At the Spanish Duke's Command (2 page)

“I'm sure that the past few days have given you an ample perspective of life among the populous, Georgiana. From now on you will go in the car. I have better things to do than worry about your well-being,” Juan replied peremptorily.

“Worry about my well-being?” she blurted out. “Might I point out that I'm nineteen years old, not a child, for goodness' sake. This is ridiculous.” She turned to the Condessa for support.

“Child, I must say that I have to agree with dear Juan. You never know the dangers that lurk on the streets. Particularly on buses.” The Condessa shuddered expressively, and raised a linen napkin to her lips.

“But that's absurd!” Georgiana cried. “There are no dangers,” she insisted, feeling the carpet being pulled from under her feet. “Surely it's not dangerous to take a bus in broad daylight? Everyone else does.”

“You,” Juan responded firmly, “are not everyone else. And in those clothes I dread to think what might happen to you.”

“What's wrong with my clothes?” Georgiana demanded, a dangerous glint in her eyes as she drew herself up, a hot, angry flush covering her cheeks.

“They are not proper attire for a young woman attending university.”

“Well, of all the—Look—” Georgiana stepped forward, eyes flashing “—everything's been just fine up until now. Why are you determined to interfere?” She faced him head-on.

“I am not interfering,” Juan replied calmly. “But while you reside under my roof you will do as I say. We are in Spain,
señorita
, not London. We have certain unwritten rules that we adhere to in our society.”

“I've never heard of anything so ridiculous or archaic,” Georgiana burst out, despite her efforts to remain polite. “I shall go on the bus if I wish to. Goodbye.”

She spun round, picked up the books that were lying on a chair next to the door, and headed towards the hall.

In two quick strides Juan was out of the chair. Before she could take another step into the hall he had manoeuvred so that she was pinned to the wall by his hands on either side of her.

“I would advise you not to do that,
señorita
,” he said in a quiet, dangerous voice that left her in no doubt as to his meaning. “I'm a tolerant man, but I don't like spoiled behaviour.”

Their eyes met in a duel of wills, hers translucent green, his a dark, piercing chestnut that sent strange shivers coursing through her. His face was only inches away, and for a moment the thought of his lips on hers flashed through her mind. Then reality hit and her chest heaved with righteous anger.

“How dare you?” she muttered, aware that the Condessa and Fernando were interested spectators of the scene.
“How dare you treat me as though I were a child?” Her chin jutted rebelliously.

“If I treated you as a child, my dear, you would already be cooling off in your room,” he remarked, eyes gleaming. “I repeat, while you are under my roof you will follow my rules.” He moved back and removed his hands, leaving her free to go.

“Oh, how dare you?” Georgiana spluttered, swallowing and trying to compose herself, and not show how shaken she was by his proximity. But his forceful presence, the masterful manner in which he'd ordered her to obey, left her seething.

Without another word she flounced out of the hall and onto the vast landing. Then, not waiting for the lift, she ran down the stairs.

In the main hall she hesitated. She could see a Rolls Royce drawing up, and Pepe preparing to open the door. What should she do? Flout him? Take the bus and risk his anger? Or concede with as much dignity as possible.

For a moment she hesitated, then raising her small determined chin, she plastered on a smile and resolved to make the best of it. She would deal with Juan and his ridiculous autocratic notions when she got home. For now it was better to beat a safe retreat and not make a public spectacle of herself.

Juan watched from the window as she stepped, stiff-backed into the vehicle. A smile hovered about his lips. She was going to be a handful, this one. Oh, well, it was only for a few months, and he probably wouldn't see that much of her. But he'd meant what he said. His rules were his rules. And he would not allow them to be altered.

By her or anyone.

“S
O, YOU
and Leticia are finally setting a date, are you?” said Don Alvaro de Sandoval, the Marquis de Cabral, his deep, patrician voice laced with satisfaction. A man of medium height and build, he wore a thick curling moustache and sported a head of very white hair.

“Yes, Don Alvaro,” Juan replied, accepting a glass of dry sherry from Doña Elvira, Leticia's mother.

“Of course, we don't know exactly when we'll be married,” Letti chipped in hastily. “We both have such very busy schedules. It will be hard to find the time to fit in a wedding,” she said absently. Tweaking her bobbed brown hair behind her ears, she frowned.

“Why, really, Letti,” her mother exclaimed, shocked. “Surely you can both find time for your wedding?”

“Yes, of course, Mother. I didn't mean to sound uninterested.” Letti glanced briefly at Juan, who smiled back at her, amused.

Her frankness was one of her best qualities. Neither of them pretended to be in love. It was a practical arrangement that suited them both. He knew that he had a real friend in Letti, and didn't have to pretend to court her. She accepted the arrangement for what it was: a marriage of convenience that suited their time and station in life.

“Don't worry about us, Doña Elvira,” he said, placing a reassuring arm on his future mother-in-law's sleeve.
“Letti and I will sort it all out in good time. But I think we can safely say that we are thinking of the spring.”

“Exactly. Spring,” Letti answered, relieved, straightening the skirt of her chic Chanel tweed suit. “That will give us lots of time to prepare, Mama.”

“Well, I hope so,” Doña Elvira said doubtfully. “There is always so much to do before a wedding, you know. Remember when Patricia, your sister, got married—all the time it took to decide on the invitations alone? It doesn't bear thinking about.”

“I'm sure Juan and I will be able to make up our minds rapidly,” she reassured her mother.

“Please don't choose that dreadful recycled paper, will you?” Doña Elvira turned to Juan. “It always looks so grubby. I don't know why people favour it.”

“It's ecology, my dear,” Don Alvaro assured her. “Good for the environment.”

“That's all very well.” Doña Elvira sniffed. “But after seeing that dreadful invitation that Teresa Albregon de Lozada sent us the other day I can only shudder. I feel so sorry for her poor mother. It is so ugly I didn't even place it on the mantelpiece in the small drawing room.”

“Doña Elvira, I give you my word of honour that no such paper will be used in any shape or form at our wedding.” Juan exchanged a quick conspiratorial smile with Leticia while raising Doña Elvira's hand to his lips.

“There. You see, Mama? No need to worry. We'll only settle for something you approve of. In fact, if you like,” she said, warming to her theme, “you could choose the invitations yourself. You wouldn't mind that, would you, Juan? It would save a lot of trouble,” she added in an under-voice.

“Really, Letti!” her mother exclaimed, brows raised.
“I'm ashamed of you. Not choose your own wedding invitations, indeed! I never heard of anything so preposterous.”

“Very well, Mama.” Leticia sighed, rolled her eyes and smiled at Juan once more. “You pick out those you like the best, Mama, and we'll select one of them.”

Hoping she'd appeased her parent, at least for the moment, Leticia went with Juan out onto the terrace, where they sat for a while in wide wicker chairs, enjoying the early autumn day while they sipped their drinks. The house, in the distinguished Madrid suburb of Puerta de Hierro, had a huge private garden and a lovely lawn. Two peacocks preened themselves by the lily pond, their splayed feathers caught in the fleeting sunlight.

“So, how are things going now that you're back?” Letti asked, leaning back and watching Juan.

“Fine. Business as usual. By the way, I meant to tell you—the Mondragales send you their best. I had drinks with them before leaving Marbella. They hope to be here later in the season.”

“Good. They're very nice. And, of course, a
very
interesting contact for that paper business of yours,” she pointed out with a significant look.

“Great minds think alike. I can already tell what an excellent wife you'll be, Letti.” He laughed, appreciating how quick on the uptake she was. “And you're absolutely right. Alberto Mondragal is the ideal chap to take on board. I think he's definitely very interested…”

“Then remind me to organise a small dinner party when they're in town,” Letti said, in her practical down-to-earth way. “How's your house guest getting on, by the way? I met her the other day, when I was visiting your aunt. She seemed a delightful girl.”

“Georgiana? Delightful?” Juan's brows came together
in a thick line above the ridge of his patrician nose. “She's a perfect little pest. Why the Condessa ever consented to having her come and stay is beyond me.”

“Well, she asked you and you agreed. I remember. I was there. It was your mother's wish,” Leticia added softly, hoping that the reminder of the parent he'd lost last year was not too painful.

“I know. And that is the only reason I haven't sent her packing back to England already. I can't imagine how Lady Cavendish could be so lax with her daughter.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears the girl is allowed a ridiculous amount of freedom. She comes and goes pretty much as she pleases.”

“Well,” Letti responded reasonably, “she's over eighteen, you know. Not an infant.”

“That still doesn't make it appropriate for her to be gallivanting around the city in jeans that barely cover her bottom and— Well, I won't get into it.”

“But they all dress like that nowadays, Juan. It's not like it was back in our day. You should see some of Pablito Sanchez's students at the law school. I'm sure Georgiana is positively prim next to them.” She laughed.

“You may be right,” he conceded, smiling, “but it still doesn't meet with my approval. I suppose I have very old-fashioned notions.”

“Completely outdated,
querido
,” she responded complacently. “Let's hope that by the time your own children grow up you'll have got used to the inevitable changes ahead,” she said, her rich, soft laugh filling the air.

“Who knows what they'll be wearing by then?” he agreed. The sudden vision of children of his own was somewhat daunting. “Oh, I think your mother's beckoning us for lunch,” he continued, rising, glad to change the subject. “By the way, I thought it all went off quite well with your
parents, didn't you,
querida
?” He linked his arm with hers in a friendly manner.

“Oh, very well,” she agreed. “Mama will be quite satisfied to have the run of the wedding in the end. Thank goodness,” she murmured, laughing. “I really can't spare the time.”

“No. Of course not,” Juan answered.

But as they entered the dining room he couldn't quell a slight feeling of disappointment. He was no romantic, but wasn't a woman supposed to be a tiny bit excited about her forthcoming nuptials?

Telling himself not to be ridiculous, that he was very lucky to be marrying such a sensible, altogether suitable young woman, Juan sat down on his hostess's right and set about charming her through lunch.

 

“He's insufferable,” Georgiana exclaimed to the Condessa as they sat sipping
orchata
in the living room. “I don't know why you let him get away with it.”

“But what is wrong with a man seeing to one's every comfort?” the Condessa enquired uncomprehendingly. “I am only too grateful to Juan for all his attentions. You know, it's thanks to him that I'm able to live in this gracious manner. Such a dear boy,” she murmured, a fond sigh escaping her.

Georgiana was about to make a pithy response when she realised it would be rude and undignified to criticise her host further. She'd already had a row about it with her mother on the phone. Lady Cavendish had flatly refused to allow Georgiana to move into a flat with two American girls from San Francisco. If she wished to remain in Spain then she would do so at the Duque de la Caniza's residence or not at all. Georgiana was still fuming from the conversation, which she'd just relayed in injured tones to the
Condessa. But, although she'd listened sympathetically to Georgiana's complaints, the Condessa had offered no solutions.

It really was becoming unbearable.

Well, never mind, Georgiana reflected, cheering up. Tonight she was going out on a date with a chap she'd met in the university cafeteria, who was studying art and had a Porsche. He seemed fun, and hung out with a cool group of kids. The fact that he had a pierced tongue didn't deter her in the least.

Juan was due back later tonight, the Condessa told her, from a trip to Seville where he'd been for a couple of days. So much the better. At least she could breathe freely when he wasn't around. For some reason she could not explain she seemed uptight whenever he came near. Which just went to prove how domineering and insufferable he was. Otherwise why would he provoke such a reaction in her?

At eight o' clock the downstairs bell rang and Fernando answered. “It's for you,
señorita
. Someone is waiting for you downstairs.”

“Thanks, Fernando. Don't wait up. I have my key.”

“But,
señorita
, you won't be too late?”

“Of course not,” she replied blithely. “But in case I am, don't worry.”

“Very well,
señorita
.” The manservant opened the front door for her and Georgiana, dressed in low-slung black Gucci pants and a short, clinging, and very fashionable white top, got into the lift. When it arrived at the lobby she stopped, horrified, when the doors opened and Juan stood before her.

“Hello,” she said, doing a double take and swallowing nonchalantly. He looked dark, handsome and forbidding, standing there at the entrance of the lift.

“Good evening, Georgiana. Do I gather you are going out?”

“That's right. Some friends from college.” Why she felt nervous when she had every right to go out was beyond her.

“And what time do you plan to be back?”

“Oh, I don't know.” She waved an airy hand. “Whenever.”

“I see. Well, have a good evening.”

With a slight bow and without a smile he stood aside for her to pass. Why, she wondered, annoyed, did she feel as if he'd stripped her naked? For an instant she almost wished she could cover herself. Then, straightening her shoulders, she forced herself to walk in a self-assured sexy manner through the lobby, down the steps and into the waiting Porsche.

Juan watched as the car roared into the evening traffic. Then he unclenched his fist, wondering why it should irritate him so profoundly to see Georgiana take off with that uncouth-looking creature with a pierced tongue. Heaven help his kids if this was what lay in store for them.

Pressing the button in the lift, he thought about Georgiana, annoyed at his sudden physical reaction. “Damn the girl,” he muttered under his breath, consigning the sudden slash of heat coursing straight to his groin to the devil. He had no right to have any thoughts about her at all—except, perhaps, the proper concern due to a young woman at present under his protection. So why had he felt an irresistible desire to push her against the elevator wall and kiss her very thoroughly, rather than watch her walk out through the front door?

Closing his eyes a moment, Juan took a deep breath and reminded himself that not only was he engaged to be mar
ried, but that any extramarital affairs must be conducted with older women who knew the name of the game. Preferably married ones who were utterly discreet. Not vulnerable sexy teenagers.

By the time he reached the apartment, and Fernando had ushered him in, Juan was back in control. The ridiculous moment of sexual weakness—something any man might experience when placed before a beautiful, seductive young woman—had passed. But in the future he vowed there would be no more such moments.

Not if he could help it.