Scandalous Brides: In Scandal in Venice\The Spanish Bride (27 page)

“Who?”

“The Condesa de Santiago. My, but you have buried yourself in the country, Peter. Simply everyone has heard of her. I even saw her once at a ball in Venice last year.”

“Ah. So we have established that she is famous,” Peter answered. “What is she famous for doing?”

One of Elizabeth’s friends, a young lady in pink silk, interjected helpfully, “I have heard she is a gypsy.”

“No, one of those red Indians from America,” said a gentleman in a shocking purple waistcoat.

Elizabeth waved all this away with a flick of her fan. “She is almost Spanish royalty, and she makes her way from one European court to another. She is very beautiful, and very mysterious. To have her at one’s ball guarantees it will be a great social success.” She glanced scornfully at the man who had expressed the Indian theory. “So I daresay the fact that she is Spanish means she cannot be American, Gerald.”

“And Santiago hardly sounds Russian,” Peter murmured wryly.

“Her whole name is very long and far too complicated. But what is that about Russia, dear?” said Elizabeth.

“Merely another opinion I heard offered when I was trapped beside a potted palm.”

“Really?” Elizabeth’s brow arched curiously. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing at all of interest, I fear.”

“Pooh! I did want some new tidbit to send on in my next letter to Georgina. We are both quite fascinated with the condesa. Georgina wanted to paint her portrait, but the condesa left Venice before we could meet her.”

“Oh, well,” said Peter. “If Georgina Beaumont is interested ...”

“Oh, hush! I don’t know why you hate Georgina so, she is my dearest friend in the world.”

“I think the fact that when last we met she chased me with a fireplace poker had something to do with it.”

“That was only because ...”

A woman wearing an astonishing headdress of flowers and fruit interrupted this familiar brother-sister squabble. “I heard that the condesa was the mistress of a duke.”

Elizabeth was appropriately distracted. “Which duke?”

“I did not hear that part,” the headdress woman said. “Perhaps it was a marquis.”

“But what of the rumor that she was seen in Vienna with Lord Riverton?” said the girl in pink silk.

In spite of himself, Peter was beginning to be intrigued with this condesa. The usual gossip at ton affairs was usually completely uninteresting to him, perhaps because he was so often the center of it.

But this seemed rather different from the usual elopements of heiresses with dancing masters and who was seen going into whose room at which country house party.

A condesa, a foreigner whose connections were really quite unknown, who was seen at the finest houses in Europe. A woman of mystery ...

He had not encountered such an intriguing female in ... well, in many years.

His jaw tightened at the memory of another dark, mysterious Spanish lady. Her name had even been similar to this woman’s.

“And she is coming here?” he said, carefully indifferent.

Elizabeth blinked at him in astonishment. “Why, Peter. Never say
you
are interested in the doings of this condesa?”

“This fete has been—less than stimulating. A beautiful lady, whether she be Spanish, Russian, or red Indian, would surely enliven things.”

“Even if she does appear, I doubt she would be as lively as all that. One could hope, of course, that she might start clicking castanets in the midst of some staid country-dance.” Elizabeth tapped her fan thoughtfully against her chin. “I cannot account for it, brother. Usually you just sigh and roll your eyes at our frivolity.”

“I never roll my eyes.”

“I beg to differ! So—your curiosity is piqued by the condesa?”

“Perhaps a mere soupçon of pique,” Peter grudgingly admitted.

“But what of ...” Elizabeth’s voice fell to a whisper. “What of Yvette Montcalm?”

“I am not going to ask how you came to know that name, Elizabeth.”

“You needn’t try to freeze me with that tone, Peter. People tell things to artists, you know, while they are forced to sit still for a sitting. Delicious gossip—such as your cozy little
pied-a-terre
on Half Moon Street.”

“The mere fact that I listened to your tales of some Spanish woman has nothing at all to do with Madame Montcalm.” And he would not yet give his sister the satisfaction of knowing he and Yvette had parted ways.

“Of course not.” Elizabeth covered his hand with her own small one. “I am just glad that all this talk of Spain has not brought on unpleasant thoughts for you.”

“You needn’t fret, Lizzie. I have put all that nonsense quite behind me.”

“Excellent! Then, you must let me introduce you to my new friend Lady Halsby. Nick and I met her in Venice, she is quite lovely ...”

Peter laughed. “No, Lizzie! I have put Spain quite behind me, true, but that does not signify that I am ready for more of your matchmaking efforts. I will come to parson’s mousetrap in my own time, thank you.”

“Well, if you do change your mind ...”

Elizabeth’s words were lost as a furor arose among the crowd nearer the ballroom doors. Elizabeth stood and tried to peer above the heads of those around her, stretching on the toes of her satin slippers.

“How very vexing!” she cried. “I cannot see at all.”

“It is she!” someone said. “The condesa has arrived.”

“Look!”

A sudden hush fell as the doors to the ballroom opened, and the liveried footman announced, in ringing tones and an egregious Spanish accent, “The Condesa Carmen Pilar Maria de Santiago y Montero.”

Peter, who was considerably taller than his diminutive sister, had an excellent view over the crowd as a figure appeared in the doorway.

She was tall, taller than most women, with a proud, straight carriage and a horsewoman’s slim suppleness. She wore a dashing gown of black and gold lace over deep green satin. Antique gold Etruscan bracelets gleamed over long black gloves.

Her head was turned away as she greeted the Duchess of Dacey, but beneath the pattern of her black lace mantilla could be seen fashionably cropped night dark curls, interspersed with gold ornaments shaped like tiny jeweled butterflies.

Framed by the inlaid doors, she made quite a dramatic and eye-catching picture. Peter silently applauded the condesa’s keen sense of theatricality. It was obvious why she had the entire jaded ton eating from her silk-gloved palm.

Then she turned to reveal her face, pale as milk, with huge dark eyes that cooly surveyed the crowd laid out before her.

Peter’s champagne glass fell from his fingers to crash onto the marble floor, causing the ladies around him to leap back with startled cries, their skirts clutched against them.

The woman who had just made such a striking entrance was not a gypsy, or a Russian.

She was his wife.

Chapter Three

“A
h, Condesa!” The Duchess of Dacey was almost giggling, the orange plumes in her headdress acquiver, as she took her new guest’s arm and drew her into the crowded ballroom. “Such an honor you do my humble soiree!”

Carmen inclined her head in what she hoped was a regal manner, striving to keep her features smooth and mysterious, despite her exhaustion and nervousness. “I do apologize for my late arrival, Your Grace,” she murmured.

“Not at all! Why, we have not even gone in to supper yet.” The duchess linked her arm through Carmen’s and smiled brightly. “But you have not met everyone, Condesa! You are surely acquainted with the Marquis of Stonehurst? He tells me you met in Paris.”

“Yes certainly. How do you do?” Carmen held out her gloved hand to the portly little marquis and suffered him to drool over it, wondering if perhaps he could be her letter writer. She had met his brother in Spain, who had then conveniently died and left this man the title. But, no—he was so obviously concerned with only his own comforts. He would not have been concerned with his brother’s life in Spain; he would never have heard of Shadow or Alvaro.

Yet, as he attempted to peer down her bodice, she almost wished it was him. It would have been such a pleasure to skewer the little lecher with her dagger.

“Delighted to see you again, Condesa. It was such a pleasure to dance with you at Madame de Troyes’s ball last winter.” He smiled up at her in a particularly unpleasant manner. “I hope I may have the honor of dancing with you tonight?”

I would rather sink through the floor and die,
Carmen thought. Then she smiled sweetly. “I am sorry, but I do not mean to dance tonight. Now, if you will excuse me ...” With a small nod, she moved away from the odious marquis and their giggling hostess, and made her own progress across the room.

She paused to speak with those people she had met on her travels, and to be introduced to their friends, who were all eager to make her acquaintance. She smiled, and nodded, and exchanged pleasantries, accepted invitations to take tea and to drive in the park.

Though, behind all this exquisite politeness, she was always watching. Wondering if one of these smooth-faced people, who were drinking champagne and attempting to make witticisms with her, could be the one who had either seen her themselves in Spain, or had a son or brother or husband who did. Wondering which of them thought they held so much of her past, and her future, in their grip.

Where could she even begin? It seemed hopeless.

And this ball did not seem the right atmosphere for making inquiries concerning military service. It was an evening of preliminary reconnaissance only.

At last she managed to evade the crowds and find a quiet corner, a tiny nook curtained in by one of the open French doors leading to the terrace and the gardens. Carmen slipped gratefully behind the heavy velvet draperies and let them fall behind her, enclosing her in silence.

The night air was blessedly cool on her face after the overheated, over-perfumed ballroom. She pushed her mantilla back from her flushed cheeks, and leaned her forehead against the door frame, closing her eyes.

She was utterly exhausted. A ball, particularly one of this magnitude, was the very last place she wanted to be after a long journey. All those silly people, eating and drinking far too much, whispering wicked things about one another—it was all so familiar. London was just Paris, Venice, and Vienna with a different accent.

She shuddered.

If she could follow her own wishes, she would be tucked away beside her own fire, with a new book and nice sherry. And she would assuredly be wearing her favorite old dressing gown, the red velvet with the mended elbow, and not this itchy thing from Madame La Tour’s Parisian couturier shop! It was said that the condesa (a creature Carmen considered rather separate from Carmen) was a woman of dashing style, but really fashion was a confounded nuisance.

She tugged the close-fitting lace and satin bodice away from her skin and let some of the cool air onto her shoulders. Yes, she would definitely change into her dressing gown as soon as she arrived home.

But for now she had work to do. What she sought would never be found if she stayed at home by her own fire.

“It will not be for long,” she whispered. “It will all soon be over.”

Carmen straightened her shoulders, and smoothed her bodice in preparation to rejoin the ball.

“Ah, the Condesa de Santiago, I presume. I have heard much about you,” a low, velvet soft voice murmured behind her.

Someone had joined her, undetected, in her safe nest. Another who fancied himself an “admirer,” no doubt. Carmen pasted on a bright smile and turned.

A gasp escaped her lips before she could catch it. “Peter!
Madre de Dios
, is it you? But it cannot be!”

“My sentiments precisely,” he answered, his blue gaze flickering over her in freezing examination. “Carmen.”

The room spun about her head; there was such a roaring in her ears, like a dozen rushing rivers. She fell back against the door, hardly able to remain standing. She covered her face with her gloved hands.

“You are not going to swoon, are you?” he said. His voice was exactly the same, just as she heard it so often in her haunted dreams. Like warm brandy.

“No,” she replied. And promptly collapsed at his feet.

“By Jove, Carmen! Never say you have become a frail flower of a female.” He scooped her up easily in his arms, and nudged open the door with his shoulder.

She felt the cool air on her shoulders and face as he pushed back the lace of her mantilla. “Certainly not,” she managed to gasp, still overcome by the hazy sense of unreality. “I am far too tall to ever earn the sobriquet of ‘frail flower.’ It is only you English and your overheated rooms. I could not even catch my breath.” She looked up at him, wondering if everyone talked of such things as the temperature when faced with long-dead husbands.

She rather thought not.

“My apologies,” Peter said, “on behalf of all the English who overheat their rooms.”

He placed her carefully on her feet, and she leaned against the marble balustrade of the terrace, grateful for its cold solidity.

She studied him in the moonlight, this stranger she had once known so very well. He was as beautiful as ever, an Apollo with hair as bright as winter sunlight, tall and elegantly slim. But there was something there that had not been six years ago. Deep lines bracketed his lovely mouth; his eyes were as flat and still as a millpond, no stirring of emotion at seeing her again. It was almost as if another soul had come to inhabit the body of the man she loved.

How could her Peter be behind those eyes?

“I thought you dead,” she managed to say. “They told me you were killed that day.”

“Ah, my dear. What an impasse. I thought
you
were dead.”

“Me? Dead? Whoever told you that?”

He shrugged, the deep blue velvet of his coat rippling impressively over the smooth muscles of his shoulders. At least he had not become soft over the years. He was still sleek and strong as a tiger.

“I do not recall,” he answered. “But now I see that you are very much alive.” His eyes slid over her dazzling décolletage. “And unscarred. Come to finish the job, darling?”