Chapter Eleven
They were having a fandango. A party was the last thing Carly wanted, but Vincent Bannister and his father had arrived three days ago and apparently her uncle intended to entertain them in style.
With an inward groan of resignation, she turned to her little Spanish maid.
“Are you finished yet, Candelaria?” Sitting in front of the mirror above her carved oak dresser, Carly fidgeted while the girl put up her hair.
Candelaria had gotten reasonably good at it, considering her role as lady’s maid was fairly new.
“Si, senorita. Just a moment more and your beautiful curls will all be in place.” She was a pretty girl, a little moon-faced, a tendency toward pudginess in her later years, but fair-skinned and brown-haired with big brown eyes and long thick black lashes.
Carly liked the girl. She was always pleasant and cheerful. In the beginning, Carly had been so lonely she had confided in Candelaria. Now she was embarrassed to think of the things she had told her. She had spoken of her mother and father and the life of poverty she had led in the mine patch.
Her uncle would die if he knew.
Carly sighed. She guessed it really didn’t matter. In a way, she and Candelaria were friends. Her uncle would hardly approve, but it wasn’t her nature to place herself on a level above someone else.
Obviously, not a single solitary drop of royal blood ran through her veins.
Carly frowned at the thought and her stomach tightened with nerves. The de la Guerra family had been invited. She wondered if Ramon would come.
“You look very beautiful, Senorita McConnell.” Candelaria stepped back to survey her handiwork, the upswept auburn curls that seemed to shimmer in the lamplight and set off the topaz gown.
It was daringly low, exposing a good deal of her breasts, and her shoulders were bare as well.
The skirt was cut full, slightly belled, the tiny waist V-ed in the front.
Dark brown velvet trimmed the skirt, along with heavy golden lace.
“Your uncle will be waiting,” Candelaria gently urged. “You do not wish to make him angry.”
No, she didn’t wish it, but she didn’t want to spend another evening with Vincent, either.
Resignedly she stood up from her chair. Her uncle had pushed them together at every opportunity.
In truth, in the beginning, she had actually tried to imagine herself as Vincent’s wife.
It would please Uncle Fletcher so much. She couldn’t expect him to take care of her forever. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
It didn’t take long to discover the terrible fate being married to Vincent would be.
“I can’t wait for you to come to the city,” he’d said as they strolled beneath the great live oaks behind the house late one evening.
“San Francisco is incredibly exciting.” He sighed dramatically.
“Of course it’s nothing like Philadelphia.
” The city he had come from. “You can’t find nearly the same caliber of people, or the level of sophistication, but at least you can get a decent meal.
You don’t have to eat those godawful tortillas and beans one has to put up with out here. ”
“Actually, I’ve grown rather fond of the food,” Carly said a bit defensively.
She’d tried to steer him to other topics, but he always returned to his dislike of the country, his prejudice against the Spanish landowners, or his favorite subject—himself.
His interest seemed fixed on who was who among San Francisco’s elite, who had the most money, and discussions of his father’s business concerns.
“One of these days, the Bannisters will own San Francisco,” he boasted. “The woman I marry will live like a queen.” He turned her to face him, tilted her chin with his hand. “You could be that woman, Caralee. You’d be the envy of every woman in the city … and I’d be the envy of every man.”
Then he leaned over and kissed her. Carly squeezed her eyes closed, hoping she would feel some of the scorching heat Ramon had made her feel. But she might as well have been kissing the eggplant she’d picked that morning in the garden.
It was the hand he moved up to her breast that ended the contact. She wasn’t about to let him take liberties. The truth was she felt nothing for Vincent Bannister. It was only too clear that she never would.
Now, standing alone beneath the eaves of the house watching her uncle and his guests, Carly resigned herself to another evening of his unwanted company.
With a silent vow to persevere, she took a deep breath and began walking toward the group of well-dressed people standing at the edge of the big wooden dance floor her uncle had ordered built for the fandango.
Two men played guitar and another drew his bow across a violin, evoking a bittersweet Spanish tune.
Colorful paper lanterns hung from strings tied between the overhanging oak trees, and tables laden with steaming platters of food sat off to one side.
A bullock turned over a spit near the edge of the gathering, its savory smell drifting through the cool evening air.
A group of her uncle’s vaqueros stood around it, laughing and smoking and enjoying the rhythm of the music.
Most of the guests held cups of sangria, a brew made of rich red wine, wild berries, oranges, and limes. Some of the men drank the fine imported whiskey her uncle brought in from San Francisco.
“Caralee!” Uncle Fletcher waved her toward him. “It’s time you joined us. Young Vincent has been chomping at the bit.”
William Bannister laughed and so did a few of the others. Vincent’s face turned a little bit red.
Her uncle just grinned. “She’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she, my boy? Had that dress specially made for her. Came all the way ’round the horn from New York City.” He clapped the sandy-haired man on the back, and Vincent smiled good-naturedly.
At least he had that going for him. It seemed Vincent was fairly even-tempered. “She certainly looks lovely, Mr. Austin. Your niece is a beautiful woman.” His gaze flicked over to Carly. “And since that is the case, I’m hoping she’ll agree to dance with me.”
“Of course she will.” Her uncle gave her a look that brooked no argument, and Carly forced herself to smile.
“Of course. I’d be delighted.” He had that going for him, too. Vincent was a very good dancer. She let him lead her onto the dance floor and they began to move to the soft strains of a waltz. She’d been hoping for a polka or perhaps a mazurka, something lively, so they wouldn’t have to talk.
“I meant what I said. You look lovely tonight, Caralee.” Vincent smiled, his hazel eyes warm on her face. “Even in San Francisco, you’d be the belle of the ball.”
“Thank you, Vincent, that’s very flattering.
” But then so was everything he said. They continued to dance.
Carly was enjoying the music but couldn’t manage to concentrate on Vincent’s uninteresting conversation.
Though she tried to will them not to, her eyes kept searching the crowd for Ramon.
She recognized Sam Hollingworth and his wife, Amanda, their closest neighbors to the north; George Winston; and Royston Wardell.
The Montoyas were there, and several other Californio families, but she saw no sign of the tall, dark-eyed Spaniard.
It’s better this way, she told herself. Still her chest felt heavy with disappointment.
“Are you listening, Caralee?” Vincent was speaking as he led her off the dance floor. “I said I need to see you in private. There’s something I want to show you.”
Carly stiffened slightly against the arm he rested at her waist. Oh God, what if he proposed? “You h-have something to show me?”
“That’s what I said. Meet me out in the barn in twenty minutes.”
“The barn? I don’t think that’s a good idea, Vincent. What if someone saw us?”
“Come on, Caralee. I bet you weren’t such a coward when you were tramping through the woods with the Spanish Dragon.”
Carly stiffened even more. She didn’t like the look that flickered in Vincent’s eyes. But when she looked again, he was merely smiling. Perhaps she had only imagined it. “Why in the world does it have to be the barn? Isn’t there someplace else we could go?”
“That’s where the surprise is. You have to come, Caralee. I had it made especially for you. I promise you’ll be pleased.”
She had to admit he’d intrigued her. “All right, twenty minutes.”
He grinned and squeezed her hand. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Absently she nodded, but her mind had already slipped off toward the road leading into the rancho, to the carriage that had arrived while they were talking. Carly sucked in a breath at the sight of Ramon’s tall figure striding along between the two elderly women who had to be his mother and aunt.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. The weeks she had spent in the mountains all came rushing back as if she had never left.
She could feel Ramon’s mouth over hers, his kiss so hot it scorched right through her.
And his hands … dear God, those beautiful long, brown fingers …
the way they had kneaded her breasts, made her nipples grow hard inside her blouse.
Carly swallowed as he came to a halt in front of her.
“Senorita McConnell. It is good to see you.” He was dressed in his snug black calzonevas, the ones with the silver conchos down the side.
A short, black charro jacket stretched across his wide shoulders, the narrow lapels embroidered in silver thread.
“I do not believe you have met my mother and aunt.” For their sake, he spoke to her in Spanish, smiling pleasantly, but his eyes remained locked with hers, intense in their expression, imparting a silent message.
You did as you promised. You did not break your word.
Carly moistened her lips, which suddenly felt so dry she could barely speak. “No, we haven’t met. Good evening, senoras. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
His mother simply nodded. She was a robust little woman dressed in dark plum with a black fringed re-bozo around her head and shoulders.