“When was the glasshouse built?” she asked.
He refused to be baited on that subject. “Let me show you our modest ball and music room. The floor is particularly lovely.”
Lady Margaret duly admired the parquetry in the ballroom, and Henry admired Lady Margaret. She swirled in a silent dance all her own, taking in the crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, the musician platform, and the French doors. He didn’t know what she imagined, but his mind’s eye saw her. In his arms. Her attention entirely his.
The heat in her smile when they continued gave him cause to wonder if her thoughts had been similar. He might have been mistaken. “I read there is a gallery of family portraits.”
“Above us. I’ll show you the family stairs.”
“If it is part of the private family quarters…,” she demurred.
“Not at all. In fact, it opens onto the upper level of the library. There are sitting rooms as well upstairs.” He led the way.
The stairs let out into the gallery, which ran the length of the George I build and the older portion of the house. “Then where are the ducal quarters?” she asked.
“My rooms are—” He made a vague gesture, meeting her eyes. “—beyond.” He swallowed hard. “The, ah, pictures are roughly chronological. The oldest are, ah, at that end.”
Chapter Five
Margaret remembered Henryas a lanky, half-grown boy running wild in York while his cousin Henry strutted through events like the princeling he was. Even now, she found it hard to picture Henry as the Duke of Roseleigh. And yet his confident masculinity drew her. She found his faint flush at the mention of his private quarters charming; something deeply feminine inside her responded to his obvious attraction. It would give her father palpitations.
They began in the middle, among lush paintings of men in armor and women with plunging necklines and voluminous gowns. She peered at each, searching for this Henry’s rugged good looks in their faces but finding little. “Not much family resemblance,” she murmured.
Henry, who appeared to know them well, introduced each as a so-many-times great-grandparent or -uncle, sometimes with a naughty story.
They moved toward the beginning and came to a few sixteenth-century courtiers in Tudor doublets and hose, necks bound in ruffs. And the ladies… “It is a wonder they could move, much less dance, in those boardlike bodices and farthingales,” she murmured.
“But dance they did if what the histories tell us is true. Their headdresses look like they are in boxes,” he replied, eyeing her as if imagining her head wrapped in one.
She tipped her head coyly, and he laughed. They came to men in flowing robes and big hats, grim-faced next to wives with hair bound by linen strips under stiff head gear. “Those must be the lot who lived in the keep,” she said.
“No doubt. Damp and cold.” He grinned, and her heart took a leap. “Look at this one. The keep itself, seat of the Earls of Roseleigh, fierce defenders of Norman sovereignty in this part of the island.” He indicated a small painting of the ancient castle, executed in a strong hand and portrayed with a stormy sky behind.
“That looks like the illustration in the book I read.”
“It has been much copied. Last of all is the grandson—or perhaps great-nephew—of its builder, Adolfus Bradleigh, the second Earl,” he said.
“We have a copy of his portrait in our gallery,” she murmured.
He cocked up an eyebrow. “Should I be surprised? Maybe not. I’m sure both of our families sprang from two of his branches.”
She gazed at him directly. “Do you know when we went our separate ways and why?”
“It is in the natural order of things for families to expand into different directions, isn’t it? At some point, a younger son must have been rewarded with a title. Henry VIII sold enough of them.” He paused, glanced back at the line of paintings, and bit his lower lip as if considering the matter. He’d revealed that endearing habit before. “Are there any others you have copies of?”
“None, though a few bear some resemblance in the sixteenth century. Perhaps you’re correct,” she said.
He offered his arm. “Shall we go to the other end and take a look at the most recent ones?”
She studied the passing generations as they walked to the other end. They came to what she suspected was the early Georgian time, perhaps when work on the manor had flourished. Roses began to appear; she’d been watching for them. From that point, every painting had one, or a vaseful, or an entire bush, usually in shades of red. She gazed at them sharply and was certain. Every one. She stopped in her tracks and walked back. “There. That’s where it starts. Can you see it?”
He peered at the painting of the third duke. After a moment, he shrugged. “Still little resemblance.”
“He’s holding a red rose. Every painting from this one on has roses,” she said.
“Are your family’s the same?” he asked, his warm eyes boring into her.
She couldn’t have lied if she wanted to. “I have no idea. I’ve never noticed. Perhaps we take them for granted.”
