Alexander gazed down at the puzzling Miss van Haven. Her cheeks had once again turned a pretty shade of pink, and her bright blue eyes glistened as she gazed back at him.

      Yes, puzzling was the only word he could use to describe her. From her unconventional arrival to her confession that she had no more desire to marry than he did, she presented one big puzzle.

      It seemed that telling lies was part of her nature, and that was something he would never countenance. If he had learnt one lesson from Lydia Beaufort it had been about the destructive nature of lies. Lydia had once been a young woman of great promise, but lies had ruined her life and her downfall had all but destroyed him in the process. Miss van Haven’s lies might be less destructive than Lydia’s, but they were lies all the same.

      And Arabella’s reason for lying—that it was less complicated than telling the truth—was no excuse. It appeared that Miss van Haven could challenge his mother when it came to a lack of logical thinking.

      But there was something about her that he found undeniably attractive. Something he couldn’t define. He rubbed his fingers together and could almost feel the touch of her silky-smooth skin, like a soft, creamy magnolia blossom.

      But it wasn’t that. Nor was it her pretty face or her slim-waisted figure. It wasn’t the way she laughed so readily, nor the way she smelled of delicate spring flowers after a rain shower. Nor was it the unfathomable depths of her blue eyes. But there was definitely something about her. Why else would he have felt compelled to straighten her hat, when merely informing her that it had become dislodged was all that had been required.

      He realised he had been staring at her for longer than propriety would allow, so quickly looked away and out at the lake. What did it matter if she was a beautiful young woman? Lydia had also been pretty and sweet, with a charming laugh...

      ‘So, Miss van Haven,’ he said, as soon as he had resumed his usual sense of equanimity. ‘We’ve established that you like nature and art. Am I now seeing the real Arabella van Haven?’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ She gave a light, tinkling laugh. ‘What you see is what you get.’

      ‘No more lies.’

      She coughed slightly, and her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. ‘No more lies.’

      Her assertion did nothing to unravel the puzzle. She claimed to be telling the truth now, but her tightly held smile and rapidly blinking eyes appeared to make a mockery of that claim. She was still holding something back, but what that was Alexander had no idea.

      Surely it was of no matter what Miss van Haven might or might not be holding back. She was not Lydia Beaufort. He was not going to marry her. Her lies could not hurt him.

      And he had achieved his goal. He had informed her that they would not be marrying, and on that he and Miss van Haven were in complete agreement. That was all that mattered.

      It was time to put all speculation about this unusual American heiress to one side. Now that their awkward conversation about marriage was behind them, he could relax and simply play the role of good host.

      He stood up and once again offered her his arm. ‘If the real Arabella van Haven is interested in seeing the art collection, then I would be delighted to show her.’

      She clapped her hands in a genuine show of bubbly excitement. ‘Oh, yes, please! I’ve heard you have a Rembrandt that is reputed to be his best work, and a Vermeer, and several Gainsboroughs that are said to be exquisite.’

      She stood up and placed her hand on his arm.

      ‘Then shall we?’ he said. ‘It will also get you away from these horrid trees.’

      Alexander found himself unexpectedly pleased when she playfully patted his arm in response to his teasing.

      He looked around for the trailing maid, but she was nowhere in sight. ‘We seem to have lost our chaperon,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, yes, Nellie. She’s probably found something more entertaining to do than watch us. I hope you don’t mind?’

      He shook his head. Surely it should be she who should mind, not him. Yes, she was quite a puzzling young lady...

      They retraced their steps along the path. Then he led her through the house to the gallery that contained many of the family’s major paintings—including the Rembrandt she had remarked upon.

      When she saw the self-portrait she stopped. Her hand went to her neck and he heard a quick intake of breath.

      ‘It’s beautiful. It’s literally breathtaking,’ she whispered, transfixed by the painting.

      Alexander nodded. He had seen the self-portrait countless times, but its beauty still affected him deeply. He was inexplicably pleased that it had the same effect on Miss van Haven.

      They stood, side by side in silent admiration.

      ‘His sensitivity is superb,’ she murmured. ‘He’s painted himself smiling, but he’s still managed to capture a sense of tragedy in his eyes,’

      Alexander looked down at Miss van Haven, impressed by her insight. It was exactly what he had thought when he first saw her—that there was a sense of tragedy behind her smiling eyes.

      Rembrandt had gone from poverty to wealth and back to poverty, and had suffered deeply as a result. Arabella van Haven had been born into privilege and lived the life of a wealthy daughter of a prominent New York banker. And yet she had the look of one who had quietly suffered. Alexander couldn’t help but wonder why.

      He led her to a painting on the other side of the gallery, to avoid any further contemplation of what had caused Miss van Haven’s sad eyes. ‘The Vermeer is slightly more cheerful, but no less powerful.’

      She gazed as if enchanted at the portrait of a beautiful young woman playing a lute. ‘It’s wonderful. He’s really captured how a woman looks when she’s absorbed in her performance. It reminds me so much of a friend of mine who loves to act.’

      ‘Who might that be?’

      She shook her head. ‘Just a friend in New York.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘She often looks like that when she’s performing—completely lost in the part, as if the real Ara—as if she no longer exists.’

      Alexander led her slowly around the gallery, stopping at the paintings by Gainsborough and at the portraits of his ancestors painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

      ‘I think if I lived here I would never leave this room. You’re so lucky, Your Grace.’ She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with the pleasure and passion that great art clearly evoked in her.

      ‘Alexander—please call me Alexander. Your Grace sounds so stuffy,’ he said, surprising himself with his lack of formality.

      She gave another musical laugh. ‘In that case you must call me...’ She hesitated. ‘You must call me Arabella.’

      ‘Arabella.’ He savoured the name. ‘You’re right, Arabella, and it is a room in which I spend a great deal of time. Unfortunately many of these paintings are going to have to be sold to pay my father’s debts. We will have to enjoy them while they’re still here.’

      Her eyes grew wide. ‘Surely not? It would be terrible if they were lost to the family—especially the ones that are portraits of your ancestors.’

      ‘Yes, it is unfortunate.’ Alexander exhaled to try and drive out his annoyance.

      Those paintings would indeed have to be sold to cover