The Stand-In Bride. Lucy Gordon

with knobbles on their knees.’

      ‘Since you didn’t see the performance you are hardly equipped to comment on their knees,’ he snapped.

      ‘I’ll bet they were knobbly, though. A sheltered girl like Catalina would probably have been shocked at the sight.’

      But humour was wasted on this man. His eyes had narrowed in a way that some people might have found intimidating, but Maggie was past caring. She had never met anyone who made her so angry so quickly.

      At last he said, ‘You have your values and I have mine. They seem to be entirely different. I blame myself for hiring your services without checking you out first.’

      ‘Don’t you have your finger in enough pies?’ she demanded in exasperation. ‘Must each tiny detail come under your control?’

      ‘With every word you betray how little you understand. When a man is in authority, control is essential. If he does not control all the details, his authority is incomplete.’

      ‘Details!’ Maggie said explosively. ‘You’re talking about this poor girl’s life. And if you regard that as a detail I can only say I pity her.’

      ‘How fortunate that I’m not obliged to consider your opinion,’ he snapped.

      ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered anyone’s opinion in your life,’ she snapped back.

      ‘I don’t tolerate interference with my private affairs. It’s not your place to criticise me or my forthcoming marriage.’

      ‘If you had any decency, there wouldn’t be a marriage.’

      ‘On the contrary, it’s only my sense of duty that makes me take a feather-headed ninny as my wife. On his death-bed her father made me promise to protect her, and I gave my word.’

      ‘So be her guardian, but you don’t have to be her husband!’

      ‘A guardian’s power ends on the day his ward marries. I protect her best by remaining her guardian for life.

      ‘Well, of all the—‘

      ‘You know Catalina by now. Is she intelligent? Come, be honest.’

      ‘No, she isn’t. She has a butterfly mind. All the more reason to marry a man who won’t care about that.’

      ‘And how will she choose her husband? She’s an heiress, and the fortune-hunters will flock to her. Can you imagine the choice she’ll make? I don’t need her money. I’ll make a marriage settlement that ties it up in favour of her children, and then I’ll give her everything she wants.’

      ‘Except love.’

      ‘Love,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘What sentimentalists you English are. You think marriage has anything to do with romantic love? My wife will be protected and cared for. I will give her children to love.’

      ‘And she’ll have to be content with the small corner of your life that you spare her.’

      He regarded her cynically. ‘I see how it is. You think a man only makes a good husband if he prostrates himself and worships the woman, like a weakling. But I tell you that a man who truly worships is without pride, and the man who only pretends is not to be trusted.’

      ‘You think a strong man patronises the woman?’ Maggie demanded sharply.

      ‘I think men and women each have their roles, and their duty is to fill them well. And since you ask, no, I don’t think that my role is to look up to any woman. I suppose you’ve been filling Catalina’s head with your pretty nonsense.’

      ‘Catalina is young. She knows what she wants out of life, and it isn’t you.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re right. She’d like some fast-talking boy who’ll sweep her off her feet, spend her money and turn on her when it’s gone. Is that the fate you want for her?’

      ‘No, of course not, I—’ Something was making it difficult for her to speak. His words had touched a nerve. She turned away and went to the window, so that she didn’t have to look at him. But the darkness outside reflected the room within, and she could still see him, watching her, frowning.

      ‘What is it?’ he asked at last.

      ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘You’re right, this is none of my business. Soon you’ll take Catalina away, and I won’t see her any more.’

      ‘What was your own husband like?’ he asked, with a flash of insight that alarmed her.

      ‘I’d rather not talk about him.’

      ‘I see,’ he said harshly. ‘You discuss my marriage, which—as you so rightly say—is not your concern, but if I wish to discuss yours, you feel entitled to snub me.’ He pulled her around to face him. ‘Tell me about your husband.’

      ‘No.’ She tried to get free but he held her firmly.

      ‘I said, tell me about him. What was he like to put that withdrawn look on your face when he’s mentioned?’

      ‘Very well, he was Spanish,’ she flashed. ‘Everything else I prefer to forget.’

      ‘Did you live in Spain?’

      ‘That’s enough. Let me go at once.’ But his long fingers clasped on her arm did not release her.

      ‘I’d rather stay like this. I don’t want to have to follow you about the room. I asked if you lived in Spain, and so far you haven’t answered me.’

      ‘No, and I’m not going to.’

      ‘But I intend that you shall. I’ve been very patient while you interrogated me and favoured me with your insulting opinions, but my patience has run out. Now we talk about you. Tell me about your husband. Was he a passionate man?’

      ‘How dare—? That’s none of your—’ His glintingly ironic eyes stopped her, reminding her of how frankly she had spoken about his private affairs. But that was different, she told herself wildly. It didn’t entitle him to invade the secrets of her bed, or to look at her with eyes that seemed to see the things she kept so carefully hidden.

      ‘So tell me,’ Sebastian persisted. ‘Was he passionate?’ Maggie pulled herself together. ‘I’m surprised you ask. You just told me that love has nothing to do with marriage.’

      ‘And so it hasn’t. But I’m talking about passion, which has nothing to do with love. What a man and a woman experience together in bed is a life apart. It matters little whether they love each other or not. In fact, a touch of antagonism can heighten their pleasure.’

      She drew an uneven breath. ‘That is nonsense!’

      He didn’t answer in words, but his fingers twitched, catching the silk chiffon scarf and slowly drawing it away, leaving her shoulders bare. A tremor went through her at the sudden rush of cool air on her skin.

      ‘I think not,’ he said softly.

      His eyes held hers. His meaning was shockingly clear. The hostility that had flared between them in the first instant was, to him, an attraction. He was inviting her to imagine herself in bed with him, naked, turning their anger into physical pleasure. And he was doing it so forcefully that she couldn’t help responding. Against her will the pictures were there, shocking in their power and abandon: a man and a woman who’d thrown aside restraint and were driving each other on to ever greater ecstasy.

      She was intensely aware of the sheer physical force of his presence. Once, before passion had played her false, she had responded to it fiercely: so fiercely that in disillusion she’d turned away from desire, fearing it as a traitor. She’d fought it, killed it. Or so she’d thought.

      But now it was there again, not dead but only sleeping, waiting to be awoken by a certain note in a man’s voice. Not this man! she swore furiously to herself. But even as she made the vow she became conscious of his body, how lean and