The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella (6 page)

Shock made her pause for a second but then she lifted her chin. “Fine. Then I’ll just have to
act
shocking and unpleasant. I’m sure Mrs. Ferrer will be happy to hear all about my stint as a dancer in Mr. Hernandez’s theater. Oh, or perhaps she’d find my suffragist beliefs more entertaining. Then again, perhaps she’d appreciate the singed look.”

She darted towards the bin and Vicente put up his hands to stop her before she could burn herself. “Wait!”

“I will not. I won’t wait another minute of my life while everyone decides they get an opinion on what to do with my life. It’s not right and I won’t stand for it any longer.”

Her voice broke and for the first time since he’d known her, Vicente saw tears slide down Miss Rodriguez’s face. She dashed them away angrily, but there was nothing she could do to staunch the flow. He was holding her by her elbows, unable to ignore the tremor running through her body. He wanted to envelop her with his arms and hold her until she stopped sobbing, to pet her hair and soothe her like he’d once soothed stray cats. But he kept his hands on her elbows and his body at a distance, because she was not a stray cat: she was the woman whose plans he had been charged to thwart.

He’d already ruined his own plans when he’d struck Medina. He couldn’t afford to aggravate her aunt as well—she was the last hope he had for the chance at decent employment.

“Tonight is my last chance to make a decent life for myself.” Miss Rodriguez raised her face to him and in the faint light that came from the fire burning inside the metal bin, he could see that her nose was running. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do understand. Better than you’ll ever know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

She was light enough that he could throw her over his shoulder in one swift movement.

She stiffened, but surprise kept her from struggling until after he’d stuffed her into her aunt’s motorcar at the end of the alley, where the driver had been having a smoke.

“Drive,” Vicente told him, breathing hard as Miss Rodriguez struck his chest with a closed fist.

“Drive where?” Vicente was too busy fending off blows to see the driver’s expression in the rearview mirror, but his voice sounded vaguely amused.

Miss Rodriguez’s fist connected with his jaw. “Anywhere,” Vicente said through gritted teeth.

The motorcar’s engine came to life with a muted roar and they began to roll through the streets of Ciudad Real. Miss Rodriguez managed to get in several more blows and Vicente, used to far stronger sparring partners, allowed her to pummel his chest and arms until she grew tired and subsided into her side of the seat, looking out the window as the tears dried on her face.

Vicente looked at
her
and though he tried to convince himself he was only watching out for any escape attempts, he was aware that his gaze lingered on the downward sweep of her eyelashes as he wished she would absolve him from the guilt that was pulsing through him with every roll of the motorcar’s wheels.

But her chest rose and fell steadily and, at length, she fell asleep, her hand fast on the brass door handle.

Letting out a breath, Vicente sat back and closed his own eyes. The chauffeur continued to guide the motorcar through the tree-lined avenues, turning now and then into narrower streets, keeping them in constant motion.

Vicente had been in constant motion from the moment he was born and he was damn tired of it. All he wanted was a good job and enough money to keep him clothed and fed and in bed every night.

The more time he spent with Miss Rodriguez, the more he understood her need to break free. But without an education or connections that might help him get ahead, in order for
him
to break free from the poverty that had held him in its miserable grip, he had to make sure she married Medina.

He couldn’t allow her to sabotage the wedding. But damned if he didn’t want her to succeed.

“
I
really am sorry
, you know,” Aguirre said softly.

He must have been waiting for her to wake, though how he knew when she had was a mystery to her, as it was dark inside the motorcar. It was still moving, she noted as she sat up, brushing her hair out of her face.

“About kidnapping me or about ruining my all plans?” she asked him, trying to sound arch and sounding, instead, as exhausted as she felt.

“Both.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said.

“I know what it’s like to feel like you have no control over your own life. To feel like everyone has a say in it—everyone but you. It’s not an easy thing to accept and I admire you for not giving in.”

Her vision wavered, but she had already cried once in front of him. Blinking hard to dispel the tears threatening to fall again, Graciela turned to the window, watching the streets roll past with sightless eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll marry Alvaro in four days’ time. I’ll bear his children and follow his orders and never go to the butcher’s alone for the rest of my life.”

If it had been Aunt Elba beside her, she would have told Graciela to stop being dramatic. Aguirre didn’t say anything, not for a long time. Then, when Graciela thought he wouldn’t say anything at all, he surprised her by saying the last thing she expected him to say.

“Then don’t marry him.”

Graciela opened her mouth to remind him that she had been trying to
not
marry Alvaro for months, but Aguirre leaned forward and grasped her by the arm, cutting her off. “Marry someone else instead.”

Graciela closed her mouth.

It had occurred to her, months before, that making herself unavailable was the fastest way to break the engagement with Alvaro as well as keep her safe from any further scheme of her aunt’s. But marrying someone else would mean exchanging the devil she knew for one she didn’t— who was to say whether the man she married would be less infuriating than Alvaro? And even if he weren’t, it would be monstrously unfair to use someone for convenience, the way she herself was being used. But perhaps there was someone out there who would welcome such an arrangement.

Whoever it was, she had four days to find him.

* * *

M
arry
me
.

That’s what he should have told Miss Rodriguez.

But he hadn’t thought of it until after he’d arrived in his boarding house and was sitting on the rusty iron bedstead, pulling off his boots.

Vicente tugged off a sock and tossed it into the corner. He paid a laundress thirty-five cents per shirt, but socks and undergarments he washed himself in the basin. The ones he’d washed last night still hung in front of the window in a clothesline he’d improvised from two bent nails and a length of rope he’d found on the docks. It was more than he’d had his entire life—in fact, having a roof over his head and more than one set of clothes had been one the things he’d longed for most as a child. Sneaking into the grand Santiago houses in order to take little baubles he could later sell, he had noticed the full larders and the sweet-smelling beds more than the gleaming fixtures and priceless art.

The Rodriguez’s townhouse wasn’t large or luxurious but Vicente had been drawn by its homeyness from the first moment he’d walked inside. The furniture was beautiful but comfortable as well, and the paintings throughout the first floor—save for the frightening daguerrotype of the man that hung outside Elba’s study— looked like they had been selected for their cheerful colors.

Tonight, when he’d escorted Miss Rodriguez inside, well past two in the morning, the remains of the evening’s entertainment were still hanging about the house in the smell of cigars, wine and expensive perfume. The patterned tile floor of the entrance, which had earlier been polished until it gleamed, was dull with the imprints of boots and slippers. Even so, he was careful to stay right by the door, where the dirt that clung to his boots would be less noticeable.

He finished undressing and slid into bed, kicking aside the thin cotton blankets. In Ciudad Real, nights were far hotter than they were in Santiago, and the humidity that seeped into everything did little to relieve the stifling sensation.

The elder Miss Rodriguez had been waiting for them in a cane-backed chair in the entrance, still in the dress she’d worn for dinner. Graciela’s dressing gown looked every bit as fine, and he could imagine her wearing it as she swept into a parlor full of guests, barefoot and in disarray, but no the less confident for it.

A smile tugged at his lips. She really was magnificent. Buoyed by the idea he’d given her, she’d listened to her aunt’s angry reprimand, then crooked an eyebrow at her and said, “My disappearing was better than the alternative. Just ask Aguirre.” Then she’d climbed the stairs and left the two of them staring after her—Miss Rodriguez in furious silence, and Vicente consumed with appreciation for both her spirit and her finely rounded ass, the curve of which had been plain under the thin fabric of her dressing gown.

Vicente had faced a lot of temptations in his life—and lost to most of them—but never one as hard as staying by the door while she disappeared upstairs.

Vicente rolled onto his side, reaching up tuck his pillow more securely under his neck. The very next moment he had a chance to approach her, he would convince her that she ought to marry him. And then, maybe, the next time she went up those stairs, he would be able to follow.

In the meantime, though…

He grasped himself firmly with both hands, like he had almost every night since he’d first seen her, dancing at that theater in a scrap of fabric that left her arms and legs bare and her tits scarcely covered. His hands were rough with callouses but the image of her in his mind’s eye was so vivid it was easy to pretend like it was her touch bringing him closer to release.

F
inding
someone who would marry her after her betrothal to Alvaro had been announced wouldn’t be easy. Alvaro and his family were generally well-liked and even more respected, but there were surely plenty of men in Ciudad Real who would like nothing more than to steal his fiancee right from under his nose.

The problem, Graciela soon found out, was that none of those men were actually available. For starters, two of them were ineligible for marriage because they had recently wed someone else. Another had just embarked on a journey to Caracas. A fourth candidate had come down with a virulent case of consumption and was being dispatched to the north of the island for a rest cure. Discreet inquiries led Graciela to a fifth option who, when pressed, admitted he had his eye on Sofia Alcantara, an heiress in possession of a large inheritance and an ailing father.

Getting married would grant Graciela access to her dowry. She wasn’t sure how much it would be, but she did know the amount wouldn’t eclipse the promise of Miss Alcantara’s millions.

Graciela left the Gonzalez’s musicale in low spirits. The late afternoon sun had taken on a golden cast, gilding the paving stones beneath her feet as she ignored her aunt’s waiting Packard and turned in the direction of the park, Aguirre at her heels.

He was no longer taking pains to conceal the fact that he was following her. Instead of walking a few paces behind, like a guard or a servant would, he fell into step beside her. This wasn’t a man accustomed to bowing and scraping, like some of her aunt’s other employees. He was as self-possessed as Alvaro himself—and far more handsome. It was a pity she couldn’t marry
him
.

Or couldn’t she?

Her maid had told her that morning that she’d heard Alvaro had been asking after the foreigner who’d attended the Gonzalez’s dinner party, apparently having recognized Aguirre that day at the gambling hall. It didn’t bode well for Aguirre, especially not if Alvaro figured out that he worked for her aunt. He was sure to ask her to dismiss Aguirre and the poor man would be out on the street, all because he’d tried to help her…

There was a free bench just beyond the park’s wrought iron gates. Graciela claimed it, then waved Aguirre over and gestured for him to sit beside her.

He complied, but not without sending a wary glance her way. Graciela spared a moment to wonder if her face really
was
that transparent. Surely he couldn’t tell she was working on a scheme as easily as Beatriz could?

“Is there anything you require of me, Miss Rodriguez, aside from my decorative presence by your side?” He said it lightly enough, but she could feel his wariness as he stretched his long legs out in front of him.

Graciela bit her lip, trying to figure out how to best broach the subject. If she’d learned anything that day it was that asking for someone’s hand in marriage was not an easy task. “Not at the moment. I was…I was wondering about the arrangement you made with my aunt.”

“What about it?”

“I think I might be able to make you a better offer.”

He gave her a sidelong look. His profile was quite a classical one. Straight nose, noble brow, and all that. Much good it did—Graciela would have asked him to marry her even if he had three ears or her grandfather’s nose, an appendage famous in its own right. “Is that so? What exactly do you propose?”

“That
you
marry me.”

* * *

I
f Vicente had imagined that
, after shadowing the younger Miss Rodriguez for three months, he had gained an intimate knowledge of how her mind worked, he was sadly mistaken.

“I’ve no income of my own save the allowance Aunt Elba gives me but the terms of my dowry dictate that I be granted access as soon as I’m married,” she was saying. In a lilac-colored dress that made her skin and hair look darker and framed by the leaves of the hibiscus behind the bench on which they sat, she looked like a watercolor he’d once stolen, one he hadn’t wanted to touch for fear of smudging it. “When that happens, I’ll be able to double whatever Aunt Elba’s paying you so you needn’t worry about breaking your arrangement with her.”

Accepting her offer was the only sensible thing to do now that his prospects with Medina’s company were all but gone. He could name a figure and if the rumors about her marriage settlement were correct, he was sure she would easily match it.

And yet, he didn’t want to say yes because it was the sensible thing to do. He wanted to say yes because he was charmed by the way she tilted her head up to look at him, her brown eyes gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, by her lips as they parted invitingly, by her stubbornness and the courage it had taken to do everything she’d done to escape her situation. But a girl like her would never willingly marry a brute like him, so the brute had to accept her proposal without further consideration other than the fact that he would be paid for it.

“You aunt wasn’t paying me,” he said.

“But I will. And handsomely, too.”

“And if you can’t afford me?”

“Then I’d have to find a way to blackmail you, but I’d really rather not do that if I can help it. It’d take too long to find something and frankly I haven’t the patience for it.”

Vicente let out a surprised laugh.

Encouraged, she leaned a fraction closer to him and put her hand on his arm. Her white glove looked pristine against his rusty black sleeve. “You’ll be helping me achieve independence, but I don’t mean you should lose yours. You’ll have your freedom to— to live your life as you choose. And anyway, it was
your
idea.”

Freedom was what he’s spent his life searching for but at the moment it was difficult for him to find a reason for wanting freedom from her. He didn’t quite dare say it out loud, so instead he took her face into his hands.

“May I?”

She hesitated for the space of a breath, then nodded.

He closed the distance between them and brushed his lips, gently, over hers. Her mouth was warm and soft and willing. Vicente could have deepened the kiss and she would have complied. He could have shown her true passion, in that park bench, and left her breathless.

But it wasn’t his place.

It occurred to him that kissing the help in the park in view of whoever walked past could easily solve Graciela’s problem. But there was no money in that for him, so he didn’t bother to suggest it.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” she said, sweeping the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. To get rid of the taste of him? Suddenly aware of the rice and beans he’d eaten for lunch, Vicente drew back to his side of the bench. “I won’t require anything from you save from—save from what must be done to make the marriage legal.”

“I do, if we’re to be married. Better to find out if you find me distasteful now, while something can be done about it.”

“So you’ll do it?” If she had tried to suppress her delight, she must have found it impossible. Her face broke into a smile and Vicente couldn’t help but answer it with one of his own.

“I’ll do it. But there is something you should know. I was working at the loading dock at the factory when I met your aunt, hoping to eventually work my way to a better position. I’d left Chile under difficult circumstances and I’d no references—but that’s not important. I had been there for hardly a month when I heard two of the men talking about the Medinas and I knew that if I only had the opportunity to meet Alvaro and persuade him to hire me, I could make a name for myself in his family’s company, as I’ve worked with cotton before and I’ve learned a great many things about it.

“I spied on your aunt and on you—I followed you, in fact, right into the theater where you were dancing. I was the one who told Miss Rodriguez what you were doing and offered to keep you out of trouble, in exchange for an introduction to Medina and good references. It was my doing that all your plans were thwarted.”

Her eyes softened. “You’ve been courting Alvaro’s approval all this time. And yet you made an enemy of him for me."

Vicente was silent for a moment, then he shrugged, as if casting off her good opinion. “I only did what I thought was right.” So much of what he did was about survival that it wasn’t very often that he had the choice of doing something purely because he wanted to. And he had wanted to punch Medina when he saw the way he was holding on to Graciela, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise.

“So, then, there you have it. Do you still want to marry me?”

“Now more than ever,” she said. “I would have long since rid myself of Alvaro if you and my aunt hadn’t stood in the way of my schemes. So you have to make things right for me and this is how you’ll do it.” Her hand was still on his sleeve. In her excitement, she gave it a little squeeze. “Alvaro wants to hold the wedding before his brother leaves on his Grand Tour. It will take place three days from now, so
our
wedding will have to be done right away—today, if we can manage it.”

Vicente nodded. “Today is too soon, but I know someone who can get us a special license by tomorrow.”

“I’ll handle the arrangements for the wedding if you can take care of acquiring the license.”

“Arrangements? It won’t be a social affair, will it?”

“No, but we’ll need witnesses and rings, at the very least.”

“All right. I should go now if I’m to get anything done.” He stood up from the bench, and was almost at the gates before he heard her voice behind him.

“Oh, but Mr. Aguirre.” He turned around, to see her looking at him with laughter in her eyes. “Don’t you want to take me home first?”

Heaven help him, but he did.