Beguiling The Duke
Eva Shepherd
Can an impoverished orphan …ever marry a duke? Penniless American Rosie Smith will do anything for her wealthy guardian’s daughter. She’ll even save her friend from a marriage of convenience with a stuffy Englishman by posing as her at his house party! But her plan to put off the Duke backfires spectacularly, because beneath his stiff formality is a hard-working and amusing man. Too late Rosie finds she's falling for Alexander—only he has no idea who she really is…
Can an impoverished orphan
...ever marry a duke?
Penniless American Rosie Smith will do anything for her wealthy guardian’s daughter. She’d even save her friend from a marriage of convenience with a stuffy Englishman by posing as the heiress! Her plan to put off the duke backfires spectacularly: beneath his stiff formality is a hardworking and amusing man. Too late Rosie is falling for Alexander—only he has no idea who she really is...
After graduating with degrees in history and political science, EVA SHEPHERD worked in journalism and as an advertising copywriter. She began writing historical romances because it combines her love of a happy ending with her passion for history. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, but spends her days immersed in the world of late Victorian England.
Beguiling the Duke
is Eva Shepherd’s gripping debut
for Mills & Boon Historical!
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Beguiling the Duke
Eva Shepherd
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08945-6
BEGUILING THE DUKE
© 2019 Eva Shepherd
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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Note to Readers (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
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To Julia Williams, Bryony Green
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guidance and encouragement.
Contents
Cover (#ub2a11c5b-f124-5c98-987c-f24ce2ee3243)
Back Cover Text (#u5a062c17-2a43-50bf-afa1-5d494ce08c3c)
About the Author (#u44abba0b-2a94-549f-8df9-026b6e65d0fb)
Booklist (#ub69dbb6b-b7eb-503e-a5bc-f068f5ce1a63)
Title Page (#ue24ba1b0-c8bd-5a25-9e22-7304e159f25b)
Copyright (#ud93b7d62-99d9-5bdb-95b5-8dee111a4021)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u02dd74d2-8a1e-55d4-9663-b61fcd57d749)
Chapter One (#u747f023e-9817-52cc-a781-4f823e5d8ca8)
Chapter Two (#u0bfae10f-6e66-5cd3-a769-4cf312d526f0)
Chapter Three (#u75591c61-d860-57b7-9295-7488458afde5)
Chapter Four (#ufcd99ba1-11d5-5889-9dd9-3f9be4c31c15)
Chapter Five (#u783e72ee-926b-5f9c-8b10-7f22bf83215a)
Chapter Six (#uaa939a45-6157-55ad-a2a6-716675f59755)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
London 1893
Rosie Smith raised the delicate bone china cup to her lips, took a sip of the fragrant Darjeeling tea and sighed with contentment.
Despite being a penniless orphan, with no prospects worth mentioning, here she was, dressed in the latest fashion, taking tea at the Ritz, surrounded by Britain’s elite.
Her feet, encased in soft kid leather boots, were aching after spending all day walking around the shops and sights of London. She was still tired from the gruelling trip across the Atlantic from New York. And yet she couldn’t be happier.
She sighed again and looked across the lace-covered table at her friend, who was smiling with equal contentment.
‘What shall we do tomorrow?’ Rosie took a cucumber sandwich from the top layer of the three-tiered cake stand and placed it on her rose-patterned plate. ‘More shopping? Or shall we take in some art galleries and museums?’
‘Art galleries and museums, I think.’ Arabella placed a scone on her plate and smothered it with jam and clotted cream. ‘After all, I’m sure Father would want us to absorb as much culture as we can while we’re in England.’
The two girls giggled conspiratorially.
Rosie lifted a finger and waggled it in Arabella’s direction. ‘“What good is art, my dear? You don’t get a decent return on sculptures. Nobody ever got rich from culture.”’
Arabella clapped her hands and laughed loudly. ‘You do such a brilliant impersonation of Father. It’s you who should be on the stage, Rosie, not me.’
Their jubilation drew the attention of the women sitting at the next table, who glared down their imperious noses with looks that might have withered the spring buds on the tree. Rosie was tempted to poke out her tongue. Instead she lifted her head and returned their looks of disapproval. Although she suspected being glared at down a small button nose wouldn’t have quite the same impact.
‘Humourless old biddies,’ she whispered. ‘Have they never heard anyone laugh before?’ She smiled at Arabella. ‘So, tomorrow it’s art galleries and museums—perfect.’
The two girls sipped their tea and sighed simultaneously.
A waiter approached the table and bowed low. Arabella smiled her thanks, removed the folded letter from his silver tray and read its contents. Her smile dissolved. Her hand shot to her mouth and her shoulders slumped.
‘What is it? What’s wrong, Bella?’ Rosie reached across the table and touched her friend’s arm.
Arabella’s hands trembled as she passed her the letter. Rosie quickly scanned the elegant handwriting. It was an invitation from the Dowager Duchess of Knightsbrook, inviting Arabella to a weekend party at her estate in Devon.
‘Oh, this is too, too terrible, Rosie.’ Arabella took a lace handkerchief from her embroidered clutch purse and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s from the mother of that horrid man Father expects me to marry.’
‘It’s disgusting!’ Rosie threw the letter down on the table. ‘They think they can buy you. That all they have to do is dangle a title and you’ll come running, and then they can get their greedy hands on your father’s money. Disgusting!’
‘I know... I know. I don’t want to go. And I especially don’t want to go that weekend. It means I’ll miss the opening night of Oscar Wilde’s play. I’ll miss the opportunity to meet the great man himself.’
‘Then don’t go.’ Rosie thumped the table, making the teacups jump and rattle in their saucers. ‘You can’t possibly miss the opening of that play. That’s one of the main reasons we came to England.’
Her raised voice drew another scowl from the next table. This time Rosie didn’t hold back. She screwed up her face, poked out her tongue and let the women know just what she thought of their disapproving looks.
Their gasps and bulging stares would have made Rosie laugh if she had felt like laughing.
Arabella lowered her handkerchief. ‘Well, no...the main reason we’re here is because Father wants to marry me off after that...’ She tilted her head and lightly bit her upper lip. ‘After that scandal.’
‘Scandal? That was no scandal. Your appearance on the New York stage as Lady Macbeth was a triumph and should be celebrated as such. Your father just doesn’t understand your passion for acting.’
Arabella sent her friend a shaky smile. ‘Thank you, Rosie. But I’ll still have to go, Father will never forgive me otherwise.
‘And I’d never forgive myself if you missed that play. There has to be a way out of this.’
Rosie drummed her fingers on the table and looked around the room for inspiration. There had to be a way out of this dilemma; there was always a way out of every problem.
‘I’ll go instead.’ She smiled in triumph.
Arabella twisted her handkerchief in her lap. ‘You’ll what?’
‘I’ll go in your place. The Dowager and the Duke have never met me. If I tell them I’m Arabella van Haven how will they ever know the difference? We’ve both got black hair and blue eyes, and everyone always says we look like sisters. They’ll see a fashionably dressed young woman, and all they’ll be thinking about is getting their hands on your father’s money. They’ll never suspect I’m not you.’
‘Oh, Rosie, you can’t... Can you?’
‘Of course I can.’
Arabella screwed her handkerchief into a tighter ball. ‘But, Rosie, you might get caught.’
‘Nonsense. It’s a perfect plan. And when has one of my plans ever gone wrong?’
Arabella frowned in concentration. ‘Well, there was that time you said Cook wouldn’t notice the missing cakes if we moved those remaining around the pantry. And there was the time you said that if we dressed as boys and went to the local fair we’d be able to get work on the sideshows. And then there was that time you were certain that if we told our tutor we knew everything there was to know about—’
Rosie held up her hand to stop the flow of words. ‘Those were mere childish pranks. This time it’s serious—and, really, what choice do we have? You don’t want to go to this party, do you?’
Arabella shook her head.
‘You don’t want to miss the play’s opening, do you? You don’t want to marry this Duke, do you? You don’t want to end up living out in the countryside, miles away from the nearest theatre, do you?’
Arabella shook her head more emphatically.
‘Right, then leave it to me. You said it yourself. I’m almost as good an actress as you.’ She stabbed her finger at the abandoned letter. ‘This horrid Duke of Knightsbrook will be completely fooled.’
‘Well, I suppose you could pretend to be me...’ Arabella chewed her lip again, as if not wholly convinced.
‘Of course I can. And I’ll have fun doing it. This stuffy Duke will think he’s wooing the wealthy, beautiful Arabella van Haven. Instead he’ll be wasting his energies pursuing a penniless, plain, charmless ward. And it will serve him right.’
‘You might be penniless, Rosie, but no one could ever describe you as plain or charmless. You’re beautiful, kind, funny and the best friend I could ever—’
Rosie held up her hand again, to stop Arabella’s praises. ‘Whether that’s true or not, I can’t say—but I certainly won’t be appearing charming in front of the Duke. After all, it might be your father’s wish that you marry a titled man, but that’s not what you want, is it?’
Arabella straightened her spine. ‘It certainly is not.’
‘So I’m going to have to convince this stuffy Duke that the last thing he wants to do is marry the appallingly behaved and completely unacceptable Arabella van Haven, despite her father’s fortune.’
Arabella smiled and placed her handkerchief back in her purse. ‘You’re so clever, Rosie.’ She paused, her purse half closed. ‘Except...’
‘Except what?’
‘I’ve just thought of a big flaw in your plan. Aunt Prudence was going to accompany me as my chaperon.’
Rosie rolled her eyes. ‘Aunt Prudence is too sick to go anywhere. Or at least she thinks she is. I suspect she won’t be over her imagined seasickness until it’s time to go back to New York.’
Arabella covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘Poor Aunt Prudence—she is a bit of a hypochondriac. But you can’t go without a chaperon. They’d get suspicious if a young unmarried woman of twenty arrived at their estate unaccompanied.’
Rosie would not be deterred. ‘Then I’ll take Nellie. I’ll need a lady’s maid anyway, and Nellie enjoys a good caper as much as we do. When I tell her we’re doing it so we can make sport of a family of greedy aristocrats there’ll be no stopping her. Nellie will be the perfect chaperon.’
‘This is so good of you, Rosie. You’re always so kind to me.’
Rosie waved her hand in front of her face to dismiss the compliment. Arabella’s happiness meant everything to her.
Rosie drew in a deep breath and ran her hand down the soft pink silk of her stylish gown. Arabella had saved her from a life of poverty and loneliness. Without her, Rosie couldn’t imagine how hard her life might have been. She closed her eyes and shuddered. But she was not alone any more. Thanks to Arabella she had not been forced to try and survive on the streets of New York with no money and without a friend.
There was nothing she wouldn’t do for the friend who had saved her from such a life. And she hated to see Arabella sad.
Her friend had been so kind to her, had always treated her as an equal, and she had such little happiness in her life. Rosie saw it as her job to keep her friend happy, so she might be distracted from the neglect she felt over her father’s constant absences.
Spending the weekend with a stuffy aristocratic family to save her from an unwanted marriage was nothing compared to the enormous debt she owed her friend. And at least poverty had one compensation. While Arabella’s father was determined to marry her off to a titled man for his own social advancement, he had no such concerns when it came to Rosie. Nobody, including Rosie herself, expected anyone to want to marry a penniless orphan who didn’t even own the clothes she was wearing.
She smiled and pushed away her unpleasant thoughts. What was the point of dwelling on such things? Today was all that mattered. Having fun was all that mattered. Not what had happened in the past, and not what the future might bring.
‘Honestly, Bella. I want to do this. I’ll get to have fun putting a stuffy duke in his place, and you’ll get to see the play. And when I return I’ll be able to regale you with tales of my exploits. It’s perfect.’
Rosie smiled. She picked up a smoked salmon sandwich and placed it on her plate.
‘Oh, yes, the Duke of Knightsbrook is going to regret ever thinking he can buy Arabella van Haven.’
Alexander FitzRoy, Lord Ashton, Eighth Duke of Knightsbrook, stifled a yawn and gazed over at the ormolu clock ticking on the marble mantelpiece. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, was in full voice, enumerating the seemingly exhaustive list of fine qualities that Arabella van Haven allegedly possessed.
‘And I hear she’s also accomplished on the banjo, and can recite large passages of Shakespeare from memory.’
His mother looked up at him with wide-eyed expectation. It seemed she had finally run out of accomplishments with which to tempt him.
Alexander uncrossed his legs and stretched. ‘That’s as may be, Mother, but I still have no intention of marrying the girl—no matter how many tunes she’s capable of strumming on the banjo, or how many Shakespearean sonnets she can rattle off.’
‘Don’t be so hasty, Alexander. I know she’s American, and that her father’s a banker, of all things.’ The Dowager grimaced. ‘But they are minor drawbacks that I’m sure we can overlook. We need to focus on her finer qualities and not think about her background. After all, she is known for her beauty, and I’ve heard she possesses exquisite taste in—’
‘Surely you have forgotten to list her most attractive attribute?’ he interrupted, before his mother could start on another interminable list.
She cocked her head and smiled. ‘And what would that be?’
‘Her money.’
The Dowager spluttered, gripped the black lace at her neckline and sent him her sternest look. ‘Don’t be vulgar, Alexander. You’re talking like a common tradesman.’
‘Vulgar or otherwise, isn’t that what this is all about? She has it—we don’t. You want me to marry her and give her a title in exchange for her father’s money.’
His mother’s pursed lips drew into a thin line and her nostrils flared. It was an expression Alexander was familiar with—the one she had when she heard something she didn’t like.
‘You don’t need to put it so crudely, but you can’t deny it would solve all our problems.’
That was indeed something Alexander could not deny. The American heiress’s money would solve their immediate financial needs, but it was a solution he would not demean himself even to consider.
His grandfather and his father had brought the once wealthy Knightsbrook estate to the brink of financial ruin, but their problems ran deeper than the merely financial. He could almost forgive them squandering excessive amounts of money on gambling, partying and women. Almost. But what he could not forgive was them bringing the family’s once noble name into total disrepute.
He intended to restore the family’s fortune by hard work and modernisation. He also intended to restore the family’s tarnished name—and that would not be achieved by selling the title Duchess of Knightsbrook to the highest bidder.
‘You’re right, Mother. Her father’s money would provide a short-term solution to our money problems.’
The Dowager smiled and rose from her chaise longue.
‘But it would be only that. A short-term solution. What is required is a long-term plan of action.’
The Dowager sank back onto her seat and sighed. ‘Really, Alexander, sometimes you can be so tedious. Why don’t you just marry the girl and be done with it?’
‘Because if the estate is to return to its former glory we need to modernise. We’re on the brink of the twentieth century and we’re still using farming methods from the eighteenth century. That has to change.’
The Dowager flicked open her fan and waved it rapidly in front of her face. ‘Not this again. You and your plans to modernise will be the death of me. If you marry the American you won’t have to worry about silly steam trains and traction engines. I want to look out on people using scythes to bring in the harvest—not horrible pieces of wheezing and coughing machinery.’
‘That’s as may be, Mother, but I’m sure the tenants would rather live on a prosperous estate, where their homes and livelihoods are protected, than in poverty in what you see as a picturesque setting.’
‘Oh, pish-posh.’ The Dowager waved her fan more rapidly. ‘Anyway, you’re twenty-eight now. It’s time you married. You shouldn’t let that unfortunate incident with Lydia Beaufort put you off marriage for ever.’
Alexander clenched his jaw so tightly it began to ache. Unfortunate incident. Was that how his mother described something that had all but devastated him?
He inhaled deeply to release the tension gripping his neck and shoulders. ‘Lydia Beaufort has nothing to do with me not wanting to marry the American. And that, Mother, is my final word on the subject.’
It might be his final word, but he knew from experience it would not be his mother’s.
She frowned her disapproval and looked around the room, as if seeking further support for her argument. She spotted Charlotte, sitting quietly in the corner reading a book.
‘What about your sister?’
Charlotte looked up. ‘What about me?’
‘Well, you’re going to need a husband soon. Heaven only knows no man is going to want to marry a girl who reads as much as you do and is always getting involved in these ridiculous social causes unless she comes with a decent dowry. Your brother wouldn’t be so selfish as to deny you the happiness of marriage.’
Charlotte slammed shut her book. ‘For your information, I have no intention of—’
Alexander shook his head slightly, giving his younger sister a silent signal that now was not the time to fight that particular battle with their mother.
Charlotte scowled at her mother and forcefully opened her book again, breaking the spine. She frowned at what she had done, and then went back to reading.
‘I will make sure Charlotte is well provided for,’ Alexander said.
‘Yes, and you can make sure she is well provided for by marrying Arabella van Haven.’
Alexander shook his head and sighed audibly.
‘Anyway,’ the Dowager continued, undeterred. ‘It’s all arranged. I’ve invited her to a house party this weekend. You’ll be able to discover for yourself just how ideal a bride she will make and how lucky the man will be who marries her.’
Alexander sprang to his feet. ‘You’ve done what?’
‘Oh, sit down, Alexander, and don’t glare at me like that. I’ve invited her for the weekend. It will give you a chance to get to know her.’
‘Mother, haven’t I told you often enough that we need to economise? We cannot afford to host lavish parties.’
The Dowager flicked her fan at him. ‘It’s just a small house party—nothing too elaborate. And you can see it as an investment in the future. Isn’t that what you’re always going on about? Well, meeting Miss van Haven will be an investment in your future.’
She sent him a victorious smile.
‘Putting aside the complete lack of logic in your argument, you’ve invited her here under false pretences. I won’t lie to her. I will make it clear at the first opportunity that I will not be marrying her.’
‘Oh, you and that overblown sense of honesty. You were just as bad when you were a boy, but I would have thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’
‘Would you prefer it if I told lies, the way Father and Grandfather did?’
The way Lydia Beaufort did.
His mother’s lips tightened, but she made no reply.
‘Our family has lost just about everything. Surely you don’t expect me to lose my belief in the importance of honesty as well? And if Arabella van Haven is as virtuous as you say she is then I’m sure she will also believe in the value of honesty and will want to know the truth.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard she does value honesty in all things. I’ve also heard she’s modest, gentle, demure, and temperate in all areas. And they say that she...’
Alexander sat down and sighed as his mother went back to listing the litany of virtues possessed by the apparently saintly Arabella van Haven.
It seemed his mother would not be stopped in her plan to make her the next Duchess of Knightsbrook, and he was going to have to endure the company of the title-seeking heiress for the weekend. But eventually his mother and the American would both realise his mind was made up, and Arabella van Haven would have to pursue some other duke, earl or marquess desperate for American dollars—because the position of his wife was not for sale.
Chapter Two (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
It was magnificent. Simply magnificent.
Rosie stood just inside the entrance of Knightsbrook House and looked up at the ornate domed window in the ceiling, shedding a soft light over the two-storey entrance hall. She tried to settle her breathing as she took in the opulence and grandeur of it all.
The coach trip through the estate’s parklands had been no less spectacular, with its seemingly endless parade of trees festooned with spring foliage. When the trees had cleared and she’d first seen the expansive four-storey house standing proudly beside a large lake, dominating the landscape around it, her resolve had faltered. Arabella’s father was a man of immense wealth, but this was something more than just wealth. The house seemed to proclaim that here was the home of one of England’s oldest and noblest families—one that was reverently referred to as ‘old money’.
Rosie inhaled slowly and deeply. She would not be overawed by her surroundings. Nor would she be daunted by the stern looks of the ancestors staring down at her from the oil paintings that lined the walls of the expansive hall. Arabella’s happiness depended on her keeping her nerve.
She just had to remember who these people really were. They were a stuffy aristocratic family who had fallen on hard times. They were people so arrogant that they thought all they had to do was dangle a title in front of a rich American and then they could continue to live in splendour, despite having lost all their own money.
Well, they were about to find out that not all Americans were quite so easily bought. They needed to be taught a lesson, and she was just the woman to do it.
A man and a woman appeared at the top of the grand staircase and began the long descent.
‘That must be them, the rascals.’ Nellie scowled beside her. ‘Go teach them a lesson, Rosie.’
Rosie tried to calm her breathing and stifle her fluttering nerves. She just had to remember that she was no longer poor Rosie Smith. She was Arabella van Haven, daughter of a wealthy and influential banker. And she was a young woman whose tendency to misbehave in polite society made her a decidedly unsuitable bride for a member of the aristocracy.
‘Right...’ She gave Nellie a pointed look. ‘It’s time for Arabella to put on a show.’
Rosie spread out her arms wide, smiled and started twirling. Round and round she went, faster and faster, down the length of the entrance hall, her satin skirt spreading out around her in a pale blue circle.
The black and white marble floor tiles merged into one swirling mass. Priceless Chinese urns whooshed past her face. She whirled past statues, past the paintings of the ancestors, all the while emitting a loud whoo-whee noise. Dizzier and dizzier, she kept spinning—until she reached the bottom of the staircase.
Stopping abruptly, she looked up to see what impact her entrance had made. The room continued to spin, twirling in front of her eyes as if she were locked inside a child’s spinning top.
She reached out, tried to grasp something—anything to stop the room from moving. With both hands she clasped the thin stand of a nearby pedestal, clinging to it as if her life depended on it. The Chinese vase sitting on top of the pedestal wobbled. It tilted. It began to fall.
Rosie let out a loud squeal and dived forward to catch the delicate vase before it crashed to the floor. Her hands gripped the vase. Her feet slid out from beneath her and she tumbled forward.
Before she hit the floor strong hands had surrounded her waist, lifted her up and set her back on her unsteady feet.
Still clasping the vase, Rosie closed her eyes briefly, to try and halt her spinning head and still her pounding heart. She opened them and stared into the eyes of her rescuer. Then closed them again immediately.
It couldn’t be.
This astonishingly handsome man could not be the stuffy Lord Ashton.
Rosie opened her eyes and blinked a few times, but his appearance became no less stunning.
While he had the haughty, reserved demeanour she had come to expect from the British aristocracy, he had the symmetrical good looks, chiselled cheekbones and full sensual lips she had seen on statues of Greek athletes at the British Museum.
He also had that air of masculine vitality those Greek sculptors had captured so well in their subjects.
Rosie looked down at the floor and gulped, remembering another anatomical feature the sculptures of naked Greek athletes possessed. But she most certainly would not think of that now.
Instead she looked back up and focused on how his dark brown hair brushed the edge of his high collar, and how, unlike most Englishmen she had met, his olive skin was clean-shaven.
And, unlike those Greek statues she wasn’t thinking about, he was appropriately attired in a tailored grey three-piece suit, with a silver and grey brocade waistcoat.
Rosie coughed to clear her throat. ‘Hello, I’m Arabella van Haven,’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound as foolish as she felt as she bobbed a curtsey, still clutching the vase to her chest.
He gave a formal bow and reached out his hands. Rosie stared at those long fingers, at the crisp white cuffs of his shirt contrasting with his skin, then looked up into his eyes. Brown eyes...so dark they seemed to absorb all light...eyes that were staring down at her, their accompanying black eyebrows raised in question.
‘May I?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She thrust the tightly clasped vase in his direction.
His fingers lightly touched hers as he removed the vase from her grip, setting off a decidedly unfamiliar reaction in her body. Her hands tingled and burned, as if she had held them too close to the fire. A strange sensation raced up her arm, across her chest, hitting her in the heart, causing it to pound in a wild, untamed manner.
He replaced the vase on its pedestal and turned back to face her. Her head continued to spin, her heart continued to dance—but surely that had nothing to do with his touch or his stunning good looks. It had to be due entirely to her whirling entrance.
‘Miss van Haven, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alexander FitzRoy, Duke of Knightsbrook, and may I present my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Knightsbrook?’
Rosie bobbed another curtsey, inhaled a quick breath and turned to face his silver-haired mother, who was wearing the strangest expression she had ever seen.
While Lord Ashton was giving every appearance of being unaffected by her unusual entrance, the same could not be said of his mother. Her contorted mouth was presumably meant to be smiling, but a frown kept taking over, causing her lips to twist and turn as if pulled by a puppet master’s invisible strings.
It seemed she might have to work a bit harder to shock Lord Ashton, but the Dowager was going to be easy prey.
It was time to have some fun.
‘Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.’ She reached down, grabbed the Dowager’s hand and pumped it in a manly handshake.
Those invisible strings gave her mouth a firm tug. The frown won, and the Dowager’s nostrils flared as if she could smell something unpleasant.
Rosie bit the inside of her upper lip to stop herself from laughing as the Dowager finally forced her lips into a smile, her face contorting as if she were undergoing a painful dental procedure.
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss van Haven,’ the Dowager replied, trying discreetly to rub the hand that Rosie had just crushed.
Rosie controlled the giggle bubbling up inside her. ‘I’m really sorry about nearly breaking your vase—but it looks like it’s a really old one, so perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered.’
All three turned and looked at the offending porcelain ornament, now safely restored to its pedestal.
‘Yes, it is rather old...’ The Dowager sniffed. ‘Ming Dynasty, I believe.’
A small giggle escaped Rosie’s lips before she had a chance to stop it. ‘Oh, as old as that? Well, then, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d broken it. It would have given you a good excuse to replace it with something nice and new.’
The Dowager’s eyes grew wide, her tight lips compressed further, and she signalled to a footman to remove the vase, as if concerned that Rosie was about to commit a wanton act of vandalism.
They waited in silence as the footman gently picked up the vase and carried it reverently away in his gloved hands. When he’d safely left the room the Dowager exhaled slowly.
‘I’m afraid you’ve arrived a little earlier than we were expecting, Miss van Haven. We usually greet our guests formally at the entrance,’ the Dowager said.
‘Oh, I like to take people by surprise. You never know what mischievous acts you’ll catch them in.’ Rosie winked at the Dowager and received a wide-eyed look of disapproval in response.
‘Yes, quite...’ she said, flustered.
Rosie looked over at the Duke, hoping to see an equally disapproving look. Instead he stared back at her with unflinching dark eyes, neither smiling nor frowning. Rosie’s grin died on her lips and heat rushed to her cheeks.
What was happening? She never blushed. And she shouldn’t be blushing now. She had to remain in character if she was to convince this man that she was a most unsuitable duchess. Just because he was sublimely handsome it did not mean she should let him unnerve her. She had to remember who he was and what he wanted to do. He wanted to marry Arabella to get his hands on her father’s money.
‘I imagine there’s been a lot of mischief in these halls,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light-hearted to disguise the disquiet the Duke was arousing deep inside her. ‘I’m sure those ancestors could tell a tale or two.’ She threw her arms up in the air and gestured wildly to the paintings lining the wall.
The Dowager took a step back to avoid Rosie’s flying arms, while the Duke continued to stare down at her, his face implacable. She lowered her arms. It seemed that bad behaviour wasn’t going to upset his demeanour. She would have to try another means of attack.
‘Judging by all those portraits, your family has been wealthy for many generations. I suppose you realise that my father was born in poverty? His father was a miner, and his father’s father was a mule driver.’
Let’s see how the snobby aristocrats react to that!
The Duke nodded slowly. ‘Yes, your father’s history is well-documented. And he is to be commended for rising so quickly from such humble beginnings to become one of the wealthiest men in America. He’s obviously an enterprising man and clearly believes in hard work.’
Rosie fought not to grimace. Was nothing going to annoy this man? Surely he couldn’t be that rare entity, a member of the British aristocracy who wasn’t a snob? Or was he just blinded by the thought of Arabella’s substantial dowry?
‘You’re right. He does believe in hard work—in earning money rather than expecting a hand-out.’
Hopefully this Duke wouldn’t be able to miss her thinly veiled disapproval at his plans to marry Arabella for her money.
‘Another thoroughly commendable trait.’
Damn. Either he didn’t understand that he had just been insulted, or he didn’t care.
‘It’s a shame your father couldn’t accompany you this weekend,’ the Dowager said. ‘I was looking forward to meeting him in person.’
‘No, he’s too busy back in America.’
Making the money you’re so desperate for.
‘But meeting me is just like meeting him. I’m a chip off the old block, as they say.’
‘Do they? How delightful...’ the Dowager said through pinched lips.
Rosie supressed a smile at the Dowager’s discomfort. A seed of doubt had definitely been planted in her mind after Rosie’s entrance and behaviour. Now all she had to do was water that seed with continued bad behaviour and watch it grow until the FitzRoys realised they couldn’t possibly countenance this marriage and sent her on her way.
Alexander almost felt sorry for his mother. This peculiar American woman was most definitely not what she had expected—of that there could be no doubt. But it seemed the thought of Mr van Haven’s vast fortune was enough for her to swallow her astonishment and put on a brave face.
With forced politeness his mother led Miss van Haven back down the entrance hall she had just danced up, pausing at each painting and explaining which ancestor it depicted and what great exploit each was famous for.
It was fortunate for his mother that paintings of his father and his grandfather did not adorn the hall. He suspected even she would have had trouble finding anything with which to commend those two reprobates, and Miss van Haven’s term ‘mischievous’ was far too tame to describe the damage that those two men had done to the family and to the estate.
Following the two women, Alexander had the opportunity to observe this odd American. His mother had been right about one thing: she certainly was attractive. With her raven-black hair and sparkling blue eyes she was nothing less than radiant. Nor could he deny that her creamy skin with the hint of blush on her cheeks gave her a delicate beauty. And that slightly upturned nose was rather appealing.
His mother was possibly right that she could play the banjo and recite long passages of Shakespeare—although he had no desire to discover whether either of those claims were true or not. But he suspected that nothing else about this young woman was what his mother had hoped for in a future daughter-in-law.
As his mother continued her boastful monologue Miss van Haven nodded furiously, perhaps unaware that her hat had become dislodged as she had flung herself down the hall. It was now sitting at a precarious angle, causing her to look like a very pretty pantomime clown.
Alexander suspected a clown was also not what his mother had had in mind for the next Duchess of Knightsbrook.
Despite her feigned politeness, his mother couldn’t stop herself from shooting nervous glances in Miss van Haven’s direction. She was no doubt worried that the young lady would suddenly break into a polka, trip over one of the Queen Anne chairs, or send some other priceless antique flying.
There was no question that her performance had certainly been unexpected—but it was quite obviously just that: a performance. While her grandfather might have been a miner, and his father a mule driver, she had been raised among America’s wealthiest elite. The rules of etiquette and manners were just as strict in New York society as they were in England. And men like her father, who were newly wealthy, tended to follow those rules even more rigidly than those who had been born to wealth.
Miss van Haven had no doubt been given instructions from a very young age on the correct way to behave in every situation—and that wouldn’t have involved insulting her hosts by acting in such an outrageous manner.
Why she felt the need to behave in such a way Alexander could not fathom. Perhaps she felt her father’s wealth meant she did not have to abide by even the most basic principles of politeness. But, whatever the reason, he had more pressing issues to deal with than the bad behaviour of a frivolous American heiress.
The sooner he could tell Miss van Haven that she would not be the next Duchess of Knightsbrook the sooner they could end this tedious ritual and he could get back to his work of transforming the family estate into a productive, financially viable farm.
She turned and looked in his direction and he realised he had been staring at her. Despite himself, he held her gaze, unable to look away from those stunning blue eyes. The colour was so intense—like a cool lake on a warm afternoon. And, also like a lake, they seemed to contain hidden depths—as if there was a deep, unfathomable sadness behind all her game-playing.
Her excessive grin faltered slightly, and a blush tinged her cheeks before she turned her attention back to his mother and once again resumed her frantic nodding.
They reached the front door, where her maid was still standing, her arms crossed defiantly.
‘Now that I’ve introduced you to our family’s history, perhaps Alexander will escort you round the gardens while I attend to my other guests? Your maid can be your chaperon.’
The maid folded her arms more tightly, shot Miss van Haven a questioning look, and received a quick nod in reply. Alexander wondered at the silent exchange, which seemed more like one between equals than maid and mistress.
His mother nodded to Arabella, sent Alexander a stern look—which was no doubt an admonition to do his best to charm the heiress—and then departed.
Alexander suppressed a huff of irritation. Escorting this title-seeking American around the estate was not exactly how he had intended to spend the day, but at least it would give him an opportunity to set her straight. To let her know that she would not be the next Duchess of Knightsbrook.
Chapter Three (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
Alone with the Duke—well, alone apart from Nellie—Rosie knew she had to keep her guard up. She could not let him see how much he unnerved her. She had to keep reminding herself that he was after Arabella’s money. That was all that mattered.
She sent him what she hoped was a confident smile and got a familiar stern look in return.
‘If I am to escort you round the gardens, can I make one request?’
She shook her head slightly. ‘A request?’
‘Yes—would you please stop this charade?’
One hand shot to her stomach; the other covered her mouth to stop a gasp from escaping. This was a disaster. He could see it was all an act. He knew she wasn’t Arabella. Her plan was ruined before it had begun.
She looked out through the glass doors to the gardens. Could she escape? No, that was ridiculous. She was in the middle of the Devon countryside, many miles from London. What was she going to do? Walk? All the way back to the train station?
No, she was going to have to bluff her way out of this.
She scanned the entrance hall. Her mind spun with half-formed excuses and explanations.
‘Charade?’ she squeaked.
‘Yes—this play-acting. You may have been able to shock my mother but it won’t work on me, Miss van Haven.’
Rosie released the breath she’d been holding and slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. He didn’t know she wasn’t Arabella. All was not lost.
‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry about that...’ She gestured around the entrance hall, her hand twirling in imitation of her entrance. ‘Just my little joke.’
His dark eyebrows drew together. He frowned slightly. ‘Really? Are you in the habit of making fun of your hosts?’
‘No, I...’ She stopped.
Why make excuses? After all, she didn’t want Lord Ashton to like her. She had to be completely unlikable if she was to convince him just what a thoroughly unacceptable duchess she would make.
‘Well, yes. I do it all the time. I love making fun of people. Don’t you?’
His frown deepened. ‘No, I don’t. Everyone deserves to be treated with respect, no matter who they are.’
Momentarily chastened, Rosie was tempted to agree with him—but she couldn’t. The one thing she did not want was to be was agreeable.
‘I guess we just see things completely differently. I think everyone is here for my entertainment and I like to have as much fun as possible. If people get offended and think I’m laughing at them—well, that’s hardly my fault. Is it?’
He stared at her for a moment longer, as if observing a strange animal on display at the zoological gardens. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’
The response was vague, but Rosie could read his intent in his rigid body language. She had her wish. The Duke disapproved of her.
‘Well, don’t you worry if you don’t know the answer. I’m sometimes not that smart either.’
‘I don’t doubt that, Miss van Haven.’
Rosie smiled. That almost sounded like an insult.
He offered her his arm. ‘Mother would like me to show you the gardens. Shall we...?’
She placed her hand on his forearm and resisted the temptation to give the muscles a little squeeze, just to see how they compared to a marble statue.
They walked out through double French doors, down some sweeping stone stairs and into the gardens, which looked just as magnificent at ground level as it had when she had driven through it in the carriage, with an abundance of trees, lush grasslands and a stunning lake adorned with ornate fountains.
As they strolled along a tree-lined pathway the soft green spring leaves rustled in the light breeze and small birds chirped and flitted between the branches. Rosie breathed in deeply and savoured the fresh country air. She had loved every moment of her time in London, but it was a joy to be in such beautiful, peaceful surroundings.
‘I don’t know how much you know about Knightsbrook, but this garden was designed for my great-great-grandfather in the mid-eighteenth century, by the famous landscape gardener Capability Brown,’ the Duke said, playing the role of dutiful host.
Rosie nodded. When she had first arrived she had wondered whether the garden was a Capability Brown design, as it had the natural look the landscape gardener was famous for.
She gave a small cough. ‘Capable who?’
‘Capability Brown—he designed some of the most beautiful and highly regarded gardens in England.’
‘Did he always plant so many trees? Trees are quite frightful, don’t you think?’
He stopped, turned to face her, and frowned. ‘You don’t like trees?’
‘No—awful things. They shed their leaves, making an unsightly mess all over the place. Not to mention all the terrible birds they attract. And as for the mess those frightful creatures make—well, the less said about that the better. I think the world would be much better off without so many trees.’
He looked along the path, then back towards the house. ‘Then there’s probably little point continuing our walk along this path, as it leads to a woodland area that contains some of the most established specimens of English trees to be found in the country.’
‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to see that.’ Rosie gave a fake shudder. ‘Has this estate got anything other than trees to look at?’
He stared at her for a moment, his brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to walk alongside the lake?’
She sighed, as if to say that if a lake was all he had to offer, then a lake it would have to be.
He led her to the gently curving serpentine lake that wound its way around the house. As they strolled slowly along its edge Rosie admired the centrepiece sculpture of Neptune, and the array of carved sea creatures that appeared to be frolicking in the waters. When the fountain sent water cascading high into the air, Rosie was tempted to clap her hands with delight at its playfulness.
‘Is the lake more to your taste, Miss van Haven?
She forced her face to remain impassive. ‘Lakes are all right, I suppose. But it’s a shame it’s got all those sculptures in it. Art is so distracting, don’t you think?’
‘You don’t like art either?’
She shook her head vigorously and scowled. ‘No—art is so wasteful, don’t you think? All those galleries, and museums...theatres and whatnot. I’m sure they could all be put to much better use. Don’t you agree?’
‘Miss van Haven, you’re...’ He paused and looked around, as if struggling to find the right words.
Rosie smiled and waited for an appropriately disparaging comment that would seal her fate as a completely unacceptable future bride.
‘You’re quite unusual—aren’t you, Miss van Haven?’
Quite unusual. It wasn’t nearly as insulting as she would have liked, but it would have to do.
‘Unusual? Me? No, I don’t think so. I think it’s the rest of the world that’s unusual. All those people who like culture...plays, books, art, sculptures... They’re the unusual ones.’ She shuddered, as if the mere thought of art was abhorrent to her.
‘In that case I suspect there will be little point showing you the family’s collection of Old Masters.’
Rosie abruptly stopped walking and screwed up her face as if in pain. No. She had gone too far. Nothing would please her more than to see the FitzRoy art collection. One of the few things she knew about the family was that they had been collecting art for generations and had one of the finest collections outside the national art galleries. And now she had deprived herself of the opportunity to view some of the world’s finest masterpieces.
She bit lightly on her tongue, to stop herself from crying out that she would give just about anything to see the collection. Anything, that was, except betray her promise to Arabella to make sure the Duke had no interest in marrying her.
‘Yes, I suspect you’re right—it would be a complete waste of time to show me any pictures,’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘Perhaps, then, we should sit awhile?’
He led her to a seat on the stone bridge that curved over the lake. While they looked out at the water and the woodland backdrop Rosie tried to think of a scheme that would convince Lord Ashton that, despite her claim to detest art, it would still be a good idea for him to show her the collection.
‘Miss van Haven, there is something I must tell you. I hope you won’t be offended, but it is essential that I tell you the truth.’
‘I’m sure nothing you say will offend me, Your Grace.’ After all, Rosie was the one who was trying her hardest to be offensive.
‘You were invited here for the weekend under false pretences and I must let you know the true situation.’
She tilted her head. This was intriguing. ‘False pretences?
‘It was my mother’s idea to invite you. I believe she has given you and your father the impression that I am interested in meeting you with the intention of looking towards a possible marriage. That is not the case. You’re a very pretty young lady, Miss van Haven, and I’m sure you will one day make some man very happy, but I’m afraid that man won’t be me.’
Had she heard him correctly? ‘You don’t want to marry me?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss van Haven. As I said, I mean no offence. I don’t wish to marry anyone. I don’t know if you are aware that your father and my mother have put this scheme together without my approval, or even my knowledge. So, my apologies for the gross deception, but I don’t want to marry you.’
Rosie clapped her hands and laughed with delight. ‘That’s wonderful news!’
With his eyebrows knitted together, he once again looked at her as if she were a curiosity. ‘Wonderful? Am I to assume that you don’t wish to marry either?’
She shook her head vigorously, still smiling and clapping. ‘No, I most definitely do not. Why else do you think I put on that performance when I first arrived? Why else do you think I said that trees are horrid? Who thinks trees are horrid? No one! I was trying to make you dislike me so you wouldn’t want to marry me.’
She had expected him to laugh as well, but he continued to frown. It seemed an inability to smile was another thing he had in common with those statues of Greek athletes.
‘None of what you said was true?’
‘Of course not.’ She shook her head at his obvious statement.
‘Why did you feel the need to put on such an act?’
‘So you wouldn’t want to marry me, of course.’ Rosie was beginning to wonder if the handsome Duke was perhaps a bit dim-witted.
‘You’ve been lying and pretending since the moment you arrived?’
Her smile faltered. ‘Um... Well, yes, I guess I have. But I had to.’
The furrow in his brow deepened. ‘Would it not have been easier to have told the truth—that you didn’t wish to marry?’
‘Well, perhaps, but it might have got complicated if you had been determined to marry me.’
‘And play-acting isn’t complicated? Lying isn’t complicated?’
Rosie shrugged, unsure how to answer.
He looked out at the lake and sighed deeply. ‘I’ve always found that lies inevitably cause complications, and often have far-reaching consequences for too many people. Telling lies might benefit the liar, but it almost always causes a great deal of problems for everyone else.’
Rosie wondered at his reaction, which seemed to be about something more than just her deceptive behaviour. His face looked so solemn, even melancholy, almost as if he was recalling some past hurt, some previous act of deception that had wounded him.
Her immediate impulse was to put her hand on his arm—to comfort him the way she often longed for someone to comfort her. She knew what it was like to have suffered in the past, to feel the need to hide your internal wounds from the world. But she did not know this man—would never really know him. So instead she did what she always did. She kept smiling.
He turned his attention back to her. ‘Is anything you’ve said today been the truth?’
‘Um...well, I’m definitely American.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh.
‘Anything else?’
Rosie looked out at the lake, bit the edge of her lip and struggled to find anything to say.
‘In that case, shall we try and sort the truth from the lies?’
Rosie shook her head, then nodded, unsure whether telling the truth was a good idea or not.
‘Let’s start with trees. What do you think of trees?’
She laughed lightly with relief; that was something about which she was happy to tell the truth. ‘I love trees. And I love the gardens designed by Capability Brown. I’ve seen many sketches of his work and I was hoping I’d get a chance to see some of his gardens while I was in England. I love the way he combines a natural look with little whimsical features—like the fountains and sculptures. It’s quite stunning.’
The furrow in his forehead disappeared and he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘And I take it you don’t object to birds either?’
She laughed again. ‘Who wouldn’t love birds? Of course I love birds—and all other animals.’
‘And art, sculptures, plays, books, paintings?’
‘I’m not a complete philistine. I love art, sculptures, books, paintings, plays...all forms of culture.’
‘In that case I suspect you would enjoy seeing the family’s art collection?’
Rosie clapped her hands again. She had got her wish. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, please. I’d love to.’
‘Then I’d be delighted to show you. But I think there is one thing that I must do first.’
As he moved towards her along the bench Rosie’s breath caught in her throat. What was he doing? What was happening?
‘Your hat became dislodged when you spun your way down the entrance hall and is now sitting at a somewhat comical angle. Please allow me to set it right.’
Still holding her breath, she forced herself not to gasp when his fingers lightly brushed her temples as he attempted to remove her hatpin.
The whisper of his hands on her cheeks as he gently pulled the hat straight was as light as a feather, but the sensation was all-consuming. Fire erupted within her. Her cheeks burned and her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he must be able to hear its furious drumbeat.
He was so close she could feel the warmth of his body, could sense his physical strength, and she had to fight hard against the invisible force that was tempting her to move even closer towards him.
He gave the hat a final tug and leaned back to observe his handiwork. ‘There—that’s much better.’
Rosie released her breath and gasped in another, trying to relieve her light-headedness. Instead she breathed in the masculine scent of leather and musk and her heartbeat increased its ferocious tempo.
She swallowed several times and tried to breathe slowly, to regain the composure that his touch had so easily stripped away.
This would not do. This would not do at all. It didn’t matter how handsome he was. It didn’t matter what effect his touch had on her. The Duke was not for her. He didn’t want to marry Arabella. And if he had no interest in Mr van Haven’s daughter—a woman from New York’s elite society, a woman with a substantial dowry and the prospect of an enormous inheritance—he certainly wouldn’t be interested in Mr van Haven’s impoverished ward.
It was foolish even to think such things, and any such illusions had to be put out of her head immediately. She was here for one purpose only: to save Arabella from an unwanted marriage. To be bedazzled just because the Duke had touched her would be madness. She had to stay focused on her task.
No, the Duke was certainly not for her. And if she was to stop herself acting inappropriately in any unintended way she had to remember that at all times.
Alexander gazed down at the puzzling Miss van Haven. Her cheeks had once again turned a pretty shade of pink, and her bright blue eyes glistened as she gazed back at him.
Yes, puzzling was the only word he could use to describe her. From her unconventional arrival to her confession that she had no more desire to marry than he did, she presented one big puzzle.
It seemed that telling lies was part of her nature, and that was something he would never countenance. If he had learnt one lesson from Lydia Beaufort it had been about the destructive nature of lies. Lydia had once been a young woman of great promise, but lies had ruined her life and her downfall had all but destroyed him in the process. Miss van Haven’s lies might be less destructive than Lydia’s, but they were lies all the same.
And Arabella’s reason for lying—that it was less complicated than telling the truth—was no excuse. It appeared that Miss van Haven could challenge his mother when it came to a lack of logical thinking.
But there was something about her that he found undeniably attractive. Something he couldn’t define. He rubbed his fingers together and could almost feel the touch of her silky-smooth skin, like a soft, creamy magnolia blossom.
But it wasn’t that. Nor was it her pretty face or her slim-waisted figure. It wasn’t the way she laughed so readily, nor the way she smelled of delicate spring flowers after a rain shower. Nor was it the unfathomable depths of her blue eyes. But there was definitely something about her. Why else would he have felt compelled to straighten her hat, when merely informing her that it had become dislodged was all that had been required.
He realised he had been staring at her for longer than propriety would allow, so quickly looked away and out at the lake. What did it matter if she was a beautiful young woman? Lydia had also been pretty and sweet, with a charming laugh...
‘So, Miss van Haven,’ he said, as soon as he had resumed his usual sense of equanimity. ‘We’ve established that you like nature and art. Am I now seeing the real Arabella van Haven?’
‘Oh, yes!’ She gave a light, tinkling laugh. ‘What you see is what you get.’
‘No more lies.’
She coughed slightly, and her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. ‘No more lies.’
Her assertion did nothing to unravel the puzzle. She claimed to be telling the truth now, but her tightly held smile and rapidly blinking eyes appeared to make a mockery of that claim. She was still holding something back, but what that was Alexander had no idea.
Surely it was of no matter what Miss van Haven might or might not be holding back. She was not Lydia Beaufort. He was not going to marry her. Her lies could not hurt him.
And he had achieved his goal. He had informed her that they would not be marrying, and on that he and Miss van Haven were in complete agreement. That was all that mattered.
It was time to put all speculation about this unusual American heiress to one side. Now that their awkward conversation about marriage was behind them, he could relax and simply play the role of good host.
He stood up and once again offered her his arm. ‘If the real Arabella van Haven is interested in seeing the art collection, then I would be delighted to show her.’
She clapped her hands in a genuine show of bubbly excitement. ‘Oh, yes, please! I’ve heard you have a Rembrandt that is reputed to be his best work, and a Vermeer, and several Gainsboroughs that are said to be exquisite.’
She stood up and placed her hand on his arm.
‘Then shall we?’ he said. ‘It will also get you away from these horrid trees.’
Alexander found himself unexpectedly pleased when she playfully patted his arm in response to his teasing.
He looked around for the trailing maid, but she was nowhere in sight. ‘We seem to have lost our chaperon,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, Nellie. She’s probably found something more entertaining to do than watch us. I hope you don’t mind?’
He shook his head. Surely it should be she who should mind, not him. Yes, she was quite a puzzling young lady...
They retraced their steps along the path. Then he led her through the house to the gallery that contained many of the family’s major paintings—including the Rembrandt she had remarked upon.
When she saw the self-portrait she stopped. Her hand went to her neck and he heard a quick intake of breath.
‘It’s beautiful. It’s literally breathtaking,’ she whispered, transfixed by the painting.
Alexander nodded. He had seen the self-portrait countless times, but its beauty still affected him deeply. He was inexplicably pleased that it had the same effect on Miss van Haven.
They stood, side by side in silent admiration.
‘His sensitivity is superb,’ she murmured. ‘He’s painted himself smiling, but he’s still managed to capture a sense of tragedy in his eyes,’
Alexander looked down at Miss van Haven, impressed by her insight. It was exactly what he had thought when he first saw her—that there was a sense of tragedy behind her smiling eyes.
Rembrandt had gone from poverty to wealth and back to poverty, and had suffered deeply as a result. Arabella van Haven had been born into privilege and lived the life of a wealthy daughter of a prominent New York banker. And yet she had the look of one who had quietly suffered. Alexander couldn’t help but wonder why.
He led her to a painting on the other side of the gallery, to avoid any further contemplation of what had caused Miss van Haven’s sad eyes. ‘The Vermeer is slightly more cheerful, but no less powerful.’
She gazed as if enchanted at the portrait of a beautiful young woman playing a lute. ‘It’s wonderful. He’s really captured how a woman looks when she’s absorbed in her performance. It reminds me so much of a friend of mine who loves to act.’
‘Who might that be?’
She shook her head. ‘Just a friend in New York.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘She often looks like that when she’s performing—completely lost in the part, as if the real Ara—as if she no longer exists.’
Alexander led her slowly around the gallery, stopping at the paintings by Gainsborough and at the portraits of his ancestors painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
‘I think if I lived here I would never leave this room. You’re so lucky, Your Grace.’ She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with the pleasure and passion that great art clearly evoked in her.
‘Alexander—please call me Alexander. Your Grace sounds so stuffy,’ he said, surprising himself with his lack of formality.
She gave another musical laugh. ‘In that case you must call me...’ She hesitated. ‘You must call me Arabella.’
‘Arabella.’ He savoured the name. ‘You’re right, Arabella, and it is a room in which I spend a great deal of time. Unfortunately many of these paintings are going to have to be sold to pay my father’s debts. We will have to enjoy them while they’re still here.’
Her eyes grew wide. ‘Surely not? It would be terrible if they were lost to the family—especially the ones that are portraits of your ancestors.’
‘Yes, it is unfortunate.’ Alexander exhaled to try and drive out his annoyance.
Those paintings would indeed have to be sold to cover his father’s debts. Paintings that had been in his family for generations would be sold off because of that man’s lying, cheating and irresponsible behaviour.
‘It’s unfortunate, but I intend to sell them to public art galleries, so they can be enjoyed by as many people as possible.’
‘Good.’ She nodded her approval. ‘The more people who can see these exquisite artworks and experience the kind of pleasure I have today the better.’
As she stared at the painting she chewed lightly on her lower lip and tipped her head to one side.
‘But it would still be better if they could remain in the house—especially the portraits of your ancestors. It’s a shame you can’t open the house to the public. Then people could pay a small entrance fee and enjoy the gardens and the woodlands, the lake and the art. It would be a lovely day out.’
Alexander stared at her, taken aback by the unusual and progressive suggestion of opening the house to the public. ‘Yes, it’s a nice idea—but I can’t see my mother tolerating anyone except invited guests in the house. Even when I invite engineers and other professional people Mother can barely tolerate their presence. And these are people who are going to help transform the estate and make it profitable—not people just having “a lovely day out”.’
She wandered over to the portrait of his great-great-grandmother, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. ‘Well, she tolerated me and my antics when I first arrived. Perhaps she’s more adaptable than you think. And it would mean all these wonderful paintings could stay in the house, where they belong.’
‘I suspect Mother would tolerate anything from you if she thought there was a chance we might be married.’
The edges of her lips pulled down in mock concern. ‘Oh, dear. She’s not going to take kindly to hearing we have agreed that neither of us wants to marry.’
‘Unfortunately, Miss van Haven...
She raised her finger in admonishment.
‘Sorry—Arabella. Unfortunately, Arabella, my mother is not one to give up easily. You will have to prepare yourself for some concerted matchmaking from her this weekend. I urge you to be resolute.’
‘Oh, I can be resolute, Alexander—believe me.’ She smiled at him.
He did not doubt it. Arabella was obviously a woman who knew her own mind. She might have some unusual ways of getting what she wanted, but there was no denying she had admirable determination.
They continued their slow movement around the gallery, admiring each painting in turn, until they halted in front of a pastoral scene of two lovers embracing, their naked bodies entwined under the canopy of a sweeping oak tree.
Alexander had seen the painting many times, but never had it affected him so powerfully. With the memory of Arabella’s silky skin still imprinted on his fingers he could all but feel the soft, yielding flesh of a woman’s naked body against his own. He could imagine looking down into Arabella’s eyes as she looked up at him with the same intensity as the woman in the portrait. Her lips would be parted, waiting for his kiss, her body responding to his caresses.
He coughed to chase away the inappropriate image that had invaded his thoughts. Then coughed again to clear his throat.
‘It’s stunning, isn’t it?’ he said, his voice strangled despite his repeated coughs. ‘It’s by an unknown artist. My great-grandfather bought it while he was on his grand tour of Europe as a gift for his future bride.’
‘It’s beautiful. She must have felt truly desired,’ she murmured, her fingers lightly touching her own lips.
It seemed she too was deeply affected by the passion in the painting. He noted that her breath was coming in a series of rapid gasps, her face and neck were flushed, and she was gazing at the painting as if enraptured.
Alexander forced himself to lead her away until they reached a much more suitable work to show a young lady—one that would have a less disturbing effect on his own equilibrium too.
But as he stared at an etching of Knightsbrook House made not long after it had been extended, with the west wing added in the early eighteenth century, all he could think of was the previous painting of those lovers entwined, of naked flesh, of parted lips waiting for a kiss...
He drew in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. This was ridiculous. He had no interest in Miss van Haven. No interest at all. He did not want to marry her. He did not want to marry anyone. And he most certainly did not want to marry an American heiress. He would not have the world thinking he married purely to restore the family’s fortune. And if he did not have any interest in marrying her then, as a gentleman, he had no right to be thinking of her lying naked in his arms.
He coughed again. No, he could not—would not think of her in that way. She was a delightful young woman with whom he was having a pleasant time. That was all.
Perhaps it was simply that it had been such a long time since he had enjoyed the company of a young woman as much as he was enjoying himself now. Perhaps that was why his thoughts had gone off on tangents better reserved for the bawdy houses of London.
Whatever the reason, it would not do.
They moved on to the next painting, which was of the estate’s garden, and he saw her smile at the small children depicted playing beside the lake. Seeing her delighted smile, he couldn’t help but wonder why it was that such an attractive young woman was so set against marriage. He knew why he didn’t wish to marry, but she must want marriage, children, a family of her own... For some reason it was a question he wanted answered.
‘Arabella, when you said you didn’t want to marry, you never told me the reason why.’
She looked up at him, her expression startled, then quickly turned back to look at the painting, her hands pulling at the lace on the cuffs of her sleeves. ‘I...well. I... It’s because...um...it’s because I...um...’ She blinked rapidly. Her gaze moved around the room, then settled on the painting of the two lovers. ‘It’s because I’m in love with another man—we’re all but betrothed.’
As if punched in the stomach, Alexander winced. It was not the answer he’d expected but surely it was the most logical one. She was beautiful, sweet and funny. Of course she would have numerous men wanting to marry her. And for many men her father’s fortune would only add to her appeal.
He drew in a series of quick breaths. What was wrong with him? The fact that she was in love with another man was of no matter. In fact it made things easier. There would be no difficulties in convincing his mother what a hopeless cause it was, trying to get them to marry.
He should be happy for Miss van Haven. And he was happy for her. Why wouldn’t he be?
And, that aside, he had much more important things to think about than the romantic entanglements of an American heiress.
He turned from the painting. ‘I believe it is time we joined the other guests.’ He placed his hand gently on her back and led her towards the gallery door.
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she mumbled, still blushing inexplicably, but nevertheless following his lead out through the door and into the corridor.
Why she should be blushing over her admission of being in love with another man he had no idea, but the reasons for Miss van Haven’s blushes were of as little consequence to him as her romantic attachments.
He had done his duty as host. Now he had work to do. He had a devastated estate to rescue. It was that which demanded his full attention.
Only a fool would allow himself to get side-tracked by the frivolity of a visit by an American heiress, and one thing Alexander knew about himself: he was no fool.
Chapter Four (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
Why had she said that? Of all the excuses she could have come up with why had she said she was in love with another man?
Usually she could think much faster than that when put on the spot. Instead she had said the first thing that had come into her head and invented a non-existent lover to explain why an American heiress would not be interested in marrying the eminently suitable Alexander FitzRoy, Lord Ashton, the handsome and charming Duke of Knightsbrook.
But she could hardly have told him the truth, could she? She couldn’t tell him that the real Arabella van Haven didn’t want to marry because her one and only true love was the theatre, and she was determined to dedicate herself to pursuing a career on the stage.
Nor could she tell him that she, Rosie Smith, had long ago resigned herself to remaining unmarried. As the ward of a wealthy man, she knew that none of the men who moved in Mr van Haven’s circles would be interested in marrying a woman who had no money of her own and no dowry. How could she tell him that a man like him, who could trace his family back countless generations, was so far out of reach it would be a joke for her even to contemplate marriage to such a man.
And she certainly couldn’t tell him that she wasn’t Arabella van Haven. She had promised Arabella she would help her and her goal had been easily achieved. But she still couldn’t reveal that secret without Arabella’s knowledge. It would be a betrayal of her promise to her friend—something she would never do.
Instead she had lied to Alexander. Again.
She should have thought more clearly. She should have come up with a better reason—one that was closer to the truth than her invention of a beau for Arabella. Why had she done that? It must have been because that image of the two entwined lovers was still in her mind. That beautiful painting had made her realise that such passion would be something she would never experience. But it had still been a dim-witted thing to say, and Rosie could kick herself for her lack of clear thinking.
She would have to keep her head and her emotions in check for the rest of the weekend, so she didn’t say or do anything so foolhardy again.
She took one last glance over her shoulder at the art works she would never see again as Alexander hurried her out of the gallery. Such a shame. She could have spent the rest of the day and the evening looking at the paintings, but it seemed Alexander had different ideas. It appeared he’d had enough of the gallery. Or he’d had enough of her company.
They rushed down the hall as if they were late for an important appointment, his hand on her back hurrying her forward. It was apparent that now Alexander had done as his mother had commanded—had shown her the gardens and done his duty to his guest—he wanted rid of her.
Rosie tried hard not to be offended. It hardly mattered, really. So he was suddenly tired of her company and wanted to end their time alone together? It mattered not one jot.
And yet previously he had been so attentive to her. Right up till the time she had told him she was in love with another man. But there could be no connection between them; that would be too ridiculous. He had no interest in her. He had said so himself. And yet...
Rosie dismissed such scatter-brained thoughts. Even if his change in demeanour had come about because she had told him about the man she supposedly loved, it was the man American heiress Arabella van Haven loved—a woman from a respectable wealthy family. Not poor orphaned Rosie Smith.
Whatever his reason for such haste, trying to figure it out was pointless speculation.
As they rushed down the corridors towards the drawing room Rosie told herself she would not be offended by his determination to be rid of her. After all, what did it matter? She had got what she’d come for. Arabella was safe from an unwanted marriage. She had seen a beautiful garden, and viewed some exquisite paintings that few people got to see. That was a memory she would treasure always. Her plan had worked—not in the way she had envisaged, but it had still worked. Surely that was a satisfying conclusion?
All she had to do now was relax and enjoy the rest of her weekend in this grand home.
She glanced up at Alexander. His handsome face was set like stone as he focused straight ahead. It was as if he had one purpose and one purpose only: to end his time with Rosie as quickly as possible.
They reached the drawing room and she almost expected him to push her in, slam the doors behind her and make his escape. Instead he stood politely behind her, waited for the footman to open the doors, then followed her in.
The stately room was filled with the murmur of polite conversation as the assembled guests took afternoon tea. Fires crackled in several fireplaces, struggling to warm the expansive room, which held a slight chill despite the mild spring afternoon.
Rosie quickly scanned the room and took in every aspect of its opulence—from the large crystal chandelier suspended from the soaring engraved ceiling down to the intricate silk carpets that adorned the polished oak flooring. More of the family’s art collection was on display here. The walls were filled with paintings, and every surface seemed to be decorated with artefacts and antiques—presumably collected by Alexander’s many wealthy ancestors.
Rosie could only hope she would have an opportunity during the weekend to admire them more closely.
The Dowager was engrossed in conversation with a group of elderly women. When she saw Rosie and Alexander she instantly excused herself, rose from the chaise longue and with a purposeful swish of her black satin skirt walked over to join them.
Her gaze quickly moved from Rosie to Alexander and back again, giving her every appearance of making an assessment as to just how close her plan of marrying off her son to a wealthy heiress was to completion.
‘There you two young people are,’ she said. ‘You were away so long I thought perhaps you had eloped!’
Alexander’s body stiffened beside Rosie. She looked up and could see his lips drawn into a tight grimace.
‘No, Mother, you are quite wrong. Yet again.’
‘Oh, well, never mind,’ the Dowager continued, ignoring the note of censure in Alexander’s voice. ‘I’m pleased you have had a chance to get better acquainted. Did you enjoy your tour of the grounds, Miss van Haven? I hope Alexander showed you just how beautiful Knightsbrook is—particularly when the trees are in blossom. Although I think it’s beautiful in every season of the year.’
Rosie smiled politely. Now that the issue of marriage had been settled between her and Alexander there was no need to try and shock the Dowager with her bad behaviour. She could be herself. Well, not quite herself. She still had to be Arabella. But she didn’t have to pretend to be a completely unacceptable potential bride who posed a constant threat to priceless heirlooms.
‘Oh, yes, he did—and you’re right. It is beautiful. I’m sorry we took so long, Your Grace, but Alexander also showed me your family’s magnificent collection of paintings in the gallery, and I’m afraid we lost all sense of time.’
The Dowager beamed a delighted smile. ‘I see you two have become quite familiar and are on first-name terms already. I’m very happy to hear it.’
Alexander returned his mother’s smile with a frown. ‘I apologise, Mother, for keeping Miss van Haven from the other guests.’ His expressionless voice was a stark contrast to his mother’s enthusiasm.
‘So, how much of the estate did you get the chance to see, Miss van Haven?’ the Dowager asked, drawing Rosie’s attention away from the frowning Alexander. ‘No doubt Alexander told you we have more than five thousand acres of land and that our gardens are among the finest in England?’
Alexander sighed loudly. ‘You’re starting to sound like a salesman, Mother.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Alexander.’ The Dowager’s smile faltered slightly, before returning, just as large as before, as she focused her attention back on Rosie. ‘I hope he told you that the FitzRoys have lived on this land since the fifteenth century? The house is reputed to be one of the most elegant in the country, with more than two hundred rooms. Not that I’ve counted them, of course. That includes the summer and winter parlours and two formal dining rooms, as well as the breakfast room, three drawing rooms, the ballroom, and countless bedchambers to accommodate as many guests as you could possibly wish to entertain. Do you like to entertain, Miss van Haven?’
Rosie forced herself not to smile as she watched Alexander roll his eyes. Instead she nodded non-committally.
‘And every part of this house is desperately in need of extensive and very expensive renovation work,’ he said.
The Dowager’s lips drew into a tight line and her nostrils flared. She sent Alexander a quick, narrow-eyed glare then resumed smiling at Rosie. ‘And you say that Alexander showed you the gallery? Indeed, it contains many priceless works of art—but it houses only a fraction of the family’s collection, which can be found in every room of the house.’
Alexander’s frown deepened further. ‘And many of those works of art will have to be sold to cover our mounting debts.’
‘Oh, Alexander, you can be such a bore sometimes,’ the Dowager snapped.
Rosie looked from Alexander to the Dowager and back again. It was as if she were watching a tennis match, played by two equally determined and equally matched opponents.
The Dowager continued to frown at her son, and then, as if remembering herself, she smiled at Rosie. ‘Not that he’s a bore, really. This is most unlike him. Usually he’s not in the least bit serious. Oh, yes, Alexander loves to have fun and live life to the full.’
Rosie bit the edge of her top lip to stifle a giggle. The supposedly fun-loving Alexander his mother was describing was as far from the serious, disapproving man standing beside her as it was possible to get.
‘Really, Your Grace?’ Rosie tried hard not to laugh. ‘In that case I look forward to seeing Alexander perform a few party tricks.’
The Dowager flicked a nervous look in Alexander’s direction, her smile twitching at the edges. Alexander glared back at her, as if challenging his mother to try and talk her way out of her outrageous claim.
Instead of attempting the impossible, she took Rosie’s arm. ‘There will be plenty of time for that later, but now our other guests are anxious to meet you.’
They swept their way around the large room and Rosie was introduced to Lord This and Lady That, the Countess of This and the Earl of That. If the assembled guests were anything to go by it seemed the FitzRoys really did mix in exclusive society. There was not a Mr or Mrs among them, with everyone in the room bearing a title from Duke down to Baron.
And each guest, no matter what their title, reacted in exactly the same manner when they were introduced to Rosie—with enthusiastic delight, as if they really were meeting the future Duchess of Knightsbrook. She was greeted with smiles, nods of approval, and even the occasional curtsey from the assembled aristocrats.
It seemed the Dowager was so convinced she was going to marry Alexander that she had all but announced the engagement already.
Alexander was right. The Dowager was a very determined woman. But unfortunately for her she was going to discover that both Rosie and Alexander were equally resolute that they would not be wed.
Their circuit of the large room took them to the last guest, a rather severe elderly woman standing by the fire. The Dowager seemed to hesitate, her smile quivering slightly, before she smiled and made the introductions.
‘Lady Beaufort, may I introduce Arabella van Haven? She is our guest from America.’
Lady Beaufort’s straight posture grew more rigid and her nose rose higher in the air as she tilted back her head and raked her gaze over Rosie from head to toe, then back again. ‘So you’re the banker’s daughter?’
Rosie’s fists clenched at her sides. Since her father had lost all his money through no fault of his own, reducing their family to a state of poverty, Rosie had been forced to endure being snubbed, insulted and belittled by people who had once treated her family with respect.
Through bitter experience she had learnt to let such behaviour wash over her. So she did what she always did in such circumstances: breathed in deeply, forced herself to relax her tensely gripped hands and smiled her sunniest smile.
‘That’s right. I’m the banker’s daughter—Arabella van Haven. How do you do?’
She received the expected glare in return, which only caused Rosie to smile more brightly.
‘I hear you’re seeking a titled husband?’ Lady Beaufort said after a prolonged silence.
Several guests nearby gasped at this blatant breach of the rules of polite conversation, but their shock didn’t stop them from leaning forward, eager to hear more of this exchange.
‘Oh, come, come, Lady Beaufort,’ the Dowager said with a false laugh. ‘Miss van Haven is here to enjoy our hospitality. If she and Alexander should happen to fall in love, well...’
‘I’m just pleased my dear daughter Lydia is not here to see this shameless behaviour.’
The Dowager’s mouth opened and closed as she gasped for something to say.
‘And now that I’ve met the banker’s daughter who is trying to buy herself a title I think I’ll take my leave.’
Lady Beaufort swept past Rosie, causing her to jump out of her way to avoid getting trampled in her bull-like progress.
But Rosie had failed to notice one of the couples who had moved closer to hear the conversation. She stepped back on to the listening man’s foot, causing him to cry out and send his teacup clattering to the ground.
The sound of shattering china brought all conversation to a sudden halt as every head turned in their direction.
‘Oh, look what the clumsy little thing has done!’ Lady Beaufort said as a young maid scrambled on the floor to retrieve the pieces of broken porcelain. ‘It’s a shame these Americans don’t know how to act in polite society.’
‘Lady Beaufort, I think you should leave. Now.’
Rosie heard Alexander’s commanding voice behind her.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m leaving. I’m quite particular about the company I keep. Thank goodness Lydia was saved from seeing this appalling display.’
She gave Rosie another disapproving look and swept out of the room, her exit watched by every one of the assembled guests.
‘I think our guests are in need of a drink somewhat stronger than tea,’ Alexander announced, and signalled to the servants, who began pouring glasses of port.
Conversation instantly erupted in the room, but it was no longer the murmur of polite chatter. The assembled guests were talking loudly, all at once, and judging from the repeated glances in Rosie’s direction they were all speculating on what had just happened.
Alexander leaned down and whispered in her ear. ‘Would you like to take some air, Arabella?’
She nodded rapidly. She most certainly did want to escape. The last thing she felt like doing was remaining in the drawing room while a group of gossiping lords and ladies discussed that bizarre outburst.
Rosie had been snubbed by some of New York’s finest snobs, and she had smiled through every subtle and not so subtle insult. But she was decidedly shaken by Lady Beaufort’s outburst.
Why this woman should hate her was unfathomable. Surely being a banker’s daughter was not so shameful? Particularly when that banker was one of America’s wealthiest men and therefore, by extension, one of the world’s wealthiest men. And why was Lady Beaufort so concerned about her daughter not being exposed to someone like Arabella? And why should she care whether she married Alexander?
This was clearly more than just good old-fashioned snobbery.
Chapter Five (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
Alexander led Arabella out through the drawing room towards the French doors. Voices fell silent as they passed, and each guest turned and attentively followed their progress as they walked across the room. He’d leave his guests to their gossip and speculation, and he was sure there would be an excessive amount of that. All that was important was to get Arabella away from the wagging tongues.
As he closed the doors behind them every gleeful face turned in their direction, all eyes peering out of the large sash windows with insatiable curiosity.
He exhaled with impatience. No doubt talking about that incident would keep them entertained for many weeks to come. It was a pity they did not have more to occupy their time, but with wealth and a multitude of servants came plenty of free hours to gossip.
For once Alexander was grateful that he had such an enormous task ahead of him in saving the estate.
They walked down some stone stairs and across a gravel pathway to a wooden bench in front of the garden.
Arabella seated herself, then looked back over her shoulder at the house. ‘Well, that was certainly strange.’
‘Strange’ was an understatement. Alexander gazed at her, amazed at her composure. But her lack of distress was neither here nor there. She should not have been exposed to Lady Beaufort’s wrath.
Alexander had difficulty understanding why his mother had invited her to an event such as this. It was inevitable that Lady Beaufort would be offended by the possibility of Alexander being betrothed to another woman when he had once been betrothed to Lady Beaufort’s daughter.
He could only assume his mother had invited her because Lady Beaufort remained a doyen of society, despite Lydia’s fall from grace, and it would be thought a folly to slight her. But whatever his illogical mother had been thinking she had caused upset to Arabella, and that was unacceptable.
The American heiress had done nothing to deserve such treatment. She had been set up for a marriage she didn’t want by her father and his mother, and invited into this house under false pretences. And now she had been insulted by one of the guests.
Alexander was unsure why he felt such a strong need to protect her—whether it was just a natural instinct or something stronger. Whatever it was, he did not want her subjected to such outrages again.
‘I’m sorry. I hope you are not too distressed by Lady Beaufort’s rudeness. Unfortunately she has suffered some major disappointments in her life, and that has turned her into a rather unpleasant woman. But she had no right to take it out on you.’
Arabella shook her head. ‘That’s usually the way, isn’t it? When people are unhappy they tend to lash out. And, no, of course I’m not upset.’ She looked over her shoulder at the house. ‘I’m a bit confused, but not upset.’
Alexander shook his head, dragged in a long, unsteady breath and tried not to think of what had caused that outburst. He did not want to think of how he had been betrayed by Lydia Beaufort, or of how she had caused him so much pain that he had sworn that he would never allow himself to be hurt like that again.
‘Lady Beaufort’s daughter Lydia was a lovely young woman and we were betrothed to be married.’
Arabella’s eyes grew wide. He obviously had her full attention.
‘But you are not any more?’ she asked, her voice barely audible.
‘No, not any more. Lydia...’ He dragged in a deep breath. ‘Lydia changed. She did things that caused her to be shunned from society.’
He paused again. Arabella did not need to know the full extent of why Lydia had suffered such a fate. Nor did she need to know how she had almost destroyed him in the process. She merely needed an explanation for Lady Beaufort’s outburst.
‘Her family is one of the best-connected in England, but even that couldn’t save her when she chose to live a life that has shocked many people,’ he said, hoping that would suffice.
‘And Lady Beaufort blames you for this?’
He exhaled a ragged breath and nodded. ‘Yes—but she has no right to blame you.’
‘I’m sorry, Alexander. Is this something you’d rather not talk about?’
He shook his head. ‘It is of no matter,’ he said, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. ‘I’m used to being on the receiving end of Lady Beaufort’s misdirected rage. But you should never have been subjected to it, and I am truly sorry. If I had known she would behave like that towards you I would have insisted my mother not invite her.’
Arabella shrugged. ‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for. And I can’t really criticise anyone’s bad behaviour—not after my somewhat unconventional arrival. At least your mother was standing right next to me. She could see that it wasn’t my fault that the teacup was shattered. I wouldn’t want her to think breaking porcelain is my special party trick.’ She gave a little laugh and patted him on the arm. ‘Let’s just forget about that horrible Lady Beaufort and pretend it never happened.’
Alexander could hardly believe it. He should be comforting her; instead she was patting his arm in a reassuring manner and making light of the incident. She really was quite remarkable. An experience like that would have had most woman reaching for the smelling salts, but she was completely calm. He wondered what had given this young woman such resilience—something usually lacking in the gently reared women of his class.
‘You will not have to worry about her being rude to you again. After that outburst I will make it clear to her that she is not welcome in this house.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that. A few insults aren’t going to ruffle me. I’m made of stronger stuff than that and I have learnt to cope with much worse.’
Alexander looked into her deep blue eyes, curious to know why a woman who had lived the pampered and protected life of an heiress would need to be strong. ‘And why is that? Why do you need to be strong, Arabella?’
Once again he saw that sadness come into her eyes, before she shrugged her shoulders and smiled at him. ‘Perhaps it just comes naturally to someone whose grandfather was a mule driver,’ she said, in her now familiar flippant tone.
It seemed he was not going to get a serious answer to his question. He was not going to find out why that small shadow of sadness seemed to cloud her otherwise sunny disposition.
‘Perhaps you are right. Although I suspect there is more to you than you like to reveal to the world.’
Her cheeks burned a brighter shade of red, and she blinked repeatedly before giving a dismissive laugh. ‘No, there’s nothing more to reveal. I’m just your average young lady with no hidden depths.’
Her words contradicted her look of discomfort. It was obvious to Alexander that Arabella was anything but average. It was also obvious that she was not going to reveal anything to him. And he ought to leave her with her secrets. After all, what business was it of his?
‘Well, no doubt that inner strength is going to be called upon soon, when we have to face the guests again. I’m afraid that after Lady Beaufort’s outburst you will undoubtedly be the main topic of conversation for quite some time. You will need to prepare yourself for some curious looks at the very least, and no doubt some very impertinent questioning.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t worry me.’ She looked over her shoulder, back at the house. ‘It won’t be long before someone else makes an inexcusable faux pas—such as using the wrong knife for the fish course—and then they’ll be so scandalised that they’ll move on from discussing me to some other unfortunate victim.’
It seemed Arabella had the same low opinion of the ridiculous foibles of the gentry as he did himself.
Growing up, he had spent as much time as he could away from this house. His father’s riotous gambling parties had often gone on for weeks at a time, and he and Charlotte had taken refuge in the welcoming cottage of Annie, the wife of a tenant farmer, who worked in dairy. It was during his time with Annie and her husband that he had learnt how hard the tenants worked, tilling the soil and making the money which his father and his friends squandered. In contrast to Annie’s warm and welcoming ways, the excesses, rituals and snobbery of his own class had seemed absurd, but it was unusual to meet someone who thought the same way as him.
‘You must cause quite a stir amongst New York society with that attitude,’ he said.
She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head slightly. ‘Well, perhaps—but it’s an attitude I tend to keep to myself and only share with my closest friends.’
‘Your closest friends? Does that include this man you are in love with? Does he share your irreverent attitude to society?’
Damn. He had vowed to ask her nothing about the man, but the questions had come out before Alexander had realised he was asking. Questions that seemed now to hang in the air between them.
Hadn’t he told himself he did not want or need to know anything about the man? And yet at the same time he wanted to know everything there was to know about this man Arabella loved. He wanted to know what she felt for him and how he made her feel. And did this man know the reason for the sadness that cast a shroud over her bright blue eyes?
But why should it matter? She was a woman who was in love with another man, and he was unlikely to see her again after this weekend.
And yet it did matter.
His body tensed as he waited for the answers he both did and did not want to hear.
Chapter Six (#u5805df1d-19dd-5346-8066-7da0377e77d4)
Rosie squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden bench. How was she supposed to answer such a question? Did she share such thoughts with her non-existent lover? Would she share such things with him? Probably. Wasn’t that what people in love did? But how was Rosie supposed to know? She had never been in love. Never expected to be in love.
She glanced in Alexander’s direction. Yes, she could imagine that a woman who was in love would want to tell her man about herself, about her thoughts, her feelings. They would surely want to share their troubles and offer each other comfort and support. A woman in love with a man would also want to hear his thoughts, his feelings, and to know everything there was to know about him.
If a woman was in love with a man like Alexander she was sure that was how she would be feeling.
She turned to look straight ahead. But she had never been in love—not with this imaginary man, and certainly not with Alexander.
Rosie started. Where had that thought come from? Of course she wasn’t in love with Alexander. The mere idea of it was ludicrous.
She gave a little laugh, and took another quick sideways look in Alexander’s direction. He was staring at her, waiting for her to answer. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Her cheeks burned hotter. She had to say something. Anything.
‘Oh, you know...we talk of this and that. And I suppose he’s a bit like me when it comes to not taking things too seriously.’
Would that be enough to satisfy his curiosity?
He looked down at her, then stared out at the garden and clasped his hands tightly together. ‘What sort of man is he, this man you are in love with?’
Rosie winced. It seemed Alexander wasn’t satisfied with her vague answer, and wasn’t going to let the subject drop. She cast another quick look in his direction and wondered why he was so curious about her imaginary beloved. He had reacted so strangely when she had first told him, and now seemed to want to know all about him.
But it didn’t matter what he was thinking. She needed to concentrate. Needed to answer his question. So, what sort of man would he be, this fictional lover of hers? Rosie had no idea, but she had to say something.
‘Oh, you know. He’s just a man.’
Alexander turned and looked down at her, his eyebrows knitted together. ‘“Just a man”? He’s the man you say you are in love with—the man you’re all but betrothed to—and you dismiss him as “just a man”?’
Why was he interrogating her like this? Was he trying to make her feel uncomfortable? If that was his intention then he was succeeding. But it seemed he was uncomfortable too. He was staring down at her, his jaw tense, his hands tightly clasped together as he waited for her answer.
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