Spanish Aristocrat, Forced Bride

by India Grey

  Tristan wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of Juan Carlos and Allegra sitting passively by and watching him marry this English nobody, but he managed to restrain himself. Taking hold of her chin between his fingers, he tilted her face up to his and spoke very softly.

  ‘It’s a business arrangement, remember? You know that, and I know that, but as far as Father Angelico is concerned we are two people so madly in love that we can’t wait to marry, so if you really do want to go ahead with this I suggest you play the part of the enthusiastic bride.’ He paused, dropping his voice even further, so that it was little more than a breathy caress. ‘But this is how this marriage will be, Lily. No grand romantic gestures, no epic emotions, and if you’re not absolutely sure you can accept that, then you walk out of here now.’

  She said nothing, but her eyes stayed locked on his, opaque with emotions he couldn’t interpret, and the silence that wrapped itself around them as they stood close together in the huge, high space was filled with tension. He was aware of his heart beating hard, measuring the seconds while he waited for her to answer.

  And then, very gently, she pulled away from him and took a step back.

  And then another.

  And another.

  Tristan felt his stomach twist and the air momentarily leave his lungs as adrenalin hit his bloodstream. Lily had turned and was walking away from him, back up the aisle towards the door, and for a moment all he could think, focus on, was how beautiful she was with the lamplight glinting on her hair and making it shine like a halo of old gold in the incense-scented dimness of the church.

  And then, of course, it hit him. What he was seeing. What she was doing.

  Walking away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PAIN shot through Tristan from somewhere, and dimly he realised it was his jaw—that he was tensing it with the effort of not calling out to stop her. Spinning round he looked furiously up at the imposing altarpiece, waiting for the moment when he would hear the door at the other end of the church swing shut behind her, signifying that it was over and he could resume the normal course of his life. The women and the parties. The aloneness that he so cherished.

  Didn’t he?

  It didn’t come.

  Stiffly he turned round.

  Lily was standing in the shadows at the back of the church talking to the woman with the flowers. As he watched she laid a gentle hand on her arm and gestured to the child. The little girl had stopped playing and was looking shyly up at Lily, her expression almost awe-struck.

  The mother smiled, nodded. Then Lily dropped to her knees in front of the little girl, smoothing her hair away from her face and gathering her straggling bunch of flowers into a neat posy, showing her how to hold them. The child’s small face glowed with pleasure and pride as Lily straightened up again and took her hand.

  And suddenly he understood. She wasn’t walking out on him. She was doing this her way, with her own peculiar blend of stubborn, determined sweetness that made him feel exasperated and guilty by turns.

  He felt the tension leave his body, and realised his hands were shaking slightly. Not with relief, he told himself harshly. Nothing so selfless. It was vindication, that was all. Pride. No woman had ever walked out on him yet, and the feeling was unfamiliar. The child’s mother, beaming with suppressed excitement, quickly extracted one of the long-stemmed roses from her arrangement and handed it to Lily. Tristan watched as she accepted it, and briefly embraced the woman before stepping forward with the little girl beside her.

  She was going to be a fantastic mother.

  The thought stole into his head uninvited, causing a wrenching sensation in the pit of his stomach. She had a natural instinct for love and kindness that would make up for his own emotional sterility. And, he thought, watching her walk down the aisle towards him, an inner strength that meant she stood up to him. She lifted her head and her eyes found his. Soft as cashmere, shining with her quiet determination, they held him, and although he wanted to turn away, he found he couldn’t.

  The priest cleared his throat, obviously eager to get the service under way, and Tristan moved slowly back towards him, his eyes not leaving Lily’s. She was close enough for him to see the darkness in the centre of the silver grey iris now, close enough to smell her milk-and-honey sweetness.

  Close enough to touch.

  His fingers burned with sudden need, and as the priest began to speak about the sanctity of marriage, his mind filled with a taunting kaleidoscope of images and memories that were wholly inappropriate for church: Lily in the field at Stowell, golden and beautiful with her dress blowing up around her bare brown legs; Lily naked in the tower, her skin silver in the moonlight, and the satin soft feel of it against his lips…

  From that, had come this.

  ‘Señor Romero?’

  They were all looking at him, he realised suddenly: the elderly priest, the little girl, and Lily. Waiting for him.

  ‘Lo siento. Sorry.’

  Father Angelico looked at him sternly over the top of his glasses. ‘Repetid despues de mi. Yo, Tristan Leandro, te recibo a ti Lily, como esposa y me entrego a ti.’

  Almost reluctantly Tristan took Lily’s hand in his. The diamond ring he had sent glittered on her finger, sending out sharp rainbows of light in the gloom, and he could suddenly see it was all wrong for her—too showy, too cold—just like the marriage she was about to submit herself to, he thought despairingly. Did she really know what she was getting into?

  Of course she didn’t. She didn’t even understand the vows. He hesitated, and then said in English, ‘I, Tristan Leandro, take you, Lily, to be my wife.’

  A small smile touched her strawberry-coloured lips.

  Father Angelico continued, utterly matter-of-fact, as if he were reading out a report in the financial pages. Tristan felt his throat constrict around the words he had never intended to say. Never wanted to say. As he spoke them to the girl standing before him his voice was a harsh, sardonic rasp.

  ‘I promise to be faithful to you in prosperous times and adverse times, in healthy times and times of sickness.’ He felt his mouth twist into an ironic smile. ‘To love and respect you every day of my life.’

  Lies, all lies. Standing beneath the imposing marble altarpiece in the sight of God and all his plaster saints as he slid the plain gold band onto Lily’s slender finger, Tristan wondered savagely what punishments would be visited on him for this blasphemy.

  There was always a punishment. He had learned that from a very early age.

  The priest was talking to Lily now, enunciating slowly and precisely, and Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the face of a particularly stern looking angel on a gilded plinth as she began to repeat his words in slow, halting Spanish.

  Her voice was soft, but it seemed to carry into the high, draughty spaces of the ancient church as she made her promises of faith and love. Empty promises, he reminded himself derisively, but glancing at the priest, and across at the woman doing the flowers, he could tell that they were listening with rapt attention, all openly affected by the tenderness in Lily’s voice. Even the old man with the rosary was watching them, his lined face curiously sad.

  Tristan looked away again. Staring blankly at the face of that same damned angel, his face a hard, scowling mask from behind which he was forced to act out this charade for the sake of his family name, his blood and his history.

  And then she touched him.

  As she spoke the words that would bind them together she raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek.

  Instantly he felt heat melt the brittle carapace as his gaze was dragged back to hers. Her eyes were like moonlight, gentle and yet so bright it hurt him to look at them, and their soft luminescence seemed to reach into the darkest places inside his head. As she reached the end of her vows there was a moment’s pause while the echo of her breathless, slightly hesitant voice died away in the ancient church. But the spell cast by its tenderness remained.

  In that silence Tristan bent his
head slowly and brought his mouth down on hers in the lightest of kisses.

  It was a gesture, nothing more. Part of the act, to satisfy the romantic notions of their small audience, and yet as his lips brushed hers he felt every nerve and sinew in his body tauten as fire blazed through them. He heard the sharp gasp of indrawn breath, felt her arch towards him, parting her lips to welcome his. The rose she held fell to the floor as she slid both hands around the back of his neck so that she was cradling his head; gentle, generous, loving, and the kiss wasn’t a gesture any more.

  It was hot and real.

  As if from a great distance Tristan heard the sound of applause. It broke into the dark and private world to which they had retreated, pulling them back into reality. He felt Lily’s smile against his lips as she gently disentangled herself from his hold, then she ducked her head and dropped to her knees, gathering up her little flower girl and hugging her. Father Angelico shook Tristan’s hand, and then waited until Lily had finished hugging the girl’s mother before leaning across and kissing her on both cheeks.

  Everyone was damp-eyed and smiling.

  Except him, of course. Everyone except him.

  Darkness had fallen properly outside, and the light from the lamps on either side of the church door made puddles of gold on the wet cobblestones in the square. The crisp, cold evening was filled with the delicious scent of garlic from the hotel restaurant opposite.

  Tristan let go of her hand the moment they were out of the church, and Lily felt the little flare of hope that had leapt inside her when he had kissed her fade. Her throat felt thick with the vows she’d just made, her chest tight with the enormity of what she had done. For her baby.

  That was what she had to hang onto. This was a practical arrangement for the baby. The blistering heat that had turned her insides into a churning volcano of molten longing when Tristan had kissed her had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

  He held out to her the rose she had dropped. She took it, unable to look up at him in case he read the shameful need in her face. ‘So what happens now?’

  He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and walked over to the fountain. ‘I think that wedding nights traditionally involve considerable amounts of both champagne and passion,’ he said blandly. ‘However, ours was hardly a traditional wedding.’

  Disappointment sliced through her.

  ‘No,’ she said, unable to entirely keep the sadness from her voice as she followed him and sat on the stone rim of the fountain. ‘Or a traditional marriage.’

  ‘Second thoughts, Marquesa?

  His use of the unfamiliar title made her raise her head in surprise. He was standing in front of her, looking down at her, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. But it was his mouth that held her attention—his sculpted, sensuous mouth, which she hadn’t been able to stop herself from looking at all through their brief wedding service. He had a particular way of moving his lips when he spoke that made it look as if he were caressing the words, or saying something indecently sensual even when his voice was quite cold.

  ‘Yes,’ she said fiercely.

  His brows swooped downwards in a scowl, and he opened his mouth to make some stinging retort. Swiftly she reached up and put her fingers against his mouth, silencing him.

  ‘Yes,’ she repeated in a whisper. ‘But not about the wedding. About what kind of marriage this is going to be.’

  For a moment his face was blank with bewilderment, but then realisation dawned in his eyes, so that their blackness seemed to deepen and intensify. Slowly, wordlessly, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘You’re sure? It’s what you want, even though—’

  ‘I know. I thought I couldn’t bear to take you into my bed…into my body…and know that you don’t love me. I thought I could never do that, but now I know that I can’t bear not to. I’m sure it’s what I want.’ She rose up onto her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his ear, breathing in the clean masculine scent of his hair as she mouthed, ‘And I want it right now…’

  ‘Well, then…’ he said in a voice that made her spine melt with longing as he slipped his hands beneath the cashmere wrap, beneath the little top she wore under it. Lily gasped as they met her bare skin and slowly moved upwards, covering her breasts so that her nipples sprang up against his palms. ‘It’s just as well there’s a decent hotel just over there.’

  Taking hold of her hand, he began to walk quickly across the square. ‘Have you booked a room?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘No, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’

  ‘But it’s a weekend…’

  Tristan stopped, looking at her thoughtfully for a second, his beautiful face grave.

  ‘Lily, you have a lot to learn about being a Romero. It has many, many drawbacks…’ he kissed her lingeringly on the mouth ‘…so you just have to learn to make the most of the advantages. Believe me, they’ll find us a room.’

  ‘Great Aunt Agatha simply cannot be seated anywhere near the Duchess of Cranthorpe, any of Tom’s university friends, or anyone who’s ever played lacrosse for Cheltenham Ladies’ College first team. I know it’s awkward, but we cannot risk a scene like the one at the Talbot-Hesketh wedding last year…’ Lady Montague adjusted her spectacles and peered at the vast roll of paper on the breakfast table, weighted down at one end by the silver coffee pot and by the sugar tongs at the other. ‘I think if we put her on a table with…’

  The names of Great Aunt Agatha’s hapless dinner companions remained a mystery as a burst of electronic noise from Tom’s mobile phone interrupted his mother. Apologising, he picked it up and read the text message that had just come through.

  ‘It’s from Tristan.’ Tom frowned, reading out the message in a tone of deep bewilderment. ‘“One circuit of the moat, this morning. Naked. Photographic evidence required.”’

  Neither Scarlet nor Lady Montague looked up from the seating plan. ‘What is he talking about?’ said Scarlet vaguely.

  ‘No idea…’ Tom’s frown deepened. ‘Unless…’

  At that moment Scarlet’s phone let out a trill that made them all jump. But not as much as the shriek of astonishment that she gave a second later as she read the message that had just come through.

  Tristan and I got married last night.

  Will be in touch soon to explain all.

  In the meantime, please try to be happy.

  I am.

  Love L x

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘OK. SO, explain.’

  Leaning against the wall of the hotel room, Lily stifled both a sigh and the urge to hang up the phone. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk to Scarlet, it was just she wasn’t sure where to start. How to explain.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  As she said the words she felt the swirling mist of confusion lift a little and certainty flow back into her. That, after all, was the reason at the heart of all that had happened. A shaft of pure sunlight in the midst of the fog.

  ‘Oh, Lily!’ Scarlet’s tone was warm, but Lily could hear its edge of anxiety and reproach. ‘That’s wonderful. I mean, really wonderful…but, darling—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Is Tristan there?’

  ‘No. He went out a little while ago.’ She didn’t know where. Or why, or who with. He had offered no explanation and she had asked for none. Those were the terms that he had laid down at the outset and Lily understood that she had to abide by them. No matter how hard.

  ‘Good, then we can talk properly.’ Scarlet’s voice became suddenly businesslike, which Lily felt was a bad sign. ‘Look, I’m totally thrilled for you about the baby. Surprised,’ she said slightly tartly, ‘but I know how much having a family means to you. And that’s exactly what’s worrying me…’

  She let the sentence trail off. In the little silence that followed Lily pushed back the muslin drapes at the windows and looked down at the square below. Directly opposite she could see the high doorway in the scarred stone wall through which Tristan had led h
er yesterday, the doorway through which she had emerged such a short time later as his wife.

  ‘You didn’t have to marry him, you know, honey.’

  ‘I did, actually,’ Lily said quietly. ‘Don’t you see? I of all people couldn’t bring a baby up without a father or a name—I know how unfair that would be to the child.’ She paused, watching a pair of pigeons bathing in the fountain in the centre of the square, scattering rainbows of shining droplets onto the worn cobbles. ‘And it would have been unfair to Tristan too, because of who he is. What he is.’

  ‘Who he is? He’s a playboy, Lily! What he is is a sexy, gorgeous, charismatic Alpha male. What he isn’t is husband material!’

  ‘He’s doing all right so far.’

  The words came out without her thinking, but Lily found herself smiling as she looked out into the rain-grey square. It was empty now, silent except for the musical trickle of the fountain, but earlier she and Tristan had been woken by the sound of children’s voices—their shouts and laughter—echoing off the high walls. There was a school attached to the church, Tristan had told her, his fingers sleepily tracing a circle of shivering pleasure across the gentle curve of her stomach. The children used the square as their playground. To Lily it felt like a blessing. A sign.

  Scarlet gave an impatient snort. ‘I’m sure,’ she said huffily. ‘But there’s more to marriage than sex, you know.’

  Lily looked at the empty bed that had been the scene of such prolonged, such passionate lovemaking last night, and felt the smile fade and an ache run through her tired, sated body.

  Not to this one there wasn’t, she thought sadly. Not as far as her husband was concerned, anyway.

  Tristan came back in the early afternoon, bringing a blast of crisp autumn air into the warm room as well as several expensive-looking carrier bags. Dropping them by the door, he sauntered over to the bed, slipping off his jacket as he did so and throwing it onto a chair.