Stop it, she told herself angrily. She was making something out of nothing, just because Pilar had made that spiteful comment about Ramon not wanting her for his wife for very long.
Ramon was still downstairs, bidding farewell to the last guests, but in a few minutes he would join her. After her run-in with Pilar she had forced herself to rejoin the wedding celebrations, and had chatted and smiled until her jaw ached. But she had been conscious of his speculative glances, and when, in answer to his query, she had assured him that she was enjoying the day, his expression had been sardonic.
With a heavy sigh she walked through the connecting door into an adjoining room that he had explained was traditionally the Duquesa’s bedroom. She did not know if Ramon and Pilar had once been lovers, and she did not want to know, she told herself fiercely. But she could not dismiss the sight of him standing close to the Spanish beauty. Their body language had spoken of an easy familiarity, and somehow the image of Ramon and Pilar had become muddled with the image of her father and Jean from the golf club, and she wondered if she was as blind now as she had been naïve at fourteen.
Her eyes felt scratchy, and when she caught sight of herself in the mirror she was suddenly desperate to get out of her wedding finery. The dress and the roses had all been part of an illusion, created by Ramon to fool everyone into believing that the Duque de Velaquez and his new bride were blissfully happy. But she knew the truth, and with trembling hands she tore off the dream dress and the fragile lacy bra she had worn beneath it. Searching through a drawer she dug out an oversized cotton tee shirt that had been among her things sent over from England.
She was standing in front of the dressing table, brushing her hair, when Ramon walked in.
‘Not quite what I had envisaged,’ he drawled, as his eyes skimmed the baggy tee shirt that had faded to an unbecoming shade of sludge in the wash. ‘Your choice of nightwear leaves much to be desired, querida. Although even that shapeless garment does not dampen my desire for you,’ he added self-derisively, when she spun round to face him and he noted the faint outline of her nipples beneath her thin shirt.
He had discarded his tie and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, and Lauren glimpsed his bronzed skin beneath. Leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, his dark hair falling across his brow and his eyes gleaming with sensual heat, he was so sexy that she felt weak with longing—and she despised herself for it.
‘What did you envisage?’ she asked sharply. ‘That you would stroll in here and demand your marital rights?’
His eyes narrowed on her tense face. His instincts had been right, he brooded. Something had upset her during the wedding party, and now she was as prickly and on edge as she had been when he had first seen her again in London.
‘Not demand,’ he countered quietly. ‘I did not think I would need to. You are my wife, and I admit I had assumed we would spend our wedding night rediscovering the passion that has always burned between us.’
‘I’m only your wife because you’ve decided that you want Matty to be your heir,’ Lauren said stubbornly.
Ramon’s jaw hardened. ‘He is my son, and by definition also my heir. I would always have wanted him, but you did not give me the opportunity to be his father.’
‘You had made it clear that I could only ever be your mistress. In your eyes I wasn’t good enough for the grand Duque de Velaquez, and I believed you would feel the same way about my child.’
And that was the root of her resentment, Lauren acknowledged. She was only good enough for Ramon now because she had given him a son. Without Matty he would only have wanted her as his mistress. She was not a sophisticated Spanish aristocrat like Pilar Fernandez, but she was certainly not going to reveal her jealousy of the beautiful model to Ramon.
‘I do not think of Mateo in terms of your child or my child. He is part of you and part of me, and we have married so that we can both care for our son, who we created together,’ Ramon said, his accent suddenly very strong, and his words tugging on Lauren’s emotions. ‘I thought that for him we were going to do our best to build a relationship.’
‘By having sex?’ Lauren muttered scathingly.
He did not deny it. ‘Sex is a start. It is where everything began, after all. I saw you across a crowded nightclub and I wanted you more than I had ever wanted any woman.’ He paused, and then added softly, ‘I still do. And I think, Lauren, although you seem determined to deny it, that you want me too.’
She could not meet his gaze, and stared at the floor through blurred eyes. Maybe he was right. Sex was a start. It had bound them together for the six months of their affair, and if she had not fallen pregnant who could say how long they would have stayed together? Ramon’s desire for her had shown no sign of lessening. And it hadn’t just been a physical act. There had been closeness, companionship—and for her, of course, love.