His Unknown Heir(44)

‘You’ve probably heard of her, or seen pictures of her at any rate,’ Juanita continued. ‘Pilar Fernandez is one of the world’s top models. Only someone with her fantastic figure can wear a skirt that short,’ she commented, with a rueful glance at Pilar’s pure white suit, which contrasted so eye-catchingly with her exotic colouring.

‘I suppose she’ll concentrate on her modelling career now that—’ Juanita halted abruptly, and looked so uncomfortable that Lauren’s curiosity was aroused.

‘Now that what?’

‘Now that Ramon has married you,’ Juanita muttered, clearly regretting that the subject of Pilar Fernandez had come up. ‘It was kind of expected that they… Well, anyway,’ she hurried on when she saw Lauren’s face fall, ‘Pilar is adored by top designers around the world, so I don’t suppose she’ll visit the castle as much as she used to.’

Ramon’s sister’s words were not reassuring, Lauren thought dismally. When Ramon had taken her to lunch in London he had dismissed his relationship with Pilar as nothing more than friendship, but clearly it had been more than that if there had been an expectation that he would choose her to be his wife.

It would have made sense for him to marry her, she brooded. Pilar was an aristocratic Spanish woman, from Ramon’s elite social circle, elegant, sophisticated, and ideally suited to be a duquesa. Added to that, she was exquisitely beautiful. Doubts swamped Lauren with the force of a tsunami, drowning her common sense in a flood of insecurity. She could not compete with Pilar on any level, she thought dully as she tore her eyes from Ramon and his gorgeous ‘friend’ and looked down at the white gold wedding band that he had placed on her finger, next to the ostentatious ruby engagement ring that had been worn by previous generations of Velaquez brides.

Jealousy burned in her stomach when she saw the Spanish woman place her hand on Ramon’s shoulder and lean close to him to whisper something in his ear. Suddenly she was fourteen, wearing her new dress and handing around mince pies at her parents’ annual Christmas party. Her mum was rushing around, in her element as the busy hostess, but there was tension behind her smile when she came up to Lauren and asked if she had seen her father.

‘I’ll look for him,’ she had promised, unconcerned. Her mother always flapped. But she had lugged the plate of mince pies all around the house, looking for Donny, and had found him at last—in the conservatory, with a blonde woman with a big bust who was the secretary of the golf club. Jean had been leaning close to her father, whispering something in his ear. And her dad had been smiling—just as Ramon was smiling at Pilar now.

‘Hello, pet. What have you got there—mince pies?’ Donny had walked towards her, laughing, blocking the view of Jean frantically pulling up the strap of her dress.

The awkward moment had passed, because Lauren hadn’t understood why it was awkward, but a long time later, after her father had left his wife and daughter for an exotic dancer, she had recalled the incident and her mother had revealed that Jean had been one of Donny’s many mistresses.

Lost in her memories, she stepped onto the terrace and wandered in the opposite direction from Ramon and his companion. She gave a start when someone spoke to her, and her heart sank when she looked up and met Pilar’s haughty stare.

‘Mateo is a charming child. Ramon is clearly very proud of him,’ the Spanish woman commented in a distinctly cool tone.

‘We both are,’ Lauren replied politely, feeling uncomfortable beneath Pilar’s intent scrutiny.

‘Ramon married you to claim his son, of course.’

It was a statement rather than a question, and Lauren did not know what to say—it was the truth, after all, she thought dully.

Pilar’s black eyes were as cold and hard as polished jet. ‘How do you think you will cope with being a duquesa? I imagine that your life in England did not prepare you for joining the ranks of the Spanish nobility.’

Which, of course, was a pointed reminder that while Pilar had blue blood running through her aristocratic veins Lauren was a very ordinary English lawyer.

‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ she told the stunning model tightly.

Pilar shrugged her thin shoulders dismissively. ‘Perhaps you will not be a duquesa for very long now that Ramon has his son,’ she suggested softly, and walked away, leaving Lauren staring after her, shivering suddenly as a cloud covered the sun with a grey shadow.


The castle’s huge master bedroom was dominated by a four-poster bed hung with velvet drapes. It was an enormous bed for one person—but perhaps Ramon did not sleep alone in it very often? Lauren thought bleakly. Perhaps Pilar Fernandez had shared the bed with him during the eighteen months that they had been apart?