Authors: Teresa Grant
His Spanish Bride (2 page)
2
M
alcolm scanned the ballroom in the British embassy. Stuart entertained a great deal. In general Malcolm did his best to escape the endless round of embassy parties, but for his present investigation having British expatriates and their Spanish and Portuguese allies crowded together was a distinct advantage. Isabella Flores was across the room, seated between two older ladies. She was listening to something one was saying, but her eyes were bright and her hands moved restlessly over the ivory and lace of her fan.
alcolm scanned the ballroom in the British embassy. Stuart entertained a great deal. In general Malcolm did his best to escape the endless round of embassy parties, but for his present investigation having British expatriates and their Spanish and Portuguese allies crowded together was a distinct advantage. Isabella Flores was across the room, seated between two older ladies. She was listening to something one was saying, but her eyes were bright and her hands moved restlessly over the ivory and lace of her fan.
“A pretty woman, the Marquesa de Flores. I can see why Flores offered for her. But a difference in age as well as nationality can make for a complicated marriage.”
Malcolm turned to see the Marquess of Wellington standing at his side. “Stuart told me you’re helping us out with our dilemma,” Wellington said, voice pitched below the clink of crystal and strains of an English country dance. “Damned fool Linford. As if whichever marshal Bonaparte sends against us isn’t opponent enough without my own men causing problems. Thank God we have you to tidy things up.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Which is good indeed.” Wellington’s gaze swept the gilded uniforms and pastel gowns thronging the room and settled on a tall, slender figure in peacock blue silk, walnut brown ringlets gleaming in the candlelight. “What are you going to do about Miss Saint-Vallier?”
A host of conflicting impulses tightened Malcolm’s throat. “I wasn’t aware that something needed to be done about her,” he said, perhaps unwisely.
“She’s a pretty woman as well. And clever. Wouldn’t get herself in trouble like the marquesa. Isabella Armstrong was a foolish girl when she married, and from what I see she hasn’t grown up much in the intervening three years. Miss Saint-Vallier has a woman’s maturity. And loyalty to boot, I dare swear. Don’t be blind to what’s in front of you, lad.”
Malcolm swallowed. Someone or other had been throwing eligible girls at him since he went up to Oxford. Why should this bother him more?
Because for the first time in his life he was tempted to act on the hints?
“Damn,” Wellington said. His gaze had fastened on a man in a hussar’s uniform crossing the room. “There’s Linford. And he’s making straight for the marquesa. Deal with it, Malcolm.”
Malcolm intercepted Edward Linford midway across the room.
“Rannoch.” Linford raised his brows. He had deep blue eyes, thick fair hair, and the easy assurance of one to whom life had come easily. “Just on my way—”
“Don’t you think you should stay away from the marquesa until at least we have this sorted out?”
“What—”
“Stuart’s asked me to help with your difficulty.”
“Oh.” Linford flicked a bit of lint from his coat. “No need to interfere, Rannoch. I’m more than a match for Flores with pistols or swords.”
“Neither of which would mend the breach between us and the Spanish.”
“It’s not your—”
“Trouble between us and the Spanish is all our affair. You don’t have any idea who took the letter?”
“Never received it. Tiresome, that. Don’t know why Bella had to put pen to paper—”
“For God’s sake, Linford.” Malcolm seized his arm. “Do you have any idea what you’ve exposed her to?”
“Bella knows—”
“Isabella Flores could lose her child and her friends and her reputation. And she probably considers herself in love with you. Which is more than can be said on your side.”
“Oh, very well.” Linford tugged his arm free of Malcolm’s grip and smoothed his sleeve. “Not as though there aren’t plenty of other fish in the sea.” His gaze swept the room. “Isn’t that the girl you brought back from the Cantabrian Mountains? What’s her name? St. Vincent? Tasty morsel, that.”
“If you so much as dance with Suzanne de Saint-Vallier,” Malcolm said, “it won’t be Flores you’ll be fighting.”
Linford ran a gaze over him filled with the contempt of the soldier for the diplomat. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Linford gave a low laugh, crude as the most graphic Rowlandson print. “You fool, Rannoch. You think she’s an innocent. But for all you know she’s a Continental adventuress.”
Malcolm’s right hand curled into a fist. “One word, Linford.”
“Never thought to see a cold fish like you brought low by a woman. Go right ahead and make a fool of yourself.”
“I say, Linford, aren’t we going to play cards?” A shorter, stouter, sandy-haired man approached them. William Haddon, Linford’s boon companion. If he cut less of a swath with the ladies, it was only because he was less dashing, not for want of trying.
“Yes, all right, since Rannoch’s playing the spoilsport.”
“You don’t want to dance with your wife?” Malcolm asked Haddon. He spotted Mrs. Haddon across the room, a tall woman with honey-colored hair and a direct gaze. She was the former Charlotte Spencer. Malcolm remembered her from his childhood in England as a lively girl with a quick wit who had played with his cousins. Now the ironic curve of her mouth and the disillusion in her once bright eyes betrayed the knowledge that had come with the married state.
“Lord, Rannoch, no one dances with his own wife. What are you thinking?” Haddon demanded.
“Rannoch’s besotted,” Linford said. “Go and moon over the Saint-Vallier chit, Rannoch.”
To go straight to Suzanne de Saint-Vallier was to play into Linford’s hand. On the other hand, to avoid her was to yield even more sway to Linford. Malcolm crossed the room to Suzanne de Saint-Vallier. She greeted him with an amused smile.
“I was dreadfully afraid Captain Linford was going to come speak with me.”
“He was.”
“Did you think I couldn’t cope with him?”
“I have no doubt that you could. But I didn’t see why you should be required to do so.”
Suzanne laughed. She had a warm laugh with a touch of ironic amusement that gave her an air beyond her years. “You’re a gallant man, Mr. Rannoch.”
The laughter in her eyes couldn’t quite disguise the ghosts in their depths. Malcolm had seen how strong she could be, fighting off French soldiers at his side, nursing the wounded, riding long days and sleeping on the hard ground in enemy terrain. She’d grown up in a dangerous world, and her parents had taught her unusual skills. But he knew she was already the subject of casual speculation like Edward Linford’s. And that was nothing compared to the talk there would be when her pregnancy became obvious. She was less prepared to defend herself against those attacks than against a French ambush.
In the candlelight, the bones of her face were strong yet incredibly fragile. One wrong step—
“I was going to go out on the balcony for some air,” he said. “Care to come with me?”
“And escape the ballroom? I thought you’d never ask.”
He held open the French window. She moved past him onto the wrought-iron balcony, the silk folds of her gown brushing against his legs. Her perfume washed over him, roses and vanilla, and some other elusive, aromatic scent.
Malcolm closed the window. The rush of cold air hurt his lungs. “Have you given any more thought to my suggestion ?”
“That I go away and have the baby in secret? It’s the only option.”
“You can pretend it’s an orphaned child you’ve taken in.”
“Wouldn’t there still be talk?” She drew the folds of her shawl about her.
“Of course. But no one would be able to prove anything.”
“I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.” Her fingers tightened on the velvet and lace of the shawl. “You’re kind to try, Mr. Rannoch.”
“There’s another option.” He leaned against the cold glass of the window and studied her, silhouetted against the moonlight and the dark sky. A dusky cloud of hair framing a heart-shaped face. Pale skin, winged brows, quicksilver sea green eyes. He wanted more than anything to close the distance between them and take her in his arms. And that told him how very much danger they were both in. Once the words were spoken, they could not be taken back. And the more he wanted it, the greater the risk.
He drew a breath. A thousand past hurts and future risks rushed into his lungs. “There’s another option. You could marry me.”
Her gaze fastened on his face. Wide and dark. Shock reverberating in its depths. “That’s terribly kind of you, Mr. Rannoch—”
“I should warn you I’m not much of a bargain,” he said before his impulses could betray him into danger. “My parents’ marriage was a disaster. I’ve long been determined to avoid any such entanglements for myself.”
“Mr. Rannoch, are you telling me my predicament has overcome your scruples?” Her eyes were still dark with shock, but there was a faint tremble of laughter in her voice.
“Miss Saint-Vallier, I’m warning you of what you’d be letting yourself in for. I work long hours. I’m often required to attend events such as this one.”
“From what I’ve observed you spend a great deal of those events in the library.”
“Whenever possible. You’d be welcome to join me, but I imagine you’d find it harder to disappear. You have a way of drawing the eye.”
“I can look after myself.”
He moved to the balcony railing and leaned against it. Support was probably a good idea considering he had just cut the foundation of his life out from under him. “When I’m not attending receptions or drafting memoranda or sitting in meetings, I’m likely to disappear unexpectedly.”
“On intelligence missions. Like the one on which you met me.”
“Quite. You’d be on your own much of the time. As would”—the word stuck in his throat, an acknowledgment of just how much he’d be taking on—“the child.” The tie that would bind them for the rest of their lives, a role and a responsibility he’d never thought to assume, for which he suspected he was entirely unsuited. “Of course you might consider that an advantage.”
She moved to lean against the railing beside him, one white-gloved hand gripping the balustrade. The crystal beads at the neck of her gown sparkled in the moonlight. The wind tugged at the knots of ribbon on the shoulders. “Mr. Rannoch, you have to have considered—This child—”
“Deserves to be loved.” His hands closed on the cool metal of the railing behind him. “Love” was not a word that came easily to him.
“Mr. Rannoch—” She put out a hand, then let it fall to her side. “That means a great deal to me. But you can’t have thought this through. The child could be a boy—”
“It’s not as though I have a title to pass along.” He kept his gaze steady on her face, his head turned sideways.
“Your mother’s father is a duke. I’ve heard you talk about your family’s estates—”
His father’s legacy. He swallowed a bite of bitter laughter as rumors from his own childhood swirled in his brain. “You’ve heard me say often enough I don’t believe in inherited wealth.”
“Saying it in the abstract is different from putting it into practice in one’s own life.”
“All too often. But not in this case.” His fingers tightened on the balcony railing. The cold metal bit through his gloves. “I don’t know what sort of father I’d make. My own father didn’t set much of an example. But I swear to you I would love your child as my own.”
A multitude of thoughts he could not put a name to chased themselves through her eyes. “If you know me at all, you must realize how grateful I am. And that I could never ask you to make such a sacrifice.”
“Believe me, Miss Saint-Vallier, it would be no sacrifice.” Until he spoke the words he hadn’t realized quite how much he meant them.
She swallowed. He saw the pulse beating just above the draped peacock blue silk of her bodice. “Will you give me a few days to consider?”
“Of course.”
He should have felt relief. Instead cold terror gripped him.
The terror of incipient loss.
Keep calm.
She had time. Time to consider, to weigh options, to calculate odds. But—Dear God in heaven. Marriage.
She had time. Time to consider, to weigh options, to calculate odds. But—Dear God in heaven. Marriage.
Suzanne made her way round the edge of the dance floor and down the passage to the place where she knew she could have a moment to collect her thoughts. The ladies’ retiring room. She drew a breath, reached for the door handle, and froze at the sound of sobs. Instinct cut through her confusion. This sort of unguarded moment was the lifeblood of an agent’s work. Anything she could learn from a guest at the embassy could prove invaluable.
The cloak of her work settled over her, welcome protection from the tumult of her thoughts. She turned the handle and stepped into the room to find a young woman with chestnut hair collapsed on a low stool in a cloud of cream-colored tulle and French blue ribbon, sobbing into a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry.” Suzanne stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Is there anything I can do?” And she meant it, while at the same time she was keenly aware of the possibilities this encounter offered.
“Oh no.” The chestnut-haired woman blew her nose. It was the Marquesa de Flores, Suzanne realized. An Englishwoman married to a Spanish general. “It’s nothing.”
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