At the Spanish Duke's Command (6 page)

“Yes. But in actual fact she's right. You're going to need a hostess to entertain—someone who can be next to you when you need her. Not a woman rushing off to advise at university sit-ins and student gatherings. I even took part in a protest the other day. Can't you just see the headlines? ‘The Duquesa de la Caniza marches' et cetera, et cetera…No, Juan.” She shook her head and smiled sadly. “I'm afraid I have to make a choice.”

“And you don't want to make it any sooner than necessary,
sí
? Is that it?” he asked quietly, playing with the bracelet on her right wrist.

She nodded reluctantly.

“I see.” He withdrew his hand and pricked at a piece of omelette with a toothpick. “Then we'll just stick to our original plan,
querida
. How about some lunch?”

I
T WAS
wonderful to drive out of the city.

Sitting in the back of the mini-van between Greg the Canadian and Lucy, a pretty Australian brunette, who'd decided to join them at the last minute, Georgiana stared out of the window at the flat brown countryside rolling on and on into the distance. It reminded her of Don Quixote of La Mancha and his windmills—of which, she noted as they headed south, there were a few.

The other students were in good form. Everyone was happy to be spending a long weekend away, glad to discover more of this fascinating country.

After a while Georgiana fell asleep. But her dreams were fraught with images of Juan, of his magical hands coursing over her body, awakening her senses.

All at once the mini-van jolted to a stop.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, wake up!” Sven gave Georgiana an affectionate shake and she smiled sleepily. She followed the others and entered a roadside
tasca
. Outside the low whitewashed building, bottles of wine hung in straw canisters. Inside the dark beamed
tasca
, they headed to the bar. In the corner several men sat drinking wine and beer, their eyes glued to a large television set showing a soccer game. There were occasional shouts of enthusiasm and loud exchanges when the favourite team pushed ahead.

Georgiana sat next to Sven at the bar and ordered
vino con gaseosa
—a delicious combination of red wine and
fizzy clear lemonade that she'd grown to like—from the portly barman poised proudly beneath an impressive array of Serrano hams hanging from the ceiling beams. They ordered some, and he sharpened a lethal-looking knife, then sliced the ham with artistic expertise.

“I'm so glad you came,” Sven said, pulling his bar stool closer to hers. “I hadn't seen you for a couple of days. Everything okay? You look a bit tired. You've lost weight,” he added observantly.

“Fine. Just had a bit of a cold, that's all.”

“Going south will do you good,” he said, his handsome broad smile lighting up his good-looking features. “Some time you must come and visit Sweden. It's also a beautiful country.”

“I'm sure.” How could she tell Sven that Sweden was the last thing on her mind right now? Rather, she was wondering desperately where Juan was and what he was doing. Suddenly Andalusia seemed a long way away, and she sighed.

The kids were all laughing and joking and having fun. The last thing she wanted was to be a party-pooper. But somehow it seemed dreadfully juvenile. Had she become so blasé that she couldn't appreciate her peers any longer? Damn Juan and the windows he'd opened! She was darned if she'd allow him to monopolise her existence. She'd come on this trip because of him, hadn't she? And Sven was a sweetie. Just the kind of boy she should be going out with.

Making a superhuman effort, Georgiana concentrated on her surroundings and told herself to jolly well forget the Duque de la Caniza and enjoy herself.

That was what she'd come for, wasn't it?

 

As he strolled through the orange groves of his
finca
near Seville, where he'd come to attend to some pending busi
ness, Juan found it hard to get two things out of his mind. The first was Georgiana, whom he'd vowed never to touch again. The second was his conversation with Leticia, which had left him in a sober frame of mind.

When he'd thought of their marriage he'd only ever considered what it would be like for him: a convenient way of sorting out a problem. Now, for the first time, he was struck by what Leticia might be forced to give up. Another woman might not have considered it a sacrifice, would have considered becoming a duchess sufficient compensation for anything she might be leaving behind. But not Leticia. She loved her work, believed in the causes she espoused, and was the bulwark of the group of activist lawyers who often took risks and put their names on the line to speak up for what they believed in.

Snapping his fingers at the two pointers snuffling at his heels, Juan walked further into the grove. He loved this family home. The beautiful seventeenth-century farmhouse that had been in his mother's family for generations was so different from his paternal family seat in Navarra, the rugged mountainous region near the French border from where his ancestors hailed. This house reminded him of his mother, of his childhood, of hot summers riding wonderful horses, some of which he still kept down at the stables.

His mother had loved the place, and had spent her declining years here. He'd only returned briefly since her death last year, but now he felt the need for solitude, for the peace the place afforded him. It was the one spot he could truly think.

It was late afternoon when he walked back to the house, dogs in tow, and entered the cool flagstoned hall. The furnishings in the farm were of dark jacaranda—Spanish antiques as old as the house. His mother had made considerable improvements to the place, but essentially it had
remained the same for several generations. Realising that the staff all had the day off to attend a
fiesta
in the local village, Juan decided to shower, then head to town for a bite to eat.

Half an hour later, hair damp and sleek from his shower, he donned a pair of old jeans and a white shirt, and looped a navy sweater over his shoulders. Soon his Ferrari was racing down the beaten-earth road, through the orange groves, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Then he got on the highway and headed towards Seville.

He was five miles out of town when all of a sudden his eye caught a group of young people entering a mini-van outside a roadside restaurant. He did a double take and nearly crashed as he slammed on the brakes. Was he seeing straight? Surely that could not be Georgiana climbing into the van, helped by a tall, handsome, blond Viking?

Staying in the slow lane, Juan allowed the mini-van to overtake him. A flash of Georgiana's lovely face in one of the rear windows of the van confirmed his doubts.

Juan let out an oath, then carefully trailed the mini-van into the centre of Seville, circling behind it as it sought a parking spot in the busy city centre, his temper frayed. What the hell was she doing here? His aunt hadn't mentioned her going on any trip when they'd last spoken. But then he hadn't mentioned Georgiana to his aunt either.

Finally the mini-van eased into a tight parking spot and he watched, eyes narrowed, as the young people alighted. His fist clenched when he saw the tall blond Scandinavian god slip his arm possessively through Georgiana's. Damn nerve, he reflected, seething, inching into a free space only two cars down. Ramming the Ferrari to a halt, Juan got out, determined not to lose sight of the group.

Following at a safe distance, he watched the merry party make its way down a narrow cobbled street. Georgiana was
laughing, obviously enjoying herself. Instead of being glad, as he should have been, Juan experienced a rush of searing jealousy. What right had she to be running around a foreign city—his city—with some man she barely knew? It was outrageous.

It did not occur to him that his own behaviour might be considered several degrees less palatable.

As they rounded a corner Georgiana turned around, as though sensing she was being followed. Juan stepped quickly into the shadow of an ancient doorway, casting a quick look down at an old crone in a long red and white polka-dotted flamenco dress and silk shawl, huddled on the step. She lifted a wizened brown olive of a face and stretched out her hand.
“Por favor, señor, ayudame.”

Keeping one eye on Georgiana and the other on the old gypsy, Juan slipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out some loose change, which he deposited in the woman's shrivelled palm.

“Espera!”
she said, clutching his sleeve when he moved to leave.

“What is it?” he asked, exasperated. “I've given you all the money I can spare.”

“I don't want more money.
Churumbel!
” she said, using the gypsy term for “give me your hand”.

There was too much of the Andalusian in him to refuse. Reluctantly Juan stretched out his right palm, felt the old woman take it in his and study it. He waited impatiently, still able to see the back of Georgiana and the Nordic giant's blond head bobbing among the tourists and locals as they made their way down the street.

“Tell me,” he said impatiently, “what is it you see,
gitana
? I have to go. I have an important appointment.”

“I know you do. With destiny.” The old woman cackled and shook her scarved, gold-coined head. “A destiny that
you never expected,” she muttered knowingly. “You have seduced a young virgin, or are about to. Beware, you of the noble name, for where the flesh travels the heart may well follow.”

Juan stared down at her, taken aback.

“Ah, but you're a fine one, aren't you?” she exclaimed with a toothless smile, squinting at his palm. “What of the other one? The one who waits but who is unsure of her heart? Will you marry her even though you know she doesn't love you? Or will you follow your soul and listen to its pleadings?”

“You talk rubbish,
gitana
,” he snapped, withdrawing his hand from hers. Quickly he pressed another note into her palm and went on his way. He could still just see the bobbing heads, fast disappearing in the distance.

“Remember what I told you,” the old gypsy called after him. “You've some surprises ahead of you.”

Paying no heed to her, Juan pushed his way forward, nearly toppling two French tourists who sent him filthy looks and muttered. Just then he caught sight of Georgiana's group, turning right into another street. He had no idea what he planned to do, but the thought of her experimenting with what she'd learned in his arms with another man had him swearing under his breath once more. His reason told him he had no right. But instinct said she was his.

For as long as he chose.

With this thought uppermost in his mind, Juan turned the corner and settled on a course of action.

G
EORGIANA
peered at the exquisite Andalusian pottery in a tiny shop window. Perhaps she should buy a souvenir for her mother, she reflected, noting this particular establishment seemed less blatantly touristy and more genuine than most of the others. She was about to go inside when all at once a hand clamped down on her right shoulder.

She spun round, an exclamation on her lips.

Recognising her assailant, she felt the words die on her lips.

“So! We meet again,” Juan said, his dark eyes flashing angrily, his hand still gripping her shoulder.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked when she was finally able to speak.

“Don't you think it is I who should be asking that same question?” he retorted arrogantly.

“I don't see why,” she said, regaining her poise. “And would you mind not manhandling me?” She shook him off.

Reluctantly Juan removed his hand from her shoulder and they faced one another. “It is dangerous for a young woman to travel alone in Andalusia,” he said bitingly.

“I didn't come here alone,” she threw back, her green eyes flecked with gold, her lips set in a firm, unyielding line.

“No? Who are your companions, may I ask?”

“None of your damn business,” she spat.

“No?” He took a menacing step towards her.

“Hey.” A voice behind him made him turn to see the young Swede approaching. “Is something the matter, Georgiana? Are you okay?” He looked uncertainly from one to the other.

Embarrassed, Georgiana smiled perfunctorily. “Yes, fine. Sven, let me introduce you to Juan Monsanto, my godmother's son. Juan, this is Sven. He and I are travelling around with a group of fellow students for a few days, getting to know Andalusia.”

The two men nodded, warily summing one another up like two suspicious dogs. If she hadn't been so annoyed Georgiana would have laughed.

“Well,” she said brightly, “it's been nice seeing you again, Juan, but I think I should go and join the others.”

“Wait a minute,” Juan countered, determined not to let her go but aware that he couldn't make a scene in public. “How about dining with me later this evening? I would like to show you my mother's favourite restaurant,” he said, playing on her sentiments, knowing that Georgiana would want to tell her own mother that she'd visited a haunt which Lady Cavendish would know well from the old days. “Please?” he said, changing his tone.

It was the smile that did it.

How could he transform into another being in a matter of instants? she wondered, wishing she could refuse, knowing she would accept.

“All right,” she murmured at last.

“Tell me where you're staying and I'll pick you up. In fact,” he said, turning to Sven and smiling as a sudden brainwave hit him, “why don't you all come out to my
finca
tomorrow? It's a typical Andalusian farm. You'd enjoy it.”

“That's very kind.” Sven looked uncertainly at Georgiana. “But we wouldn't like to inconvenience you.”

“No inconvenience at all,” Juan answered easily. “It would be my pleasure. You can ride my horses and we'll have a barbecue—or, better still,” he said, improvising, “a real Andalusian
paella
. In fact, if I might suggest,” he continued, slipping his arm around Georgiana's shoulder in a friendly manner and taking the reins, “why don't you come and stay after dinner, Georgiana? And your friends could join you in the morning. That way we can prepare properly for their visit. I'm slightly short-staffed at the moment,” he added apologetically.

Georgiana sighed, knowing she was outclassed. Juan knew the rules of this game too well. She shouldn't go, of course, but the look in his eyes, the way his hand rested on her shoulder and the scent of his cologne wafting towards her swayed her decision. It would, she justified, be an extraordinary opportunity for her companions to see a true Andalusian
finca
. She knew from her mother that the place was spectacular. Surely it would be wrong not to offer them the chance of a visit? And if he was short-staffed—well, she supposed it was only right that she should pitch in and give him a hand.

“Okay,” she said finally. “My things are in the mini-van. Sven, would you mind if we went to pick them up?”

“No. that's fine,” Sven said good-naturedly, and they walked back up the street. Soon they reached the vehicle and, retrieving her backpack, he handed it to Juan.

“Thanks again for the invitation.” Sven shook the other man's hand and smiled.

“My pleasure,” Juan answered politely. “We'll look forward to receiving you tomorrow. Take down my number and I'll explain exactly how to get there.”

Sven carefully punched Juan's number into his cellphone, after which they parted ways.

 

Any regrets Georgiana had initially experienced as she sat in the front seat of Juan's Ferrari were entirely forgotten the instant she set eyes on the
finca
—Tres Marias.

“It's perfectly lovely!” she exclaimed as the rambling edifice came into view, a panoply of changing hues, ancient stone walls and terracotta tiles mellowed by endless seasons of relentless Andalusian sun. Even now, in autumn, bougainvillaea and clematis crept lazily up the whitewashed walls, working their way freely over the sagging tiles and framing the long bright blue half-closed shutters.

Georgiana gasped, jumping out of the car enchanted. They had decided to come back and leave her things before heading to the restaurant. As she looked about her a middle-aged woman dressed all in black, even the scarf covering her head, appeared at the arched front door.

“Don Juan—I thought you were dining in town,” she said, rubbing her hands on her apron.

“Don't worry, Conchita, we are. Aren't you going to the
fiesta
?”

“
Fiesta
indeed,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I'm too old to be gallivanting off to
fiestas
.” She gave a loud sniff. “Let the young enjoy themselves.” She looked at Georgiana, a questioning light entering her eyes.

“This,” Juan announced, touching Georgiana's arm and leading her forward, “is the daughter of Lady Cavendish. You remember my mother's dear friend, who used to stay with her here sometimes?”

“But of course.” The older woman unbent, her crinkled brown face creasing into a smile. “
Bienvenido, señorita
. Your mother was much loved by the Duquesa. So sad,” she murmured, crossing herself and shaking her head before
leading the way into the darkened hall. “Shall we put the
señorita
in the same room her mother used to occupy, Don Juan?”

“Yes. That would be perfect. Georgiana—Conchita will take you upstairs. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Georgiana smiled briefly.

There was nothing the least seductive in Juan's attitude, which helped leave her more at ease as she followed the housekeeper up the stairs and along the corridor to the bedroom. Her mother had often spoken about the delights of the
finca
Tres Marias, where she'd stayed several times over the years. Lady Cavendish and the Duquesa had met when they were both seventeen, at finishing school in Switzerland, and the friendship had remained over the years.

Conchita placed Georgiana's backpack on a chair.
“Necesita algo más?”
she asked, clasping her hands before her.

“No. I'm sure I have everything I need,” Georgiana answered, smiling. “I shall take a quick shower, then go down and join the Duke.”

“Very well,
señorita
. I shall advise His Grace.”

Alone in the room, Georgiana moved to the window. She pushed open the half-closed shutters and gazed out over the orange groves, breathing in the delicious unique scent of orange blossom reaching her on the evening breeze. Sitting for a moment on the window-sill, Georgiana reflected upon her presence here at the
finca
. Was she right to have come? Should she simply have rejected Juan's offer and stayed with the others at the youth hostel in Seville?

Shrugging, she stepped back from the window. She was here now, so it was too late for conjecture. She looked about the austere yet attractive room. Its dark, heavy jacaranda furniture was from an age gone by, draped with heavy white linen and lace. A vase filled with wild flowers
stood on the antique dresser, and when she opened the creaking door of the armoire her nostrils filled with the unmistakable scent of lavender.

Taking off her jeans and T-shirt, Georgiana wondered what she would wear for dinner. Her backpack contained a meagre selection of clothes, but she'd had the foresight to bring one dress. Rummaging, she pulled it out and grimaced at its rumpled state. Perhaps if she hung it up in the bathroom while she showered it would shed some of its creases. The thought of going to dine with Juan looking like a freak didn't appeal to her in the least. The only other choice was another pair of low-slung jeans and a clean T-shirt, and she had a pretty good idea what his opinion of those would be.

Taking the dress with her into the bathroom, Georgiana slipped into the shower, enjoying the warm water and relaxing her body. She let it run for a while. She must prepare herself for the evening. What would she do, she wondered suddenly, if Juan kissed her again?

Instead of disgust, the thought sent delicious shivers arrowing through her. But she banished them. This was her chance, she realised reluctantly, to put matters on a different footing. There was no way she could allow what had occurred between them before to continue. And if he didn't know any better, then she did.

Priding herself on this righteous objective, Georgiana got out of the shower and picked up one of the soft lavender-scented towels folded on top of the wooden chest, determined to make good her intent. Juan must become a friend, or return to being merely the man under whose roof she happened to be staying. She couldn't—mustn't—think of him in any other terms.

But it was hard not to dream of his lips devouring hers, of his hands—those wonderful hands—caressing her in
ways too delicious to dwell upon, teaching her things she'd only read of and wondered if they really existed.

Now, she reflected ruefully, she knew they did.

The other worrying symptom was the fact that she now found her university companions nice, but uninteresting. She recalled how on the first day of class she'd looked over at Sven and thought, Hmm, very attractive. Now she didn't think anything at all. Other men had been simply eclipsed by Juan, as though he were the sun and they mere satellites. Every fleeting moment seemed filled with images of the wretched man.

She'd do better, she realised, shaking out her dress, which had improved no end thanks to the bathroom steam, to think of him walking down the aisle with Leticia instead of daydreaming fruitlessly.

Married.

Letting out a long sigh, Georgiana slipped fresh lace underwear under her dress, then brushed her long hair back and tilted her head and glanced critically in the mirror. She looked okay. The dress, a sleeveless pale blue number that defined her elegant figure, made her feel attractive and sexy. Not that this was her objective, she reminded herself hastily, and wondered if she wouldn't get cold, since the evening air had cooled considerably. Dabbing on some lip-gloss, she added a dash of mascara to her eyelashes, then made her way downstairs, set on carrying out her plan.

 

Juan sat on the verandah and waited impatiently for his guest to descend. Why had he done this? Why had he invited her here when he knew it was only courting further danger, encouraging an impossible situation? What would Leticia do if she knew?

Nothing, he realised, guilt engulfing him. She would think it exactly the situation he'd portrayed to the house
keeper. Georgiana was his mother's goddaughter, whom he'd happened to come across in Seville and to whom he had extended his hospitality.

He sighed. He was not proud of his behaviour. And it must be put a stop to at once. Perhaps this was his chance to change their relationship. They would talk about the situation over dinner in a rational manner, he decided. He would explain to her just how impossible it all was, and after that they would move on.

Just as he was warming to the theme Georgiana walked through the living room and stood, framed in the doorway of the verandah, sending all his good intentions tumbling headlong into the surrounding orange groves.

She was lovely—simple, perfect and lovely.

Recapturing his breath, Juan rose gallantly. “Come—sit down and have a drink. I have some champagne on ice.”

“Thank you.” Georgiana moved hesitantly to the furthest wicker chair and crossed her legs tidily under her while Juan poured two champagne flutes.

“Salud,”
he said, raising his glass. “It was a lucky chance that brought us both to Seville this same weekend. I hope you will enjoy it.”

“I'm sure I will. The little I've seen seems charming.”

“I'm afraid this time of year does not offer as much entertainment as in the summer months. Also there are no good bullfights on.”

“Oh, well. I really don't mind that.” Georgiana shuddered. The thought of bulls being stabbed to death did not appeal to her. She glanced at Juan. He looked divinely handsome in his casual clothes, a sweater thrown over his shoulders. His whole demeanour was that of a man sure of his identity, enjoying a relaxing moment.

Soon Conchita appeared on the verandah with some nib
bles, which she placed on the small glass table between them.

“You will get cold like that,” the housekeeper admonished, looking disapprovingly at Georgiana's bare shoulders. “I shall get you something to wear.”

Minutes later she reappeared with a silk shawl. “Wrap this around you,
señorita
. The night can be chilly.”

“That's very kind,” Georgiana responded, admiring the beautiful cream shawl with its colourful embroidery and fringe.