The House of Adriano (16 page)

On an impulse she went quickly along to Dona Teresa’s room, but with her hand uplifted to tap on the door, she paused. The older woman might be sleeping and she did not want to disturb her. Thanks would just have to wait until later.

She went back to her room and, with a feeling of pleasant anticipation, made herself the first cup of tea she had tasted since leaving Australia. It was delicious, and the affection that had grown up for Do
n
a Teresa took another leap upwards. Bless her, arranging this little surprise and not mentioning a word about it this morning. The cabinet must have been moved into the room while she was actually with Dona Teresa, or during the time she had been with Peter in the schoolroom.

She finished her tea and was wondering what she should do with the remains when Vanetta knocked and came in. She smiled when she saw that the contents of the cabinet had already been used and said something quickly in Spanish, then repeated it more slowly.

“The
senor
said that I was to tell you that when the new cabinet was used, I would take the things away and have them washed.”

Aileen’s Spanish had advanced enough to be able to
just about understand her.

“The
senor
?” A little suspicion began to creep in at the back of her mind. Suppose it had not been Dona
Teresa...?
“You mean
the ...
Senor Adriano knew the cabinet was here?”

“But of course. He ordered that it should be brought here.” Aileen bit her lip and remembered now that Duarte had also been in the room at the time the remark about the tea had been made, and she felt a little ashamed of herself for not for one moment crediting him with the thoughtfulness of having had the cabinet brought there.

“I see.” She paused for a moment and then nodded towards the tray. “You can take them now if you like.” As Vanetta picked up the tray, she added, “Is
Senor
Adriano at home?”

“No,
senorita.
He went out early.”

After the girl had gone, Aileen walked slowly over to the doors that led out on to the balcony and stood looking down into the patio. So Duarte had been the
one ...
and perhaps she had been mistaken in more than just that one instance of thoughtfulness. Perhaps he had all along even intended to offer her the chance of coming out here with Peter, before she had run away, and he had been so much without vindictiveness that he had not even changed his mind after she had caused him so much trouble. Of course he might not have intended it right from the
be
ginning,
but it was still possible that the antagonism that had been
born
in her before she even knew who he was had made her run away before she had perhaps found out the full extent of what he intended.

It was almost lunchtime before he returned, and Aileen had just come downstairs after spending most of the morning studying her Spanish lessons. She caught sight of him from the open door of one of the salons and tapped hesitantly on the door. He turned instantly, coming towards her.

“Could I speak to you for a moment,
Senor
?”

“But of course.”

He escorted her to a chair with the instinctive courtesy that seemed so much a part of him, as unconscious and natural as if he had been
born
with it, asking if there was anything she required. This morning he was urbane and charming, with no sign of the slightly mocking note she sometimes heard in his voice.

She shook her head. “Actually, it’s the other way round. I came to thank you for the tea things.”

He dismissed it with a little shrug. “It was nothing. We must make you comfortable while you are here.” A glimmer of a smile came into the very dark eyes. “What have you been doing with your morning? It has not been lonely or boring for you?”

She could not help smiling back. Bart’s grin might be infectious, but there was something about Duarte’s smile that
was ... well, d
ifferent somehow.

“I’ve been studying Spanish.”

“So?” He switched to his own lang
u
age. “But perhaps it is not an ex
c
iting way to spend a morning.”

“I thought it was necessary, though,” she replied carefully in the same language.

He smiled again. “You are acquiring a good accent.”

“Thank you,
senor
.”

“You acquire our language.” He looked at her just a little speculatively. “I wonder if you will eventually acquire our customs,” he added, returning to English.

“Doesn’t that depend on how long I’m out here?” After the arrival of that cabinet in her room, it was hardly the time to
make any remarks about independence.

“You are not thinking of leaving yet, I hope?”

“Of course not.” She paused and then added tentatively, “But we never did discuss how long I am to stay out here, did we?”

“No,” he agreed, “but I think it is a matter that can still be left for some future discussion.”

Since she did not want to have to face any definite date for departure she readily agreed, yet she could not help thinking about it. When she had first accepted the position of some sort of unofficial nurse or companion for Peter she had not really looked too far into the future, content just to accept that she would not be parted fro
m him ...
not for the time being. Now she began to look at the position more fully.

Just what was her future going to be? She knew that her instinct about Alesandra disliking her was quite correct, and when the Spanish girl became Duarte’s wife she would most certainly make certain of getting Aileen Lawrence out of the house, whatever means she chose to achieve that end. It was unlikely that Duarte himself would interfere, since he could not intend her to be here permanently, only until Peter was thoroughly settled in. Then, of course, she would return to her old job in Australia and try to pick up the threads of her life as they had been arranged before this upheaval came to disrupt them.

“Something worries you?” his voice broke into her thoughts and she shook her head hastily.

“No ...
no, of course not.”

She was thankful that he did not pursue the matter, but instead half turned away from her, glancing towards the window. She was wondering whether she ought to make some excuse to leave him, since she had done what she came for, thanked him for the cabinet, and he was probably wishing her out of the way, when he turned back to her almost abruptly.

“You have not yet seen our gypsy dancers, I believe?”

“No,” Aileen admitted, wondering what was coming.

“Then you will soon have a chance to do so.” There was a slight pause, during which she felt those dark eyes go over her with a completely enigmatic expression. “There is to be an
e
ngagement party shortly at the Zarpeta house. I understand that invitations are to be sent here.” Again that sharply dark glance searched her face, almost mercilessly this time. “There will be more of the same group invitations. I realise of course that my presence is something of a nuisance to you, but on those occasions I am afraid it must be tolerated, or some curiosity may be aroused.”

Aileen was conscious of some curiosity herself. Did that mean that Duarte himself was to be her escort, or was it just some sort of family party? Probably the latter by his use of the phrase “group invitations”. That was far more logical.

She realised suddenly that the sharp, dark glance was still on her and remembered the last part of his remark.

“I ... I don’t...” s
he began haltingly, but he cut across her words almost derisively.

“Regard my presence as a nuisance?” Those dark brows jerked up in an expression of the same derision. “You expressed yourself quite forcibly that day in Melbourne. However,” he added with a shrug, “I quite understand. We shall not dwell on the matter,” and with that he changed the subject, refusing to let her say anything - even if she had been about to refute the remark once again - talking about the engagement party to which they would receive invitations.

Shortly afterwards she went to join Dona Teresa, who herself immediately greeted her with the same news, about the engagement party.

“An arranged marriage,” she said with a shrug. “But that is how these matters are in Spain.”

Yes, that was how matters were in Spain. So many different customs, and the people themselves ... so very different.

Bart telephoned that evening. “Remember me?” he said when Vanetta had called her to the telephone.

Aileen laughed slightly. “If I try hard I might.”

She heard his easy chuckle. “Will the chaperones let you come out to lunch with me tomorrow?”

“You seem to take it for granted it’s only the chaperones you have to deal with,” she retorted a little dryly.

“Are you
thinking
of turning me down, then? Think of what
it would do to my ego.”

He sounded confident that he would not be turned down, though, and she laughed again.

“I’d better not refuse, then, had I?”

In a way, Bart was a relief. Although she was coming on quickly with her Spanish lessons it was nowhere near as easy as speaking in English. Only Dona Teresa and Duarte could speak really understandable English at Marindos - barring the tutor and Peter, of course - and when she spoke to anyone else it had to be in her halting Spanish. Also, with Bart, she did not need to consider every remark she made.

The restaurant he took her to was apparently quite famous for its good food and, since it was the first time she had dined out in Madrid, it was interesting for more reasons than one.

Bart watched her across the table. “I’m beginning to think the restaurant’s more interesting than I am.”

“I’m sorry.” Aileen turned back to him, smiling. “I’m still finding everything so different from back home.”

“Including the people.” He grinned. “Anyone made a pass at you yet? These Spaniards love fair girls.”

“Nobody,” she said with a laugh.

“Disappointed?”

“I’ll survive.”

They turned their attention to lunch then. Since she was quite unfamiliar with the menu, Bart ordered for her. Something called
paella
turned up first. It seemed to be a mixture of rice, yellow with saffron, containing pieces of chopped meat, herbs and tiny shellfish.

“Like it?”

Aileen nodded. “It’s an unusual combination.”

“Even more unusual when the shellfish get left in their shells,” he said dryly.

She looked surprised. “Do they?” Half automatically she began poking around in the mixture on her plate, as if searching for shells.

He laughed. “Not in this place ... but at one restaurant up in the north of Spain when I was over here a couple of years ago, we spent the whole time diving for shells.” He grinned. “The ‘we’ was a business acquaintance, not a blonde.”

Aileen could not help smiling. “I’m glad you explained.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea ... especially as I do have a weakness for blondes,” his glance going over the cap of platinum fair hair that clung to her finely shaped head and curled up slightly at the ends. “A lot of women must envy you that colour. It usually comes out of a bottle.”

“Mine doesn’t,” Aileen retorted dryly.

He grinned again. “I’m glad you explained.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she came back instantly, reversing the exchange of a moment ago.

Temera
was next on the menu, little veal steaks covered with batter.

“At least it’s supposed to be veal,” Bart told her when the dish arrived, “but I can’t help thinking there’s an awful lot of it around just after a bullfight,” and he grinned so widely at that she did not know whether or not to take him seriously. Anyway, whatever it was, it was still delicious.

After the
temera
- bull or veal - Bart leaned back, looking across the table at her speculatively.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Aileen smiled. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

She raised her brows slightly. “That’s rather a tall order.”

He grinned. “I’ll let you pass over the too intimate details.” His smile grew slightly crooked. “Though maybe I’d better find out if there’s any opposition back home.”

Undecided whether to take him seriously or not, Aileen asked if all Texans were as uninhibited when it came to asking personal questions.

He shrugged, quite unrepentant. “If you don’t ask questions, how can you get any answers?”

Finally she admitted there was no opposition, if he insisted on putting it that way, and found herself going on to tell him something of what her life in Australia had been like. He nodded, almost approvingly it seemed, when she mentioned her old home. “So you’re a ranch girl.”

“In my childhood days I was - and we call them stations, not ranches.”

“Go on,” he insisted, so she went on to tell him about the
more recent years, the meeting with Eric and Mandy, her work at the Southern Cross, where she had first met Duarte. For some reason, finding an odd reluctance to do so, she mentioned nothing about the “kidnapping” incident and the short, bitter fight between Duarte and herself which he had won unconditionally. It was not a reluctance to admit her defeat that kept her silent, but some odd certainty that told her Duarte would not like her discussing such personal matters with Bart. Why she should give in to the feeling was something that puzzled her. Some time ago she might have discussed it quite freely, making no secret of her bitter dislike, but she found that her attitude had changed - and was still changing - more recently. She could not really be sure that she d
i
d dislike Duarte any longer. He might still have the ability to infuriate her, but the denial that she found his presence a nuisance might be true in a way.