Bound to Be a Groom (8 page)

“Sebastian.” The man was a friend of his father’s and gave Sebastian a haughty look.

“Sir,” Sebastian replied, acknowledging him with a formal nod. “Please allow me to present my fiancée, Anna Redondo. Anna, this is the Conde de Frigiliana.”

She curtseyed, and the man bowed, giving her a scrutinizing appraisal, and went on his way.

“Bastard.” Sebastian muttered under his breath, then smiled back at Anna and continued quietly, “You’ll have to pardon my disdain for the so-called leaders who are blindly giving Spain to the enemy.”

“I have heard tell of the arrival of Napoleon’s brother in May, but I am far from informed when it comes to political intrigue,” she said. “It sounds interesting. I hope you will enlighten me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It sounds interesting to you?”

“Of course it does.” She looked affronted. “Do you think I enjoy being a twig on the river of civilization merely because I was born a girl?”

He shook his head slowly. “You could never be a twig on any river, dear Anna.”

She still looked ruffled.

“And to be clear, yes, I will look forward to enlightening you when it comes to the events that are shaping our government and our world.” His eyes narrowed again. “In fact, I believe you and Pia will be an integral part of what I hope to achieve in London on an upcoming trip Javi has asked me to take.”

“How wonderful!” Anna exclaimed. “I have always wanted to see that city, to go to the theater, and meet some of the writers and philosophers there.”

“Have you now?”

“Yes, very much. But as you must know by now, I’m not as accustomed to getting what I want as you are.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, in the wider world, I suppose”—she smiled up at him—“I have not as much experience exerting my will.”

“We must remedy that as soon and as often as possible,” he said with an answering smile. After they spoke to another passing wedding guest, Sebastian asked her, “Is there anyone else to whom I should speak about my proposal?” Once everyone was well out of earshot, he continued, “Have you no relative or guardian to whom I should apply?”

Anna shook her head. “No one . . . or at least no one who cares about my future.”

“Who is your father, Anna? Have you no idea?”

Anna looked down at the tips of the satin slippers Isabella had lent her for the day. “I knew I would have to tell you of my sordid past eventually, but I had not anticipated doing so this soon.”

He waited for her to go on.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up into Sebastian’s eyes and spoke warily. “My mother was married to the Conde de Floridablanca when she had me. You probably know him as José Moñino y Redondo. He was much older than she.”

Sebastian nodded in recognition of the old and powerful family name from decades past.

“My mother . . . loved another man. After she became pregnant with his child, she hoped she could pass me off as the legitimate heir of her elderly husband. But when I was born with the blonde hair and telling mark of the English diplomat who had been billeted in my father’s
castillo
in 1788 . . .” Her voice faded as she fingered the slightly raised patch of dark-brown skin at the base of her neck.

Sebastian wanted desperately to lean in and kiss the delicate birthmark. Apparently sensing his desire, Anna shivered.

“I love it,” he whispered. “It is a mark of passion that refuses to be denied.”

He looked into her eyes, and he felt a new heat, a new connection building between them. Not only the warmth of their young bodies craving each other, but the way their minds worked.

“You are nothing like the cruel, domineering men the nuns always describe.” Her face softened. “So tender and eager to please.” Her praise warmed him like a caress. “You are a very good man, Sebastian. A very unusual one, I think.”

He hummed his gratitude and leaned more heavily against the column at his side. Not being able to touch her was proving difficult.

“Do you want to touch me very badly, Sebastian? Even here in front of all of these prying noblemen?” Of course she had noticed he was struggling, and the wicked woman was enjoying it. The realization that she could taunt him here in a crowded room as easily as she could toy with him in an empty library or a deserted hallway brought a mischievous smile to her face. “Do you want your lips on me again, you greedy boy?” Her voice was soft, her expression light and cheerful. If anyone glimpsed them talking, it would appear they were discussing something of little importance, the violinist or the
membrillo
that had been served after supper.

She rubbed the tip of her finger along her lower lip, and he practically groaned. She glanced down at his firming cock. “That’s it, my sweet Sebastian. So responsive. So giving.” She let her hand slip away from her lips and stared into his eyes.

“I am yours, Anna,” he said quietly. “In every possible way a man can offer himself to a woman, I offer myself to you. I submit my body into your keeping.”

“I will treasure the gift of your submission, Sebastian.” She was no longer toying with him. “Of course, I will honor and obey you as society expects; in the eyes of the world you will always be my lord. But . . .” He moaned, and a shiver of delight passed through him. “But, in the bedroom . . .” Her words caused him to stop breathing. “But in the bedroom,
you
shall honor and obey
me
. . . as we both know you crave it.” She looked away and smiled innocently at an elderly woman who passed nearby.

“I do . . . I do crave it . . .” Sebastian whispered hoarsely.

“In the privacy of our own world”—she said without turning toward him—“there is so much we can explore together . . . we three . . . inextricably bound.”

“Anna . . .” His throat constricted with emotion.

“I know, Sebastian. It will be beautiful.”

He closed his eyes and tapped the side of his head against the stone column until the physical pain brought him back from the brink of spending himself in the middle of the crowded drawing room.

Pia started pacing as soon as the abbess left the small chamber. Her sharp mind dulled with the news she had been given.
A lady’s maid? To Anna?
Was hers to be a lifetime of bitter torment, watching her lover be controlled and dominated by such a man as the infamous Sebastian de Montizon? Or worse, what if Anna actually loved him?

Either way, Pia had been given word that her life was to become a circle of hell. She forced a tight fist into her mouth to stifle her anguished cry.

At first, she’d been overwhelmed with joy when the abbess gave her the news that Anna was coming to retrieve her. To see Anna! Oh, how her heart sang at the prospect! To kiss that place at the back of her neck where the palest wisps of blonde hair pointed to the straight perfection of her spine. To feel Anna’s nearly careless petting and touching while Pia curled at the foot of Anna’s bed or rested her head in Anna’s lap.

Then tears of misery threatened when the abbess elaborated, “She
and her husband
will arrive in a few weeks to collect you.” To never have those things again would have been torture enough, but to live in the constant presence of the man who was receiving that touch in her stead? To know
he
was receiving those greedy kisses? She wasn’t sure she could bear it.

Patrizia Velasquez Carvajal was strong in every way imaginable. She was tall and formidable, with hard muscles along her thighs and hips and shoulders; she was a respected member of her small community; she was a capable person when it came to organizing projects or navigating the political nuances of convent life. But she wasn’t strong when it came to Anna. The mere thought of Anna Redondo turned Pia Carvajal into a weak, useless thing.

She thought of how Anna had made her—
made her! Ha! Made her
want to
, more like
—unwind the long strip of linen that she used to bind her breasts, and how the cool autumn air had trailed against her nipples, and how the pressure of Anna’s appreciative eyes on her tender flesh had made her breasts feel heavy and full, desperate for more. Always desperate for more of Anna’s gaze. Anna’s touch.

And then how Anna had approached her, making the anticipation crackle between them even more keenly. And then when Anna’s mouth had been on her, sucking and teasing, biting and punishing, until Pia had felt wave after wave of crashing pleasure break apart inside her.

Even now she could feel an approaching climax at the recollection—without even a touch between her legs, without anything but the memory of that greedy mouth, with nothing but the faintest reminiscence of Anna’s desire and her hoarse command, “Come for me.”

All those blessed memories now only brought more tears. More stifled groans of misery.

Anna probably kissed that beast of a man with that beautiful mouth of hers. She probably submitted to him, losing the spark and honor that made her who she was. The force of steel that resided in that deceptively small body had probably been bent to his will. The greatness that was Anna’s power had probably been destroyed or subsumed by an arrogant prick.

Pia wiped her eyes and patted her face dry with her apron. In several weeks she would see for herself. That’s when the
newlyweds
were due to pick up their
lady’s maid
. Pia stood up straighter, despising everything those words implied.

She would see Anna one last time. She would see that she was safe, at least. She would let herself be taken out of the convent, out of Spain. She would let herself be taken to London.

And then Pia would run.

For the few weeks before they were due in Madrid, Anna and Sebastian rusticated in Feria with Javi and Isabella. Banns were posted in the capital, and Sebastian’s parents were delighted their son had finally agreed to marry a virginal Spanish miss.

During that idyllic time, Sebastian and Javi spent many hours in the corral, while Isabella and Anna strolled with their parasols beneath the warm sun and pretended to admire their horsemanship. While both men were excellent equestrians, Anna and Isabella were far more preoccupied with the fit of male trousers and the turn of muscled hips.

For the first time in her life, Anna felt like she could breathe without the pressing need to worry about her future or calculate her prospects. The summer dresses that Isabella had given her felt less confining, the jaunty straw hats more playful than the rigid ones she’d been forced to wear in Burgos. Anna realized she had never been at leisure, and she relished every second now. She listened to the wind as it wound its way through the cork oak forest at night. She read volume after volume from Isabella’s library. She dreamt of Pia. And, as the days passed, she dreamt of Sebastian.

On this particular afternoon, ten days after the wedding, Anna and Isabella were once again watching the men in the riding ring (and pretending to see their equestrian skills). The crunch of the gravel path beneath their feet offset the rhythm of the trotting horses.

“Sebastian is quite a good rider,” Isabella conceded, squinting her eyes and pausing to lean against the white wall of the enclosure. Since she was apparently unable to see the radiance of any male but her new husband, everything Isabella said about Sebastian sounded reluctant.

Anna nodded her head in agreement. “He is.”

“Have you really fallen in love with him?” Isabella asked, turning her attention away from the prancing Arabians—and their handsome riders—to focus on Anna.

Sebastian and Anna had not been alone since their time in the library. Ironically, the public announcement of their future matrimony had put a complete halt to any private assignations until the blessed event came to pass. The elderly nun with whom she’d traveled had recovered fully from her weariness, and since the day her betrothal was announced, Anna had either been with Isabella or with the old shrew of a chaperone nearly attached to her elbow.

As a result, the physical heat and wonder of Sebastian’s body had gradually been replaced by something more subtle, and perhaps more dangerous. Anna furrowed her brow at the realization. “I don’t know much of love, really. I believe he will be a good husband, and that is more than I ever dared hope for.”