At the Spanish Duke's Command

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GEORGIANA 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 hande
d 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 housekeeper. 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 nibbles, 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.

  “It belonged to the Duquesa,” Conchita said sadly.

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t be wearing it,” Georgiana replied quickly.

  “On the contrary.” Juan smiled at her, his dark eyes filled with emotion. “My mother would have loved to see you wear it. In fact I would like you to keep it. In memory of her.”

  Their eyes met. Georgiana swallowed and Juan cleared his throat. There was something about the mention of the Duquesa that forged a bond. She was, after all, the reason they’d met.