‘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.
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