Free His Australian Heiress by Margaret Way

and always flowers,’ he said, but if you really want to know my favourite flower, it’s the arum lily.”
    â€œReally? You mean, all those white lilies growing around the pond?”
    Charlotte nodded. “I love white flowers in particular. The arum lily with its pure white, hood-shaped flowers has an architectural appeal for me. It was Yves Saint Laurent’s favourite flower. I’ve loved them since I was a child. Grandma loved them, too, but like you, the roses were her favourites. There’s a pink rose named after her. Lady Julia. That’s it.” She pointed to a beautiful tea rose of a delicate true pink. “Why don’t we go and sit in the summer house?” she suggested.
    â€œWhy not? I don’t fancy going back inside,” Brendon answered in a brooding voice. “Your relatives are a weird lot.”
    â€œYours are pretty mucked up, as well,” she returned, tartly.
    â€œThank God for you and me,” he said sardonically, taking her arm. “So what’s the betting Simon is made to apologize so he can get invited to the party? Whatever he says , he couldn’t bear to be left out. He’s such a snob.”
    â€œWhat’s he got to be snobbish about? I hate pretentious people and I’ve met a few. I’ve the idea our Simon didn’t make it in the Big Apple.”
    â€œHe won’t tell it that way,” Brendon said in an educated guess.
    The summer house was a romantic small structure at the bottom of the garden. It was the ideal place for quiet contemplation. Surrounded by mature shrubs, in this case the gorgeously scented, drooping white and purple wisteria, it offered repose. The bell-shaped roof and finial over the retreat had mellowed over time to a soft blue-grey. White fluted posts held up the structure, with five of its arched bays enclosed by white lattice that invited one in.
    Together they walked into the cool, perfumed interior, Charlotte with her lovely light girlish movements, Brendon so much taller and stronger not far behind her. A slated white bench encircled the area with a box nearby that contained an array of plump cushions.
    â€œI used to come here often,” Charlotte remarked, waiting for Brendon to cover the hard slats with a few cushions. “I must have been the world’s loneliest kid.” To her consternation, her voice wavered a little, so she broke off. She prided herself on being made of sterner stuff.
    â€œYou always mattered to me, Charlie,” Brendon said. Nothing else on earth mattered more to a child than a loving mother and father, he thought. Even one surviving parent. Charlotte had not been so lucky. Her cousin, Simon, had been doted on by his mother. He knew how much his own parents loved him, how proud they were of him. Charlie’s happiest school vacations would have been spent with one or other of her school friends, all vetted carefully by her grandfather. It would have been so much different if his own mother had taken Charlie under her wing. Inexplicably she had not. Maybe she saw too much of the beautiful Alyssa in Charlie? God knows what the true story had been. He feared it would never be told.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” Charlotte asked, reading his sombre expression.
    â€œLooking back,” he said.
    â€œOn the things I’ve missed?”
    â€œCharlie,” he said supportively, “there are going to be great things for you in the future.”
    She smiled an enigmatic little smile, taking a seat and settling her short skirt, which exposed her knees and slender legs. “Lovely old you! As long as I count, Bren. As long as I can do some good. I’ve got too much money. It’s more a great burden than a reward. I know how Sir Hugo has everyone who comes in contact with me checked out.”
    â€œFor your own safety,” Bren said quietly, joining her on the bench. For years past his grandfather had had a series of