At the Spanish Duke's Command

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  “But they are not so young! They are both thirty and should know better,” the Marquesa protested.

  “And,” the Condessa continued, ignoring the interruption with a raised brow, “things take on a different aspect when we consider that both parties happen to be in love with other people.”

  “What? In love with other people? What nonsense is this?” Don Alvaro muttered, dabbing his hanky to his forehead. “Letti’s not in love. She’s far too old for that kind of thing.”

  “Really? Perhaps you should get to know your daughter better, Alvaro. Do stop being so pompous and for once in your life think of your daughter’s happiness rather than your family pride.”

  “Well, I never in all my life—”

  “As I was saying,” the Condessa continued, seemingly oblivious, “Leticia is in love with a charming young man who was made known to me several days ago. He is not noble, and neither will he correspond to your expectations of a son-in-law. But it is my belief that he and Letti will live very happily together. And revolutionise the university,” she added with a twinkling smile. “They will lead worthwhile and fulfilled lives.”

  “Revolutionise the uni—? But this is far worse than we imagined. Dios mio, que catastrophe,” Doña Elvira wailed, leaning on her husband’s arm for support.

  “As for Juan,” the Condessa finished, with an affectionate glance at her young cousin, “he will also seek his happiness. But that is another story which I am not about to get into here.”

  “This is outrageous,” Don Alvaro hissed, and, turning towards Letti, let loose his rage. “You are a blight on the family escutcheon—a dishonour to our reputation. I shall wipe you from the family records, young lady,” he menaced, wagging a trembling finger at Letti. “Your name shall never be mentioned again in my hearing. I shall abolish it. And I shall personally see to it that this—this creature—this upstart—this—this commoner with whom you have allied yourself behind our backs is removed from his employment, wherever that is, and—”

  “Don Alvaro, I hesitate to interrupt you,” Juan said in a cold, autocratic voice, “but I have already told Leticia that any support she needs, be it financial or otherwise, she shall have from me. If you turn her out, you will only be making a fool of yourself. The whole of Madrid will talk. Plus, Letti is quite capable of maintaining herself on her own. As for her future husband, he also has my full support. A new department at the university is about to be built, of which he will be the dean. His work is magnificent, and recognised by academics of the highest level both here and abroad. The King and Queen have visited one of his pet projects and offered their full approval,” he added as a clincher.

  “And if you take my advice, my dear Elvira,” the Condessa added, leaning towards the Marquesa, “you will pretend to the world that this union has your blessing. Think what fools you’d appear otherwise. Make it into a fairy-tale romance rather than the scandal of the season. Now, go home and rest, my dear. I realise this has been a great shock to you both,” she added kindly, “but I’m afraid we must move with the times. I’m sure that at heart neither of you would wish to see two such lovely people living unhappily together. Now, would you?” She raised a silver brow.

  “Come, my dear,” Don Alvaro said, mustering all his dignity. “We obviously have no place here. The Condessa is right. We must consider what is best to be done to stop our names being dragged in the mud.”

  “But what about the lovely invitations? And the cake? And the scandal that will inevitably ensue?” The Marquesa moaned, leaning on her husband’s arm for support, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Oh, dear. I knew I shouldn’t have done it,” Letti said in a hoarse whisper as her parents left. She made as though to run and support her mother, but Juan stopped her.

  “If you show one iota of weakness now, you’ve had it,” he hissed, holding her arm in a firm grip.

  “But, Juan, I feel so awful. Look what I’ve done. I should have—”

  “Don’t,” he replied, a hard edge to his voice. “They were quite happy for you to sell yourself to the highest bidder so long as it satisfied their ambitions. Now, you make damn sure you satisfy yours. Oh, and I promised Pablito that you would phone him the minute this was all over,” he added, to distract her. “Here, take my cellphone and pop into the study.” With a gentle shove, he pushed her towards the door.

  Once they were alone, the Condessa let out a sigh and smiled. “Well, Juan, that was quite an ordeal. Poor Letti. I hope they think this over properly and see what absolute fools they’ll make of themselves if they don’t give the girl their support. I’m sure in the end it will all work out. But tell me, querido, now that matters are taken care of on that front, how do you plan to sort yourself out?”

  But before he could answer Letti returned with an incredulous Pablito, who, hardly believing his luck, had been waiting outside the building so he could personally extend his thanks to Juan and the Condessa. It was only after the two had been sent on their way, starry-eyed, still not quite believing that life had given them this incredible break, that he was able to answer the older woman’s question.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Tia. I will of course phone Georgiana very shortly. And I’m sure that in a matter of days everything will be sorted out.” He winked, then leaned down and dropped a kiss on her brow. “You were wonderful, Tia. How can I ever thank you?”

  “By getting your life in order,” she said, sending him a thoughtful look.

  It was just like Juan to believe that now everything had sorted itself out at his end Georgiana and any other problems would fall smoothly into place at his command. As he left the room, a tiny smile hovered about her lips.

  He had a lot to learn still, she realised ruefully, and had the funny feeling he might be in for a rude surprise.

  It was after a casual glance in the window of a travel agent’s that Georgiana came up with the idea of a house somewhere she could be entirely alone. She knew she had to get away, go somewhere isolated, where she could think, reassess, get her ducks in a row. And the picture of a Tuscan villa seemed perfect.

  As soon as she got home she went online and checked out several sites offering holiday villas for rent. As it was low season there were lots of good deals to be had, and by the end of the afternoon she’d discovered her dream house, an hour out of Florence in the Tuscan countryside. By early evening Georgiana had booked her flight, and the next morning, to her mother’s complete surprise and indignation, she had packed her bags and left for the airport, certain that she was doing the right thing.

  She desperately needed the solitude a villa in the tiny Tuscan village would afford her. Somewhere that held no memories, no reminders of Juan. No painful regrets wherever she turned.

  As the plane landed at Florence’s airport, Georgiana felt a rush of excitement. The first rush of anything she’d experienced since beginning the countdown to Juan’s wedding day, she recognised. Now at least she’d have new thoughts to occupy her over the following days. There would be people to meet. Shops to be discovered, the countryside to investigate. Activities which she prayed would keep her too busy to think. This was definitely the first step on the road to healing her broken heart.

  Her rental car was waiting for her on arrival, as were instructions on how to reach the villa. Two hours later, driving into the Tuscan hills, Georgiana felt certain she’d taken the right decision.

  She drove past vineyards that in spring and summer would burgeon with new life, through sleepy hamlets basking in the late-afternoon sun, on until she reached the tiny village of Gianella. Entering the village, she parked in the cobblestoned piazza, and, opening her organiser, looked up the address of Signora Bagnoli, the landlady who would entrust her with the keys to the property.

  The village was very small. Smiling at the nearest passerby—a large woman clad in shapeless black, holding the hand of a lively little boy who talked non-stop—Georgiana asked for directions to Signora Bagnoli’s house. According to the kind villager, it was
the second on the left past the piazza. Making her way there, Georgiana lifted her face and looked about her, enjoying the seventeenth-century architecture, the wrought-iron balconies, and drawing in her breath at the beauty of the last rays of sunshine bathing the imposing church tower that dominated the square.

  People walked at a leisurely pace, chatting to one another, sending curious glances in her direction and occasionally smiling. Despite being on her own in a foreign place, Georgiana approached the house the woman had indicated convinced she’d been right to come. Here she could hide, lick her wounds, and face whatever lay up ahead in her own time. There would be no one to criticise, no one to demand or dictate.

  And nothing to remind her of Juan.

  Stepping up to the ancient hewn-wood door, she banged the bronze knocker and waited. A minute later a young woman in jeans and a T-shirt appeared at the door.

  “Hello,” Georgiana said, astounded to see that the young woman didn’t look at all Italian. “I’m Georgiana Cavendish.”

  “Hi,” the girl answered in perfect English, “I’m Patsy Bagnoli. Come on in.”

  “Are you English?” Georgiana asked, surprised.

  “Yes.” The girl laughed, shaking her long chestnut hair and smiling, blue eyes twinkling merrily. “I married an Italian artist. We live here in the village. The villa used to belong to Carlo’s parents. Renting it out gives us some extra income. We’re so glad you’re planning to stay for a while. It’ll be such fun to have someone English to talk to,” she added, taking Georgiana into a marvellous low-beamed kitchen where herbs, straw-covered bottles of Chianti and hams hung in profusion over an ancient stove, reminding her of the tasca on the road to Seville.

  Suppressing any nostalgia, Georgiana sat down at the kitchen table. Patsy produced a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Welcome to Tuscany,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll love the villa. I just hope you won’t be too lonely up there on your own. Still, you’ll see the neighbours and villagers will make sure you’re all right.”

  Georgiana asked for a glass of water. She did not want to drink alcohol as she knew it could be bad for the baby. It was weird to be so conscious of another being growing inside her, but so it was. Now that she’d decided to keep the baby, her every thought was for its well-being.

  The girls chatted a while, and Georgiana felt good that her landlords were a young couple whom she could relate to.

  “I’ll take you up to the house before it gets dark,” Patsy said, taking a large bunch of rusty keys from a crooked nail planted in the centuries-old whitewashed wall.

  Ten minutes later they were heading along an earth road among the vineyards.

  “There it is.” Patsy pointed ahead and Georgiana slowed the car to enjoy her first view of the Villa Collina, sitting majestically up on a small hill overlooking the vineyards and the rolling hills.

  “It’s lovely,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

  For all at once she could not help wondering what it would have been like had she come here with Juan, instead of alone. Then she quickly reminded herself that Juan was not an option. In a question of hours he would be married to Leticia, and all they’d shared would be dead and buried for ever.

  Banishing the thought, Georgiana smiled at Patsy and they drove the last kilometre up to the house. The girl was talking excitedly, telling her details about the house and the garden, and Mariella, the lady who came in and cleaned twice a week.

  “We thought you’d probably be a bit lost this first day, so we wondered if you’d like to come down to the village and have supper at our place?” Patsy said as they reached the lovely terracotta building, its sagging tiles and gentle pink hue all that Georgiana had anticipated.

  “Thank you, I’d love to,” she said, accepting the invitation, grateful not to be by herself on her first night. For, although it was delicious to be here on her own, it was also daunting to know that she and the tiny bit of life inside her had no one but themselves to look to if anything went wrong.

  Several minutes later Georgiana had been shown all the features and specifics of the house. Where the linen cupboard was, how the electricity and the gas worked. And Patsy had given her a list of phone numbers to call in case of any emergency.

  “You’ve been wonderful,” Georgiana exclaimed after they’d finished the tour. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” the other girl replied, smiling. “Now, I’ll wait while you unpack and shower, and then we can return together to the village and meet Carlo for a drink in the piazza before dinner. You’ll see—soon you’ll be a part of this place.”

  “Thank you.” Georgiana turned and walked up the stairs with tears in her eyes. She had not expected such a warm welcome from strangers. Somehow it touched the increasingly sensitive part of her being. Her emotions seemed so acute these days.

  Bracing herself, she unpacked her suitcase, walked into the shower, and afterwards prepared to become a part of her new home.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have her address,” Lady Cavendish answered Juan’s enquiry. “All I have is the name of the village. But you have her cellphone number, don’t you? I’m so sorry, Juan, that Georgiana desisted from being your bridesmaid. It was really very rude to decline at the last minute. I hope Leticia wasn’t upset.”

  “There is no need to be sorry, Lady Cavendish. As it happens, the wedding has been cancelled.”

  “Cancelled? Good gracious, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I was preparing to make the trip.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. But I assure you it was for the best. Both Leticia and I feel we’ve taken the right decision, and we are happy about it.”

  “Well…’ Lady Cavendish murmured, not quite knowing what to say. “As long as you’re all happy with your choices then I’m sure it’s for the best. As for Georgiana, she’s off to some place in Tuscany that I’ve never heard of. You’d be best to try her mobile, as I said.”

  “I already have. She doesn’t seem to be picking up her messages. I’m afraid I can only get through to her voicemail.”

  “Well, in that case I really don’t know how to help you. Is it something urgent?”

  Juan hesitated. He didn’t know how much Georgiana had told her mother. By the looks of it, not much. “Not urgent, exactly, just something I wanted to talk over with her. I wonder, where precisely is this village you mentioned?” he asked casually, wondering what the hell Georgiana had gone to a Tuscan village for.

  “Oh, if you hold on a minute I’ll find the name,” Lady Cavendish murmured. He could hear the rustle of paper as she flipped through notes. “Ah. Here we are. It’s called Gianella. Never heard of it. But apparently it’s about an hour or so from Florence. I hope that may be of some help to you.”

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you very much, Lady Cavendish. And if Georgiana happens to phone, would you tell her that I called and ask her to get in touch with me as soon as possible?”

  “Certainly. But I have no idea when that will be. I’m afraid Georgiana’s behaviour of late has been erratic, to say the least.”

  As he laid down the phone Juan experienced a moment’s irritation. He’d been certain Georgiana would be at home in London. That all he’d have to do was jump on a plane and be with her in a couple of hours. Now the process had become more complicated. Gianella. He looked at the name and frowned. What in God’s name could have induced her to go to an Italian village in the middle of nowhere?

  Just when he most needed her to be available.

  It was frustrating not being able to tell her the news, let her know that all their problems were resolved, that at last they could be together. Wipe away the pain and sorrow he was certain she must be experiencing and plan their future.

  Juan sighed, swivelled in his office chair and tried Georgiana’s mobile number again. Only to end up with the same monotonous voicemail message. He supposed if she didn’t answer her phone any time soon it would mean travelling to Gianella himself. At least the initial rumpus over the
cancellation of the wedding had died down now, and he could take a few days off without letting Letti down.

  Georgiana checked her messages. When she saw several calls from Juan listed, she swallowed. It was typical, she thought, angered now, that on his wedding day he should be phoning her.

  What for? she wondered, gripped by fury and frustration. To turn the knife in the wound? Surely he must realise how much it hurt her to know he was marrying another woman? She didn’t need to be reminded of it again and again.

  Throwing the phone down on the gnarled kitchen table, Georgiana determined not to think about him or the wedding.

  Going about her business, she picked up one of the pretty wicker baskets hanging on the kitchen wall and went out into the herb garden. Its subtle aroma soothed her frazzled nerves as she concentrated on what herbs to pick for the dish she planned to cook for Patsy and Carlo.

  Dinner on the night she’d arrived had proved great fun with her new English friend and her delightful husband, a painter, in their gorgeous village house. For the first time in weeks Georgiana had truly relaxed and enjoyed herself. Now, three days later, and installed in the villa, she wanted to return the hospitality. At least cooking and preparing a meal for her guests would take her mind off the wedding, stop her from counting the hours, from constantly glancing at her watch, imagining exactly what stage the wedding preparations had reached.

  Six o’clock.

  And the wedding was planned for eight.

  And there was Juan, cheerfully phoning her only hours before he took his vows with another woman. The thought left her seething. She wanted to weep with impotent rage.

  How cynical could he get? she wondered, savagely snipping stalks of basil, her fingers shaking as she tossed them into the basket. How dared he play fast and loose with Leticia and her? She didn’t care how much a marriage of convenience—or whatever he liked to call it—the ceremony was. At least he could have the decency to be loyal to his bride on their wedding day.