big, healthy build. A man like that would wear, with none of the mercurial, quicksilver qualities that were so dazzling and, ultimately, so elusive. But I wasnât ready for any kind of man. I was too content with my life the way it was. I had my career, my freedom, my cozy little habits. I wasnât about to cast all that aside because some man decided to give me a break and take over. I had resisted Reggie, who had wanted to marry me, and I could certainly resist Craig Stanton, whose intentions were hardly that honorable.
Forcing all these thoughts aside, I concentrated on the gardens and the beauty of the night. Crickets chirped raspily, and there was the rustle of leaves and, from down near the lake, the solitary song of a bird hidden among the trees. I walked under a trellis of honeysuckle and found myself at the edge of the gardens, the lawns sloping down toward the wooded area that surrounded the lake. I remembered the black marble mausoleum there on the edge of the water and decided to go and look at it.
The lawns were spongy, already damp with night moisture, and my high heels were hardly the appropriate shoes for such activity, but I walked on nevertheless, the grounds gilded with silver and spread with long shadows that moved slowly as clouds drifted across the face of the moon. The woods were very dark, and I hesitated just a moment, not really
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