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.
Alone with the Duke—well, alone apart from Nellie—Rosie knew she had to keep her guard up. She could not let him see how much he unnerved her. She had to keep reminding herself that he was after Arabella’s money. That was all that mattered.
She sent him what she hoped was a confident smile and got a familiar stern look in return.
‘If I am to escort you round the gardens, can I make one request?’
She shook her head slightly. ‘A request?’
‘Yes—would you please stop this charade?’
One hand shot to her stomach; the other covered her mouth to stop a gasp from escaping. This was a disaster. He could see it was all an act. He knew she wasn’t Arabella. Her plan was ruined before it had begun.
She looked out through the glass doors to the gardens. Could she escape? No, that was ridiculous. She was in the middle of the Devon countryside, many miles from London. What was she going to do? Walk? All the way back to the train station?
No, she was going to have to bluff her way out of this.
She scanned the entrance hall. Her mind spun with half-formed excuses and explanations.
‘Charade?’ she squeaked.
‘Yes—this play-acting. You may have been able to shock my mother but it won’t work on me, Miss van Haven.’
Rosie released the breath she’d been holding and slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. He didn’t know she wasn’t Arabella. All was not lost.
‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry about that...’ She gestured around the entrance hall, her hand twirling in imitation of her entrance. ‘Just my little joke.’
His dark eyebrows drew together. He frowned slightly. ‘Really? Are you in the habit of making fun of your hosts?’
‘No, I...’ She stopped.
Why make excuses? After all, she didn’t want Lord Ashton to like her. She had to be completely unlikable if she was to convince him just what a thoroughly unacceptable duchess she would make.
‘Well, yes. I do it all the time. I love making fun of people. Don’t you?’
His frown deepened. ‘No, I don’t. Everyone deserves to be treated with respect, no matter who they are.’
Momentarily chastened, Rosie was tempted to agree with him—but she couldn’t. The one thing she did not want was to be was agreeable.
‘I guess we just see things completely differently. I think everyone is here for my entertainment and I like to have as much fun as possible. If people get offended and think I’m laughing at them—well, that’s hardly my fault. Is it?’
He stared at her for a moment longer, as if observing a strange animal on display at the zoological gardens. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’
The response was vague, but Rosie could read his intent in his rigid body language. She had her wish. The Duke disapproved of her.
‘Well, don’t you worry if you don’t know the answer. I’m sometimes not that smart either.’
‘I don’t doubt that, Miss van Haven.’
Rosie smiled. That almost sounded like an insult.
He offered her his arm. ‘Mother would like me to show you the gardens. Shall we...?’
She placed her hand on his forearm and resisted the temptation to give the muscles a little squeeze, just to see how they compared to a marble statue.
They walked out through double French doors, down some sweeping stone stairs and into the gardens, which looked just as magnificent at ground level as it had
