She was happy now. With him. If he kissed her now would she stop him as she had yesterday or would she surrender to the inevitable? Because in any other place, at any other time, it would have been inevitable.
‘English gardens have fountains, too. At Shelton we have a spectacular one which you can see from the Summer Sitting Room.’
The mention of her stepbrother’s ancestral home was as effective as a cold shower. Did Polly know the extent to which Anthony Lovell had borrowed against his inheritance? Quite possibly selling Golden Mile to Rashid had been the last act of a very desperate man.
And desperate men could be very persuasive. And maybe her love for the house was enough of a temptation. Without any interference on his part he couldn’t see the duke holding on to his country seat for long.
They walked down the vine-shaded path towards the summer house. ‘You always speak of Shelton Castle with such affection.’
Polly looked up at him, a warm smile lighting her eyes. ‘I love it. I always have. My mother says it’s because I’ve polished most of it. Which is true. I had my first job at the castle at fourteen.’
Rashid said nothing, hoping his silence would encourage her to speak.
‘There’s such a sense of history about the place. Every nook and cranny could tell you a story. And we have our own resident ghost.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I’ve never seen her but there are plenty who will swear to it. We call her the Mad Duchess, but actually she was Lady Margaret Chenies who was married, pretty much against her will, to the very first Duke of Missenden back at the time of the English Civil War.’ Her blue eyes danced with mischief.
‘Was she mad?’
‘Highly strung, I think, and lived a miserable life.’
‘As all ghosts should.’
‘Certainly.’
Rashid watched, fascinated at the hint of a dimple. ‘Lady Margaret was absolutely devoted to her only son who was killed at the Siege of Gloucester in sixteen forty-three and she threw herself out of the window in her grief.’
‘Ah.’
‘But there are those who say she was pushed by her philandering husband. She now walks the Long Gallery, which actually wasn’t built in sixteen forty-three, calling his name.’
Rashid smiled. It was impossible not to. Her enthusiasm for her subject was infectious—as it had been in the documentary on Shelton. She was a natural in front of the camera and it was really not surprising her friend had decided to utilise her talent.
He felt himself weaken a little more. He wanted to believe her, but if he believed her that would lead to a whole new list of problems.
How possible was it to have an affair with a woman whose life you were destroying? When he took Shelton away from her stepbrother what would she do? Would she hate him?
‘Do you intend to do more television work after this?’
Polly shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I suppose if it came my way I wouldn’t turn it down, but I don’t have any great specialism to bring to anything.’
‘What do you plan on doing?’
‘I’ll return to Shelton.’
‘Straight away?’
‘Well, Easter is the start of the tourist season and there’ll be lots to do to get the house ready in time.’
Again that sparkling enthusiasm, but he fancied he saw something else. Something she wasn’t saying. Something that clouded her enjoyment of the castle and her role in it.
They stepped up into the summer house and Polly sat down on the intricate seat facing out towards the small ornamental lake. ‘How come everything’s so green here?’
Rashid sat facing her. ‘There is a complex irrigation system in place, all stemming from a natural spring.’
‘Created for Elizabeth?’
He nodded, watching the expressions pass over her beautiful face.
‘King Mahmoud must have loved her very much,’ she said wistfully. ‘It was a shame they had to hurt so many people to be together. It spoils the story for me.’
She kept surprising him. That was not a sentiment he’d have expected to hear expressed by an Englishwoman. In his experience they wanted money and power and would achieve that even if the money and power were found in another woman’s husband.
Rashid turned to watch the arrival of the servant bringing fruit juices. Two large jugs. One of lime juice and the other of pomegranate.
He looked back at Polly to see she’d taken off her lihaf and shaken her blond hair free. It was all too easy to imagine it spread out on a pillow next to him. Far too easy to want it there.
‘Do you have a preference between lime and pomegranate?’
‘Isn’t lime juice sharp?’
‘Try it.’ He spoke to the servant in clipped Arabic, who then poured two glass of the lime juice, his head respectfully bowed throughout. It did him enormous credit because the temptation to look at her must have been acute.
If Polly were his he’d want to shield her from every eye but his.
Rashid picked up one of the glasses and sipped. It was dangerous to even think that way. Even if Polly were not related by marriage to the Duke of Missenden she could never play a part in his life. She was as unsuitable a choice as his mother had been for his father.
Destined for disaster. Two cultures that couldn’t do anything but clash. It was time he decided on a wife, but he wouldn’t search for her in the West.
He watched, silently, as Polly took her first sip of lime juice. But all thoughts of finding himself a wife would have to wait. What mattered now was determining if this woman presented a problem to Hanif’s succession.
‘This is lovely. Really refreshing and clean.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘My favourite so far.’
It seemed to him her smile filled the garden. ‘I’m glad.’
And then there was silence. A faint breeze caught at her shimmering blond hair, a hennaed hand reaching out to brush one wayward strand off her pale cheek.
‘I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave somewhere so beautiful—especially if it had been created for me.’
There wasn’t a movement Polly made that didn’t feel erotic. Rashid felt as though his skin had suddenly become two sizes too small for his body.
‘Why did she leave here?’
He forced his eyes to scan the sweet-smelling flowers that scrambled through the trees. Anywhere but look at her and her wide-eyed sensual beauty. ‘She didn’t have the choice. Their love affair was a scandal here, too.’
‘Because King Mahmoud was married?’
‘He had only two wives when he met Elizabeth and could easily have afforded a third,’ Rashid said with a shake of his head. ‘The problem was that she was not free to make a commitment to him.’
‘But if she hadn’t been married that would have been fine?’
He nodded.
Polly pursed her lips. ‘There’s something wrong with that. Why would any woman agree to marry a man who already had two wives?’
He’d had this conversation many, many times during his years at Cambridge University. Beyond anything else it was the thing that touched a nerve in Western women and he’d come to enjoy the debate.
‘Perhaps a woman who trusts her father,’ he said, sitting back, watching her face.
It wasn’t what he wanted for himself. He wanted a woman who would entrance him all his days, an equal, one who would protect and care for his children with her life, a woman who would love him and only him.
‘In my culture a man’s wife is chosen by his family, taking into account his status, family background and intellectual capacity.’
‘How romantic!’
‘The husband and wife bring a shared sense of values and an understanding of duty. Romantic love often comes later.’
‘And if it doesn’t,’ Polly said, her eyes watching him from over the rim of her fruit juice, ‘he just gets himself another wife!’
She knew he was enjoying himself at her expense and the teasing glint in her eyes was irresistible. Rashid smiled. ‘It is not quite as simple as you make it sound. While a man is permitted up to four wives, I know none of my generation who would choose to do so. Each wife must be treated equally…in all things.
‘Had King Mahmoud married Elizabeth he would have needed to create two more gardens as beautiful as this one for his other wives. A man with more than one wife must share his time, his body and his possessions equally. Expensive and physically exhausting, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Rashid sat back and watched the blush that spread across Polly’s cheekbones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman blush. No Amrahi woman was left alone with him long enough for that to be a possibility and he’d thought Englishwomen had forgotten how to.
‘And all rather silly if he can have a mistress anyway.’
‘Ah, but that is human frailty at work, not a guiding principle.’
Polly laughed, seemingly because she couldn’t help it. Warmth spiralled out in a coil from the pit of his stomach.
‘So, will you marry the woman your family chooses?’
There was the difficult question, the one he’d prefer not to answer. He saw the advantages played out all around him, but the honest answer was ‘no’. How could he? To marry a woman of your family’s choosing required confidence in their ability to choose wisely and with your happiness in mind.