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He laughed. “Granada.”
“Isn’t that where the Alhambra is?” I said eagerly, picturing the famous Moorish castle. “I’ll come with you!”
He shook his head. “It will be a one-day trip, there and back. Very boring. Stay here with Miguel. Paint. Enjoy your day.” He kissed my temple and said huskily, “I’ll be back before bedtime.”
Then he kissed me adios until my toes curled.
But after he’d gone, all the fears and shadows came back crashing around me, without Alejandro’s warmth and strength to hide behind.
Was he really going to do business in Granada, as he’d said? Or was he there for some other reason?
Was this his lie?
Don’t think about it, I ordered my trembling heart, but it was impossible, now that I loved him.
I feared knowing the truth.
I feared never knowing it.
“Dear?” I heard Maurine’s tremulous voice. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor?”
“Of course,” I said, desperate for distraction.
She smiled at me. “You are such a talented artist. I love the paintings you’ve done of my roses. You are the only one who’s ever done them justice.” As I blushed, she continued, “Alejandro’s birthday is next month. Would you do a portrait of me and Miguel, in the rose garden...?”
“I’d love to!” I exclaimed, my mind immediately filled with painting materials, size and composition. I went into Seville for supplies, and by late afternoon, after Miguel’s nap, the three of us were outside. I propped up an easel in front of where they sat on a bench, surrounded by greenery and red, yellow and pink roses.
The warm Spanish sun filtered golden light over the garden as I painted the portrait of the dowager Duchess of Alzacar and her great-grandbaby, the future duke.
Maurine’s lovely white hair was like a soft cloud around her twinkling eyes and smiling face. I drew her outline in loose strokes. That was easy, compared with the challenge of the wiggling, giggling baby in her lap. But I’d painted and drawn my son so many times over the past six months, I knew his chubby face by heart. I could have done it blindfolded.
I smiled to myself, picturing how happy Alejandro would be at the gift, reaching up to adjust the floppy pink hat I was wearing to keep the sunlight out of my eyes. Maurine chattered nonstop, while entertaining the baby in her lap. She told me how she’d first fallen in love with her husband, who’d had a title, “though it seemed useless enough, with no hope of returning to Spain, with the political situation,” and absolutely no money or marketable skills. “It’s so much easier to know how to work when you’ve been raised to it. My husband had spent his adult life sleeping in the spare rooms of rich friends from his Eton days.”
“Sounds like my father. He wanted to work, but didn’t know how.”
“It’s the upbringing, I think. Even when we finally returned to Spain, with the Navaro fortune lost, Rodrigo had no idea how to pay for the upkeep of this castle. It’s not like the old days, when a duke could simply demand peasants give him tribute.” She gave a soft laugh. “He was desperate to keep the title and the land, for the sake of his family’s history. I loved him, so I did my best to help.” She looked away, blinking fast. “I sold oranges from the orchard and gave castle tours. Sadly, our son was no better with money—the earning of it, I mean, not the spending of it. By the time Alejandro became duke, the roof of the castle was caving in, we were mortgaged to the hilt, and I was beginning to think I’d spend my elderly years begging on the streets, or selling oranges at street corners.”
I laughed. “As if Alejandro would ever allow that.” I smiled, remembering his bossy ways when he’d informed me that taking financial care of us was his job. “He, at least, had no trouble figuring out how to make money.”
“No.” She smiled, playing patty-cake with the baby. “But of course, his background is so different. He didn’t have an overbearing father constantly telling him how an aristocrat was supposed to behave. The small silver lining of having no father at all, I suppose....”
“No father?” Frowning, I lifted the brush off the canvas. I looked around the easel. “But Alejandro’s father was the duke. Your son.”
