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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.