His Spanish Bride by Teresa Grant Page A

into his hand. “Any new instructions?” She managed to keep her voice level.
    “Simply to keep your ears open. You need time to settle in.”
    “I need to keep busy.” She gathered up her skirts, then turned back to him. “Raoul?” It would have been far safer not to speak, but somehow the words spilled from her lips. “Did you know Malcolm played the pianoforte?”
    Raoul was silent for the length of a measure of music. “Yes. Very well as I recall. Though as with much about him, I don’t think it’s something he shares easily.”
    “It isn’t easy to share things.”
    “No. But then what in life that matters is?” He lifted a hand in the shadows, then let it fall to his side. “Take care of yourself, querida .”
     
     
    The band was blaring “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” outside the embassy. The sound filled the drawing room where a log fire crackled in the grate, bows of greenery hung on the walls, and the smell of spiced wine drifted in the air. The hallmarks of an English Christmas. For a moment Suzanne was standing in the passage outside the attachés’ sitting room again, looking up into Malcolm’s gray gaze, leaning in for his kiss. She found herself smiling as the sound took her back to her betrothal. Damnation. Was she actually being sentimental about the day she had agreed to be Malcolm’s wife? It was all very well to try to find the reality in a part, but surely this was taking it too far. Surely—
    “Mrs. Rannoch.”
    Isabella Flores dropped down beside her in a swirl of dark green silk. “I wanted to thank you. For everything you and your husband did. I know how very foolish I was.”
    Suzanne smiled at the other woman. The hunted look was gone from Isabella’s eyes. “I’m glad everything worked out.”
    Isabella cast a quick glance across the room. “I don’t know—That is—” Her gaze focused on her husband, who stood next to the fireplace talking to Stuart. Flores turned his head and met her gaze for a moment. A smile crossed his face. Isabella echoed the smile, then turned back to Suzanne with a flush like a schoolgirl. “My husband has been very kind these past few days. No, more than that. He’s always kind. These past days he’s been attentive.”
    Suzanne pictured Malcolm pulling out a book he thought she might like, bringing her a cup of coffee in the morning, putting a cool cloth on the back of her neck when the baby made her queasy. “Attention can mean a great deal.”
    Isabella nodded. “He suggested we dine at home last week, just the two of us. I thought it would be ghastly—I couldn’t imagine what we’d find to say to even get us through the fish course. But he began by asking me about my day and I don’t how it happened precisely, but there we were chatting about music and the theatre and poetry—which it seems he likes as much as I do. Well, he claims Lord Byron is a pretentious poseur. He met him when he was in Lisbon—Byron, that is. It was just before I came to Lisbon to my endless regret. But in any case I had quite a lively time trying to argue him out of his opinion. We agreed we’d have to read some of Byron’s poems together. Before I knew it, the footmen were setting out cheese and oranges.”
    Suzanne smoothed her hands over the claret velvet of her skirt. “Sometimes one has to talk to a person to see what’s beneath the surface.”
    “Yes. We haven’t had an evening alone since then, but even our brief snatches of conversation are more interesting. He brought me flowers yesterday.” Isabella tucked a ringlet behind her ear. “It almost feels like being courted.”
    “For the first time?”
    “Well, yes. He never really did court me. Simply asked my father for my hand.”
    Suzanne’s gaze drifted toward her own husband, who had just strolled through the door with Fitzroy Somerset. Ten to one Fitzroy had found him in the library. “Marriages can change.”
    “Yes, I used to think marriage was an ending. Now I’m thinking