Duarte's Child

Yet, he had touched her again and she had made a fool of herself. But then, she ought to be used to that by now, she conceded heavily. Hadn’t her gorgeous sophisticated husband always specialised in running rings around her besotted self? And her mind slid back again into the past when just a glimpse of Duarte had lit up her world…

A month after the fire in the barn, Emily had been informed that Duarte wanted to see her. Fresh from the morning exercise run with the horses, Emily had been cringingly conscious of her messy hair and muddy clothing but too worried about why he should want to see her to waste time getting changed.

For the first time, she set foot inside Ash Manor to see the beautifully restored Georgian interior that lay beyond the imposing front door. Jazz raced across the hall to throw himself at her with his usual exuberance. She got down on the floor to give him a hug that turned into a mock wrestling session—and then discovered that Duarte was standing watching her childish antics with his dog.

Momentarily his rare smile glimmered on his lips and he said something but she didn’t catch what he said. The visual effect of Duarte after four weeks of deprivation had bereft her of all rational thought and concentration. In strong embarrassment, she’d scrambled up and he had shown her into a library where he invited her to sit down.

‘I’m pretty dirty.’ Emily had scanned the watered silk covering the indicated chair, preferring to look at it rather than at him as her wretched face burned scarlet. ‘I’d be better standing.’

‘As you wish. I won’t be keeping you long.’ Duarte lounged back against a polished desk, the very picture of polished elegance in his tailored business suit. ‘When I entertain here, my friends and business associates often bring their families with them. I believe you’re a riding instructor. I’d like you to start giving lessons to my younger guests. Naturally I’ll raise your salary. Are you interested?’

Emily glanced up with a surprised but pleased smile. ‘Very much.’

That winter, Duarte spent a remarkable amount of time at Ash Manor. Her duties gradually extended to generally supervising and entertaining any visiting children. At the end of the first month, Duarte said that it would be more convenient if she moved out of the flat she shared with the other grooms and into the manor itself. Dismayed to then be told that she was expected to take her meals in the dining room, she had ducked that challenge on the first night. Settling down to her evening meal in the kitchen, she had been aghast when Duarte strode in.

‘What are you doing in here?’ he had demanded in exasperation, startling her half out of her wits. ‘You eat with my guests now.’

But everyone but Duarte and the children had ignored her in the dining room. Content to be ignored in a gathering of so many wealthy and important people, she had been taken aback when Duarte continually attempted to drag her into conversations.

‘I heard Mr Monteiro tell Mum that you’re marvellous with children and animals,’ one of her temporary charges told her chattily one rainy evening while they worked on a horribly complex jigsaw. ‘And very kind… Can I stay up until we finish this?’

Crumbs to a starving heart, she’d thought at the time, hugging those few words of approval to herself but secretly wishing that those words had been more personal. But much much later, when she was Duarte’s wife, she had finally grasped that she had been under observation during that period, marched out like a reluctant-to-perform animal so that he could see how she behaved, how she thought, how she reacted in different situations. And quiet and shy had ultimately been fine with him. After all, what qualities does a male look for in a low-maintenance wife?

For that was the starring role for which she had been carefully picked with the minimum of required effort on his part. A low-maintenance wife, dead keen on soppy things like kids and dogs, unlikely to require much attention.

‘You’ve done a terrific job,’ Duarte informed her some weeks later. ‘Let me take you out to dinner.’

Paralysed to the spot, she had stared at him. ‘Oh, there’s no need for that—’

‘Emily—’

‘Really, I wouldn’t be comfortable imposing on you like that,’ she had gabbled, distressed and embarrassed at the idea that he believed that he owed her some sort of treat for admittedly working very long hours.

‘But I insist. Dinner… Eight,’ Duarte had stated curtly.

So he took her out to dinner and she sat looking at him like a hypnotised rabbit, mumbling responses, spilling her wine and, due to the fancy menu couched in French, ending up with raw steak when what she had really wanted was a well-done one.