Claiming His Wife

'You are looking well, Cassandra. Better than I have seen you. You are obviously happier in your own country.' Dona Elvira, remote and dignified in black silk, was seated at the foot of the table, to Cassie's right. Her remark was made in her perfect English and carried the customary barb.

'Thank you.' Cassie inclined her head coolly. She could have answered that she would have been ec­statically happy in Spain if her husband had loved her, if his family had accepted her. But what was the point raking over a past that was dead and buried as far as she was concerned? She would not let this ordeal undermine her hard-won poise. She wouldn't let any one of them intimidate her now.

Tia Agueda and Tia Carmela, Roman's aunts, were seated opposite, their small dark eyes constantly flicking between Cassie and Delfina. Delfina was speaking in animated Spanish to Roman who, natu­rally, took pride of place at the head of the gleaming mahogany table. Her hand was continually moving to touch the back of his, or to linger on the white fabric of his sleeve, as if to emphasis a point she was making, her dark eyes flicking and flirting beneath the lustrous sweep of her lashes.

During her time in Spain Cassie had picked up enough of the language to get by, but the other woman's voice was pitched too low, too soft and intimate to allow her to hear what was being said.

She fingered the stem of her wine glass and, as if noting the unconsciously nervous gesture, Dona Elvira said, 'It is an uncomfortable time for all of us.'

And wasn't that the truth? Cassie speared a sliver of tender pork fillet. Her twin was conspicuous by his absence. House arrest, he'd told her. He probably had to eat in the kitchen with the servants. She laid down her fork, the food unwanted.

'I'll be returning to England tomorrow,' she stated, squashing the wicked impulse to tell her mother-in-law of her son's attempt to blackmail her into resum­ing their marriage. Only for three short months—but, even so, Dona Elvira and the aunts would hate that. They were probably already counting down to when Roman could be free of his unsuitable, hopeless wife and they could begin pressing him to marry someone of his own nationality, someone with breeding and lots of lovely old money!

Something clicked inside her brain. Of course! She could see it all now. Roy's fall from grace had given Roman the leverage he needed. It wasn't just sexual curiosity about her, as he'd so insultingly claimed— his family must be nagging him again to produce an heir, and this time he could put them off if it ap­peared that he was having another stab at making his marriage work!

Sharply, her mind skidded back to the afternoon Roman had proposed to her. The older family mem­bers had been taking a siesta; Roy and Guy—Cindy's older brother—had taken a couple of horses out onto the campos while Cindy and her mother were up­stairs packing. About to follow suit—the month-long holiday was over and they were leaving for home the next day—she'd been halfway up the handsomely carved staircase when Roman's softly voiced request had stopped her in her tracks.

'Cassie, got a few minutes to spare?'

Her hand had shot out and tightened on the pol­ished banister until her knuckles stood out like white sea-shells as a wave of raw heat flooded her body. She had been sure she was in love with him, help­lessly and hope

lessly in love, and it had turned her into a gibbering idiot when he was around.

Cindy had said, 'Mucho macho!', pretending to swoon. 'He doesn't even notice me but he follows you with his eyes, you lucky pig!'

Trying not to think of the gross stupidity of that remark—why should a man as gorgeous, as self-assured and wildly wealthy as Roman spare a very ordinary woman with no social skills and about as much sex appeal as a carrot a second glance?—she had waited until the gauche heat ebbed from her face before slowly turning.

He had been watching her from the foot of the stairs. Watching. Waiting. Her throat muscles had gone into spasm.

'I want to talk to you.'

'Yes?' Had her expression been intelligent, or just plain dumb? The latter, she suspected, because the shake of his dark, handsome head, the very abrasiveness of his voice had suggested im­patience.

'Not here. In the courtyard, for privacy. Come down.'

She'd gone; of course she had. If he'd asked her to walk to the North Pole with him she'd have gone without a murmur. And the sun-soaked courtyard had been deserted except for just the two of them, the scent of the rosemary and lavender planted in the centre perfuming the hot air. And his proposal had been the very last thing she'd expected.

'As my mother and aunts never tire of telling me, it's time I married and sired an heir. They've been dangling suitable females under my nose for the past five years and now that I've reached the venerable age of thirty-three they've stepped up their campaign.

'I tell them to hold their meddling tongues, to put the succession of simpering creatures back into the boxes they dug them out of; I tell them that I will marry the woman of my choosing, not theirs. It makes no difference and, quite frankly, Cass, I am tired of it.'

At that point he had taken her hand and her whole body had melted, turning her into an amorphous mass of sensation, blanking out every last one of her brain cells. What else could explain the unseemly haste, the total lack of logical thought that had ac­companied her acceptance when he'd increased the pressure of his fingers on hers and murmured, 'I think we could make a successful marriage. You're young for your years. Don't take that as a criticism— you lack the guile and artifice that bores me in other women, and I find that very appealing. I do need an heir, and for that I need to marry. I want a woman I can live with, a woman whose primary concerns aren't the perfection of her appearance, attending parties that take her days to prepare for, or empty-headed gossip.'

His mouth had indented wryly. 'The bargain wouldn't be one-sided. Since the death of your father you're a ship without a rudder; I gather that he had you convent-educated then used emotional blackmail to keep you at home acting as an unpaid house­keeper. Cass, marriage and motherhood would give you the direction you want. And no need to worry about the debts waiting for you at home—naturally, as your husband, I would discharge them. And for me—' his eyes had softened as he'd smiled into hers '—I would be free of the endless carping from my female relatives. In time, there would be our children to take their meddling minds away from me, and I could get on with my life in peace. And, more im­portantly, I would have a wife I'd chosen for myself. Will you think about it, dear Cassie?'

She hadn't, she thought now, defiantly draining her wine glass. She'd simply accepted him and thought about it later, when it was too late to do anything other than acknowledge the fact that he had married her because she was biddable, undemanding, a creature of no consequence, and someone he could hide in a corner and forget about. Someone to pro­vide him with the heirs the vast Fernandez estates needed.

Only it hadn't worked out like that, had it?

'I see Delfina still visits you,' she remarked coolly to her mother-in-law. Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she added, 'So kind, don't you think, when so­phisticated social events, glitzy restaurants and ex­pensive shops are her natural milieu? Or so she al­ways led me to believe.'

Before, she would never have dreamed of saying such a thing. She had almost literally withered away whenever her mother-in-law or the aunts had spoken to her, almost always with some criticism or other— the way she dressed, her apparent inability to con­ceive or keep her husband at her side, her weight loss.

'She has always been fond of my son.' Dona Elvira dabbed her mouth with her napkin. 'As I said, it has been an uncomfortable time for all of us.'

Was that sympathy in the older woman's eyes? Cassie thought so. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. Formerly, had she only listened to the words, failing to see the concern for her well-being and happiness that lay behind the apparent criti­cisms?

She laid down her napkin, made her excuses, and left the room without even glancing at Roman. Sympathy from a most unexpected quarter wasn't worth thinking about. Not now. It was over.