Eva Shepherd - Beguiling The Duke

‘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.