She frowned. As if he’d been angry about something.
And he was angry now.
There was no trace of humour in his face, no softening of the hard angles of those aristocratic features.
‘What does it take to get you to behave like a normal person?’
‘Most normal people would have wanted to swim in the fountain.’
‘There’s a wealth of difference between wanting to do something and actually doing it.’ His eyes were cold. ‘Sit down!’
Cowed by his icy tone, Izzy plopped onto the chair. Without thinking, she toed off her shoes and crossed her legs under her so that she was balanced on the seat.
‘You need to learn to—’ He broke off as he saw the way she was sitting. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sitting. You told me to sit. I sat.’
‘I told you to sit, not take your shoes off.’ Tension throbbed beneath the surface of his rigidly controlled frame and Izzy wondered what it took to make him relax.
‘My feet hurt. That’s partly your fault for dragging me miles through the palace last night and partly because you just made me run up a steep grassy bank in my espadrilles and they rub. I didn’t bring hiking boots and your garden is the size of a park. This is how I sit. I’m making myself comfortable.’ Eyeing him cautiously, she wondered if he was waiting for her to apologise. ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night. I admit it wasn’t my finest moment. And I’m sorry about your suit. Give me the cleaning bill. But you could maybe think about dressing in a more practical way.’
‘Given that swimming in the fountain is not normally part of my working day, a suit is perfectly practical.’ He placed his pen on the desk with exaggerated care. ‘We need to agree to some boundaries while you’re staying here.’
‘Boundaries? Yippee.’ Izzy pulled a face and then saw his expression and shrugged. ‘OK. Fire away.’
‘The first is that you don’t swim in the fountain.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it isn’t designed for swimming.’
‘It’s water. What else do you need to swim?’
‘It is an ornamental lake, designed in the seventeenth century by a famous landscape architect.’ He enunciated the words carefully, as if speaking to a child. ‘I open the gardens several times a year to interested visitors. The fountain is part of the tour. It’s an object of interest to historians. It is not for bathing.’
‘Then whoever designed the fountain must have been a real tease because every normal person would automatically want to leap in it to cool down.’ Catching his smouldering glare she nibbled her lip. ‘Could I swim in it if I promise to leap straight out if I see a coach party coming?’ His expression went from black to thunderous and she rolled her eyes. ‘Right, no fountain.’ She looked for a chink in his armour but there was no sign of the passionate man she’d glimpsed the night before and no trace of amusement on that hard, sensual mouth.
‘There is a swimming pool on the south terrace. When we’ve finished here I’ll show you the way.’
‘I bet it doesn’t have a statue of Neptune in the middle of it.’
He ignored her interruption. ‘I do not expect to have to remove you half naked from the fountain. And when I ask you to do something, I expect you to comply without argument.’
‘Comply. That basically means I’m supposed to do what you say.’ Izzy wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t promise that without knowing what it is. I mean, you might ask me to do something shocking. Or eat oysters or something disgusting like that. Ew.’
‘Oysters are a delicacy.’
‘They’re slippery, slimy, putrid things that make me—’
‘Fine! Spare me the details.’ His eyes gleamed dark and promised dire punishment if she interrupted again. ‘Oysters will not be on the menu, but when I ask you to join me for lunch, you’ll do it.’
‘The thing is, I know you don’t really want me to join you. And although I appreciate the gesture, honestly it would be just too much pressure.’ Izzy lifted her hand to her lips and nibbled the corner of her nails.
‘Joining me for lunch is “pressure”?’
‘Yes. And if you must know I did put my head round the dining room door fifteen minutes before I was supposed to meet you but I lost my nerve.’
Dark eyebrows rose. ‘It requires nerve to enter my dining room?’