Eva Shepherd - Beguiling The Duke

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.