Tides of Passion

by Sara Orwig

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered, finding it impossible to speak aloud. Her knees trembled and she suddenly feared someone would denounce her as an impostor, an impoverished maid banished from Spain by her own parents. She lifted her chin and took a deep breath as they moved forward.

  In a daze she was introduced to one person after another, but none of them was the Count of Marcheno. Don Felipe asked her for the first dance of the evening and they lined up for the dance that Yolana had taught her earlier. Quita lost some of her fears as she concentrated on learning the complicated steps and following Don Felipe.

  A soldier who was nearly Quita’s age claimed the next dance and a well-dressed don led her out for the next. As she danced, trying to watch the dancers and follow the right steps as they turned in a circle, she felt compelled to look up.

  A man stood on the sidelines talking to a group of people. A woman with golden hair stood beside him, but his attention was on Quita and she almost missed her step. His black eyes were as compelling as the wildest storm, capturing her attention and holding it momentarily. Thickly lashed, his eyes were unforgettable and as bold as a lion stirred to anger. She missed another step and pulled her attention away to watch what the dancers were doing, smiling at her partner.

  In seconds they made another full turn, hands high. One hand behind her back, she met the same direct stare again, only this time, his gaze lowered, slowly drifting down over her, igniting tiny fires over every inch of her flesh. His black eyes seemed to strip away her blue silk dress. Quita blushed, her cheeks growing hot as her gaze flicked over him, taking in his magnificent green uniform decorated with ribbons and his fancy black boots, but it was the man and not the uniform that set him apart from the crowd. He was tall, his shoulders exceptionally broad; his black hair was thick and curly, framing his face, and a thick black mustache curved over his mouth. A nose with a crook high at the bridge contributed to the air of command in his appearance.

  Someone spoke to him and he turned, laughing with a flash of white teeth. Then Quita had to turn again and lost her view of him. But from that moment, as the evening wore on and she danced with different partners, she was aware of the tall man watching her, of a current that ran between them. Once, she looked and saw his face in profile as he talked intently with two men, but as she watched, he turned, meeting her gaze as if he had been inexorably drawn to her.

  Don Felipe took her arm again. As they whirled in a circle, she couldn’t help staring across the room. The tall man’s eyes followed her and her heart skipped a beat as she saw his watchful stare had become more open, more constant. Then he was gone from her view as Don Felipe led her in another turn. When the dance ended, a deep voice sounded behind her.

  “May I have the next dance?”

  The tone was low, strumming her nerves, and she caught her breath when she turned to look up into a pair of velvet eyes that would have warmed the heart of a stone statue.

  “Of course. May I present Señorita Lianna Melton. Señorita, I have the honor of presenting—”

  “Armando Fuentes,” the tall man said, never taking his eyes from Quita as he bowed over her hand, his warm lips lightly brushing her cold fingers. The music started and he slipped his arm lightly around her waist, holding her away from him.

  “I’ve watched you. How lovely you are,” he said softly in a tone that was entirely different from the one used by her other dance partners during the evening.

  “Thank you, but I am betrothed, and you shouldn’t say such things.”

  “You haven’t been told that before?”

  “Yes,” she said, blushing. “But you say it differently from the others.”

  He arched a brow curiously, and her embarrassment deepened. Slightly flustered, she missed a step. Instantly his arm steadied her, and he apologized. She smiled up at him. “You are not the one at fault. My maid showed me the dances today. This is my first ball.”

  “One would never guess,” he said gallantly.

  “How polite you Spaniards are!”

  “And Englishmen are not polite?”

  She smiled, beginning to relax and enjoy herself. “I have little experience with men, either English or Spanish. And I have seen little of the world until now. Marcheno Castle is magnificent. Are you one of the count’s relatives?”

  “Yes. There are a lot of us here tonight! There are more relatives than servants, so you will have many names to learn.”

  “It seems I have everything to learn,” she said, and he laughed. “I’ve been told that Spanish men and ladies are much more formal in their behavior to each other, but I find that difficult to believe.”

  “That’s because the count doesn’t see that it’s necessary to follow all the old customs. Particularly when he’s not a young lad. He’s been wed twice, and the long, drawn-out courting customs are tiresome when one is no longer a youth.”

  “Whatever the customs, everyone has welcomed me. Though it may take me long months to learn the names and the customs.”

  “Ah, you shouldn’t sound so solemn on such a happy occasion as your introduction to Spanish society! Learn you will. You sound as if you have been shut away from all life.”

  “I feel as if I have. Even my lessons were limited,” she said, hoping word got back to the count to explain her appalling lack of education, should he discover how little she knew. “My father traveled often, and I was left to myself. My tutor was as happy as I was to escape the lessons.”

  He laughed again. “I suspect you exaggerate, but I don’t think Marcheno plans to wed you because of your schooling!”

  She laughed with him and asked, “Will he appear tonight?”

  “Yes, he will. I’ll introduce you.”

  She slanted a look at him, smiling. “Perhaps you won’t be near me when he arrives. You shouldn’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

  When he smiled in return, the faint creases around his mouth, the laugh lines around his eyes, only added to his appeal. “I don’t make promises in vain. I’ve given my word and I’ll keep it…if”—his voice lowered a fraction, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes—“I have to dance every dance with you between now and then.”

  Her heartbeat quickened, and she knew she was on dangerous ground because she felt a current of excitement stirred by this man. She looked down, trying to curb what she felt. “I think I should remind you again—I’m his betrothed.”

  He laughed softly. “I meant no harm.”

  “That is not what your eyes tell me!”

  His brows arched, and he smiled, his teeth white in contrast to his dark skin and thick black mustache.

  Suddenly she felt saddened that on her arrival in Madrid she would meet a man who would immediately become special to her. The realization startled her and she looked up at him. He was special—from the first glance, he had been different from other men to her.

  “I see dislike or regret in your eyes,” he said.

  Surprised that he could detect the change in her feelings, she answered, “Perhaps a touch of regret that you are not the Count of Marcheno, Señor Fuentes.”

  “Thank you. We will be friends,” he said huskily, his dark eyes lit with fires that caused a tingling response in her.

  “It is impossible for us to be close friends. But tell me about Madrid,” she said, trying to turn the conversation to a safe topic.

  “Why is it impossible that we become close friends?” he asked.

  “I think you should tell me about Spain and Madrid,” she replied stiffly.

  He smiled at her, but gave her an intense look that burned with desire, and she forgot her question. The room became a blur, whirling around her as his arm tightened around her back and his long legs stretched out, making her steps longer.

  “Señor, I don’t dance well and this is unseemly,” she said breathlessly.

  “I know what displeases Marcheno, and this won’t.”

  “Sir, people will stare! I’ve been told your people have very formal customs
and manners, and I must not appear improper on my first day here!”

  He slowed and his arm relaxed, allowing greater space between them. “Marcheno is a fortunate man,” he said with a solemn expression on his handsome features.

  “Thank you. I asked you about Madrid,” she said desperately, fighting the response he stirred.

  “Madrid is an old city. It was—” He broke off abruptly, looking beyond her. “I promised to introduce you to Marcheno.”

  She felt as if her heart had stopped beating. “He’s here?” She dreaded the moment, and as she thought how it must have looked to him to have her dancing gaily with Señor Fuentes, her nervousness came flooding back.

  “Yes, he’s here.” Suddenly he smiled. “Don’t look as if the wolf will devour you in the next few minutes. He plans to marry you.”

  She smiled, feeling a slight easing of tension. “Thank you, Señor Fuentes. To tell you the truth, I’m frightened.”

  “You’re eighteen. So very young,” he said tenderly, making her momentarily forget about the count.

  “You know my age?”

  The twinkle returned to his eyes. “I suspect almost every relative and guest knows your age. They’re curious about the lovely English girl. Now, I’ll take you to meet Marcheno.” He smiled and danced through open doors to the terrace. Instantly she tried to pull back as she protested, “Señor, I can’t go outside with you. It isn’t proper—”

  “Marcheno’s out here, and I said I’d introduce you,” Señor Fuentes said softly. His smile was gone, and her heart pounded wildly as her emotions warred inside her. She suspected he was lying, that he was dancing her outside to try to steal a kiss. The thought heated her blood more than when Juan had reached for her. This man possessed a charm that touched some inner chord in her being, and she was drawn to him as a flower is drawn to the sun. She knew the danger of such an attraction. She pulled away swiftly, but his arm tightened and held her.

  “Señor, I can’t. You must release me!”

  “I only introduce you to your future husband.”

  “You only want to steal a kiss in dark shadows,” she said breathlessly, trying to look around his broad chest to see if another man were waiting.

  He chuckled softly. “Lianna…” The word rolled off his tongue like a caress.

  “Miss Lianna Melton, may I present the Count of Marcheno.” He stepped back with a flourish and she saw only the darkened empty terrace with an olive tree spreading branches overhead, shadows intermingling with splashes of moonlight on the stone floor. She looked at him sharply.

  “Armando Fuentes Cuevas, Conde de Marcheno,” he said, and bowed low. He straightened and smiled as she stared at him, forgetting momentarily that her mouth was open.

  “You!” she breathed softly, feeling as if the heavens had opened and poured forth treasures at her feet. Her heart hammered violently, and she couldn’t move or breathe, unable to believe her fortune. “You jest!” she whispered.

  His smile vanished. “No, querida. For both of us, Fate has smiled. You are more than I dared dream of or hope for!” His arms slipped around her waist and he pulled her to him.

  She placed her hands on his broad chest, still shaken by the discovery of his identity. He slowly tilted her chin upward and contemplated her mouth.

  Her thoughts stopped; she felt on fire, wanting his kiss. Her lips felt swollen and hot as she gazed up at him and saw the lids of his eyes droop with passion while he studied her. Languidly he lowered his head. Her lips ached in anticipation, in eagerness for this man who was more handsome, more charming than any she had known. Hot tears from relief and joy sprang to her eyes.

  His mouth grazed hers, and she willed herself to wait, to be still, to be the innocent, unkissed English maid she was supposed to be. He raised his head and his fingers brushed her cheek. “Tears, Lianna?”

  “Of happiness! I had worried so—”

  He laughed and dipped his head again. His warm lips pressed against hers, opening her mouth as his tongue thrust inside to stroke hers, and passion ignited. She stood on tiptoe, sliding her slender bare arms around his neck. Finally she pushed away.

  “Sir, when we return to the ballroom, I’ll be unpresentable,” she said in a breathless whisper.

  “The wedding will be in five days, querida. Five days of agony.”

  “Conde—”

  “Armando is the name I prefer you to use. Men call me Marcheno, but I want you to call me Armando.” His voice dropped to that timbre that became a sensual caress. “And perhaps I shall call you Lia.” He kissed her lightly. “How happy I am! After your father left, I thought I had allowed him to convince me of the biggest foolishness of my life. Now, I’m overjoyed.”

  He leaned down to kiss her again, this time lightly but hungrily, and she wanted more.

  “I don’t think I shall be able to stop smiling,” she said, laughing up at him.

  “Nor I.”

  “You ran a great risk. Suppose I had flirted with you earlier?”

  “I wanted to know what kind of wife I had betrothed myself to. It is not too late to withdraw the offer, but now…beyond my wildest hopes, I’ll wed my beautiful Lia.”

  Quita smiled up at him. “Shouldn’t we go back?”

  “Yes. The matrons’ tongues will clack that we behave in an unseemly fashion, but in five days it won’t matter. And in those five days, I’ll show you Madrid.”

  Quita danced the next hours away with only one partner—Armando. Her heart beat in eagerness as each moment deepened their attraction. There were no more passionate kisses because they were in public until he bent low over her hand to tell her good night. She turned away to leave with Doña Vianta.

  That night as she lay in bed, she was too excited to sleep. Over and over she remembered each detail of those moments on the terrace, the discovery of Armando’s identity. She wriggled with pleasure, then suddenly felt a stab of fright that she should have a golden world dangled before her eyes. Five days…the vows could be canceled. She could hear his voice saying, “…it is not too late to withdraw the offer…”

  In those words she saw the iron beneath his irresistible charm. For a man to withdraw an offer of marriage at this point could easily mean a duel or prosecution, yet she knew Señor Melton would do nothing. Thinking of Conchita’s tales of the Count of Marcheno’s cruelty and the dungeon where his enemies were imprisoned, she shivered. It was a side to him she had not seen; all she knew was the exciting man who had teased her and held her and kissed her—who had flirted and made her laugh and made her doubly eager for the wedding.

  The next day Quita and Armando rode through the dusty streets of Madrid with Doña Vianta at Quita’s side, ever watchful, as if she had to make sure no more kisses were stolen.

  Nor were they. There were no more balls, only lavish dinners planned for the remainder of the week. The first dinner Quita sat down to stare in bewilderment at an array of silver. Panic struck her as she looked at the crystal, the china, the people watching her, including Armando. Doña Vianta, acting as his hostess until the wedding, sat at the end of the long table and Quita sat to his right. She waited, watching carefully to see what fork he would use, what he would do. Once she caught him watching her hands and she blushed, suddenly embarrassed and frightened. The ladies adjourned to a drawing room and Quita began to relax. There were no stolen kisses that night either, as Doña Vianta hovered at Quita’s side like a bird over prey.

  The next morning as Quita left her room to join Doña Vianta downstairs, a hand reached out to sweep around her waist.

  Gasping with surprise, she looked into Armando’s laughing dark eyes. “Conde!”

  “No, Lianna—always when we are alone you are to address me as Armando, never my formal title.”

  “Doña Vianta waits for me. She watches me constantly.”

  “She’s trying to do what your Spanish mother would have done had she been alive,” he said gently. “Querida, don’t be afraid here. Your father told me you had led a
sheltered life.”

  She felt as if her heart might burst with her love for him. She placed her hands on his arms, feeling the muscles beneath the thin white silk of his shirt. She slipped her fingers higher. “I’m so fortunate,” she whispered. “I thought you would be very old.”

  He laughed. “And I was terrified I had pledged myself to a thin, pale English schoolgirl.” Laughter vanished from his eyes. “Three days, Lianna, and you’ll be mine.”

  Her heart pounded, but as his head started to lower, she slipped away from him. “Armando,” she said, relishing his name, aching to be back in his arms. “I mustn’t keep Señora waiting.”

  “A pox on my cousin! Come to me.” He pulled her back, catching her chin in his hand and holding her face as he kissed her hard and passionately. Again, while her heart thudded wildly, Quita fought to hold back, to try to be reserved and shy, yet his kisses were like flames flicking through her veins to scorch her raw nerves. She longed to wrap her arms around his neck and return his kisses, but she resisted, pushing against his muscled chest.

  “Armando!” She whirled away and rushed toward the stairs, hearing him say her name softly behind her.

  Later that day, she received instructions from Doña Vianta on which utensil to use when at a large dinner, on how to greet guests properly and to summon a servant for the carriage. She suspected that Armando had ordered the lesson after watching her at dinner the night before.

  The wedding day finally dawned with a glorious sunrise. Quita watched it from a castle window, for she had been too excited to sleep more than a few hours.

  Early that morning, Yolana appeared with several servants who were to help Quita get ready for the wedding. Quita dressed in Lianna’s beautiful white lace and satin dress. It fell in soft folds around her legs, its rounded neckline of satin hugging her curves, its white lace giving her a fragile appearance. The lace ended in a high collar beneath her chin and covered her arms in long fitted sleeves. A hairdresser styled her hair so that it was looped and twisted on top of her head, secured with tiny rosebuds fastened amid her raven tresses. Last of all, Yolana helped her with the veil of lace that was pinned to her dark hair and trailed down to her waist. She would carry the white orchids and roses Armando had sent from the sunhouse.