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Near the doorway they had walked through hung the portrait of a man with dark curly hair, wearing armour. His sword was raised in the air as he sat upon his steed. From his expression she gathered he would be happy to use that sword on her if she moved the wrong way. He was an intimidating sight.
Lyonsdale approached her. ‘That is Edward Carlisle, the First Duke of Lyonsdale. He was awarded the title by King Henry the Seventh for service to the crown in battle.’
‘Which battle?’
‘The Battle of Bosworth.’
Well, that explained nothing. She continued to study the designs on the man’s armour.
‘The Battle of Bosworth took place during the War of the Roses.’
He might just as well have been speaking Italian.
‘You have heard of the War of the Roses, haven’t you?’
She shook her head while she looked up at the superior expression of the First Duke. ‘Do you know when he was given the title?’
‘Of course—in the year 1485, not long after Henry was crowned King.’ He placed his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
Lyonsdale knew what his ancestor had been doing in 1485. She knew little of her family’s history past her grandparents. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips.
He appeared affronted. ‘What have I said that you find so amusing?’
‘All I know of my family is that my great-grandfather came to America from Holland and was proficient in building ships. That is how my father came to inherit our shipyard in New York.’
There was no telling if his shocked expression was at the lack of information she possessed or her ancestor’s occupation.
‘Surely you know more than that?’
‘No. That is all I know,’ she said with a shrug. ‘My father may know more.’ She knew nothing of her mother’s family. It had never occurred to her to ask.
Lyonsdale appeared to be catatonic. He wasn’t even blinking.
‘Would you like to tell me about the others?’
It took him a minute to answer. ‘What others?’
She gestured to the portraits with her hand. ‘The other Dukes.’
He snapped out of his stupor and let out a deep breath. ‘I believe you are simply being polite.’
‘That’s not true. Tell me more about your family.’
They walked from portrait to portrait and he recounted numerous accomplishments spanning hundreds of years. It was an impressive group of men. Had they all been in a room together it would have been difficult to choose one who stood out from the rest.
When they reached a gap between two of the portraits Katrina stopped. ‘Where is this one?’
Lyonsdale cleared his throat and crossed his arms. ‘The Fifth Duke was a disgrace. He was too concerned with his own pleasure and did not live up to the responsibility of his title. His portrait is not fit to hang with the others.’
Now, this sounded interesting. She stepped closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘What exactly did he do?’
He leaned his lips close to her ear and his warm breath fanned her neck. Her eyes fluttered at the sensation.
‘I’ll. Never. Tell.’
When he pulled his head back the cool air was a shock.
The proper thing to do would be to end this discussion, however much she wanted to know what the man had done.
‘Was it something truly dreadful? I’ll wager it was.’
He arched a regal brow, which gave him an expression closely resembling that of the Sixth Duke, who was looking down at them with disdain.
‘Miss Vandenberg, it is not polite to poke into other people’s affairs.’
She gestured to the empty wall. ‘He is dead. He will never know.’
He spun on his heels and walked towards the far end of the room. ‘I meant my affairs,’ he called out over his shoulder.
She hurried to catch up with him. ‘I was not talking about you. I was talking about the Fifth Duke. What was his name?’
‘His history is my history. His actions reflect who I am. Hence it is my affair. His name is inconsequential.’
‘That’s a peculiar name.’ She tried to hold back her smile but it didn’t work.
He stopped abruptly and turned to her. Their eyes met and a smile tugged on his lips.
It felt like an odd little victory.
‘I believe you were interested in my library?’
‘I was... I am.’
What did one have to do to be removed from a portrait gallery? Was he a gambler? A rake? Perhaps he enjoyed his brandy a bit too much?
‘I can keep a secret.’
His dubious expression was the only response she was to receive.
Past his shoulder she spied Lyonsdale’s own portrait. His face was fuller and younger.
‘You appear astonished to find me here,’ he said.
‘Is it a requirement that none of you smile for your portraits?’
‘The responsibility of this title is not a jovial matter. The portraits should imply that.’
She let her gaze drift to the men who were still watching them. ‘I suppose... But none of you appear at all pleased with your illustrious accomplishments.’
‘Would you have us laugh in our portraits?’
‘No, but a hint of a smile would be refreshing. You are an impressive collection of English noblemen. However, I fear dinner would be a dour affair if you all were present.’
He looked insulted, which she found amusing. ‘I believe, Miss Vandenberg, we were heading to the library.’
‘Lead on, Your Grace. I will humbly follow.’
‘You are a sauce-box. You are aware of that, are you not?’
It proved impossible to hold back her laugh.
She was about to respond when she froze at the sight of the library before her. The long oak-panelled room held more books than Katrina had ever seen in any home. All four walls were covered from floor to ceiling with rows of books, and at the far end two walls of bookshelves jutted into the middle of the room. She wished she might remain in this room for days.
‘It may prove difficult to make your selection if you do not step inside,’ he called out from inside the room, with a trace of laughter.
Warmth spread across her chest, up her neck and across her cheeks. Avoiding his gaze, she crossed the threshold and was met by the scent of old books and leather.
‘This is lovely.’ Her voice died away in the hushed stillness of the room.
‘Thank you. You may explore it to your heart’s content.’
‘I’d caution against making such an offer. You may find me curled on the floor, surrounded by books in the early-morning hours.’
‘One can only dream, Miss Vandenberg...one can only dream.’
Smiling at his teasing comment, she navigated around a grouping of well-used chairs and highly polished tables. As she walked along, scanning the shelves, she felt the heat of his presence behind her.
‘Are you a great reader?’ she asked. ‘Or do you rarely frequent this room?’
‘In my youth I would spend many agreeable hours here. That large chair by the fire was a particular favourite spot of mine. It is from there that I read about gods and adventures and pirates and kings. Unfortunately now my duties in Westminster keep me too busy to read for pleasure.’
That made her pause and turn to him. ‘There is always time for a good book. Even if that time is before you close your eyes at night. A well-told story feeds the soul.’
‘Spoken like the daughter of an author.’
He didn’t have a true measure of her if that was what he thought.
‘Spoken by a woman who knows the value of literature,’ she replied, poking him in the chest. ‘You should consider my words.’
‘I consider all your words—much to my vexation.’
What man said that to a woman?
‘You think I’m vexing?’
He crossed his arms and raised his chin. ‘I think you provoke me to see the world differently.’
‘Forgive me. I do not wish to inconvenience you,’ she snapped, spinning around to prevent herself from saying more.
He took her arm and gently turned her to face him. ‘Do you seek to purposely misread me? If so, you should be commended. You do a fine job.’ He was wise enough to redirect their conversation. ‘Now, tell me if you have any notion of which subject matter might interest you.’
The heat from his hand on her forearm warmed her entire body. She glanced about, needing to recall the purpose of their excursion. Intrigued by his ancestors, she was curious about the battle he had mentioned.
‘Would you have any books on your country’s history?’
‘Are you certain I cannot interest you in a gothic novel?’ A teasing glint sparkled in his green eyes. ‘Perhaps one with a dungeon?’
She held back a smile and faked eagerness. ‘Do you have any?’
‘I honestly couldn’t say,’ he said dryly.
‘Well, it matters not. I am interested in a historical read.’
He let go of her arm. ‘Follow me. I will show you where to look.’ He led her behind the last row of shelves. ‘Is there anything about our history you have a particular interest in?’
It wasn’t necessary for him to know that she wanted to learn more about his family. She was certain that would make him strut about for the remainder of their time together. He had mentioned a King Henry. She could start there.
‘Since we have no monarchy in America, I’d like to read about yours.’
He slid the brass and oak library ladder towards her. ‘You should look on the upper shelves.’
* * *
Julian picked up a book on Greek mythology and began skimming the contents while he waited for Miss Vandenberg to make her selection. He had read this book before, many years ago. From what he could recall he had enjoyed all the fantastical tales. Maybe he would read a few pages this evening, before he turned in for the night.
He should allow her to peruse his collection without hovering around her like some lovestruck youth. It would be the polite thing to do. But Julian had no desire to be polite.
‘What do you know of King Henry the Eighth?’
She really did have a lovely voice. When he lifted his head, his reply caught in his throat as he found himself at eye level with the delicate curves of her breasts.
Her creamy skin was flushed with a warm glow as his gaze fixed on a small birthmark on the upper swell of her left breast. How he wished he could spend hours exploring that one small spot. How many birthmarks did she have? Did she have them in other enticing places?
The catch of Miss Vandenberg’s breath broke his concentration. He quickly raised his gaze to meet her amused expression.
‘Well?’ she prompted.
That birthmark had caused the blood to rush from his head to his groin, and Julian had no recollection of their conversation. She rolled her eyes and lowered herself to the next step down. Her breasts were now out of his direct line of vision. He wasn’t certain if he was relieved or disappointed.
‘I asked what you know of King Henry the Eighth. There are a number of volumes of books on him here.’
Books. They had been discussing books. Would she think it odd if he banged his head against one of the shelves? Probably. He snapped the book on mythology closed.
‘He ruled England during the sixteenth century and altered the course of our religious practices. You may find it interesting that he had six wives.’
Her shocked expression made him laugh. ‘Six? How could one man have six wives?’
‘One died by natural means, he beheaded two, divorced two, and the last outlived him.’
