The Sometime Bride (6 page)

For the first time in all his planning it occurred to Blas that what he was offering Catherine Audley was total ruin. Somehow, in his effort to keep the Casa, its secrets, and its young chatelaine safe during a French occupation, he had thought about the next months, even the next years, but never about the far-reaching consequences. Until now. By the rules of English society Catherine Audley would be irretrievably compromised by his actions. Ineligible for marriage. The alternative? He would be morally obligated to her for the rest of his life.

“
Cat . . . perhaps we should forget the whole thing.”

“
I did not think you such a coward. Tell me!”

“
Your father . . . your father knows people with a wide variety of talents,” Blas began with cautious circumspection. “Among them is a very good forger. As the base of our plan, there would be marriage lines between Don Alexis Perez de Leon and yourself, plus settlements giving me the Casa Audley as your dowry. The marriage lines would allegedly be signed by the Anglican rector, who by that time would be safely out to sea with the British fleet.” He paused and regarded Catarina with wary eyes.

She surprised him, replying only as a co-conspirator, not a very young woman being offered a counterfeit husband. “You believe the French will respect Spanish ownership?”

“
It’s a chance I’m willing to take. I would, of course, keep you in hiding until I see how they react. Believe me, Cat, I am not asking you to stand at my side while French troops march through the streets of Lisbon.”

Catarina had been well schooled, her gamester’s face properly frozen in place. Never would she let him see what she was feeling. She would do what must be done . . . and think about all else later.

“
It is not such a bad plan,” she conceded judiciously. “I would very much hate to lose the Casa. It is the only home I have ever known.”

“
I have made a solemn promise to your father that I will protect you. In every way. To the outside world you will be my wife. In private we will be as brother and sister. I have sworn it, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Cat hung her head, contemplating the fingers which were still clutched together in her lap. “What if . . . what if I do not wish to be your sister?”

Blas jumped up, strode over to the window overlooking the courtyard. Standing with his back to her, he damned green-eyed girls, Thomas Audley, the Portuguese, the French, and the whole stupid war. “You have no choice,” he growled. “I have already sworn. And you’re too blasted young,” he added with a touch of boyish petulance as he turned back to face her.

They glared at each other in silence. It was Blas who finally broke the tension. “Are we agreed then, Cat? Your father is awaiting your decision.”

Catarina stood tall, her fourteen-year-old dignity very much intact. “You may consider me your sister if you must,” she said. “As far as I am concerned, I am your wife.” She swept out of the room, leaving Blas feeling very much the Bastard.

On the 27th of November 1807, mad queen Maria of Portugal, her son Dom João, his disaffected wife Carlota, the Portuguese court, their servants and guards packed themselves into the intensely crowded confines of ships of the Portuguese navy and set sail for Brazil. They went reluctantly, harassed into fleeing by the commander of British naval forces in Lisbon harbor, for the British were intent on keeping Princess Carlota from running to the protection of her father, King Charles of Spain. An ally of Napoleon, Charles might deliver the Portuguese fleet into the hands of the French.

When the invasion came, the fall of Lisbon was far from history’s list of dramatic moments. Marshal Androche Junot marched into Portugal with a mixed contingent of French and Spanish troops, all of whom were a far cry from the might of the famed
Grand Armée
. Young, ill-trained, poorly fed, drenched by storms, decimated by drowning in swollen streams, Marshal Junot’s troops tramped through the streets of Lisbon in a ragged nervous column of blue. They need not have feared. Lisbon, and Portugal, surrendered without a shot.

Even winter could not dim the exotic beauty of the Serra de Sintra, the high country which lay between Lisbon and the sea. But Cat’s warring emotions blinded her to the tumbling streams, jagged rocks, and gnarled trees passing by outside the windows of the coach.

Three weeks had passed since she accompanied her father to the home of his friend Don Alvaro Dominguez and his wife Dona Blanca. Cat had spent the time on pins and needles, fretting at being away from the home, worrying about the Casa, about Blas . . . And now, armed with a French
passe-partout
, she was returning. Her personal role in the masquerade was about to begin.

Strangely, after all the excitement and anticipation, Catarina found she was not at all ready to return to the Casa Audley alone. To Blas. Her husband. Her husband on a forged piece of parchment. Her husband in fictitious name only. Six months shy of her fifteenth birthday, she was a wife. With no father, no Thomas, to protect the suddenly doubtful bride.

Protect. Silly thought, Cat mocked herself. Why should she need protection? She was madly in love with Blas. She had scoffed at his archaic ideas of chivalry and restraint. She wanted him, did she not?

Wanted him for what? At this point Cat’s thoughts were inevitably forced to a halt. For whatever men and women did together, she supposed. For more of that strange, overwhelming . . .
melting
she felt when he touched her. That delicious, frightening loss of reason teetering on the loss of self. The urge to plunge into . . . what?

Cat made a swift grab for the hangstrap beside her as the coach bounced over a rut cut by a rivulet tumbling down over the side of a cliff to cross the road and plunge into the valley on the far side. Once again, reality reared its ugly head. She was not ready. She could not do it. To live with Blas . . . to live with Blas as master of the Casa. To live with Blas who was so . . .

To live with Blas was what she wanted. Longed for. Dreamed of.

She was terrified.

As the coach rumbled over the cobblestones outside the Casa Audley, Cat examined the familiar façade with some anxiety. Except for the plaque which had displayed the British coat of arms, the Casa was as it always had been. No broken glass, no bullet holes, no sign that the government of Portugal was now in foreign hands. She was home. Blas would be waiting to greet her.

She would go up the gallery steps to her room, open the door, and all would be exactly the same. A sea of blue uniforms on the streets would not affect the smooth running of the Casa Audley. All would be well. She was a weak, silly fool to conjure up such fears. She was unworthy of the name of Audley.

“
Dona Catarina!” Lucio Cardoso threw open the door of the coach himself, welcoming the mistress of the Casa Audley with grand formality. Eagerly, Catarina took his hand and stepped down. The warmth of her reunion with the Casa’s large staff did not quite assuage her disappointment as she discovered two faces conspicuously absent from the gathering. Lucio Cardoso led her toward the house, saying quietly, “Marcio must play least in sight for yet a while. Junot is forming a Portuguese army to fight for the French, and no young man is safe from recruitment. Marcio is with his grandparents in the mountains near Mafra.”

Lucio steered Catarina past the stairs leading up to the covered walkway outside her room. “Don Alejo is waiting in your fa . . . “ The
major domo
paused, gave Catarina a rueful smile. “Don Alejo waits for you in the study.”

Don Alejo!
Since when had Blas become Don Alejo instead of the formal Don Alexis, as if it Lucio knew him better than she did?

“
Dona Catarina Perez de Leon,” Senhor Cardoso announced grandly, adding a deeper, more respectful bow to Catarina than she had ever before received from the strong-minded manager of the Casa Audley. Lucio then backed himself out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

As Blas unfolded himself from Thomas Audley’s chair, Catarina glared at him, her fists clenched into balls. “You have no right to sit there! Papa’s study is not part of this masquerade. This is
my
house, and I won’t have it!”

Blas, dressed in the casual daywear of a wealthy young
hidalgo
of Spain, blinked. The ruffled front of his full white shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his waist. An elaborate design in red embroidery decorated the front of his black jacket and the sides of his tight black pants. A black neckerchief was knotted casually about his throat. “Sit down, Cat,” he invited with remarkable calm.

After a few additional moments of pouting, she complied, but not without a loud sniff of disdain.

“
Let us understand one another, Cat. This is
my
house. And I will sit where I will and do what I will. And you will never again mention the word masquerade. From this moment you will assume every word you utter can be heard by the French. Is that clear?”

Tears blurred her eyes. Hurt and confused by a homecoming quite different from her expectations, Cat knew only that Blas the boy was gone. In three weeks her alleged husband had aged five years. He was alive and well, obviously successful in his plan to save the Casa Audley from the French. But who was to save it from Don Alexis Perez de Leon?

“
There’s no point in crying,” he added without a sign of sympathy. “How can you think it possible for me to run the Casa without sitting at your father’s desk? Don’t be such a goosecap—I thought you had better sense. Now stop sniveling and listen to me!”

Catarina rummaged in her reticule until she found a handkerchief, then wiped her face and vigorously blew her nose. She glared at him from reddened eyes.

“
Our plan worked, Cat,” Blas reported. “I stayed out of it and let your father’s solicitor handle everything. Marriage lines, settlements, signed deeds. Fortunately, the French have a respect for legal documents. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t even have to make a stand at the door. One night the Casa closed under the government of Portugal, the next it opened under the government of France.

“
We’ve been lucky . . . or perhaps a bit more clever than most. All the property of those who fled has been confiscated, a fine has been levied against the country itself, and Junot is busy conscripting a Portuguese army to fight for Boney. How long our immunity will last I can’t say, but I do everything I can to cultivate the French officers who come to the Casa. Hopefully, we shall remain a friend in their eyes.”

He broke off, regarded her bleakly. “You didn’t really think I meant to keep the Casa, did you?” he asked in tones more reminiscent of the old Blas.

Her lips quivered. “It’s all so strange,” Cat confessed. “I have never seen anyone else in that chair. Ever. We are here alone, just you and I. The city is overflowing with soldiers in blue coats . . . and we are married.” Cat’s usually lovely voice was on the verge of shrill. “I do not want to take orders from you. You are a stranger. I do not like it!”

Blas leaned back in the chair, regarding her with some relief . . . and a touch of amusement. “Why, Cat, I do believe you have bridal nerves.”

“
I do not!”

“
Do you expect to be ravished?”

“
You did not come out to meet me!” she wailed.

Blas held his head in his hands, struggling between exasperation and laughter. “Most of the servants think I married you for your dowry, Cat. They accept the situation as an eminently practical solution to a difficult problem, but they believe us truly bound in a marriage of convenience. I must at all times—and so must you!—consider how my actions look to others. This is not a game, Cat, it’s a damned dangerous situation.”

Catarina grimaced as she attempted to wipe her face with the soggy handkerchief which had been crumpled in her fist. Blas tossed a fresh one to her and watched while she restored herself to some semblance of normalcy. It was the first time he had ever seen Cat anything but spectacularly beautiful. She looked small and lonely and lost.

“
Very well,” Blas pronounced bracingly when Catarina’s hands were once more folded in her lap. “Listen carefully so you will understand how we must go on. I have instructed that your things be moved into your mother’s room . . .”

“
No!
” Cat screamed. She flew out of her chair to stand with her hands flat on the desk, her contorted face bent over him. “You cannot do this. My mother died in that room. No one has used it since.”

Shocked, Blas rose slowly to his feet as Catarina hiccuped on a sob.

“
It was very quiet, you know,” she continued in an abrupt change of tone, her eyes fixed on the past. “Mama refused to scream. Papa had the English doctor, the best midwives, nothing helped. Three days she suffered. They wouldn’t let me in, but I sneaked by them at night. I promised her I would be good . . . and take care of Papa. But I have failed so many times . . .”

Blas had promised himself he would not touch her. But there was no hope for it. He strode round the desk and held her against his chest, letting her weep. After a minute or two, he scooped her up, securing her on his lap when he returned to Thomas Audley’s chair. While Cat’s sobs gradually diminished, Blas had ample time to contemplate the magnitude of the problem he had created. He had been hopelessly naive. His body was already reacting to the soft, infinitely appealing curves cuddled against him. Five minutes in Cat’s company and his good intentions were sorely tried. As they would undoubtedly be time and time again over the months to come.