“Have your mistakes made you who you are, Miss Hayden?” Robert studied her curiously. Were her mistakes her three failed engagements?
“Yes, I suppose they have.” Alex paused. “None of us are perfect. Our mistakes remind us of that. Only perfect people never err. I for one have never met anyone who was perfect. I can’t imagine they’d be even remotely interesting.”
Robert leaned forward. “But if you had the chance to undo those mistakes, would you take it?”
“I would,” Lady Penwood said staunchly.
“Of course I would.” Alex shrugged. “But the past is the past. We correct our mistakes, if possible, and move on.”
“It would be far better not to have erred in the first place.” Lady Penwood’s brow furrowed. “Pity we can’t be warned about mistakes before we make them.”
“Then instead of undoing what has been done, what is needed might be a way to foretell the future to avoid one’s mistakes altogether,” Alex pointed out. “A crystal ball, perhaps.”
Lady Penwood’s eyes widened. “Oh, I would like that.”
“A crystal ball to look into the future?” He met Alex’s gaze directly. “What would you hope to see?”
“I imagine,” Alex said slowly, “one would wish to see only good in the future. Better harvests, good health, prosperity—”
“Love?” Robert asked without thinking. Where on earth had that come from?
“Oh my, yes,” Lady Penwood murmured.
“Not all of us are destined for love, my lord, which is one thing it would no doubt be better not to know.” A firm note sounded in Alex’s voice. “What if you looked into the future and discovered you would never know love? It seems to me, if you knew without question, without doubt, without hope, that love did not lie ahead, life would be unquestionably sad.”
“Do you believe that our fates are predestined, then? That the future is already ordained? What will be will be and all that?” Robert asked. “That man’s free will is just an illusion?”
“That’s not what I said, and no, I don’t believe that. Not for a moment.” Her chin lifted, and her eyes blazed. “I believe we make our own choices.”
He grinned. “As do I, Miss Hayden.”
Alex stared at him. “You have a heretofore unsuspected tendency toward philosophy, don’t you, my lord?”
He laughed. “The inevitable result of an excellent education.”
She smiled. “And what would you hope to see in a crystal ball?”
“Brynmore restored,” he said without hesitation. “As well as good health and prosperity.”
“Not love, my lord?” A teasing note sounded in Lady Penwood’s voice.
“Oh, I don’t know, Lady Penwood.” Robert smiled. “I agree with Miss Hayden. If there is no chance of love in my future, I don’t want to know. In fact, I’d rather not know one way or the other. I would much rather be surprised by love.” His gaze met Alex’s. “I think love is one of those things that should catch you unawares. When you least expect it.”
“A romantic as well as a philosopher?” Alex teased. “Who would have thought?”
He idly ran his finger along the rim of his glass and again met her gaze. “Does that surprise you?”
“It’s simply that I had expected you to be charming—”
“As indeed he is,” Lady Penwood murmured.
Alex ignored her. “You were not unpleasant when we first met. But I did not expect you to be quite so intellectual.”
“Because I’m American?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m proving you wrong?”
“Well, yes, at least about your philosophical tendencies.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
“You did not strike me as the kind of man to be romantic simply for the sake of romance.” She leaned forward. “You seem the kind of practical sort who would see romance as the means to an end. A goal if you will.”
For a moment, he could only stare at her. “I’m not sure if I should deny that or admit it.”
“I see.” She studied him thoughtfully. “Are your intentions toward me less than honorable?”
“I daresay the fact that I’m here indicates the man is as concerned with propriety as he is with you,” Lady Penwood said mildly and proceeded to peel an orange.
“I would say that’s a question to be taken up with the crystal ball.” He smiled. “Don’t you agree, Lady Penwood?”
“My dear boy, I wouldn’t think a crystal ball is necessary.”
“Lady Penwood,” Alex said sharply. “His lordship and I barely know each other. Ours is an arrangement of business, nothing more than that.”
“Nothing?” The older woman’s brow rose.
“Nothing,” Alex said firmly.
“Excellent.” Lady Penwood beamed. “Then I shall enjoy my stay without worry as to your virtue.”
“I assure you, Lady Penwood”—Alex smiled, but a distinct challenge shone in her eyes—“my virtue is not part of our arrangement.”
Robert chuckled and raised a glass to her. “To your virtue, Miss Hayden.”
“I daresay I’ve never discussed a woman’s virtue at a dinner table.” Lady Penwood frowned. “It’s not the least bit appropriate. To be expected, perhaps, in a household run by a young woman alone without benefit of parents or a husband.”
“One does what one can,” Alex said pleasantly, but her eyes narrowed slightly. Apparently, being a good hostess meant overlooking criticism from aging chaperones. It didn’t look easy.
Lady Penwood turned to Robert. “And as you are American, I suppose allowances can be made.”
“Thank you, Lady Penwood,” Robert said in a sober manner. “I shall try to restrain myself in the future.”
“See that you do, my boy.” The dowager paused. “Although I will confess a discussion of the questionable virtue of the Earl of Cantwell’s daughter did provide lively discussion …”
Alex’s gaze caught his, and he would have bet a great deal she was trying hard not to laugh. There was something beyond amusement in her eyes as well. Something … compelling. Indefinable. Something that did the strangest things to the pit of his stomach.
Regardless, his relationship with Alex was nothing more than a business one.
Now, if he would just stop dreaming about her.
Chapter 8
“What do you think you’re doing?” Alex’s indignant voice sounded from the library doorway.
“Nothing.” Robert jumped to his feet like a guilty schoolboy, not that he had anything to feel guilty about. Not really. Besides, he hadn’t thought anyone else would be awake at this hour.
Oh, certainly, he had been leaning back in the chair behind the desk, absently crossing his legs and resting his feet on the desktop as he often did late at night in the library at the grand New York City house he and his family called home. For some odd reason, Nimway felt like home, and he hadn’t given his position a second thought, although he could see how Alex might object. “I was just thinking and—”
“What is that?” She aimed an accusing finger at the desk.
He frowned. “What is what?”
“This.” She moved to the desk, plucked up the cigar smoldering in the ashtray, holding it with two fingers as far away from her as possible, then stalked to the French doors, threw them open, and tossed the cigar outside.
“Hey!” He glared. “I wasn’t finished with that.”
“Oh, but you were.” She waved her hands to flush the lingering scent of fine Cuban cigar out the doors. “Cigars are not allowed in this house.”
“That was not the impression I had,” he said coolly. Why, hadn’t Lady Penwood declared immediately after dinner that they would leave Robert to his brandy and cigars while the ladies retired for the evening? If that wasn’t permission, he didn’t know what was.
Not at all what he’d had in mind for the rest of the evening, frankly. He’d hoped to spend this first night at Nimway getting to know his host
ess better. Before Alex could object—and it looked very much like that was exactly what she was about to do—the older lady had ushered her out of the room. Apparently, the Dragon of Nimway Hall was entirely too polite to protest. He wouldn’t have thought it possible. “Lady Penwood said—”
“With all due respect to Lady Penwood, it doesn’t matter what she says. This is not her house.” Alex crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s mine. And in my house, cigars are not permitted.”
“There was an ashtray on a bookshelf. Naturally, I assumed—”
“You assumed wrong,” she said sharply. “The ashtray was probably my father’s, although I don’t recall his being allowed to smoke in the house either.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like cigars.”
“Excellent.” He grinned in his most disarming manner. “More for me.”
She ignored him. “Not in my house.”
“I do enjoy a good cigar after dinner.” It really wasn’t an important enough issue to stand his ground on, and yet he couldn’t resist. He suspected there wasn’t anything as much fun as challenging Alex. He studied her for a moment. “How much?”
She shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean, how much?”
“How much to let me smoke cigars in the house?”
She sniffed. “You’re not rich enough for that.”
“What about …” He paused. “A new roof?”
“You’ll replace my roof if I let you smoke cigars in the house?”
Which would make his cigars the most expensive in the world, but why not. He nodded. “I will.”
“Tempting.” The corners of her lips twitched as if she was trying not to smile. “Regardless, I do have to draw the line somewhere.”
“And yet, I am a guest here. I would think, in the interest of hospitality—”
“You’re right of course, and I do want to be a gracious host. Therefore, in the interest of hospitality, you may have your cigars.” She waved at the open doors. “Out on the terrace or anywhere out of doors.”
He glanced outside. “It’s going to rain any minute.”
“Then you shall get wet.” She smiled.
“Are there any other rules of the house I should know about?”
“Probably but none that come to mind right now.” Her gaze swept over him. “You do understand that wandering the house in your dressing gown is not appropriate.”
“And yet here you are in what appears to be a robe, although I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”
Her brow arched upward. “And have you seen many ladies’ robes?”
“I have a mother and a sister, so I am not unfamiliar with lady’s fashions.”
“It’s comfortable,” she said staunchly.
“I’ll give you that.” Comfortable was the best thing that could be said. It was the most unattractive garment he’d ever seen on a woman. The robe looked like a costume for a French farce—worn and saggy and just short of tattered. Worse, it covered every inch of her. And it was a man’s robe if he wasn’t mistaken, which brought up all sorts of interesting questions. Interesting or worrisome? He ignored the thought. It was none of his business. Even so, the idea of what that eminently practical robe concealed took root in his mind and refused to leave.
“I’m not used to having guests in the house. I did not expect anyone to still be awake at this hour.” She cast him a reproving look.
He tried to keep the annoyance from his voice. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t sleep. “Neither did I.”
She brushed a strand of hair away from her face and sighed. “I seem to be having a difficult time falling asleep tonight.”
“I never sleep well my first night in a new bed.” True enough, but his restlessness tonight had nothing to do with the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to face whatever dreams of her might come now that they were under the same roof, even if his room was at the farthest end of the corridor. Probably as far from hers as could be managed.
There was every possibility those dreams would vanish in the face of the real woman. That he would finally get a good night’s sleep for the first time since he’d met her, but he doubted it. With her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, she looked damn near irresistible and very much like a woman who had just risen from her bed—or his bed. He cleared his throat. “I thought a good book might help.” He glanced around the room. “You have an excellent collection here.”
“We’re quite proud of Nimway’s library.” Alex surveyed the room. “My family has always treasured books and the stories and knowledge they hold. There are manuscripts here that are centuries old. I daresay anything you wish to read about can be found here. What do you enjoy?”
“Anything other than reports or business journals. I read entirely too much of that.” He thought for a moment. “Do you have any of Mark Twain’s work?”
“The American?” She frowned.
“That’s the one.”
“Yes, he’s most amusing,” she said in a vaguely dismissive manner. “I doubt if we have any of his books, but you’re welcome to look. My father read all sorts of things.”
“I see.” He paused. “But you don’t like Twain?”
She shrugged. “Each to his own.”
“Do you dislike all Americans?”
“My dislike of Mr. Twain’s work has nothing to do with his nationality. I simply don’t find him as humorous as other people seem to. And I don’t dislike all Americans, although they are universally acknowledged to be rude, arrogant, forward, and presumptuous.”
“Just how many Americans have you met?”
Her gaze met his, and she smiled in an overly pleasant manner. That smile did not bode well. “One.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Damn, she was good. Just right for a rude, arrogant, forward, presumptuous American. He shook off the thought and chuckled. “I’m flattered.”
“Are you really?”
“I could be insulted, I suppose, but it seems pointless. Besides, you’re not the first woman to call me arrogant.”
“No doubt.”
He ignored her. “Beyond that, I don’t think forward is a detriment, especially when one is in business. You never get anywhere by sitting back and waiting for things to happen. And presumptuous goes hand in hand with confident.”
“You certainly don’t seem to lack in confidence,” she said wryly.
“Thank you.”
“It was not intended as a compliment.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I do, however, object to being called rude. I will admit that sometimes being arrogant, forward, and—what was the other?”
“Presumptuous.”
“Ah yes, my favorite.”
“Humph.”
“As I was saying, sometimes being arrogant, forward, and presumptuous, might be mistaken for rude, but rude is never my intention. Therefore, if at any moment you have considered my actions or comments to be rude, I most humbly apologize.” With that, he swept an exaggerated bow.
She snorted.
He adopted his most offended tone. “I’m serious, Alexandra. I’m trying to apologize.” He paused. “In the event that I have been the least bit rude, which I really don’t think I have.”
“Should an apology end with a denial of the offense?” she asked.
“Probably not.” He shrugged. “So for that, too, I offer my apology.”
“Accepted.” She bit back a smile, but she was obviously amused. Good. “Now then, what do you like to read?”
“I am open to nearly anything.”
Alex picked up the lamp from the corner of the desk and moved to a wall of books, glancing at him over her shoulder. “While the collection here is extensive, it’s not the least bit organized.” She leaned toward the books lining the nearest shelf, holding the lamp closer and peering at the spines. “Why, right here is a history of the kings of France next to Mr. Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities.” She thought for a moment. “Which I suppose does make sense
in a convoluted sort of way.” She glanced at him. “Why don’t you peruse the shelves and find something you’d like?”
“Why don’t you select something for me?”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded. One could learn a lot about a person from the type of books they appreciated. And probably even more by the books they selected for others. “I have every confidence in you.”
“Then I shall select something useful for the new Viscount Brynmore.” She moved to another wall of shelves.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.” He followed after her.
“Goodness, Robert. It’s a book, not an act of Parliament.” She pulled an aged volume off a shelf and handed it to him.
He glanced at the title. “This is a guidebook.”
“Indeed it is. If you’re going to spend any time at all here, you should know your way around.” She moved to another wall, and he reluctantly trailed behind her.
“This”—she pulled an old, thick book off the shelf, blew a cloud of dust off the top edge, and handed it to him—“is the history of Somerset. You might well learn something about Brynmore and your own family. There have been people living in this part of England since before the Romans.”
Judging by the weight of the book, each and every person who had ever lived in Somerset was listed in the massive volume.
“Oh, you’ll want these as well.” She selected two more books and dropped them on the unsteady pile in his arms. “One is about the native plants and animals to be found in the area, the other about farming and estate management.” She pinned him with a pointed look. “You’ll probably need to hire someone to manage your estate, but it’s best to understand exactly what the position entails. You can’t make good decisions otherwise. And there are always decisions.”
He stared. Perhaps he had underestimated her.
Alex took another ancient book from a shelf and put it on top of the others.
He glanced at the title. “The Legends and Magic of Somerset?”
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1888 - ALEXANDRA Page 8