The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride(7)

‘Thank you for catching me,’ she murmured huskily. ‘I appreciate that this is a private garden, but I came to see the Duque, and…’ She tailed off miserably as she remembered her abortive attempt to gain an interview with the elusive Duque de Herrera.

‘The Duque does not like to be disturbed by uninvited guests,’ the man informed her in a haughty tone that stirred the embers of her temper. Now that her feet were once more on firm ground her fear was receding, and she remembered her reason for stepping into the garden in the first place. She was determined to find a way into the castle, and with luck this boorish groundsman could help her.

‘I’m not uninvited, I…have an appointment,’ she lied, her tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. The man made no response, but his body language spoke plainly of his disbelief, which only served to fuel Grace’s irritation. ‘Yes. I arrived early, and rather than wait in the car I decided to explore the grounds. I’m sorry,’ she said, lifting limpid blue eyes to him and offering a hesitant smile. ‘I think the Duque may be ready for me now. Perhaps you would escort me to him?’

His silent scrutiny lasted so long that Grace felt like an elastic band stretched to snapping point, and she jumped when his voice suddenly cut through the still air. ‘Are you sure you want to enter the Castillo de Leon, Miss Beresford?’

Was that a faint hint of menace in his voice? Grace gave herself a mental shake and cursed her overactive imagination. ‘Of course,’ she replied briskly. ‘I’ll follow you, shall I?’

‘By all means.’ This time there was no mistaking the insolent amusement in his tone, but he said no more, simply swung on his heels and began to stride across the garden while his dog ran alongside. He didn’t bother to turn and check if she was following, and Grace was forced to break into a trot to keep up with him.

She was hot and breathless by the time they entered the castle through a side door, and she followed her guide up a steep stone staircase. To her relief there was no sign of the officious butler who had earlier refused her pleas to see the Duque. Now she was here, in the lion’s den, she thought, fighting the feeling of panic when she stepped into a large, book-lined room that she guessed must be the Duque de Herrera’s study.

To her dismay the man followed her into the room, and her heart jolted when he closed the door behind him and she caught the faint snick of the lock. Ignoring her, he pulled a mobile phone from the pocket of his coat and murmured a few words into it, his voice so low that she couldn’t make them out.

She made a show of glancing at her watch. ‘Will the Duque be here soon?’

‘I promise you won’t have to wait long, Miss Beresford,’ he replied silkily, but yet again Grace caught the edge of sarcasm in his voice and her apprehension increased. She watched as he unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it, her eyes drawn to his formidable physique. Slim-fitting black trousers moulded his thighs, while his white shirt was open at the neck to reveal the tanned column of his throat. With long leather boots that delineated his powerful calf muscles, he reminded Grace of a medieval baron, and the image was reinforced when he finally removed his hat. ‘The police will be here very soon,’ he told her with a smile that slashed across the hard planes of his face, but which was devoid of any warmth.

‘The police?’ Grace was so shocked that she was momentarily lost for words. But innate honesty forced her to admit that it was her physical reaction to the surly stranger which had struck her dumb. Handsome was hardly an adequate description of him, she thought numbly. His face was chiselled perfection—an arrogant, faintly cruel face with razor-sharp cheekbones and square jaw. Black brows and hair the colour of a raven’s wing complemented his olive-gold skin, while his curious amber eyes flashed fire as they trailed a bold path over every inch of her.

She felt as though he was mentally undressing her, stripping her bare, and outrage brought hot colour storming into her cheeks while to her horror she was aware of a tingling sensation in her breasts. ‘You’re not the gardener, are you?’ she snapped, desperate to hide her embarrassment at the traitorous reaction of her body. ‘I assumed you were a member of the castle staff. I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re the Duque de Herrera?’ she added thickly as the sickening realisation hit her. What other explanation could there be for his imperious air, or the way his eyes travelled over her with such haughty disdain? Feeling utterly humiliated, she sent up a brief prayer that a hole would open up beneath her feet, but sadly the Almighty wasn’t listening.