The Trouble With Playboys Read online

  "You look beautiful."

  "Thank you.” Her smile was tremulous as she allowed him to help her into the car.

  He didn't wear a hat, and the sun picked out the strands of gold in his hair, bringing them to brilliant life.

  "Aren't you curious about where I'm taking you? I'm sorry for being late, by the way. I slept in."

  "It's all right.” What's wrong with you, Daphne Clarke? You have no right questioning him about what he did last night; it's his own business, she inwardly scolded.

  "Where are we going?” She touched his arm.

  "To Healesville."

  "Healesville! It's miles away."

  "Not in a car. I thought we could go to the Sir Colin McKenzie Sanctuary. Would you like that?"

  "Love it.” She laughed happily.

  "Jean's suggestion,” he admitted with a grin.

  "Oh."

  "I spoke to her last night. Wallabies, koalas, wedge-tailed eagles—just Daphne's cup of tea."

  "It makes me sound dull."

  "You're interested in tropical diseases, or so I hear."

  "Jean, again. Yes, I am. Molly Gratton, one of my doctor friends—well, her father practices medicine in Singapore, and she got me interested. She intends taking over his practice when he retires."

  "Do you mind if I drive with the window down?” he asked.

  "No."

  "It might clear my head."

  "Does it need clearing?"

  He gave a rueful grin. “Yes, afraid so."

  They drove along in companionable silence for a time, and it did not take long for them to pass through the suburbs leading on out to the open road.

  "Tell me about yourself, Paul. Where you went to school, that sort of thing."

  "I attended Eton, and after that Oxford for a couple of years. Left before finishing my course and went into the family business."

  Daphne took her hat off so the warm breeze could blow through her hair, and she laughed out loud at this unaccustomed feeling of freedom. “This is wonderful. Do you lead a very social life in England?"

  "I suppose so."

  His fingers on the steering wheel were long, slender and quite tanned, as were his arms, she noticed. A gold watch on a brown leather band nestled amidst the dark hairs growing just above his wrist. He would have shaved recently, yet his cheeks and chin still had a bluish tinge.

  When one of his hands clasped hers, red fired her cheeks, but she did not try to pull free, even when his thumb started caressing her knuckles.

  "I don't bite, you know.” His voice flowed over her in a feather light caress.

  "I suppose you get plenty of invitations during the debutantes’ coming-out season?"

  "He laughed. “Yes, I'm on the eligible males list."

  "Right background and everything?"

  "Yep,” he answered with a wry grin.

  "I think it must be exciting. Tell me about it, some of the things you might do, so I can compare it to the information I've read."

  Was she teasing him? Here was a chance to tell her his correct name, yet fear held him back—one word—illegitimate. He launched into a description of the last Eton versus Harrow cricket match, and about Simpsons in the Strand, where only men were allowed to lunch in the ground floor restaurant.

  "Oh, how unfair,” Daphne said.

  "It opened in 1828, or thereabouts, as a chess and coffee club."

  "The Henley Regatta. Tell me all about it."

  "I missed going last year, but it's rather fun."

  "Is it true men have to wear tails and opera coats when attending the Royal Opera?"

  "Yes, carry silver-topped canes, too. Enough of my social life, what about yours?"

  "I don't do anything much. Sometimes a couple of the other nurses and I might go late night shopping on Friday, and treat ourselves to supper. A pie, chips, peas and tomato sauce, not bad for a shilling, especially with a cup of tea thrown in, as well."

  Dear God, she felt happy with that. After an evening out, a snack laid out for his friends might include smoked salmon sides, lobster, caviar, game pies, champagne and cigars.

  "What else do you do?” he queried, cursing the fact that their backgrounds were so different.

  "Nothing much, I spend a lot of time studying. My parents sacrificed a lot so I could become a nurse, and I want to do well."

  She would be good at nursing, he decided. Behind the laughter lurking in her eyes there was real compassion. He had never come across anyone so caring, so sweet or unspoiled. Working class—completely unsuitable as a wife, Sir Phillip would say.

  "I wouldn't mind being one of your patients. Would you visit me after hours, or do my shopping in your own time?"

  Her cheeks flamed and she hung her head. “Jean exaggerates. At home it's different. I go to church dances, oh, a ball or two, the odd card evening. In summer I swim in the river with my brothers. Sometimes a group of us might get together for a ride on our bikes from one town to another, just for fun."

  "I normally use a car for getting around in."

  "Do you work?” she asked.

  "Yes, I look after the managerial side of things in the family business.” His lip twisted slightly. “I'm not a complete layabout, you know."

  "I didn't mean to imply you were. Everyone is entitled to a holiday."

  "Strictly speaking, this isn't a holiday. Well, it's a working one, anyway. We have some interests out here."

  "Oh?"

  "We're into wool.” He didn't want to sound evasive, but didn't want to elaborate too much, in case he scared her off. For once, having wealth could prove to be a curse.

  "Are you?"

  "Yes, my father owns a mill."

  "What a coincidence. My brother Tom worked in the woollen mills at Wangaratta for a while."

  He opened his mouth to confess the family company had connections there, then quickly shut it again.

  "You're terribly rich, aren't you?” Her speech sounded quite English at times.

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  "I wish you weren't, Paul, I mean, so rich."

  "Why should it matter?"

  She didn't answer, just stared at the passing countryside.

  "I thought we might go to the sanctuary first.” Paul finally broke the silence between them

  When they alighted from the car, he took her hand. He enjoyed the feel of her soft fingers and the soft subtle perfume of her skin. He liked everything about her. More than liked, if he were honest.

  "Leave your hat. In the sun your hair turns red."

  "Tom called me ‘Carrots’ for years. It used to send me into screaming fits, once,” she confessed with a girlish giggle.

  "You get on well with your brothers?"

  "Yes. You would like Tom, everyone does. Rob is quieter, but he's a good kid."

  "I would like to meet your family, Daphne."

  "Really?"

  "Yes.” She stared into his eyes. Something flashed in their deep, chocolate depths, something dangerously sweet, a secret promise that she couldn't quite understand.

  "I'm going home for Christmas. My parents would make you welcome, provided you don't mind bunking in with Rob, and Tom if he's home."

  "I went to boarding school for years, so I'm used to sharing."

  She let Paul lead her into the bush. A kookaburra laughed loudly from somewhere close by, and a grey kangaroo, so tame it came right up close, watched them with large soulful eyes.

  "I haven't got anything for you to eat. You needn't laugh, Paul, I'm sure he understood every word."

  They crossed over a creek, jumping from stone to stone until they reached the other side, where giant tree ferns grew. It felt cool and damp, and they were alone, so when Paul drew her into his arms she made no protest. His lips were warm and firm against her trembling mouth.

  "You're beautiful.” With a hand gently cupping her face, he lifted her head and gazed into her eyes. “You're as lovely as the flower bearing your name,” he whispered.

  Hand in hand they strolled back the way they had come, and once they were out of the shade, the sun burned fiercely.

  They lunched at a guesthouse, on a trellised verandah overlooking neatly trimmed lawns. There were beds of roses and camellias, even a tennis court and private swimming pool. Daphne sighed enviously. If only she were rich, this would be a delightful place to stay for a few days.

  "Tired?” he asked.

  "No. I just thought what a beautiful place this would be for a weekend. Thank you for bringing me here.” She smiled at the waiter who handed over the menu and tried not to ooh and ah too much over the exotic food. For once she wouldn't even worry about the expense. Paul was wealthy. There had not been even a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he examined the menu.

  "I'll have crayfish, thank you,” she decided suddenly, feeling reckless.

  "Roast suckling pig for our main course,” he suggested. “We'll have a bottle of your best wine, too, please."

  She was so different from his usual female companions. He smiled indulgently at the almost nervous way her eyes darted everywhere during the meal, like those of a child frightened it might miss out on some special treat.

  "Thank you. I enjoyed that, Paul."

  He watched the way her dimples came and went, the dainty way she used her table napkin. Working class, maybe, but Daphne was a lady.

  "More wine?"

  "No, thank you. I've drunk too much already."

  "Would you care to come to a party with me tonight?” he invited impulsively.

  "I don't know. What kind of party?"

  "Just a party. There'll be a band. The house backs on the Yarra River. It should be fun."

  "Thank you, it sounds nice."

  "It's three o'clock. We'd better head back now, and I'll
call for you about eight."

  He drove fast, his hands firm and confident on the wheel, and Daphne leaned back, revelling in this unaccustomed luxury. At home, they always rode bicycles. Even her father didn't own a car.

  * * * *

  Daphne dressed for the party in the only long evening gown she possessed, a gathered jersey in japonica pink. She waited in nervous anticipation, wondering whether she had been too heavy-handed with the face powder. Was her lipstick too bright? She didn't want to look cheap.

  It was eight-thirty before Paul arrived.

  "I thought you'd changed your mind and didn't want to take me out."

  "Darling, I'm sorry for being late."

  For some reason it hurt when the endearment fell so carelessly from his lips.

  "I got held up. You look beautiful.” He surveyed her appreciatively from head to foot. She was exquisite, delicate as the finest porcelain and just as easily broken, he realised with a sudden twinge of guilt. Could she survive running the gauntlet of Kitty and her friends?

  "Thanks, you look extremely dashing, too.” Daphne had trouble forcing the words out past a lump in her throat. In a tailored dark evening suit with a pristine white dress shirt, he could have been a movie star.

  Outside, Daphne was surprised to see a dark Rolls Royce, driven by a uniformed chauffeur.

  "Is this yours?” she squeaked.

  "It belongs to the business."

  "I'll feel like royalty, driving along in this. If you're trying to impress me, you have."

  Laughing, he dropped a kiss on her head. Daphne blushed, but the chauffeur's features remained impassive. Paul sat close enough for their thighs to touch, and she felt a tingling, excited sensation through the whole of her body every time he moved. You're just an ordinary working girl. When he returns to England it will be back to buses and walking, she reminded herself.

  "You're rather quiet."

  "Am I?” She laughed. What was the harm in enjoying this kind of pampering for once? “I'm just reminding myself not to become used to such luxury."

  "I can't ever recall meeting anyone as sweet and honest as you, Daphne."

  "Honesty is very important to me."

  His heart sank. “What about love?"

  "Without honesty, there couldn't be sincere love. Oh, we are silly, talking like this.” She touched his arm, just a featherlight caress, yet every nerve end felt it. Dear God, he should tell her now.

  "What's your favourite city, Paul?"

  The moment for confession passed. “Paris, I think."

  "I thought you might have said London."

  "I like London, but there's something special about Paris. Very sophisticated yet, well, romantic, I suppose."

  "Do you go there often?"

  "Every couple of months or so."

  Daphne hated herself for wondering whether he had a pretty little French girl tucked away in some chateau over there.

  Within a short time they arrived in Hawthorn. The double-storey mansion at the end of a tree-lined street appeared to be built of painted white brick. She tried to contain her awe as they walked up several marble steps to an impressive portico entrance.

  A uniformed manservant ushered them indoors. A young maid took her wrap, and then Paul slipped his arm through hers and they entered the ballroom. Chandeliers, Louis XV settees and chairs—Daphne's legs shook. The dress she had thought beautiful looked cheap compared with the Parisian creations here.

  "Paul, darling. How good of you to come,” gushed their hostess.

  "Pleased to be here, Angie. You haven't met Daphne yet. Angie Fairbrother, Daphne Clarke."

  "Good evening, Mrs. Fairbrother.” Daphne immediately noticed an enormous diamond ring on the woman's left hand.

  "Angie, please, darling. I'm between husbands at the moment. Now tell me, Paul. Where's Kitty?"

  "She'll be along in a while, I should imagine."

  "You naughty boy.” Angie tapped his cheek with a long, red-nailed finger. “She'll sulk for weeks, now, because you weren't her escort.” She glanced at Daphne and sniffed slightly.

  "Those people over there are waving to you,” Daphne said.

  "So they are.” He raised his hand in acknowledgement. When the orchestra started up, Paul swept her into his arms and Daphne forgot everything except the wonderful feeling of being held against his hard, warm body.

  The party seemed to be awash with champagne. There were biscuits covered in caviar, wafer-thin shrimp sandwiches and little creams of foie gras. It must have cost a fortune, she thought. Sinful when so many working men had lost their jobs due to the depression, and their families were on the verge of starvation because of the pittance the government paid them in sustenance.

  The ‘susso’ was not enough to live on, it just kept families one step ahead of destitution, while the people here were spending money with reckless abandonment. The voices around her sounded overloud, greatly affected, and the gushiness of several women over Paul soon became nauseating.

  Daphne recognised Kitty the moment she swept into the room, dressed in black velvet, the dress's high back countered by a low front V showing a large portion of her creamy white breasts. The skirt was bunched up into a bustle effect at the back. She looked sensational. Her pictures in the society pages didn't do her justice.

  "How are you? Daisy, isn't it?” Kitty removed a long cigarette holder from her mouth, and languidly blew a cloud of smoke into Daphne's face. “Darling, I hope you aren't taking too seriously anything this Casanova tells you."

  Paul's eyes hardened as he drawled, “I'm not all that bad, am I, darling?"

  He sounded as insincere as ninety-five percent of the other people here, Daphne thought with a pang. The music started to become overloud, people more boisterous and, like a trapped animal, she searched for a place to flee. Paul stood chatting with Kitty and a group of other people. Several men gave her bold, speculative stares, but Kitty's eyes burned with hostility.

  Glancing up, Paul saw Daphne sitting alone, as out of place as a rose in the desert. He cursed himself for bringing her to a turn like this. He should have known that a compassionate person like her would have nothing in common with these selfish, artificial people.

  "You're English, what do you think of the Munich Accord?” a man asked Paul just as he was about to escape from Kitty's clutches. “If France and England aren't prepared to fight the Germans over Czechoslovakia, what about..."

  "I'm not into politics,” Paul cut him off. “Excuse me. I should be getting back to Daphne."

  "She's a pretty little thing, old boy, not your type, though. Start anything with her, and Daddy would insist on marriage."

  Paul gave Ralph Hughes a look of utter distaste. Without replying, he turned on his heel and strode off.

  After Angie waylaid him, it took another five minutes before he could extricate himself, and by then Daphne had disappeared.

  "Excuse me, the young lady in pink, did you see where she went?” he asked a hovering waiter.

  "Through the French doors, sir."

  * * * *

  It felt cool in the garden. Daphne hurried to a section well away from the house and rested her hot cheek against the smooth trunk of a weeping willow tree. Paul was right in saying the property backed on the Yarra River. She had acted like an idiot by rushing off, but she couldn't stand to be near such selfish people.

  "Daphne, where are you?"

  "Over by the big willow."

  "Is anything wrong?” he asked when he came up to her.

  "No. Well, yes, I didn't like the party overmuch, sorry."

  "I shouldn't have brought you here. They aren't your type of people."

  "But they are yours,” she whispered sadly. “I'd like to go home, please."

  "Let's go for a walk along the river first."

  She hesitated.

  "Please, darling,” he pressed.

  The pain of his constant, careless use of the endearment became unbearable. “Don't call me that."

  "Why?"

  "Because you don't mean it."

  "How do you know?"

  "You've said it to at least five different women tonight."

  "It's just a figure of speech, really."

  "Not to me, it isn't. It's special. I'd only use it for someone I love."

  He slapped his forehead with an open hand. “You don't like parties. You don't drink or smoke. Are you a Quaker or something?"