Vicente nodded. “Today is too soon, but I know someone who can get us a special license by tomorrow.”
“I’ll handle the arrangements for the wedding if you can take care of acquiring the license.”
“Arrangements? It won’t be a social affair, will it?”
“No, but we’ll need witnesses and rings, at the very least.”
“All right. I should go now if I’m to get anything done.” He stood up from the bench, and was almost at the gates before he heard her voice behind him.
“Oh, but Mr. Aguirre.” He turned around, to see her looking at him with laughter in her eyes. “Don’t you want to take me home first?”
Heaven help him, but he did.
Chapter 10
A lifetime of petty thievery had taught Vicente how to let himself into a house after its doors had been shut for the night and steal along darkened corridors without being heard by any of the house’s inhabitants. Silently, he made his way along the Rodriguez’s townhouse, pausing outside the half-open door to Graciela’s bedroom.
She was sitting at a vanity, running a brush through her long hair. Her slim wrists protruded from the voluminous sleeves of her nightgown and the sight of them reminded him of the photographs he still kept in his waistcoat pocket. There was one in particular, in which she’d lifted a hand, perhaps to move a lock of hair away from her face, and the gesture made her look as if she were beckoning, gesturing for him to join her inside the photograph.
She had no way of knowing that the man she was about to marry was a thief and a cheat— and a liar, besides. At the Gonzalez’s dinner, he’d led her to believe he was an engineer. Then he’d told her he was a simple factory worker. In truth, he was a child thief who’d found rough, honest work in factories until a penchant for gambling on fixed boxing matches resulted in his incurring the wrath of a local crime lord who stood to do him considerable violence. To escape it, Vicente had snuck into a cargo ship bound for the West Indies, arriving in the island with only the clothes on his back and the few skills he’d learned during his misspent boyhood.
The honest thing, he supposed, would be to tell her all of it and allow her to make of it what she would. But desperate people couldn’t always afford the privilege of honesty, and Vicente was desperate indeed. He’d lot his chance at a fresh start at the Medina’s factory the moment he’d smashed his fist into the family’s prodigal son, but the money Graciela’d offered was enough to buy him passage to Madrid or New York and with it a new beginning.
He hated the thought of parting from her but after she was safely married, what earthly use would she have for him?
A slight sound from down the hall broke into his thoughts. Vicente pushed open the door and stepped through it, pulling it shut behind him. “I apologize for not asking for your leave,” he said as he met her eyes in the mirror, “but I thought that being found lurking in the hallway would be unadvisable under the circumstances.”
“Is anything wrong, Aguirre?”
Vicente liked her voice. It had a confident, commanding ring to it, but there was no arrogance in it and he’d never heard it raised, no matter how trying her circumstances. And she’d been sorely tried.
“I have the license. We can go to the registry office tomorrow, as early as you can manage it.”
“Oh, good. I can leave the house as soon as breakfast is over. Aunt Elba is the suspicious sort, but she’s been less watchful ever since she hired you to look after me.”
And a great job he’d done, snatching her niece from under her very nose. Vicente pushed the thought away and reached into his pocket to finger the cold metal links coiled inside.
“I’ll wait for you around the corner, in front of the bookseller’s,” she continued. “We can walk together from there.”
Vicente nodded, but didn’t leave the room.
She put down her hairbrush and turned around, tilting her head. “Was there anything else?”
The metal was cold in his palm—as cold as the lead that seemed to have settled into the base of his stomach. Vicente cursed silently and forced himself to speak. “You said you wanted to wear your mother’s ring. But I didn’t think it was right to enter into a marriage empty-handed. So I brought you this.”
He brought the necklace out into his palm. It was a simple silver chain, from which hung a pendant in the shape of a flower, a tiny pearl at its center. It wasn’t a camelia—he wasn’t sure it was meant to be a particular kind of flower—but when he’d seen it, it had brought to mind the faint floral scent that always seemed to cling to her.
He’s seen better. As a matter of fact, he’s stolen better. But it wouldn’t have been right to offer his bride something he’d taken from someone else.
“It’s not much,” he said, and almost clenched his fist around the offending scraps of metal. But she smiled, and his hand stilled.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Will you help me put it on?”
Graciela turned around without waiting for an answer, sweeping the thick fall of hair into her hand and twisting it upwards to reveal the long column of her neck, framed by the lace of her nightdress. Softly, on soundless feet, he crossed the room until he stood in front of her. He could feel her watching him in the mirror as he dug a fingernail into the clasp and fastened the necklace quickly, not allowing his work-roughened hands to linger on her warm brown skin.
His eyes, however, were a different matter. They followed the glint of the necklace as it fell on her chest, not quite long enough to disappear into the deep cleft of her cleavage.
“I was wondering…” she said, once she was facing him again. “I was thinking I might like to kiss you again.” She said it matter-of-factly, without timidity. It wasn’t an invitation, or a command, merely a statement of fact, left open for him to do as he would with it.
Even if it had been a command, Vicente didn’t know how he’d help obeying it.
She had turned in her upholstered stool, and sat looking up at him, expectantly, until he knelt at her feet and took her delicate, obstinate chin between thumb and forefinger.
Her eyes fell closed, her long lashes sweeping the top of her cheeks. He took advantage of it to study her for one long, unguarded moment. She really was lovely.
Impatient, too.
She thrust her chin into his hand to signal her displeasure with the lack of kissing to be had. He let out a low laugh, mindful of her aunt sleeping at the end of the hallway, and touched his lips to her.
Graciela responded to the kiss this time, with enthusiasm if not skill.
“There,” she said, when he pulled away, looking pleased with herself. “I knew kissing would be quite pleasant if I actually wanted it.”
Damn Medina to hell.
Sliding his palm over her cheek as gently as if he were slipping his hand into a mark’s pocket, Vicente drew her in for another kiss. It was as chaste as the first one because, despite her obvious willingness, he felt that showing her the depth of his need for her would be an imposition when she hadn’t asked for it—like she hadn’t asked for Medina’s kisses.
“It will be very pleasant,” he said firmly. If anything, he could make sure she never had to deal with unwanted advances again. “I can promise you that much.” He stood. “We’ve a long day tomorrow. I’d better let you rest.”
As for himself, he was sure he wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Chapter 11
Graciela didn’t wear white.
It had been impossible, she explained to Beatriz as they held a whispered conference outside the bookseller’s while they waited for Mr. Aguirre to arrive, even if she’d owned such an article, to leave the house in a white gown without attracting Aunt Elba’s notice. Her pearly gray walking suit had been the best she could do and on the whole, when paired with a shirtwaist of snowy white lace and trimmed with the fresh camellias Beatriz had provided, was not terribly unsuitable. The suit was silk, lustrous, and was intricately beaded at the shoulders. She had her mother’s pearl earrings to compl
ete the ensemble, and the two plain gold bands that had belonged to her parents in her pocket.
And the necklace Aguirre had given her was still clasped around her neck, the metal warmed by her skin.
The gesture had been as sweet as it had been unexpected. Alvaro had presented her with many a bauble during their engagement and even before him, the suitors that had flocked to her side after her social debut had laid dozens of bouquets and boxes of candied fruit at her feet. She’d accepted it all as her due. But she hadn’t expected it from Aguirre and the fact that he had chosen something so suited to her taste after knowing her for a fraction of the time Alvaro had, spoke volumes of the man she was about to marry.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Beatriz asked, for what had to be the millionth time. Graciela had asked her to be a witness and though she didn’t altogether approve of Graciela’s accomplice, Beatriz had acquiesced.
“Positive,” Graciela answered, trying to sound as though she meant it.
Beatriz frowned, unconvinced, but Mr. Aguirre arrived at that moment and there was nothing Beatriz could do but follow them to registry office.
The entire business was over in less than half an hour, so it wasn’t long before the three of them were outside again. The day was bright but the slight breeze that was stirring through the palms that lined Avenida de Las Palmas had dispelled some of the heat. Graciela fiddled with the brim of her large straw hat as they came to a stop at the top of the marble steps that led down into the street.
“I think it’s safe to presume there won’t be a wedding breakfast,” Beatriz said, and though her voice sounded brusque, Graciela knew the tone masked her friend’s anxiety.
She gave Beatriz what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Not today, I don’t think. Thank you for all your help.”
Beatriz sniffed. “Just don’t tell your aunt I was here or she’ll tell Mama and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She and Graciela exchanged a glance and promptly burst into laughter. Their amusement came as much from the relief of having everything come right as from the thought Beatriz’s mother, dreamy-eyed and sighing, going on and on about young love as she was wont to.
Aguirre gazed at them, obviously mystified.
“Beatriz’s mother is a hopeless romantic,” Graciela explained.
“She’ll never forgive me if she knew I helped Graciela elope two days before her wedding and didn’t say a word of it to her. As it is, she’s bound to go into paroxysms of delight when she hears something so unbearably romantic happened to someone she knows,” Beatriz said. The church bell clanged in the distance. “I had better go—I told Mama I was getting a new hat and she’ll dream up half a dozen romances if I arrive home without it.” She made a face. “I can’t imagine what would possess my future husband to while away the hours lurking at a milliner’s—or the grocer’s or the fishmonger’s, for that matter, but nothing as insignificant as logic will make her stop dreaming!”
She kissed Graciela on the cheek and, after a few murmured words of encouragement, strode off, leaving Graciela alone with her new husband.
A silence fell between them which, for once, Graciela didn’t know how to fill. Burning as she was to celebrate her victory over Alvaro with a few embraces like the one they’d shared the night before, she would have liked nothing better than to thank Aguirre for his troubles and send him on his way. But there was still one order of business to attend to.
“The marriage will have to be consummated, for it to be considered legal,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could manage when her heart was pounding in her ears. It was early enough that there not many people in the avenue, but a pair of nuns strolling down the street made Graciela’s face feel as though it had caught fire.
“We can go to my boarding house,” he said, but his reluctance was obvious. Graciela wondered if he had a sweetheart—or a mistress, even—who would be upset if he appeared with a bride in tow.
“That’s not necessary,” she told him. “I made other arrangements.”
She had booked a suite at the Hotel Europa. After signing into the guest book as Mr. and Mrs. Aguirre, with ostentatiously large handwriting, Graciela and Aguirre were led upstairs and into her private rooms.
Since she didn’t intend to return to the townhouse until after her marriage had been, well, legalized, Graciela had dispatched her maid to the hotel with a valise filled with some clothes. Clever girl that she was, instead of drab, sober suits, she had packed the trousseau that had been delivered late the day before. Graciela’s wedding dress was no doubt locked away in her aunt’s wardrobe against any attempt of Graciela’s to destroy it but the rest of it—the fine cotton nightgowns with silk ribbons and costly underthings—were now neatly folded inside a dresser drawer Graciela’s suite at the hotel.
Once she had finished going through the drawers and inspecting the adjoining lavatory, which had been done in pale pink marble, Graciela had nothing more to do but to face her new husband.
Standing alone in the small sitting room with a man she barely knew—with the husband she barely knew—the intimacy of it was almost overwhelming. Though she’d thought of everything else, Graciela hadn’t allowed herself to consider what this moment would feel like. It was, she reflected, supremely awkward.
She half wanted to run away, but it wouldn’t do to quail at this late stage, after having come so far. So instead, she squared her shoulders and looked Aguirre in the eyes. “Well, then,” she said. “Shall we get to it?”
“I know you’re eager to get all the legalities out of the way,” he said, “but I thought that perhaps you’d like to toast our marriage first.”
Grateful for the reprieve, Graciela nodded. Someone—most likely her maid— had left a bottle of Sauterne on the table, along with two wineglasses. Perching on one of the two armchairs, Graciela watched as Aguirre extracted the cork and poured a stream of the golden liquid into each of the glasses.
He handed her one, then took one for himself and lifted it in a silent toast. She followed suit, following the gesture with a sip of the sweet, strong, fortifying wine.
“Congratulations, Miss Rodriguez,” he said softly. “You’re finally free.”
When he’d rescued her from the gambling hall, he had looked as rough and powerful as a young prizefighter. Now, he somehow contrived to look harmless as he folded himself into an upholstered armchair and drank to her honor. He had managed to acquire another suit that, though perhaps not of the best quality, was cut to display his figure to its best advantage. The gray cloth of his trousers was pressed into a neat seam that made her eyes travel down the column of his long legs, and the jacket did nothing to conceal the thickness of his arms.
The wine was suffusing her with warmth. Or perhaps that was the knowledge that those legs and those arms were now hers to explore at will.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, and Graciela realized she was still standing.
“Not a bit,” she returned, in a surprisingly steady voice. She brushed past him, intending to sit in the armchair beside his, but a touch on her hand made her pause.
“Is it all right,” Aguirre asked, setting his wineglass on the table, “If I kissed you?”
Graciela nodded. A moment later, without quite knowing how it had happened, she found herself sitting on his lap.
Her hand was on his chest—for balance, she told herself—and through the thin fabric of his shirt she could feel the thumping of his heart. He hadn’t kissed her—not yet. He was tracing the contour of her jaw with his fingertips, rounding the curve of her ear, and he was looking at her with that intense, probing gaze that made her wonder what he saw.
She’d been right—the intimacy was overwhelming.
“Mr. Aguirre—”
“You might want to call me Vicente now.” The corner of his lips rose in a half-smile.
“Vicente,” she repeated. She stood, and so did he, their bodies brushing lightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to call for my maid.”
“There’s no need. I can help you undress.” He paused. “If it’s all right with you.”
Graciela stopped, her back to him. “Yes.”
His hands were even more capable than her maid’s. Her heart was pounding so hard she fancied he could feel it as he slid each button through the silk loops on the back of her shirtwaist. In all of five seconds, he reached the end of the buttons and laid his hands on her hips.
He’d had plenty of practice undressing women. Graciela’s mind flashed back to the mistress she’d envisioned earlier but the thought melted away as he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.
The soft touch made her shiver. He drew her open shirtwaist over her shoulders, tugging the sleeves down each of her arms until it fell to the floor. Then, with a touch more delicate than she could have expected from a man of his strength and size, he traced the lace edging on the straps of her chemise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen linen this fine,” he said. “Or skin so smooth.”
His hands were warm on her bare arms and so were his lips as he pressed them first to one shoulder, then the other.
Graciela closed her eyes.
His mouth dipped lower, and before she knew it, her corset had been undone and cast away, her chemise was puddled around her waist, and he was unfastening her skirt and dragging the fabric over the curve of her bottom, past her thighs, until she was standing in her stockings.
His fingers lingered over her bottom, gently smoothing the silky skin there, and then they rose and nestled in her hair. She wanted to protest, to ask what he meant by playing the hairdresser when the rest of her body was agonizing for his touch.
The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella Page 7
