Spanish Lullaby
by
Emma Wildes
My Dearest Son,
I am so gratified to hear news of the end of this terrible conflict and the final triumph of our
valiant soldiers. Everyone at Chedwick Hall cannot wait for your return. A celebration is the
order of the day, as I am sure you agree. I expect you have not had much gaiety in Spain these
four years. Praise to God you can return to us.
From the Duchess of Chedwick to her son, the Marquess de Santorino, upon hearing of Napoleon Bonaparte's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo
Chapter 1
Chedwick Hall, Berkshire
1815
The house looked the same. Ivy-covered walls, the elegant stone façade imposing against the sweeping lawn of the park, the trees holding impossibly green summer leaves, the long drive well-maintained as he rode along.
He kept his horse at a slow walk in a deliberate attempt to put off the inevitable.
Odd. He wasn't a coward in battle. Of course, it depended on the enemy.
Carlos Verde guided his mount toward the stables, wanting to see to the stallion himself. They had come through four years of hell together and if anyone deserved to be cared for well, it was Cortez. The poor animal had been wounded more than once—actually they both seemed to have a knack for being in the line of fire. Even now Carlos slid from the saddle and stifled a wince.
His arm was usable, but far from healed. A stable boy ran forward to take the reins but Carlos said pleasantly, “I'll tend to him."
"Yes, my lord.” The lad was young, but not too young apparently to remember him. He stammered, “Wel-welcome home."
Home. That point was debatable. After all, he was half-Spanish and had significant holdings in his native land, not to mention a rich family history. Perhaps he had fought in the British Army, but he'd done so just as much for Spain as England. However, the rolling downs of Berkshire were where he was raised. “Thank you. Perhaps instead of tending my horse you could go up to the house to tell my mother of my arrival."
"Of course, sir.” The young man turned in the direction of the sprawling mansion. He hesitated a moment, swung around and then blurted out, “If you don't me saying so, my lord, bloody good show! We taught that strutting Corsican a thing or two now, didn't we?"
It had been bloody certainly, and nothing good about it except the grueling campaign had finally delivered a victory. But explaining that to a sixteen-year-old stable hand was probably futile, and besides, he'd ridden all the way from London and was tired as hell. Carlos murmured, “I suppose one can look at it that way. Please tell the duchess I will be up directly."
"I will, sir.” The boy hurried off.
He hadn't asked. Oh yes, he'd wanted to inquire in as detached a manner possible if Lady Juliet was in current residence. The last he knew she was in Bath with his step-aunt, her mother, but the post was notoriously slow and that information was months old. In her last communication, his mother hadn't mentioned her at all.
But the letter before that, well, he didn't particularly want to think about it. He'd gotten drunk the night after he read it, truly foxed perhaps for the first time in all four of those hellish years, and woken sick and ashamed and angry and a dozen other things the next day.
Of course the young lady in question was engaged. Certainly. Why not? She was beyond the age for it, actually, and not only beautiful and charming, but well-dowered. He hadn't seen her in four long years but somehow he doubted she'd grown less attractive and certainly the society bulletins in the letters he received indicated a dazzling success with the
haute ton
.
Golden hair, like silk under his fingers, soft lips parted beneath his, the warm feel of her breath against his cheek in a heated sigh...
It didn't matter that he still loved her. That he'd always loved her as long as he could remember.
She was going to belong to someone else.
With the ease of long habit, Carlos put up the saddle, quickly brushed down his mount, measuring out oats without even thinking about it. Just as he finished the task, he heard the thud of hooves, the rider coming at a reckless pace into the stable yard.
Somehow, he knew.
That easily, that fast. Like the same kind of sixth sense that kept him alive through battles like Badajoz and Salamanca. He stiffened, not sure if it wasn't better this way. Over and done with as soon as possible had merit. Like pulling a crusted bandage from a half-healed wound.
Maybe it would be fine. Perhaps all the dread was for nothing.
Somehow he doubted it.
A laugh rang out, light, musical and entirely female. Squaring his shoulders, he strolled out into the stable yard with a slight, practiced smile on his face.
* * * *
The materialization should not have struck her so forcefully. After all, she'd known Carlos Verde was back in England, known he would come to Chedwick soon. It was just this day, this hour, this moment ... she wasn't ready.
Not, Lady Juliet Stather thought in consternation as she reined in her mount, that she would ever probably be really prepared. Rather like having the devil rise from the ground, she pondered darkly as she took a deep steadying—and hopefully inaudible—breath. A handsome one, albeit, but definitely as untrustworthy as sin.
Carlos Verde, Marquess de Santorino, wore his signature mocking expression; a faint curve to those well-shaped lips, a slight rise to his arched ebony brows, just the correct wicked glimmer in his dark, seductive eyes. Raven hair was worn just a shade long as was the fashion and it gleamed blue-black in the afternoon sunshine. He drawled in a smooth tenor without the slightest hint of an accent, “Good afternoon. I wondered how long it would take for our paths to cross. I am sure, of course, you are delighted to welcome me back with open arms, Juliet. I accept in advance your felicitations on my safe return."
Somehow she found her voice after that first earth-shattering moment when she realized he was really
there
, controlling her restless horse with one hand. “I see the French are as inept as ever with their marksmanship."
Something flickered in his dark eyes.
Touché.
"Since I knew how deeply you would mourn my passing, you can be assured I stayed to the back of the lines to spare you pain.” He was dressed in elegant riding clothes, the usual epitome of style, the tailored jacket spanning wide shoulders, fitted breeches and polished boots obviously new. His mother had said he'd stopped over in London and one would never guess he'd spent the past years in a British uniform.
Except, she could not help but notice he was thinner. Still tall, still muscular, but the classic bone structure of his face was highlighted by his leanness and faint lines by his mouth made him look older than she remembered. He was, as always, devastatingly attractive, nothing would change that, but ... different.
"Ever the gallant, as usual.” Juliet gave him a deliberately false, saccharine smile. “You needn't have bothered to go to such lengths for me."
"For a beautiful lady, nothing is too much trouble, even trying my best to not get shot.” To her dismay he stepped forward and grasped her waist, lifting her easily from the saddle.
The touch of his hands ... dear God, she felt the reaction swirl through her at even the commonplace gesture of politesse as he set her down on the ground. She quickly took a step back—bumped into her horse naturally since it was right behind her—and felt like a fool.
Carlos, damn him, was amused at her discomfort. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he stared down at her. “You have grown up, I see, Senorita. From lovely girl to stunning woman."
She barely noticed when one of the lads discreetly took the reins of her mare. Carlos rarely spoke Spanish but when he did there was a slight husky note to his voice made most women weak-kneed by all accounts. She was not one of them. “It's been four years,” she said in a voice that held credible detachment to her relief. “I am sure everyone has changed some. Perhaps you have even grown up yourself after getting to play solider, Carlos. For Aunt Mary's sake I am glad you survived. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going up to the house to change for tea."
"I'll walk with you."
"Excuse me if I decline."
He fell into step next to her anyway. Her step-cousin always had an infuriating knack for doing as he pleased. The fact his legs were much longer than hers precluded walking faster unless she broke into an childish run and she refused to do that so she simply gritted her teeth. He slanted her a look and his mouth twitched again. “I'm going that way myself,” he explained without apology.
"As usual, my wishes do not count. Perhaps you haven't changed after all, my lord."
"Perhaps. I see I was optimistic to hope you'd forgotten the way we parted, Juliet."
Surely not even someone as arrogant as her handsome cousin was that presumptuous. “No,” she said shortly, studiously looking ahead and not at him. “But it really does not matter. I do not care about your presence here one way or another."
"Total indifference? I see."
"Exactly.” She reached for the gate into the gardens but he politely circumvented her and opened it instead, waiting for her to precede him. He was very tan, she realized, his graceful fingers bronzed as he held the latch.
"You never answered my letters.” He spoke in the same conversational tone he'd used ever since he stepped out of the barn.
"I never read them.” Juliet brushed past him and started up the path to the back of the house.
Blooming flowers rose in fragrant banks on either side, the air warm with just the slightest hint of a breeze. Normally she would enjoy the lovely afternoon—she had, in fact, on her ride—but now she just wanted to get in the house as soon as possible.
To her surprise Carlos did not follow her but simply stood there, still holding the gate, motionless.
* * * *
She'd predicted this all along, not that her husband would ever admit she was right.
As much as she disliked doing it, this evening alone told her she would have to meddle.
For the good of everyone.
Her son looked well. She studied him with a mother's critical eye across the table. Thinner than he should be, but that would change soon enough now that he was home, and he'd always been naturally lean, like her first husband, his father. He was as handsome as Juan Carlos also, if not more so, with the same aristocratic bone structure and striking dark coloring.
In contrast, Juliet was fair, all ivory skin and golden hair. Enormous blue eyes dominated her delicate face, and though she was slender, she'd filled out nicely in the right places, which men seemed to appreciate if one counted the many offers for her hand in marriage. The fact she'd finally accepted one in direct conjunction with the ending of the war was not a coincidence.
Mary sipped her wine. It was ludicrous to come to the conclusion her niece had waited for Carlos, and then at the last minute suddenly decided to become engaged, but it seemed to be the truth.
The clink of china was the only sound in the vast dining room during most of the meal and even her husband, Gerald, had roused himself once or twice to make small talk, a minor miracle.
Though there was normally more family in residence, Gerald's sister, Juliet's mother, was visiting a friend and wouldn't return for a few days, and their youngest two children, Robert and Harold, were on a fishing trip to Wales.
Maybe with more people at the table it wouldn't have been so noticeable, but with just the four of them, the fact Juliet and Carlos didn't speak to each other was glaringly obvious.
Yes, something definitely needed to be done.
"The ball will be next week,” she announced, signaling for more wine to one of the footmen.
“Hopefully this glorious weather will hold. The flowers should be spectacular and it has been ages since we've held an event here."
Carlos lifted a dark arched brow, candlelight flickering across the chiseled planes of his face.
“You needn't bother on my behalf, Mother."
"Nonsense. It's for you, but also for the end of such a dreadful war. I am tired to death of hearing about Bonaparte and now I won't have to. That alone is reason to celebrate."
Gerald gave a gruff laugh. “You see, Carl, it's for her, not you. Any excuse to have a party."
"I'm glad we won and could ease your suffering.” Carlos gave her one of his charming smiles, the kind that had gotten him out of dozens of scrapes as a child because it tended to disarm her instantly.
For a moment—just one—Mary saw Juliet look away and swallow and it had nothing to do with the meal.
Ah yes, the power of a handsome young man's smile...
