by Lynne Graham
Unhappily, she was convinced that, while Leandro was rarely out of her thoughts, Leandro himself didn’t remember his wife’s existence very often. It would never occur to him to phone her when he was away from her. He would never confide his deepest thoughts in her, nor would he even answer her curious questions about Aloise. Indeed he had labelled her curiosity about his first wife ‘unhealthy’ and had ensured that she was very reluctant to raise the topic again.
‘I think you should tell Leandro to take a running jump and come home to London,’ Jez had told Molly on the phone the night before. ‘You’re bored, you’re lonely and you’re in a foreign country. By the sounds of it, you see so little of your healthy duke that you might as well move back here. He could visit the kid when he comes over on business. At least you’d have a life in London.’
‘I’ve never been a quitter. I don’t want a divorce and a broken home for my child,’ she argued vehemently. ‘Marriage is for the long haul.’
‘Your long haul, not his. You seem to be the one making all the sacrifices,’ her best friend opined.
And wasn’t that the truth? Molly thought ruefully. Marriage appeared to have made very little impression on either Leandro’s schedule or his attitude to her. Leandro was strong, arrogant and reserved. She loved his strength, but hated being kept at arm’s length. He shut her out and she desperately wanted to be let in so that she could get close to him somewhere other than in the bedroom. She had nobody but Julieta to talk to, and during the week Leandro’s sister lived in Seville where she was studying fashion design. While Molly’s regular Spanish lessons with a local teacher had led to a steady improvement in her grasp of the language, it was still an uphill challenge for her to have a decent chat with anyone. At least, however, she could now make herself understood with the castle staff. For the first couple of months, while she was unable to express the most basic requests, she had felt very inadequate and isolated.
Furthermore, her mother-in-law, far from basing herself as promised in Seville, remained firmly in residence below the same roof. Doña Maria froze Molly out in company and made little acid comments and digs under cover of polite conversation. That was one reason why Molly spent the greater part of her day in her studio, which Leandro had yet to even visit. He had promised to come but never quite made it. In much the same way he had not found the time to take any interest in the nursery being decorated for their unborn child.
A knock on the door shot Molly back to the present and she spun round to see Julieta, gorgeous in white shorts and T-shirt, smiling hopefully across the studio at her.
‘It’s my birthday tomorrow,’ Julieta reminded her. ‘Will you come up to town and go clubbing with me and my friends in the evening? You can stay the night at my place.’
It was on the tip of Molly’s tongue to say no because she knew that Leandro would not approve. But then when did Leandro ever take her out anywhere? She was married to a workaholic too busy to waste his precious time entertaining his wife. Sudden defiance blazed through Molly. Since when had she been the sort of girl who sat home and did as she was told? On that thought, she accepted the invitation and Julieta was ecstatic at the prospect of introducing Molly to all her friends, for the two women had formed an increasingly close friendship, united by the truth that neither of them was capable of winning Doña Maria’s approval. Nothing poor Julieta wore or indeed did got her critical mother’s vote of confidence.
Late afternoon, Molly drove back to the castillo in one of the estate Land Rovers that she had acquired for her own use. Basilio knew her routine and he was stationed at the side door in the garden she always used to avoid her mother-in-law, who sat in the grand salon off the hall at that time of day. He swept open the door and bowed low with a throbbing air of exaggerated respect that very nearly provoked Molly into giggles.
‘Muchas gracias, Basilio,’ she said punctiliously, touched by his unfailing efforts to give her the aristocratic airs she so conspicuously lacked.
She grabbed a magazine from the pile in her bedroom and went off to luxuriate in a long bath. Anticipation at the prospect of soon enjoying lively company had brightened her eyes. She was already planning to get her hair and nails done for her night out on the town the following day. She wondered what she would wear, reflecting that pregnant clubbers weren’t exactly cool or fashionable, and mentally flipped through her extensive wardrobe for an outfit that would magically conceal her rotund contours. So Leandro wouldn’t like it. Well, Leandro would have to roll with the punches.
In the act of flipping through the glossy fashion magazine for something to catch her interest, Molly froze at the fleeting glimpse of a woman’s face. Sitting up in an abrupt movement, displaced water swilling noisily all around her, Molly flipped back frantically through the issue to find the relevant page while struggling to keep it dry at the same time.
Her heart skipped a beat when she finally relocated the photograph of a very beautiful blonde woman standing in a walled garden full of colourful flowers. It was her sister, Ophelia, she was sure it was! Barely able to breathe for excitement, Molly settled back to read the article. Ophelia was married now-well why not? Her sister was seven years older and a mother as well, Molly registered in growing astonishment. My goodness, Ophelia had already had three kids by a Greek businessman called Lysander Metaxis! Now why did that surname ring a familiar bell with her? Ophelia, who now evidently ran a plant nursery, had opened her home and garden in aid of a children’s charity. Molly turned a page and stared fixedly at the picture of Madrigal Court. Her recognition of the lovely old Tudor house sent a cold shiver down her spine, rousing as it did unhappy memories.
She still remembered the initial excitement of first seeing that huge ancient house from her grandmother’s car the day after her mother’s funeral. She had been so hopelessly impressed that someone she was related to could possibly have enough money to live in a mansion. But her grandmother, Gladys, who could have given Doña Maria frostbite with her nasty tongue, had soon turned Molly’s youthful excitement into a sick sense of apprehension. As soon as Gladys had returned from enrolling Ophelia in her new school, she had sat Molly down and told her that she couldn’t possibly give her a permanent home.
‘Your sister is sixteen. You’re too young a child for me to take on,’ her grandmother had told her.
Molly had fearfully sworn that she would be no trouble and that she would help out round the house and not get in the way, and the older woman had had to admit the true reasons why she wasn’t prepared to raise her younger granddaughter.
‘Your father was a foreigner and he already had a wife when he got your mother pregnant with you. He was a loathsome man who jilted your mother at the altar long before you were born, but he still wouldn’t let her alone to get on with her life!’ Gladys Stewart had delivered with seething bitterness. ‘It’s a shameful disgrace for a woman to give birth to a child when she’s not married, Molly, and that’s why you can’t live here with me. It’ll be much better for all of us if you’re adopted.’
Until today, she had never seen the big sister she adored, Molly recalled painfully. If a heart could be broken, hers had been smashed, as Ophelia had been the only stable loving influence in Molly’s world since she was born. Her eyes wet from those recollections, Molly read on, eagerly sucking up every tiny personal detail about her sister’s life. She hauled herself out of the bath and dried herself at frantic speed. She was going to get in touch with Ophelia. Why not? There was no mention of her grandmother in the article. She was only risking rejection and couldn’t imagine the sister she remembered being that cruel. She was longing for another woman she could talk to, because it was impossible to admit the extent of her unhappiness to Julieta, and Jez was a man and didn’t understand, for he simply urged her to walk out on her husband. As if that would be the easiest thing in the world to do!
Before she could lose her nerve, Molly flung on some clothes and went on the Internet in search of contact details for Ophelia. Madrigal C
ourt had its own website and she sent an email to her sister, couched as casually as she could manage it, asking after the family parrot, Haddock, and including her mobile phone number. After all, Ophelia might not want to talk to her.
At that same moment, Leandro was in his office at the bank in Seville and sustaining a very taxing visit from an elderly uncle who professed to be very much shocked and disturbed by recent outrageous gossip on the estate relating to a family member’s behaviour with an unnamed man. By the time all the complex and deeply apologetic and defensive outpourings had been waded through, Leandro was not a great deal wiser to the facts than he had been at the outset. His uncle, an old bachelor, had a highly refined sense of delicacy and honour that prevented him from being a good teller of tales, for he steadfastly refused to name the source of the gossip, the content of it or to identify the parties involved.
‘Of course, some people will say that artists are like that-all passion and no common sense,’ Esteban framed tight-mouthed with disapproval. ‘But it is your duty to put an end to such activities and protect the family name. I am very sorry that I have had to bring this scandalous matter to your attention.’
Right up until the old man mentioned the word ‘artist’ and linked it with that other revealing word ‘passion’, Leandro had been inclined to take a humorous view of what Esteban might regard as a scandalous matter-too short a skirt? A little flirtation? A woman seen unchaperoned in male company after seven o’clock at night? But when it came to his wife’s reputation, Leandro’s sense of humour died. He was no more liberated than his seventeenth-century forebears who had locked up their wives and fought duels to the death over them. The only artist in his family, as far as he was concerned, was Molly.
‘Fernando Santos?’ he breathed between compressed lips as he shot to his feet.
Startled by that brusqueness with which that word erupted from the head of the family, Esteban nodded in grave and grudging confirmation.
To fill her time that evening, Molly was tidying up her studio. When a car drew up outside she looked out in surprise at the sight of Leandro springing out of the vehicle. He was a sleek, dark and gorgeous image in his well-cut business suit and she ate him up shamelessly with her eyes. Familiarity did not breed contempt in her experience. She might share a bed with him every night, but she remained awesomely aware of his magnificence.
Her ready smile glowed into being. ‘I thought you were never going to come down and see this place,’ she confided helplessly.
The faintest rise of dark colour scored the slashing cheekbones that gave Leandro’s handsome face such strong lines. He glanced across the yard at the building housing the estate office and marvelled that it had not previously occurred to him that his wife was likely to become friendly with a man she was working virtually next door to several days a week.
‘You’ve managed an impressive transformation in here,’ Leandro conceded, quietly noting the scrupulous organisation and order that distinguished the studio. Molly might rush at the business of life like a tiny, intense and energetic tornado, but she did not wreak havoc on her surroundings.
‘I couldn’t have done it without Fernando’s help. He’s been invaluable. He introduced me to one of his friends who’s a painter. He was able to advise me on where to buy the kiln and my supplies,’ she told him.
His lean, powerful face taut and his sense of guilt growing, for he had offered her no support, Leandro picked up a bowl with a smooth, swirling mother-of-pearl finish and examined it. ‘This is very attractive, mi cielo. I should have done more to help and I’m relieved that Santos has made himself useful. Do you see much of him?’
Sensing his edgy mood, Molly was becoming tense. ‘I see him most days-I mean, his office is only across the yard.’
Luxuriant black lashes low over his stunning dark golden eyes, Leandro held her questioning appraisal levelly. ‘You need to be more careful in your dealings with him-’
‘What the heck is that supposed to mean?’ Molly launched at him in immediate angry interruption. ‘What are you trying to imply?’
Her husband looked grim. ‘I’m not implying anything. I trust you. I don’t think you’re foolish enough to get involved with another man, but I do think you’re likely to be careless of appearances. In a rural area like this where people have old-fashioned ideas about the sexes that can cause problems.’
‘I haven’t done anything that anyone could take amiss!’ Molly exclaimed.
‘I’m afraid that you must have done because one of my relatives came to tell me about it today-’
Molly took a furious step forward. ‘To talk about me? And tell you exactly what?’
‘No specifics, just a lot of suggestive mumbling and raised brows and dark hints,’ Leandro volunteered in a wry tone, reaching out for her small slender hands and enclosing them deftly in his. ‘I would not discuss you with anyone. I’m just warning you to watch your step for your own sake. This isn’t like London. You are a person of importance here and your every move will be noted. Our neighbours and employees do talk about us and I don’t want my wife to become the focus of damaging gossip.’
‘I haven’t done anything that anyone could talk about-unless it was your mother. I imagine Doña Maria could come up with a pretty good story to drop me in it if she wanted to!’ Molly condemned bitterly, yanking her hands free of his in a pointed gesture of condemnation.
His surprise at that response patent, Leandro frowned down at her. ‘This has nothing to do with my mother-’
‘You’re accusing me of getting too friendly with Fernando and it’s absolutely not true.’
‘I’ve nothing more to say on this issue and I’m not going to be drawn into an argument about it.’ Leandro surveyed her with forbidding cool. ‘I didn’t intend to upset you.’
‘Of course, I’m upset. You approach me with no names, no facts and tell me to watch my every move like I’m some silly airhead of a schoolgirl likely to cause you embarrassment! Well, I may not be from a fancy aristocratic background like yours, but I do know how to behave,’ she proclaimed fiercely.
‘Is Santos making a nuisance of himself?’ Leandro shot at her suddenly. ‘Is that the problem?’
‘No, you’re the problem, Leandro!’ Molly was trembling with furious resentment. It was humiliating that he should feel the need to warn her about her conduct with an employee. She shook her keys noisily and waited at the exit until he had walked past her. She then locked up the studio and stalked back towards her own vehicle.
‘Leave it here. I’ll take you back. I don’t want you to drive in a temper,’ Leandro breathed in a raw undertone, angry that she had reacted so badly to what he viewed as a mild and reasonable admonition. He was already wondering if there was more substance to the gossip than the narrow-minded rumours without foundation that he had assumed.
‘I’ll do whatever the hell I like!’ Molly raked at him, wondering why he was so possessive of her. Evidently he didn’t appreciate just how powerful a hold he had on her.
‘No. You won’t, querida,’ Leandro asserted as he bent and lifted her off her startled feet to stash her bodily into the passenger seat of his car.
Molly was so taken aback by that very physical intervention that they were halfway back to the castle before she mastered her fizzing rage with him to the point where she could speak. By then she had also remembered Aloise’s accident and the row that had evidently preceded that tragedy. Her tummy lurched as she understood why he had been so determined not to let her get behind the wheel in such a mood. He wouldn’t talk about his precious Aloise but Molly felt positively haunted by her predecessor. She knew so many facts about Leandro’s first wife but virtually nothing of a personal nature. All she had was the gorgeous blonde in the portrait in the dining room to go on for an image and the scarcely heartening knowledge that Aloise had been a successful barrister, renowned for her charity work and her talents as a hostess-an impossible act to follow as far as Molly was concerned.
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�There are times when you make me so angry I could go into orbit without an engine. I can’t stand being bossed around,’ Molly admitted shakily. ‘And I sincerely hate you when you talk down to me like I’m stupid!’
‘I don’t do that. You’re a very passionate personality-’
‘And I’m proud of it,’ Molly muttered without apology.
‘I’m getting used to it,’ Leandro confessed, studying her delicate profile with an instinctive sense of fascination. He could feel the powerful emotion she was struggling to contain. It was that same vital life force matched with sensuality that powered their astonishingly good sex life. He rationed the time he spent with her, though. It was better that way, he told himself grimly. Everything in moderation, nothing to excess. It was the rational line to follow. He remembered how he had felt when he saw Santos responding to her sex appeal. He hadn’t liked his reaction. As long as he stayed in control he need never feel that way again.
Before she went to bed, Molly logged on and checked her email box and then scolded herself for expecting a reply from Ophelia so quickly. Most probably an employee would see her email first and pass it on and it might well be some time before her sister even laid eyes on it. Maybe she had made a mistake getting in touch, she thought anxiously. Fear of rejection had kept her from travelling the road to a reunion for years, but the need to reach out to Ophelia had overwhelmed her at a vulnerable moment. All her optimistic dreams about what she might make of her marriage were slowly crumbling into dust around her.
In the spacious bedroom of her town apartment the following evening, Julieta put down her mobile phone and turned stricken eyes on to Molly, who was outlining her mouth with pillar-box-red lipstick and trying not to yawn because it was already hours after her usual bedtime. ‘That was my mother…’