Kitabı oku: «Beguiling The Duke», sayfa 3
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
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.
