that what you’re always going on about? Well, meeting Miss van Haven will be an investment in your future.’
She sent him a victorious smile.
‘Putting aside the complete lack of logic in your argument, you’ve invited her here under false pretences. I won’t lie to her. I will make it clear at the first opportunity that I will not be marrying her.’
‘Oh, you and that overblown sense of honesty. You were just as bad when you were a boy, but I would have thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’
‘Would you prefer it if I told lies, the way Father and Grandfather did?’
The way Lydia Beaufort did.
His mother’s lips tightened, but she made no reply.
‘Our family has lost just about everything. Surely you don’t expect me to lose my belief in the importance of honesty as well? And if Arabella van Haven is as virtuous as you say she is then I’m sure she will also believe in the value of honesty and will want to know the truth.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard she does value honesty in all things. I’ve also heard she’s modest, gentle, demure, and temperate in all areas. And they say that she...’
Alexander sat down and sighed as his mother went back to listing the litany of virtues possessed by the apparently saintly Arabella van Haven.
It seemed his mother would not be stopped in her plan to make her the next Duchess of Knightsbrook, and he was going to have to endure the company of the title-seeking heiress for the weekend. But eventually his mother and the American would both realise his mind was made up, and Arabella van Haven would have to pursue some other duke, earl or marquess desperate for American dollars—because the position of his wife was not for sale.
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
