“I can’t think of anything,” she said politely.
“You are not interested in why I am here?”
“Well, it does seem rather extreme—your coming all the way to Malaga—but that’s the sort of man you are. You ... you take endless trouble for some principle or other ...” She broke off as her breath caught. “Why ... did you come?”
He took her hands and drew her to her feet. She looked up into a face dark with torment and quickly turned away her head. In the acute silence she could hear blood drumming in her ears and the heavy measured ticking of a big cabinet clock in the corner of the room.
“I will tell you,” he said, hurrying the words indistinctly in a way which was most unlike Ramiro. “I have been madly jealous. I love you, Juliet, and I am very certain I could make you love me. I would not have said this yet; your emotions are not as developed as those of a man of my age and I would have preferred a more gentle approach. But by trying to escape from me you force this situation. I cannot let you run away, querida—ever!” He took her closely into his arms, spoke queerly. “You must try to understand. The ways of your country and mine are not quite the same, but love is the same, except that perhaps we Spaniards are more conscious of it than the English. If you insist on returning to England, I will take you there and never let you from my sight till you have promised to marry me. Now that at last I have fallen in love that is how it is with me. It is what I have waited for—someone sweet and spirited and different, who looks just as you look and speaks as you speak; there could only be one! There is much we do not know about each other, but I adore you, bella mia, and the rest will matter very little when you also find yourself loving me.” She trembled and his arms tightened. “You will let yourself love me, Juliet?”
Tears ached in her throat and low down in her chest. This was impossible. Impossible but heavenly! She reached up and clasped his shoulders, lifted her lips and felt them crushed and drained. Her heart itself went cold and bloodless. She stirred and freed herself, contrived somehow to put a couple of yards between them.
“I’m sorry,” she said huskily. “We’d better call that goodbye, hadn’t we?”
“Goodbye! You foolish child, it is only the beginning.” But he made no attempt to come closer. “We are both tired, I think. I will order wine.”
He pressed a bell and gave the order, spent a few moments lighting cigarettes for them both. The wine arrived and he poured it, a sweet Malaga, gave Juliet her glass and raised his own, without voicing a toast.
He did something she was sure was unusual—finished the drink in one go.
He set down the glass and said gently, “From the very beginning you have had a secret, and you cannot blame me if I have tried to fathom what it is. At first I thought you must have known Whitman in England, but there was little to hide in that. I had him watched, but could find nothing which connected him with you. It was baffling, and I do not take kindly to being baffled. Then last night, at sea on the way from Cadiz, I gave many quiet hours to the problem, and I came to a conclusion. You see, only an hour or two earlier I had discovered a rather disquieting fact about your cousin; not only does she have little feeling for you but she has resented your presence in San Federigo, which is odd, when one considers that she herself arranged that you come to Spain. I thought back to that night when Whitman came to the villa and found us all together, and I remembered that Norma hastened to help you go with him—she even clutched my arm to prevent my following at once. The connection, I believe, was not between you and Whitman, but between Norma and Whitman. That was why she was pleased to let you go yesterday.”
“I’d rather you didn’t say anything more about it, senor.”
“My dear Juliet, one does not address one’s novio as senor,” he said with a tender smile. “I am right about Norma, am I not?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Very well. In any case, it is no longer our concern.” He touched her arm, did not change his expression when she moved slightly, out of reach. “What else is there? Why did you invite me to embrace you just now, and tolerate the kiss as if it had to happen, but you hated it?”
She put down her glass and drew on the cigarette. “I’m not very sophisticated, am I? For a minute I thought of you as an ordinary man—I quite forgot you’re the Conde de Vallos. Still, it will be something to remember. I don’t suppose any other English girl has ever been kissed by the Conde de Vallos.”
“Sarcasm does not become you,” he said sharply. “Why are you speaking like this?”
“You asked for an explanation,” she replied In low tones. “I ... I wanted you to kiss me, and then suddenly it was bitter. I’m not the kind you should marry and you know it. Your family marry people of their own race. I’ve often thought of that picture of Juana, of her wild son...”
“Ah!” It was the sort of exclamation a scientist might make when he sees a glimpse of light through the fog of his research. “What a relief it is something so small! Who cares about Juana and her silly son? Our son will be very Spanish and he will adore his parents. You may have an English daughter if you wish. You think I could marry any other woman, now that I have met you? You believe I will relinquish you, just because one of my ancestors married his brother’s fiancée and they fought for the rest of their lives?”
“Inez told me...”
“Inez is an idiot. Let her keep her Manuel happy and leave me to choose my own wife. She has sickened me with her Lupitas and Elenas!”
“And ... Carmen?”
His brows lifted. “Carmen, the little devoted one? I suppose that imbecile Mario told you his family wished her to marry!”
“To marry you, so I understood.”
“One cannot love to order, and certainly I could not love Carmen even if I had not met you. The poor little one has not had thoughts of marriage herself. She had been away, and when she returned she was full of ideas about the life of retreat. In confidence, her parents spoke to me about it; they were distressed because—you must admit it, Julieta mia!—she has the beauty of a red poppy, and they wished her to marry well and settle near them. I have had many long talks with Carmen, and found she had been influenced by an old aunt who had never married. For me,” a characteristic shrug, “it was difficult, because I knew so little of how a girl would feel in such circumstances. All I could do was show her some social life and let her see what it is like to live in the world. I even asked her opinion about alterations to the yacht—though the opinion I needed was yours; Then when Inez decided to visit her godmother I had the idea it would also be good for Carmen. The godmother, as you will find out, is large and motherly and eminently sensible. She will have Carmen looking with rather more interest at the young men in her vicinity.”
Juliet smiled palely. “You make everything sound easy. But ... but this isn’t. We’re too far apart, Ramiro ...”
“There is a remedy,” he said gaily, and covered the couple of yards which divided them. His fingers lifted her chin, his eyes sparkled into hers, pouring his vitality into her. “I will listen to no more of it until we are agreed that we were meant for each other, from the beginning of time. You put a warmth in my blood which was never there before, in spite of the Spanish sun. On that first day I met you with my sister in Manca, you laughed softly and infectiously; I found I was still smiling at the sound when the car had gone, and though I have heard only the ghost of it since, it remains with me. We shall laugh a great deal together, my beloved little golden-head. Inez ... Norma ... their reactions do not matter very much, and in any case you will find them quite grateful to be friendly with the Condesa de Vallos. Dearest heart...”
Eventually, of course, Juliet was convinced; Ramiro saw to that. She didn’t know what he said because most of it was in Spanish, between kisses, but his very tone was deadlier than champagne, and the electrifying language of worshipping lips is universal. She knew that Ramiro would teach her more about love than she had ever known existed.
It was some
time later that he lowered her on to an old-fashioned sofa and sat beside her, smiling teasingly at her flushed cheeks and tumbled hair.
“We must make plans,” he said. “We will both stay in Malaga tonight and return to San Federigo in the yacht tomorrow; the others will no doubt have returned by road. For the sake of convention I will see to it that rooms are reserved for me at the main hotel in the town, but for you it would be best to stay here. The place is small and discreet. This evening we will dine out—our first evening together and perfectly correct!”
“I’ve only a black suit with me that’s suitable for the evening.”
“Bueno. You will wear a flower in your hair—but not a gardenia!” he admonished her severely. Then, smiling again: “I do not care for you to stay again with Norma. I am determined that this period of our engagement—which will be extended no further than decency demands!—will be one of enchantment for you. You will come to the Castillo until Inez leaves. You understand that I must see her married first?”
“Of course. And anyway, her wedding day is only three weeks away!”
“Three weeks can be a lifetime when one wishes so uncontrollably to be married oneself. However, we will make the other arrangements as soon as possible. You are happy, pequenina?”
“So terribly happy!”
His glance searched her face. “No uneasiness at all?”
She was a little uneasy. Norma, as she had said, could not be allowed to matter very much; she would be angry and jealous, but she wouldn’t dare to come out into the open. Inez, though, was his own sister. How would she feel about admitting Juliet Darrell into the family circle? Could there ever be a friendship between two such different women, particularly when the younger knew of an indiscretion committed by the older? Perhaps that indiscretion could be completely ignored; there might even be a way of showing Inez that it was already forgotten.
“I know,” he said before she could answer. “But none of these things have substance compared with the fact of being in love. You know,” whimsically, “it has been very painful these last weeks, but if everything had gone smoothly it might have been another month before I could begin to show you I love you. Think of the waste! The tempest throws us into each other’s arms and already we make the vital decisions. You love me, querida?”
“Desperately, Ramiro.”
“There are more things you have to tell me—about Norma and this criminal Whitman?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. For now, I just want to believe ... this!”
“I want something very ordinary and beautiful,” he said. “I want to sit alone with you at a small table in a crowded restaurant. I want people to notice that I can’t resist taking both your hands in mine, that I can look at no one else, and that you color and sparkle when I speak to you. I want everyone to be aware that at last Ramiro de Velasco y Cuevora is in love, and beloved!”
“Oh, darling.”
“You must say that often, in a thousand ways! Juliet, I also want to know this uncle and aunt of yours. You think they would come to Spain?”
“I’m sure of it, but—don’t think I’m being silly, but I do think Norma should be given the chance of inviting them. Please!”
“I can refuse you nothing. You are my life, carissima!”
Juliet’s eyes shone up at the lean El Greco face, she tingled with the urgency of his hands on her arms. In that moment she knew that whatever they might pass through together there would always be excitement and ecstasy in being part of Ramiro.
THE END
At the Villa Massina Page 21
