Beguiling The Duke

It seemed Arabella had the same low opinion of the ridiculous foibles of the gentry as he did himself.

Growing up, he had spent as much time as he could away from this house. His father’s riotous gambling parties had often gone on for weeks at a time, and he and Charlotte had taken refuge in the welcoming cottage of Annie, the wife of a tenant farmer, who worked in dairy. It was during his time with Annie and her husband that he had learnt how hard the tenants worked, tilling the soil and making the money which his father and his friends squandered. In contrast to Annie’s warm and welcoming ways, the excesses, rituals and snobbery of his own class had seemed absurd, but it was unusual to meet someone who thought the same way as him.

‘You must cause quite a stir amongst New York society with that attitude,’ he said.

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head slightly. ‘Well, perhaps—but it’s an attitude I tend to keep to myself and only share with my closest friends.’

‘Your closest friends? Does that include this man you are in love with? Does he share your irreverent attitude to society?’

Damn. He had vowed to ask her nothing about the man, but the questions had come out before Alexander had realised he was asking. Questions that seemed now to hang in the air between them.

Hadn’t he told himself he did not want or need to know anything about the man? And yet at the same time he wanted to know everything there was to know about this man Arabella loved. He wanted to know what she felt for him and how he made her feel. And did this man know the reason for the sadness that cast a shroud over her bright blue eyes?

But why should it matter? She was a woman who was in love with another man, and he was unlikely to see her again after this weekend.

And yet it did matter.

His body tensed as he waited for the answers he both did and did not want to hear.

Chapter Six

Rosie squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden bench. How was she supposed to answer such a question? Did she share such thoughts with her non-existent lover? Would she share such things with him? Probably. Wasn’t that what people in love did? But how was Rosie supposed to know? She had never been in love. Never expected to be in love.

She glanced in Alexander’s direction. Yes, she could imagine that a woman who was in love would want to tell her man about herself, about her thoughts, her feelings. They would surely want to share their troubles and offer each other comfort and support. A woman in love with a man would also want to hear his thoughts, his feelings, and to know everything there was to know about him.

If a woman was in love with a man like Alexander she was sure that was how she would be feeling.

She turned to look straight ahead. But she had never been in love—not with this imaginary man, and certainly not with Alexander.

Rosie started. Where had that thought come from? Of course she wasn’t in love with Alexander. The mere idea of it was ludicrous.

She gave a little laugh, and took another quick sideways look in Alexander’s direction. He was staring at her, waiting for her to answer. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. Her cheeks burned hotter. She had to say something. Anything.

‘Oh, you know...we talk of this and that. And I suppose he’s a bit like me when it comes to not taking things too seriously.’

Would that be enough to satisfy his curiosity?

He looked down at her, then stared out at the garden and clasped his hands tightly together. ‘What sort of man is he, this man you are in love with?’

Rosie winced. It seemed Alexander wasn’t satisfied with her vague answer, and wasn’t going to let the subject drop. She cast another quick look in his direction and wondered why he was so curious about her imaginary beloved. He had reacted so strangely when she had first told him, and now seemed to want to know all about him.

But it didn’t matter what he was thinking. She needed to concentrate. Needed to answer his question. So, what sort of man would he be, this fictional lover of hers? Rosie had no idea, but she had to say something.

‘Oh, you know. He’s just a man.’

Alexander turned and looked down at her, his eyebrows knitted together. ‘“Just a man”? He’s the man you say you are in love with—the man you’re all but betrothed to—and you dismiss him as “just a man”?’

Why was he interrogating her like this? Was he trying to make her feel uncomfortable? If that was his intention then he was succeeding. But it seemed he was uncomfortable too. He was staring down at her, his jaw tense, his hands tightly clasped together as he waited for her answer.

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