An Exception to His Rule

by Lindsay Armstrong

  At the same time, Harriet said, ‘Oh! I wonder where I put my glasses?’

  ‘Here,’ he remarked flatly, picking them up from the dining table and handing them to her. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  Harriet hesitated. ‘I’m sure I could see myself out.’

  ‘Not at all. After you.’

  So it was that Harriet preceded him out of the dining room and out of the house to the driveway. There was only one vehicle parked there: hers.

  Damien Wyatt took one look at it and swore. ‘You’re not still driving that damn tank, are you?’ he asked with furious incredulity.

  Harriet coloured slightly. ‘It just refuses to lie down. Anyway, it’s not mine, it’s Brett’s, my brother’s. It’s very good over rough and sandy terrain.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Damien favoured the vehicle with a lingering look of malice then transferred his gaze to Harriet.

  ‘Well, enjoy your stay at Heathcote, Miss Livingstone.’ A tinge of irony entered his dark eyes. ‘Don’t go about kissing too many men at the same time as you’re happy to remain fancy-free. Oh, and watch out for Charlie. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, a womaniser.’

  Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘Perhaps he takes after you?’ she said quietly, and climbed into her battered old vehicle.

  He waited until she’d driven off before saying to Tottie, ‘What the devil do you make of all that? OK, I know you’re on her side, but I don’t ever recall kissing a girl I’ve—virtually—just met like that.’

  Predictably, Tottie didn’t answer; she only yawned.

  Damien Wyatt shrugged. In fact I haven’t kissed anyone quite like that for a while, he added to himself. Been too busy, been somewhat cynical about the whole tribe of women, to be honest. What I need, if that’s the case, is someone nice and uncomplicated who knows the rules of the game—doesn’t expect wedding bells in other words—rather than importuning an accident-prone, scholarly type who drives a horrible vehicle and has the nerve to suborn my dog!

  ‘That’s you, Tottie,’ he said severely but Tottie remained serenely unaffected.

  ‘Of course you could always kind of...keep an eye on her while I’m away,’ Damien added. ‘Heaven knows what “a left-handed syndrome” could lead her into.’

  ‘Permission to speak,’ a voice said and Charlie strolled onto the drive.

  ‘Don’t start, Charlie,’ Damien advised.

  ‘She’s gone, I see.’ Charlie came to a stop beside Tottie and his brother. He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Unusual vehicle. For a girl, I mean. Not to mention some kind of an antique dealer, according to Isabel.’

  ‘It’s her brother’s, apparently. Listen, Charlie—’ he explained Harriet’s background and the agreement they’d reached ‘—so leave her alone, will you?’

  Charlie looked offended. ‘Acquit me! Would I try to steal your girl?’

  ‘Yes,’ Damien said flatly. ‘Not that she’s my girl—not that she’s my girl—’ He broke off and swore. ‘But she’s got a job to do here and the sooner it’s done, the better.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘Why do I sense a mystery attached to Miss Harriet Livingstone? Smashing pair of legs, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Damien said shortly. ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘Relax, Bro,’ Charlie said cheerfully. ‘I’m due back at the base in a week. By the way, you are now talking to Flight Lieutenant Charles Walker Wyatt. Which is what I dashed into the dining room to tell you, incidentally.’

  ‘Charlie!’ Damien turned to his brother. ‘Congratulations!’ And he shook his brother’s hand then enveloped him in a bear hug.

  ‘I suspect I got it by the skin of my teeth but, yeah!’

  ‘Come in and I’ll shout you a drink.’

  * * *

  It was just before they were called into dinner that Charlie said thoughtfully, ‘There’s something about that girl, Damien. Easy to run onto the rocks there—take care.’

  Damien Wyatt opened his mouth to deny that there was any possibility of his running onto any rocks with Harriet Livingstone but he closed it.

  And he said musingly, ‘I’m glad to hear you say so because for the last few hours I’ve been wondering what on earth got into me. So what do you think it is?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But some women just have an aura of...reserve, maybe, with a dash of vulnerability, a tinge of heartbreak perhaps, and that—’ he waved his tankard ‘—certain something you just can’t put into words.’

  ‘That je ne sais quoi,’ Damien murmured. He frowned. ‘And you sensed all this about Harriet Livingstone in—roughly two minutes?’

  Charlie looked wise. ‘I once decided to date a girl I saw riding past me on a bicycle. All I saw was the curve of her cheek and all this shiny brown hair floating out behind her but it was enough. I chased her in my car, persuaded her to pop the bike in the boot and have lunch with me. We dated for quite a few months.’

  ‘What broke it up?’ Damien enquired curiously.

  ‘The Air Force. I didn’t get to spend enough time with her. Anyway, getting back to you. After Veronica, well...’ Charlie shrugged as if he didn’t quite know how to go on.

  ‘Veronica,’ Damien repeated expressionlessly.

  ‘Your ex-wife,’ Charlie explained generously. ‘Gorgeous girl, of course, but—tricky.’

  Damien raised his eyebrows. ‘Good at hiding it, though.’

  ‘Met her match when she ran into you, however,’ Charlie declaimed. ‘I—’

  ‘Charlie,’ Damien said gently, ‘the only reason I’ve let the discussion get this far is because I’m feeling rather mellow on account of your promotion but that’s enough.’

  ‘Right-ho! Just don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

  * * *

  ‘Isn’t that the guy you ran into?’

  Brett Livingstone sat in a wheelchair in his pleasant room in the rehabilitation centre but his expression was troubled.

  Harriet sat in an armchair opposite. She’d come straight from Heathcote with the news of the job she’d got—she hadn’t told her brother anything about it before in case it hadn’t come off.

  ‘Yes. But that’s all in the past and it’s not only what I love doing, it comes with accommodation.’

  ‘Are you safe with him?’

  ‘Safe?’ Harriet stared at him. ‘Of course.’

  Brett looked angry. ‘He sounded like a thug and a bully.’

  Harriet bit her lip. ‘It was a very beautiful car. But look; his aunt lives there. So does his brother from time to time, and there’s staff. And he has this marvellous dog. Her name’s Tottie and she’s very highly bred.’

  Brett smiled reluctantly as he studied his sister’s bright expression. ‘Any kind of a dog could get you in, Harry.’

  She grimaced. ‘I suppose so. But really, Brett, it’s the kind of job most people who do what I do would dream about. And—’ she hesitated, wishing fervently she’d never told her brother about running into Damien Wyatt ‘—I’m not a very good waitress,’ she added humorously. ‘Can I stay and have dinner with you?’

  ‘Sure. Hey—’ Brett sat forward ‘—how can I ever thank you?’

  * * *

  Harriet had never lived in a caravan before but several weeks of it now had convinced her she wasn’t cut out to be a gypsy.

  Despite the fact that the van was clean and modern, she felt claustrophobic and found it hard to sleep. Of course her state of mind for the last few months hadn’t helped.

  Lennox Head was situated in the Northern Rivers District of New South Wales. Not on a river itself, it lay between the Tweed and Richmond Rivers, and as well as a distinctive headland that attracted surfers from around the world and hang-gliders too, it had a marvellous seven-mile b
each.

  Inland, the country was green, fertile and undulating until it came up against the Border Ranges. Sugar was grown on the coastal flats; coffee and custard apples amongst others further inland but the biggest crop of the district was macadamia nuts. It was pleasant country, home to huge camphor laurel trees and many colourful shrubs.

  When she got back to the van, Harriet changed and went for a brisk walk then came back and sat on a bench.

  It was a quiet evening.

  She could hear the surf, she could see stars, but she had no sense of freedom.

  And she still had Brett on her mind...

  At twenty, he was six years younger than she was and their mother had passed away when he was a baby. Looking after and worrying about her little brother had been a way of life for Harriet for as long as she could remember.

  For that matter, looking after their father was something she’d done as she’d got older. Until his death a couple of years ago, he’d been a delightful person, humorous, always devising little surprises for his children, telling them marvellous stories but otherwise quite hopeless when it came to the mundane things of life like saving and planning for the future.

  Therefore they’d lived from day to day to a certain extent—when work was plentiful it was a lobster month he’d used to say, when it wasn’t plentiful, mince on toast. And they’d moved a lot between capital cities and major and minor art galleries.

  However, it was thanks to her father that Harriet had acquired much of her knowledge of antiques and art. She’d shared his fascination for them and some of her earliest memories were of visits with him to art galleries and art auctions, memories of reading art history books with him.

  Brett couldn’t have been more different. Athletic and with a love of the sea, he’d decided on a career as a professional surfer. And he’d been slowly making a name for himself when he’d been struck down by a freak accident and for a while no one had expected him to walk again.

  But he was—just, if you could even call the sweat-soaked, painful inch by inch progress that.

  But at least, Harriet mused, he was getting the best treatment now, and she had enough resources to ensure this treatment was maintained.

  Which led her thoughts onto the subject of Damien Wyatt and the incredible turn of events of the afternoon.

  A tremor ran through her as she remembered being in his arms and the powerfully sensual effect he’d had on her.

  How could she have been so affected? she wondered. Was it simply the human contact and warmth she’d responded to?

  It had to be something like that because hadn’t she sworn never to fall in love again?

  She grimaced at how melodramatic it sounded and wondered suddenly if she did project a neurotic image. And how about scholarly or academic as well as accident-prone? Superior?

  Or how about just plain lonely?

  She bit her lip and blinked away a sudden tear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TWO WEEKS LATER, memories of her time in the caravan had started to fade and she’d fitted into the Heathcote lifestyle easily.

  The flat above the converted stable block was comfortable and self-contained. It had a galley-style kitchen with all mod cons that appealed to Harriet. She was a keen and innovative cook and it wasn’t long before she had a variety of herbs growing in pots on the windowsills. There was a rather lovely old wooden refectory table with benches.

  The lounge area had comfortable armchairs and a view of the sea. The one bedroom was home to a king-sized bed, the lightest, warmest quilts and was rather sumptuously decorated in shades of violet and thyme-green.

  Isabel had confessed to being the decorator and also to having gone a bit overboard in the bedroom.

  Isabel was becoming friendlier and friendlier. She was Damien and Charlie’s father’s sister; she’d never married and it was plain to see that she ran not only the house but the estate with a lot of care and affection. She’d confided to Harriet once that she knew every inch of the estate and every nook of the house because she’d not only grown up at Heathcote but spent most of her life there.

  She certainly handled the small army of staff required—gardeners, cleaners, stable hands and one highly temperamental cook—with ease. Well, she’d confessed to Harriet that she suspected the cook, a Queenslander, was not only temperamental but that he drank and she really should sack him but he claimed to have six children under ten. He also cooked like an angel...

  It hadn’t required much insight on Harriet’s part to see that Isabel doted on her nephews.

  And she very early on discovered that Isabel always carried out Damien’s instructions.

  This discovery came, in fact, on the day Harriet arrived to take up residence at Heathcote. Isabel came up to the flat that afternoon to see how Harriet had settled in and at the same time she handed over a set of car keys.

  Harriet looked at the keys with a frown. ‘What are these for?’

  ‘There’s a blue Holden in the garage. It’s not new but it’s in great condition. It’s for you to use while you’re here. In fact, if you give me your car keys, I’ll get your vehicle parked elsewhere.’

  ‘Do I...do I detect the hand of Damien Wyatt here?’ Harriet said ominously.

  Isabel grimaced. ‘You do.’

  ‘Well, if he thinks he can—’

  ‘I’ve been told to let you go if you don’t agree to the Holden,’ Isabel interrupted, and patted Harriet’s arm. ‘Much easier to drive, I’m sure. Besides, there’s something about your vehicle that—upsets Damien.’

  ‘I can understand that, but Damien is not here,’ Harriet pointed out to his aunt.

  ‘Damien is always here,’ Isabel remarked with some irony. ‘He seems to have a sixth sense about the place even if he’s a million miles away. Please?’ she added.

  Harriet breathed deeply. ‘If you must know, I can’t help thinking he’s a bit of a control freak!’

  ‘Oh, definitely!’ Isabel agreed. ‘More than a bit, in fact. But it was—’ she put her head on one side ‘—rather a thoughtful thing to do, don’t you think?’

  Harriet pursed her lips. ‘I suppose so,’ she said at length, and flinched inwardly a little to hear herself repeating the bit about it being rather a thoughtful thing to do to Brett that evening when she drove over in the blue Holden to see him.

  ‘Thoughtful?’ Brett repeated as she wheeled him out to the car park to look at it. ‘You sure the guy’s not sweet on you, Harry?’

  ‘Quite s...’ Harriet paused then said hastily, ‘I think your car keeps reminding him of what I did to his beloved Aston Martin with it.’

  ‘But he’s not here to see it,’ Brett objected.

  ‘He has eyes in the back of his head—or something like that,’ Harriet said gloomily, then forced herself to brighten up. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’ve got a new physio,’ Brett replied. ‘She’s really cool. I’m walking a wee bit further every day.’

  Harriet narrowed her eyes as she picked up a jaunty note she hadn’t heard in her brother’s voice for a long time. And she found herself crossing her fingers metaphorically and sending up a little prayer at the same time that this ‘she’, this new physio, might just be the one to provide her brother with the spark he needed.

  * * *

  The other aspect of life at Heathcote, of course, was Charlie. He didn’t spend a lot of time on the estate during his furlough but when he did he always popped in to see Harriet.

  It was probably during the third such visit that Harriet confirmed what she’d first suspected—that Charles Walker Wyatt treated her in rather a strange manner.

  And she couldn’t help mentioning it at the same time as she couldn’t keep a straight face. ‘Charlie,’ she said with a chuckle, ‘do I look as if I’ve popped down from Mars?’
/>
  ‘Mars,’ he repeated, looking startled. He was lounging at the refectory table eating an apple plucked from her bowl when he wasn’t watching her in that curiously assessing way he had. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You have a way of looking at me and sort of...testing everything I say as if it has a hidden meaning or I have something about me you just don’t understand.’

  ‘Ah.’ Charlie took a large bite of his apple. ‘Well...’ He munched and thought. ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like you, I guess.’

  He paused and studied her thoughtfully. She wore tight black shorts and a sapphire-blue tank top. Her hair was bunched up on top of her head and she wore her red-rimmed glasses as she studied a recipe she was planning to make for her dinner. It was an unexceptional outfit by any standards and yet it emphasised how trim and slim her figure was, how long her legs were.

  No wonder Damien had got a bit carried away, Charlie found himself thinking as Harriet reached up and took down a pottery casserole dish.

  Even used as he is to the crème de la crème, there’s certainly something, well, subtly, but all the same eye-catching about Ms Harriet Livingstone, Charlie thought. Why on earth did I promise to leave her alone...?

  ‘Charlie?’

  He came out of his thoughts to find Harriet staring at him. ‘Uh—I’ve certainly never met anyone who works as hard as you do. You were still working at midnight when I got home last night!’

  ‘That’s because I’d like to finish this project before your brother gets—’ She stopped abruptly.

  ‘Before Damien gets home? Why?’ he asked simply.

  Harriet shrugged.

  ‘His bark is a lot worse than his bite, as I should know.’

  ‘It may be but I...’ She paused.

  ‘And you certainly must have made quite an impression on him because, believe me,’ Charlie said earnestly, ‘he’s usually intensely private about his affairs. I got put firmly in my place only a couple of weeks ago when all I did was mention Veronica’s name. She’s his ex-wife,’ he added obligingly, and waited.

  I will not rise to the bait, Harriet vowed.