The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride (7 page)

Did she think he would hurt her? The thought was not a pleasant one and Javier's mouth tightened. He had never laid a finger in anger on a woman in his life. As a boy he'd seen grown men use their fists on their women and he had abhorred their violence. Grace might irritate the hell out of him, but he would never cause her physical harm.

Abruptly he swung away from her, wondering why the faint shimmer of tears in her navy blue eyes made his gut clench. ‘Angus's case will be dropped as soon as it is humanly possible, certainly before our wedding. We have a deal,' he reminded her grimly. ‘And it is in both our interests to stick to it.'

‘Thank you.' The huskiness of the simple statement brought his head round and he caught the flash of vulnerability on her face. She suddenly seemed young and painfully fragile. An illusion, surely, he thought with a grimace. She possessed a tongue that could flay flesh from bone. But the droop of her shoulders, the way she ran a hand over her face, tugged at his heart and once again he felt a begrudging sense of admiration.

She was, he conceded ruefully, one hell of a woman, and quite unlike any other woman he'd ever met. Their marriage promised fireworks, and he couldn't deny a sense of anticipation at the thought of bedding his little English shrew. There had to be some compensations for being trapped in the holy state of matrimony for a whole year, he brooded sardonically. Grace Beresford, with her slender fine-boned figure and mass of silky brown hair, would provide an interesting diversion from the glamorous and sophisticated blondes who usually shared his bed.

‘I'll show you to your room,' he said abruptly, his keen gaze noting the expression of relief on her face. Had she been worried that he would insist on trying the goods before he bought? If he was honest, the thought had crossed his mind. He seemed to have been in a state of arousal since she'd fallen into his arms at the castle and he was tempted to explore the sexual chemistry that smouldered between them.

He would enjoy purging his frustrations by sating himself within her, he acknowledged as he focused his gaze on the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts. And, despite her look of maidenly outrage, Grace would enjoy it too. He knew without conceit that he was a skilled lover who would ensure her sexual satisfaction, but now was not the time, he conceded. The banquet at which he intended to announce their engagement was in less than two hours.

Business before pleasure—his golden rule, he reminded himself with a cynical smile. It was irritating to think that Angus Beresford would not suffer any kind of penalty for his betrayal of trust, but a million pounds seemed a fair price to pay for a wife. Three weeks from now he would have his ring on Grace's finger, and more importantly claim his place as head of El Banco de Herrera. Time then to indulge this unexpected passion for the pale-faced girl whose elusive smile promised sensual heaven.

Grace followed Javier along a corridor and into a spacious, elegantly furnished bedroom. ‘The bathroom's over there,' he told her, indicating a door at the far end of the room. ‘I suggest you make use of it and prepare for tonight. The occasion demands a strict dress code, and in future we will need to order you some designer eveningwear tailored to your height.' His amber eyes skimmed fleetingly over her lack of inches, and Grace had the distinct impression that if he could have done so he would have put her on the rack and elongated her frame until she was a suitable height for a
duquesa
. ‘Until then, you'll have to make do with one of the dresses we bought today. Possibly the blue silk,' he instructed arrogantly.

‘I'm not a complete peasant! I do know how to dress, you know,' Grace snapped, incensed by his haughty manner.

His cool smile did nothing to appease her. ‘Good, I'll see you in an hour.' He strolled towards the door and paused. ‘Obviously we will eat at the banquet, but not until at least nine o'clock. It's my housekeeper Pilar's day off today, but I can get you something if you're hungry.'

The offer was unexpected, a small kindness from a man who Grace had decided was carved from granite. ‘I don't feel like eating at the moment,' she replied huskily, feeling her stomach rebel at the mere thought of food. ‘But…thank you.'

His eyes narrowed on her face but he said nothing more, and with a brief nod stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Only then did Grace release her breath as her legs gave way and she sank down onto the bed. What had she done? For a moment the enormity of her agreement to become Javier Herrera's bought wife threatened to overwhelm her, and she buried her face in her hands. She felt as though she had jumped out of a plane without a parachute and now she was in free fall.

How could she live with him for a year? she wondered despairingly. He both intrigued and terrified her, and it had taken every ounce of her willpower not to reveal either emotion in his presence. Perhaps he would mellow, she thought, the faint hope quickly dashed when she recalled the implacability of his hard-boned features. There was no hint of gentleness about him, and even his offer to prepare her something to eat had probably been because he feared she would collapse through hunger at tonight's party.

Everything Javier did had an ulterior motive, which was why he was marrying her. He needed a wife and now he had bought one. But their marriage would simply be a legal contract—there was no reason why they would have to actually spend time together. Maybe she could even return to England and help Aunt Pam take care of her father, she thought with a little flutter of optimism. Javier had made it clear that his only interest in her was as a ticket to him taking control of the Herrera bank.

But as she stepped beneath the shower she remembered how his golden eyes had trailed boldly over her, as if he had been mentally divesting her of her clothes and enjoying the image of her nakedness. She should have been outraged—
was
outraged, she told herself sternly. He had no right to look at her like that. But three weeks from now the legal contract between them would give him the right to do…what, precisely? Demand that she share his bed?

With a gasp Grace finished rinsing her hair, turned off the taps and huddled beneath the folds of a towel. Dear God! He wouldn't, would he? Because of course she would refuse, no question. But there could be a battle ahead, if not a full-scale war, and she wondered fearfully how she could possibly emerge unscathed. One thing was certain—she would not give herself to a man she did not love and who did not love her.

And yet she had come so very close to doing just that, she brooded as she returned to the bedroom and began to sort through the various bags containing the clothes Javier had bought for her. She had been agonisingly in love with Richard Quentin and had believed that he loved her. Good-looking and exuding supreme self-confidence, Richard had swept her off her feet when she had met him shortly after her arrival in London to take up her job at the auction house. Up until then she'd had few boyfriends. Caring for her mother and trying to provide emotional support for her father had taken all her energies, leaving little time for romance. She'd met Richard not long after her mother's death when she was acutely vulnerable, she acknowledged grimly.

Heaven knew what Richard had seen in the shy, unsophisticated girl living alone in London for the first time. Perhaps it had been her unmistakable innocence, Grace thought as she wandered over to the window to stare at the view of the
palacio
and surrounding gardens. Certainly he had never tried to pressurise her into his bed, assuring her that he was happy to wait until she was his wife. The solitaire diamond ring he had then presented her with had shimmered through her joyful tears. Her love for Richard had overwhelmed her, and she'd been convinced that their marriage would be as happy and long lasting as her parents' had been.

To this day she didn't know why he had bothered with the façade of loving fiancé. She had no idea whether, if he hadn't been caught in bed with his Polish housekeeper, he would have gone through with the whole charade and actually married her. But the sight of his naked body entwined with that of a pretty blonde, who spoke minimal English but nevertheless seemed able to communicate with him with mind-boggling inventiveness, had broken Grace's heart.

No amount of pleading by Richard, that Stasia was just a domestic who meant nothing to him, had convinced Grace to give their relationship another chance. Fidelity was a vital ingredient of a successful marriage, but Richard hadn't even made it up the aisle to the altar. Utterly heartbroken, and feeling like a fool, she had returned home to Brighton. Her trust had been severely dented but somewhere out there, she believed, was the partner to her soul, and although it might be old-fashioned she was determined to wait until she'd found him before she fell into bed.

Time was moving on. Grace dragged her mind from the past to discover that half an hour had gone by and she still had to dry her hair and get changed. Although she loved clothes, she had taken no pleasure in the afternoon's shopping trip, and hated the fact that Javier had footed the bill. She didn't want to be beholden to him in any way, she thought bleakly as she laid the blue silk dress he'd suggested she wear out on the bed.

From another bag she took out the one purchase she had made. It was a plain black full-length gown with a high neck and long sleeves. When she'd taken it from the rail, Javier had instantly dismissed it as not suitable, but it was smart and functional and, more importantly, paid for behind his back with her own money.

It was a pity that black seemed to drain the colour from her face, she decided after she had swept her hair into a severe knot and stood back to inspect her reflection. Even with a touch of pink lip-gloss she resembled a governess in period costume rather than a blushing bride-to-be. But it was too late to change now, and besides, she thought with a spurt of rebellion, she refused to allow Javier to dictate how she should dress. He was obviously used to his minions obeying his every command, but he would have to learn that she wouldn't be a pushover.

He was waiting in the lounge. Grace swept along the corridor with her head held high, refusing to acknowledge that her heart was thudding painfully in her chest. As she neared the doorway she halted and stared at him. He was something else, she thought weakly, feeling her bravado trickle away. His impeccably tailored black dinner suit accentuated his height and the width of his broad shoulders. His exquisitely chiselled profile could have been hewn from marble, but when he turned and saw her the fire in his golden eyes warned that he was alive, and at this precise moment breathing fire.

‘What the devil are you wearing?
Dios
, you look as though you are about to attend a funeral rather than celebrate our engagement.'

‘Perhaps that's because I consider our engagement as little to celebrate,' she replied, stung by his mocking disdain. She didn't look
that
bad, for heaven's sake. ‘Funereal black is a fitting colour to match my mood.'

‘I swear you would test the patience of a saint, Miss Beresford,' Javier growled as he strode across the room and gripped her shoulders. Before she could remonstrate, he spun her round and propelled her back along the corridor to her room. ‘And I am the least saintly man on this planet. You have two minutes to change out of the widow's weeds and into the blue dress.'

‘Or…?' Grace challenged him, her cheeks on fire and her hands coming to rest belligerently on her hips. She had never felt so angry in her life. Gone was mild-mannered Grace Beresford, and in her place a bubbling cauldron of fury. Javier Herrera was insufferably arrogant and downright rude. She would wear what she damned well liked, and how
dared
he try to lay down the law?

‘Or I will strip you faster than you can blink.' Javier's mouth curled into a smile that held no warmth. ‘Although I confess it may take me considerably longer to dress you again,' he murmured coolly. ‘It might even result in us being late for the banquet, but our hosts would surely forgive the heated passions of a betrothed couple, and the stain of sexual warmth on your cheeks would be preferable to you looking like a wan ghost.'

‘You are despicable, and I won't go through with this.' Grace felt tears of rage sting her eyes, and she blinked furiously, determined to stem their fall. ‘I couldn't remain married to you for five minutes, let alone a whole year.'

Javier shrugged his shoulders indifferently and took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. ‘Fine—we'll call the whole thing off.' He paused fractionally and then added softly, ‘I thought you cared about your father, but obviously I was wrong. The only person you care about is yourself, isn't that right, Grace?'

‘You know I would do anything for him,' she whispered thickly. Javier had the upper hand and they both knew it. If she refused to marry him, he would easily find another bride—his multi-million-pound fortune guaranteed that. But she had no other way of saving her father from prison. She was trapped; there was no way out. Frantically she moistened her suddenly dry lips with her tongue and could not bring herself to meet his gaze.

‘Two minutes, Grace,' he warned, handing her the blue dress, and with a muttered oath she swung round and marched into the bathroom.

If she was honest it was a beautiful dress, and the colour complemented her delicate colouring far better than black, she noted sourly. With narrow diamanté shoulder straps and a neckline that plunged lower than anything else she had ever worn, the gown was both elegant and sexy. The fluid silk seemed to caress her skin, skimming over her curves with a lover's gentle touch…