Читать книгу Beguiling The Duke - Eva Shepherd - Страница 11

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.