‘That’s debatable.’
‘Come, now—she is quite affable.’
He shook his head. ‘That is one word to describe her. I can think of others.’
‘You are very fortunate to have her.’
Their arms inadvertently brushed against one another, and he placed some distance between them. After a few more steps he moved his hands behind his back as they continued down the long hall.
‘If you had a grandmother like mine you might have a different opinion on the matter.’
‘I did not know either of my grandmothers. They passed away before I was born.’
He lowered his head and looked at her with regret. ‘Please forgive me. I should have thought before I spoke.’
He might not appreciate his grandmother, but she did. She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘No apology is necessary.’
They strolled through an ornately carved archway and entered a long wood-panelled extension of the hall. To their right, tall windows with blue damask silk draperies brought muted light into the room. The opposite wall was covered with life-size portraits of men in various poses and attire.
Katrina paused and looked over the portraits of the men who were staring down at them. She advanced further and their superior gazes followed her.
‘Who are they?’
He appeared to stand taller, if that was even possible. ‘May I introduce you to the Dukes of Lyonsdale?’
Her eyes widened as she spun around. ‘All of them?’
He let out a soft laugh at her obvious amazement. ‘We are missing one. However, every man in this room has held my title at one time. My ducal title is one of the oldest in England.’
In Katrina’s dining room at their country home in Tarrytown her mother’s portrait hung on the wall behind the chair where she had sat. Her father said it reminded him that she was still somehow with them. He also carried a miniature of her mother on his person. The only other portraits of her family were one of her father and one of his parents. Lyonsdale had many, many more.
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, an
d 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.’
‘He beheaded his wives?’
‘Two of them, yes.’ He backed away from the ladder to give her room to step down. Curious as to the book she had chosen, he held the tome that was still in her hand and read the title. ‘Excellent choice,’ he informed her.
‘Why would any man behead his wife?’
‘It is said he found them...unfaithful.’ This really was not a discussion one should have with a young, unmarried lady.
She stepped closer to him. ‘So he killed them? I have heard of many instances of wives being unfaithful here. Are they still beheaded for it?’
‘If that were the case there would be quite a few ladies missing.’
‘I really cannot begin to comprehend you English.’
‘And what puzzles you so?’
‘Your ideas on marriage and what constitutes a good one.’
‘And what constitutes a good marriage to an American?’
‘Love, fidelity, friendship...respect.’ She tilted her head to the side and a loose blonde curl caressed her long neck. ‘Have you ever been in love?’
A duke did not fall in love. Duty came before personal interest. Everyone knew that. He shook his head.
She nodded, as if she understood. Since she was an American, she would never have to concern herself with duty. This woman would be able to marry for love.
As an unmarried gentleman, he knew he should tread lightly in conversations of marriage. Yet she had been the one to broach the subject first. It would be poor form to end a discussion she was clearly interested in.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ he asked.
A wistful look crossed her beautiful face. ‘I have not fallen in love yet, but I have witnessed it enough. Have you not seen two people so in love that it appears their hearts will stop beating if they are not together? That is the love I believe my parents had and what I wish for myself. I want to wake to thoughts of one gentleman and close my eyes to dream of him.’
‘The sounds rather consuming.’
‘I believe love is consuming—in the most wondrous of ways.’
‘Now you are waxing poetical, Miss Vandenberg.’
‘Laugh if you will. But I shall live my life in America, in a marriage of love and fidelity, happy to keep my head.’
The thought of her married to someone else and living far away disturbed him. He could not fathom why it should bother him. He did not believe her silly notions of love. He certainly did not want her to love him!
‘And you, Your Grace—what is your idea of a perfect marriage?’
He had no idea. A knot formed in his stomach. His marriage had not been perfect. Even in the best of times it had felt awkward. His grandmother said she had been happy with his grandfather, but the man had died before Julian was born.
‘I do not know,’ he replied honestly.
‘Maybe some day you will discover what it means to be happily married.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘For that I am truly sorry.’
She proceeded to walk past him, and he moved his arm across the aisle to block her passage. It was mere inches from her breasts. He didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.
Their eyes locked and he lowered his head towards her, taking in her lemon scent. She was unaware of how captivating she was when she smiled.
‘You think I’m vexing,’ she said softly, with those tempting lips.
He lowered his head closer. ‘I think you’re enchanting.’ Just one taste was all he needed. ‘Katrina...’ he whispered, testing the sound of her name.
‘I don’t know your name,’ she said, their breaths mingling.
‘Carlisle.’
‘What Carlisle?’
‘Julian Henry Michael Charles Carlisle.’
‘That’s quite a long name.’
‘We English like to impress.’
When their lips finally touched he closed his eyes.
Almost instantly she pulled back and ducked under his arm. Reaching the end of the row, she paused and gave him a devilish grin. ‘As impressive as your name is, I do not believe it is impressive enough to warrant a kiss from me.’
By the time he walked out from where they were hidden, he caught sight of her walking out through the library door. Crossing his arms and leaning against the bookcase, Julian chided himself at his own stupidity. Dreaming about her was one thing, but actually knowing the feel of her lips and the taste of her mouth would be a mistake. He suspected that if he ever did kiss her thoroughly, she would be impossible to forget.
Chapter Twelve
An Unsuitable Duchess Page 10