Something told her to say yes—for Ramon’s sake—to make an exception to the old ways, to custom and what was proper. He wanted to go. She did not know why, but she could see it in his face. Still, she thought that he would not indulge in this desire.
“Perhaps that is a good idea,” she said, watching him closely. “There are few of us de la Guerras left, only the three of us and your cousins. With Maria and poor dear Angel so far away, we should do what is best for ourselves. Perhaps it would be nice to go for a while, to sit and listen to the music.”
He smiled but it was tinged with a darkness she could not read. “Bien.If that is your wish, we will go.”
Teresa patted his hand. “I will speak to your mother. I believe she will see things as I do.” Not in the beginning. Anna was a stickler for propriety, and she grieved deeply for her son. Still, she loved Ramon. She would do anything for him.
Teresa meant to discover what it was at Rancho del Robles that constantly drew her nephew’s attention and creased his forehead with what looked very much like pain.
CHAPTERELEVEN
They were having afandango.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 prejudiceagainst 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 thefandango.
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.