Mrs. Welwright touched the intricate scrolling on the edge of her saucer. She would have spoken again, but looking up, found Juliette's attention fixed upon the two men playing tennis on a court adjacent to the patio, and turning, she watched them too.
The man facing her, Mrs. Welwright recognized as Roberto Francisco de Alvarez, at the moment considered one of the finest tennis players in England and France, a fact that made him something of a celebrity here in Las Flores del Mar.
Often in the last few days she had seen him on, the court giving instruction to eager pupils. But today it appeared Roberto was not giving instruction, but rather was an earnest contender in an arduous match against a large man with wide athletic shoulders and a crop of black hair.
Haughty at first, Roberto had walked onto the court and waved his arms in circles before assuming the classic crouched-down, racket-up position. The serve came, a lightning stroke that sent the ball spinning past before he could return it, and the second point was the same.
The third serve he did return, but then the ball was shot past him again, and after several disastrous volleys following that one, Roberto lost his cocksureness. Then, when he was two games behind, he began desperately pouring energy into his play, perspiring freely as again and again he was forced on the defensive, running from sideline to sideline and back to intercept a long drive, only to have his scrambling return played back to him just over the net.
It was altogether a formidable display of strategy and skill by the large man, and interested by this show of expertise, a small crowd of curious observers gathered on the sidelines.
"Look at that big fellow over there," observed Lord Howard Linley, leaning on his silver-tipped cane, and pinching a monocle between cheek and brow. "I dare say he is running that young Spaniard Roberto into the ground."
"It isn't surprising to me," said another man. "His opponent is quite an unusual man."
Lord Linley raised a bushy eyebrow. "Really, Sir William? You seem to know something. Tell me about him."
"Well, I've heard the gossip, of course. Can't help but be exposed to it when one stays in these seasonal hotels. It seems people speak well of him, although little is really known of his origins-only that he is some sort of merchant prince-a multimillionaire. And he has a reputation with women that makes even our naughty King Edward seem like a schoolboy." Sir William laughed softly with enjoyment until, noting Lord Linley's serious expression; he coughed and cleared his throat.
"Yes, I'm familiar with his sort," the Lord replied, his monocle pinched needlessly tight. "The raw ambitious type-the type to jostle in the marketplace instead of having his future secured in land as do true gentlefolk. No doubt this chap is here hoping to marry into a titled family," Lord Linley finished, tapping his cane's silver tip against the low rock wall surrounding the court.
"Perhaps," Sir William replied. "It's more common now, these new marriages. Can't say that I fault anyone, however. These are changing times and the `old money' is trying to infuse itself with some new blood." Sir William looked narrowly at Phillips as the large man blasted a shot past Roberto and the play stopped as a lanky ball boy ran to retrieve the ball.
"But even if he could have any one of the daughters of the starving gentry, Monsieur Phillips doesn't appear interested in marriage. I've often wondered why he hasn't taken advantage of one of the prestigious matches he's been offered. The rumor I heard yesterday might explain his reluctance to make a proper liaison."
Lord Linley gave his head a slight forward tilt. "Oh? What rumor?"
Sir William scanned over his shoulder and came closer before speaking in a lowered voice. "I've just heard it said that Monsieur Phillips has Arab blood in his veins, a half-breed actually. It's possible Monsieur Phillips has never taken a wife out of a desire not to embarrass himself."
At the word Arab, Lord Linley's monocle dropped with a tinkling against his waistcoat button. "Arab blood you say! What a scandal if that's true! Even those money grabbing mamas will think twice about such an alliance," he said, poking his cane hard against the stone walk. "To marry one's daughter to someone like that would be irresponsible, to say the least. One has to think of the future and of grandchildren."
"Yes, perhaps," agreed Sir William. "But one also has to think of the family coffers. Anyway it is only a rumor. There may be nothing to it. And no one has had the nerve to ask him directly."
"Certainly he doesn't have the appearance of a half-breed. But what you've said intrigues me, Sir William. I think I'll make inquiries on my own. There must be someone who knows. Perhaps even his servants could be enticed."
Sir William interrupted, laughing shortly and waving a hand. "Oh, quite impossible, I'm afraid. The reason people think he has Arab blood is due partly at least to the band of nigger cutthroats he keeps as servants. They treat him like a bloody king. They won't even speak to you, let alone gossip about their master. Take my advice and be careful."
"Ah! And there it is!-the last point!" Lord Linley said as the match ended.
Obviously exhausted, Roberto took the towel offered by his valet and mopped his head before walking to the net to shake Phillip's outstretched hand.
M. Phillips bowed slightly from the waist before jumping the net and putting his arm across the young man's shoulders. Together they walked toward the hotel terrace.
Chapter 23
"Someone, you know?" Mrs. Welwright asked, making Juliette aware that she had been staring at the tennis-match.
Blushing, Juliette turned back to face her. "No, not exactly, just someone I met briefly."
"A handsome gentleman," Mrs. Welwright observed.
Juliette turned again watching Phillips walk away. "Yes, he is nice looking if one finds large men attractive. But he is too overbearing to be a real gentleman."
"Oh?" Mrs. Welwright said, pausing to study his receding back. "Yes, I imagine he does have a certain domineering quality." She glanced to consult a small watch attached by a fine filigree chain around her waist. "Oh! I hadn't realized it was so late. I'm to play whist at two, and it is almost that time now. I'll be on the upper balcony if you need me. Will I see you for dinner?"
Juliette nodded, accepting the older woman's motherly kiss on her upturned cheek, and watching her make her way up the wrought-iron stairway that curved upward along the whitewashed wall to terminate at the second floor.
Looking around the patio, Juliette noticed that the crowd had dispersed, leaving it deserted except for a nearby table where Lady Linley sat with several other ladies.
Absently twisting a blond curl around one finger, she gazed at the sea which sparkled in the sun like diamonds against sapphires, thinking again of Switzerland and high peaks and quaint villages and all the places she would explore.
"I see you're still here," a deep melodious voice said, drawing her abruptly back to the present. "I hoped you wouldn't be gone before I could come back to see you."
"Oh, hello," Juliette said, knowing who had spoken before glancing up. "It seems you are not any worse for wear this morning. You certainly gave poor Roberto a beating."
He had changed from his tennis clothes and now looked as fresh as ever in pants and shirt. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of her chair and the other on the table. His mouth curved as he watched her. "It is fortunate that cramps are not a hazard in tennis," he replied. "May I sit down?"
Juliette laughed and nodded, and Brandon took the chair Mrs. Welwright had just vacated, pulling it closer before sitting down. A waiter, seeing the identity of the additional patron, rushed to his side, becoming even more solicitous as he inquired,
"Would you care for something, Monsieur Phillips?"
Brandon ordered a tomato juice and lime, and the waiter, seeming almost honored by the request, bowed lower than usual before turning and disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.
There was a silence that followed as Brandon pointedly surveyed Juliette's riding knickers. They were the newest cut, beginning tight aroun
d her tiny waist, and becoming fuller so they were modest as a skirt before narrowing down to slip into the tops of her boots which buttoned from the sole to just below her knee.
He shook his head with disappointment. "I was prepared to think quite a lot of you, Miss Thorpe," he said. "But now I'm beginning to question my decision. I find a woman who cannot accept herself as a woman rather tragic."
At first Juliette thought she hadn't heard correctly. She knew that none of the men she was acquainted with actually liked her knickers, but none of them had been so ... well, so forward to say so. Still Juliette's face remained composed and she even smiled slightly as she said, "I'm sorry you don't like my knickers, but they are very comfortable, much more so than a riding skirt, even if they seem less attractive to you." Her regard met his. "I assure you I accept myself as a woman."
"You really don't care what I think do you?"
"Not particularly." Juliette's tone was matter-of-fact. She glanced past Brandon to another tennis game in progress. But you shouldn't take it personally. I don't usually care what anyone thinks-at least about what I wear."
"No? So you don't care whether men find you attractive?"
"No, I guess I wouldn't want anyone to think I was ugly. But I let the women who really need a man to be the ones to please them. Fortunately I'm not in that position."
Brandon studied the girl's composed features, imagining how she might look swooning with passion, her defiant eyes limpid, her flesh yielding, her lips parting beneath his.
From the first moment he had seen her sitting in bed, wide-eyed, her cheeks flushed, her breasts softly curving beneath the white pajamas, he had made up his mind to have her.
Of course there was the matter of Lucille, and thinking of his current mistress caused a line to draw itself between his brows.
He found the European method of changing mistresses both uncivilized and overly complicated. There were always the inevitable tears and scene, the ugly words, threats, and more often pleas.
How much better were the customs of his country where, if a man desired a woman, he simply purchased her, or stole her, and added her to his harem. Still, in spite of the complications, his mind was made up. He would make the necessary arrangements. Indeed there was something unusual about this girl that made the trouble of having her negligible when weighed against the obvious reward.
"But what if a man should need you," he asked. "What should he do then?"
Juliette shrugged. "Sometimes a man says he `needs' me-or more often that he wants to marry me. But then I always ask myself, what does he actually know about me except that I'm pretty enough to satisfy his vanity, and wealthy enough to make him overlook the fact I'm pedigreed only on my mother's side? I can't imagine basing a lifelong relationship on something like that-can you?"
"No," Brandon said honestly, never having considered a "lifelong" relationship with any woman based on anything.
"You see, you even agree," Juliette said looking past him again to the other men playing tennis as she sipped her tea.
A bud vase stood in the center of the table containing a rose bud just beginning to unfold its petals to the sun's warmth. Reaching forward, Brandon cupped the blossom in his hand, bringing it to his nose and drawing in its fragrance.
"How old are you?" he asked. "Seventeen, perhaps?"
"Nineteen," she corrected.
"You look even younger, barely a woman."
His gaze was steady as he looked at her over the top of the flower. "When' you have grown up you may find it pleasant to evoke a man's desire."
The waiter arrived and set a drink before Phillips before leaving again. A flash of irritation showed in Juliette's eyes and then vanished.
She leaned forward. "And what would you have me wear, monsieur? You seem to have a lot of opinions. I'm sure you must have one about that!"
Brandon smiled slightly and looked her over slowly, with a sense of having evaluated many women. Knowing clearly what appealed to him and what did not, he said, "To begin with, you should throw away those horrible pajamas and find a nightgown to suit you-something to compliment your figure instead of detracting from it."
Juliette felt her temper rising at his calm impertinence. "Such as?"
"Something soft and flowing-something deep blue and touched with violet like your eyes, something light enough to cling to your thighs and breasts when you walk."
Abruptly Juliette's cheeks were flushed and burning. She lowered her voice. "Yes. I'm sure it would suit you, too. But I don't need to suit anyone except myself, monsieur. So it doesn't really matter what you would prefer."
There was a bite in her voice, and she felt her heart pumping furiously. What a rogue he was! And twice now his dark eyes had sunk into hers, probing her most secret thoughts and making her acutely and somehow dangerously, aware of her own femaleness.
Before she knew how she had gotten there, she was on her feet. "You will excuse me, won't you," she managed to say in a normal tone. "I'm really on my way to the stables."
Brandon was not accustomed to being dismissed when he would have stayed. He rose to his feet, towering over her. "If you don't mind," he said, `I'll accompany you. I have a small, private matter to discuss."
Aware they had already caught the attention of Lady Linley's table; Juliette was unwilling to argue and only nodded, starting out of the patio. Brandon followed and, when they were well out of sight of the tables, he paused under a wide fan leaf palm tree, where the sunlight slanted between the pointed leaf shafts, dividing the ground under their boots into wedges of light.
"I have something for you," Brandon said, reaching into his jacket. "A small memento in thanks for saving my life."
He withdrew a narrow box and held it toward her. A curious butterfly dipped and fluttered between them as Juliette glanced up at his face and took the covered velvet box, unhooking the small gold clasp before lifting the lid.
Juliette had seen pearls before most often adorning ladies at balls and receptions. She had even purchased a set of earrings for herself several months ago when a London storekeeper had entranced her with tales of their origins of how the pearls grew and were taken out of oysters of exotic islands and passed from one primitive to another, guarded, treasured, fought over, until finally reaching London and the ears and throats of those rich enough to afford them.
Juliette couldn't resist holding these up to catch the sunlight, marveling at such purity and iridescence that seemed to emit from an inner illumination. There were two dozen or so, the center pearl being the largest, and alone worth a small fortune, and the rest arranged in graduated, size from the catch, which was a tropical flower intricately carved out of gold.
Expectantly, Brandon watched the girl as she admired the gift, but none of the surprised coos of delight, or kisses, or tears that were normal on such occasions were forthcoming. Instead, after several moments she closed the case and held it back toward him.
"I'm very flattered," she said seriously. "They're the most beautiful pearls I've ever seen. But we both know, Monsieur Phillips, that I cannot accept such a gift."
Brandon stared, thinking at first he hadn't understood correctly. Then he frowned. Just this morning he had carefully selected these particular pearls from his private collection, imagining what she would look like wearing them and nothing else. Now to have his gift thrust back at him was the last thing he expected or wanted.
"But you must accept them! Surely such stuffy conventions don't matter when the circumstances include the fact that you saved my life?"
Juliette continued holding the box toward him. He was correct about the latter, but she wasn't being "stuffy." Instead, she sensed that encouraging this man would be a mistake.
"Perhaps then you will have to consider me stuffy," she said noticing how the tiny scar on his jaw twitched at her words. Then thinking she might have hurt his feelings, she added, "I really think it is a beautiful necklace. Truly magnificent. I just couldn't keep it." She laughed. "Anyway, just thin
k how terrible pearls would look with my riding knickers."
There was a silence as he appraised her with a puzzled expression. Then finally he laughed, too, reluctantly taking back the case and tucking it inside his jacket. "Very well, then. Another time maybe you will honor me by accepting it. Will I see you tomorrow?"
Juliette felt uneasy beneath his compelling black eyes. As before he seemed to see within her, probing into her thoughts before his look softened. Just as the night before, she felt as if he had touched her. Who was this man? And why did he make her feel like an inexperienced rider mounted on too spirited a horse. There was something about him, a feeling-a fear he instilled that she didn't understand.
Now he leaned closer, his voice lowering. "There is no need to be frightened, mademoiselle," he commented as if indeed he had read her thoughts.
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