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 eyes...so dark they seemed to absorb all light...eyes that were staring down at her, their accompanying black eyebrows raised in question.
‘May I?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She thrust the tightly clasped vase in his direction.
His fingers lightly touched hers as he removed the vase from her grip, setting off a decidedly unfamiliar reaction in her body. Her hands tingled and burned, as if she had held them too close to the fire. A strange sensation raced up her arm, across her chest, hitting her in the heart, causing it to pound in a wild, untamed manner.
He replaced the vase on its pedestal and turned back to face her. Her head continued to spin, her heart continued to dance—but surely that had nothing to do with his touch or his stunning good looks. It had to be due entirely to her whirling entrance.
‘Miss van Haven, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alexander FitzRoy, Duke of Knightsbrook, and may I present my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Knightsbrook?’
Rosie bobbed another curtsey, inhaled a quick breath and turned to face his silver-haired mother, who was wearing the strangest expression she had ever seen.
While Lord Ashton was giving every appearance of being unaffected by her unusual entrance, the same could not be said of his mother. Her contorted mouth was presumably meant to be smiling, but a frown kept taking over, causing her lips to twist and turn as if pulled by a puppet master’s invisible strings.
It seemed she might have to work a bit harder to shock Lord Ashton, but the Dowager was going to be easy prey.
It was time to have some fun.
‘Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.’ She reached down, grabbed the Dowager’s hand and pumped it in a manly handshake.
Those invisible strings gave her mouth a firm tug. The frown won, and the Dowager’s nostrils flared as if she could smell something unpleasant.
Rosie bit the inside of her upper lip to stop herself from laughing as the Dowager finally forced her lips into a smile, her face contorting as if she were undergoing a painful dental procedure.
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss van Haven,’ the Dowager replied, trying discreetly to rub the hand that Rosie had just crushed.
Rosie controlled the giggle bubbling up inside her. ‘I’m really sorry about nearly breaking your vase—but it looks like it’s a really old one, so perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered.’
All three turned and looked at the offending porcelain ornament, now safely restored to its pedestal.
‘Yes, it is rather old...’ The Dowager sniffed. ‘Ming Dynasty, I believe.’
A small giggle escaped Rosie’s lips before she had a chance to stop it. ‘Oh, as old as that? Well, then, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d broken it. It would have given you a good excuse to replace it with something nice and new.’
The Dowager’s eyes grew wide, her tight lips compressed further, and she signalled to a footman to remove the vase, as if concerned that Rosie was about to commit a wanton act of vandalism.
They waited in silence as the footman gently picked up the vase and carried it reverently away in his gloved hands. When he’d safely left the room the Dowager exhaled slowly.
‘I’m afraid you’ve arrived a little earlier than we were expecting, Miss van Haven. We usually greet our guests formally at the entrance,’ the Dowager said.
‘Oh, I like to take people by surprise. You never know what mischievous acts you’ll catch them in.’ Rosie winked at the Dowager and received a wide-eyed look of disapproval in response.
‘Yes, quite...’ she said, flustered.
Rosie looked over at the Duke, hoping to see an equally disapproving look. Instead he stared back at her with unflinching dark eyes, neither smiling nor frowning. Rosie’s grin died on her lips and heat rushed to her cheeks.
What was happening? She never blushed. And she shouldn’t be blushing now. She had to remain in character if she was to convince this man that she was a most unsuitable duchess. Just because he was sublimely handsome it did not mean she should let him unnerve her. She had to remember who he was and what he wanted to do. He wanted to marry Arabella to get his hands on her father’s money.
‘I imagine there’s been a lot of mischief in these halls,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light-hearted to disguise the disquiet the Duke was arousing deep inside her. ‘I’m sure those ancestors could tell a tale or two.’ She threw her arms up in the air and gestured wildly to the paintings lining the wall.
The Dowager took a step back to avoid Rosie’s flying arms, while the Duke continued to stare down at her, his face implacable. She lowered her arms. It seemed that bad behaviour wasn’t going to upset his demeanour. She would have to try another means of attack.
‘Judging by all those portraits, your family has been wealthy for many generations. I suppose you realise that my father was born in poverty? His father was a miner, and his father’s father was a mule driver.’
Let’s see how the snobby aristocrats react to that!
The Duke nodded slowly. ‘Yes, your father’s history is well-documented. And he is to be commended for rising so quickly from such humble beginnings to become one of the wealthiest men in America. He’s obviously an enterprising man and clearly believes in hard work.’
Rosie