forced politeness his mother led Miss van Haven back down the entrance hall she had just danced up, pausing at each painting and explaining which ancestor it depicted and what great exploit each was famous for.
It was fortunate for his mother that paintings of his father and his grandfather did not adorn the hall. He suspected even she would have had trouble finding anything with which to commend those two reprobates, and Miss van Haven’s term ‘mischievous’ was far too tame to describe the damage that those two men had done to the family and to the estate.
Following the two women, Alexander had the opportunity to observe this odd American. His mother had been right about one thing: she certainly was attractive. With her raven-black hair and sparkling blue eyes she was nothing less than radiant. Nor could he deny that her creamy skin with the hint of blush on her cheeks gave her a delicate beauty. And that slightly upturned nose was rather appealing.
His mother was possibly right that she could play the banjo and recite long passages of Shakespeare—although he had no desire to discover whether either of those claims were true or not. But he suspected that nothing else about this young woman was what his mother had hoped for in a future daughter-in-law.
As his mother continued her boastful monologue Miss van Haven nodded furiously, perhaps unaware that her hat had become dislodged as she 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
