The English Bride by Way Margaret

Author:Way, Margaret
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Published: 2000-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

In amongst all his thinking, and he had lots on his mind—an upcoming meeting with Drew Forsythe of Trans Continental Resources for one—he kept drawing mental plans of his dream homestead. Of course he’d need an architect to walk the site, gauge just the right spot for the house to go. There were vast, sweeping views from everywhere nevertheless siting the homestead properly would present a challenge. Without fully realising it his mind was extraordinarily visual so his intermittent daydreams really came alive. He wanted the house set on low pylons like Opal but there the similarity ended, except for the mandatory wide verandahs to shelter the core of the house from the heat and sun at the same time as providing deep shade and cooling breezes.

He wanted his homestead radically different. He wanted a completely contemporary structure using a mix of materials: stone, glass—lots of glass, floor to ceiling—steel to support the long spans of verandah, the polished timbers he loved, local stone with all its wonderful ochres, especially for the fireplaces. The really hard thing would be to come up with a design worthy of the great wilderness bounded as it was by the great rolling parallel waves of the desert, unobstructed views over the plains to the horizon with the legendary Myora for a background. How many people had an awe-inspiring prehistoric monolithic rock in their backyard. A backyard that ran on forever.

He had visited the island of Bali many times, loved it, and found Balinese influences creeping into his thinking, though the lush jungle settings could scarcely be more different from Opal. But the harmonious feeling of timbers, open spaces, high tentlike ceilings, open pavilions was the same. Like Bali, too, nights in the Dry could be surprisingly cold as the desert sands lost their heat. He would need those couple of huge, inviting fireplaces. In every room he saw Francesca, however much he tried to picture some other woman.

Lord knows he knew enough attractive girls. They swarmed to the polo meets. There was a time he felt quite happy with Jennie Irvine. Her father, Tom Irvine, the well-known pastoralist, had been a good friend to his own father. Jennie was good-looking, well educated, easygoing, fun to be with. He knew he could get Jennie to marry him. He knew her parents would be really happy about it but someone called Francesca de Lyle had put paid to that. By Brod’s wedding he had really known Francesca had stolen his heart.

She was like some irresistible fragrance. All those silly ads he had seen about perfume and the way they enticed a man weren’t so silly after all. Francesca was a rose, to him the most beautiful, the most fragrant of all flowers.

Even his dreams were set at this homestead that had yet to be built. Vividly he saw Francesca at the breakfast table, having a cup of coffee with him. Francesca in the glowing panelled dining room playing hostess to family and friends. Francesca in the

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