Authors: Brenda Joyce
House of Dreams (2 page)
“Señora, I see I have startled you. Please, forgive me,” he said, his smile slight. He had an intriguing Latin accent.
Cass tried to recover her composure. “I wasn't expecting anyone to be out here,” she managed, her heart racing madly. This was absurd.
Why was she so surprised to see him? Obviously he must be there to attend the dinner party. It was now clicking in her brain that the necklace that was the highlight of Sotheby's next auction was a period piece, dating back to the sixteenth century. Article after article had been written about the stunning find. Perhaps he had even appraised its historical value.
Why was she so surprised to see him? Obviously he must be there to attend the dinner party. It was now clicking in her brain that the necklace that was the highlight of Sotheby's next auction was a period piece, dating back to the sixteenth century. Article after article had been written about the stunning find. Perhaps he had even appraised its historical value.
“A servant assured me that I could take a walk in the gardens without disturbing anyone, but I see I have disturbed you. Again, my sincerest apologies.” He was wearing tortoiseshell eyeglasses, which hardly detracted from his strong, attractive Spanish features. His gaze was at once assured and questioning.
Cass knew she was blushing. He did not seem to remember her, but of course, he would not. Even if she had asked dozens of questions after each and every lecture. Her gaze slid to his hands, but they were tucked in the pockets of his trousers. He'd worn a wedding ring seven years ago, and the gossip among all of the women attending the lectures had run rampant, because supposedly his wife had simply disappeared without a trace the year before. Cass recalled the ceaseless speculationâwas it even true? Had she run away? Or had some unspeakable horror befallen her? Of course, no one had had any answers. But it had certainly made him even more of a romantic figure in the eyes of the women attending the lecture series. Just about every woman there had been madly in love with him.
Cass included.
“I'm being a terrible hostess,” Cass finally said, finding her tongue. “You must be here for the evening's dinner party. My aunt is Catherine Belford. I'm Cassandra de Warenne.”
For one moment he studied her, not accepting her hand. Cass wondered if she had said something wrong, and then the moment passedâher hand was in his grip, which was firm and cool, and he bowed ever so slightly. “You're American?” he asked with some surprise.
Her accent was a giveaway. “My mother was American, and actually I was born in the States, but when she died, my aunt took us in. I was eleven at the time. I've spent so much time here, I consider myself at least half British.” Cass knew she was speaking in a nervous rush.
He removed his eyeglasses, tucking them into the interior breast pocket of his impeccably tailored navy blue sport jacket. “You went to Barnard?”
Cass suddenly realized, with no small amount of horror, how she was dressed. Unfortunately, she could feel her color increase. “Yes. I
graduated ten years ago,” she said. “I took a year off, then went back for my master's.”
graduated ten years ago,” she said. “I took a year off, then went back for my master's.”
“I've lectured several times at Columbia,” he said with a smile. “I know both colleges well. They are fine schools.”
Cass shoved her hands, which were damp, into the pockets of her jeans. Did she sound like an idiot? Or a blushing schoolgirl? “Actually, I attended your lecture series at the Met a few years ago.”
He just looked at her, his expression difficult to read.
Cass felt like taking back her words. Should she have admitted that she remembered him? “You
are
Antonio de la Barca?”
are
Antonio de la Barca?”
“Forgive me again.” He raked a hand through his jet black hair, hair that was even darker than Alyssa's. “I do not know what is wrong with me today.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. Then he stared. “Yes, I did give that lecture, seven years ago.” Something crossed his face, an expression Cass found difficult to read. “A great institution,” he murmured, and he turned slightly, staring toward the rolling hills and Romney Castle. Cass realized it was drizzling.
She ignored it. She also ignored the slight twinge she felt because he didn't remember her at all. “It was a wonderful lecture, Senor de la Barca. I enjoyed it immensely.”
He faced her, their eyes meeting. “Are you a historian?”
She hesitated, debating telling him the truth. “I majored in European history at college,” she said. “My master's is in British history. And now I write historical novels.” She kept her hand in her pockets.
His eyes flickered. “How interesting,” he said, and there was nothing patronizing in his tone. “I would love a list of the titles you have published.”
“I'd be happy to give one to you before you leave,” Cass said, wondering if he would really read one of her books, then worrying about any inaccuracies he might find. “Are you here to see the necklace?”
He nodded, eyes brightening. “A sixteenth-century piece? The way it has been described, it would be worth a king's ransomâand would have belonged to someone exemplary. If the piece is authentic, which clearly it must be, as Sotheby's does not make such grievous errors, then I am more interested in discovering who might have originally owned it than anything else.” He smiled at her.
“It's stunning,” Cass said eagerly. “Of course, I've only seen the photos. Those rubies are cut so slightly and so primitively that the average person would assume them to be glass. I can't wait to actually see the piece tonight.”
He was nodding. “Rubies were very rare in the sixteenth century,” he said, his gaze directly on her again. “Only the most wealthy and powerful possessed rubies. This necklace might have belonged to a queen or a princess. That the Hepplewhites discovered it in their possession is rather amazing.”
“Can you imagine if Lady Hepplewhite had thrown it out as she first thought of doing, assuming it to be a costume piece?”
He was smiling, shaking his head. Cass was smiling, too.
“I'm writing a novel set during Bloody Mary's reign,” she said impulsively. “It was a fascinating period in time, and Mary has been so stereotyped and so gravely misunderstood.”
Both of his dark brows lifted. He stared. “Really.”
Cass bit her lip. “I can't help it. My imagination runs away with me. That necklace could have been a careless gift handed down by Mary to one of her favorites. She was very loyal and generous to those in her household.”
“Yes, it could have been.” Their gazes locked. “Or it could have been a gift from her father to just about anyoneâone of his wives, one of his daughtersâor perhaps his son Edward passed it along in a similar manner.”
“It would be very interesting to trace the lineage of the necklace,” Cass mused.
“Very interesting,” Antonio de la Barca agreed, his gaze still focused entirely on her.
There was something in his tone that made Cass tense. She could not look away, and now she remembered talking to him after a lecture and being as mesmerized by the brilliance in his hazel eyes. The brilliance and the intensity.
She had to take a step backward, away from him. Even if he was a widower, he was way out of her league. Besides, she had learned her lesson years ago. Eight years ago, to be exactâjust before Alyssa was born. When you fell in love, all good judgment flew out the window, and the result was tragic. Having had her heart broken once and forever was enough. The man who broke it was a college love affairâbut it had apparently been more important to her than it had to him. She knew she had moved past the heartbreak. She just never wanted to go there again. “It's raining,” she said, to break the moment, which had somehow seemed far too intimate and even awkward.
He glanced up at the sky, smiled slightly, as the skies opened up and it began to pour. “Indeed it is,” he said.
“C'mon,” Cass said, turning to lead him inside.
But he was shrugging off his designer sport jacket and draping it over her sweatshirt-clad shoulders. Cass did not have time to gape. Talking her elbow very firmly, he hurried her back inside.
Once out of the rain, Cass handed him his nearly soaking jacket. “I hope you haven't ruined that.”
“It hardly matters,” he replied.
Cass hesitated, aware of the darkening shadows of the late afternoon, and as suddenly aware of the fact that this particular guest was several hours early. What was she to do with him?
Clearly her thoughts were written all over her face, because he said, “I am meeting Senora Tennant here, but apparently she is somewhat late.”
Cass stiffened.
He's meeting Tracey here?
“Tracey is my sister.”
He's meeting Tracey here?
“Tracey is my sister.”
He started. “She never mentioned that she had a sister. I was assuming you to be her cousin.”
How did de la Barca know her sister? “No, we're sisters, even if we look nothing alike,” she said slowly. A new sense of dread, very different from the one that had been haunting her all day, was filling her.
Why was he meeting Tracey? Before Cass could even begin to sort out what was happening, Alyssa came pounding down the stairs, crying out in excitement that her mother had finally arrived.
And the front door swung open behind them. Cass heard it just as she felt a gust of cold, wet air, but she was looking at his hands now, which were hanging by his sides. He was wearing a very bold ring with a bloodred stone on his right hand, but the slender wedding band she had seen seven years ago was gone. Well. He had not remarried. And that explained everything, she thought grimly. His involvement with Tracey had nothing to do with the sixteenth-century necklace. Cass knew it the way she knew she would have an awful time that evening.
“Hello, everyone!” Tracey cried from behind Cass.
A huge weight settled on Cass's shoulders, and she turned.
Tracey stood in the doorway in a pair of beautifully tailored white pants, an exquisitely cut short grayish white jacket with Chanel buttons, and a pair of high-heeled white boots. Her long, pale blond hair was loose, the dampness causing it to curl about her face and shoulders. She looked as if she had just stepped off a catwalk, or out of the pages of Vogue. Which, considering Alyssa's earlier comments, apparently she had.
Tracey was classically attractive. Her features were perfectly even, her
eyes blue, her skin unblemished. She was one of those women who looked as good without makeup as they did with it. And while there might be more beautiful women in the same room with her, Tracey was always the most striking. She was the one who turned heads. Because she was model-thin and close to six feet tall. She also lived in drop-dead designer clothes. No one made an entrance like her sister did, Cass thought sourly. She realized she was hugging herself.
eyes blue, her skin unblemished. She was one of those women who looked as good without makeup as they did with it. And while there might be more beautiful women in the same room with her, Tracey was always the most striking. She was the one who turned heads. Because she was model-thin and close to six feet tall. She also lived in drop-dead designer clothes. No one made an entrance like her sister did, Cass thought sourly. She realized she was hugging herself.
“Cass, how are you?” Tracey smiled, apparently not having noticed Alyssa, who stood on the lowest level of the stairs, clinging to the banister. She hugged Cass hard, but Cass hardly noticed. How the hell had her sister and de la Barca met? How?
Tracey's gaze became questioning. “Cass?”
“Hiya, sis.” Cass managed a smile.
Tracey beamed at her, then turned to face Antonio de la Barca. The smile she sent him told Cass all she needed to know. They were lovers. This was nothing newâso why was she surprised? Dismayed?
“I see that the two of you have met,” she said happily. “Don't tell me you're already dressed for supper?” she teased.
“Ha ha,” Cass said, watching Tracey kiss Antonio on the cheek. At least she was spared the real thing. How
had
they met?
When
had they become lovers? And why, Goddamn it, did she care? Tracey changed men the way she changed her wardrobeâwhich was seasonally, at least. Cass was used to itâshe expected no less.
had
they met?
When
had they become lovers? And why, Goddamn it, did she care? Tracey changed men the way she changed her wardrobeâwhich was seasonally, at least. Cass was used to itâshe expected no less.
Although if she were brutally honest with herself, she could admit how nice it would be to have an endless stream of boyfriends.
But she wasn't Tracey. She just couldn't settle for good looks and good times.
Tracey pulled on her ponytail. “Why are you so grumpy? I was only kidding, sis. In fact”âher smile widenedâ“I brought everyone presents!”
Cass stepped back a bit. “How have you been? You look great, Trace. I guess Sotheby's agrees with you.”
Tracey beamed, which only made her lovelier. “A lot of things are agreeing with me lately,” she said, her gaze locking on de la Barca. She stopped, spotting Alyssa with her nose between the bars of the iron banister. “Darling, come here!” Tracey cried.
Alyssa slowly stood, her face as red as a beet. “Hello, Mother,” she said, her brown eyes wide and riveted upon Tracey's snow white figure.
Tracey pounced on her, embracing her once, hard. Cass watched. She watched Alyssa's body remain straight and hard and tight, and she
watched Tracey's smile fade and finally vanish as she straightened, a look of hurt in her blue eyes. Alyssa climbed up the stairs a step, a similar look of hurt in her near-black gaze. In the next instant Tracey recovered, the cover-girl smile firmly in place as she turned and rushed to Antonio, looping her arms in his. “I see you've met everyone,” she said too brightly.
watched Tracey's smile fade and finally vanish as she straightened, a look of hurt in her blue eyes. Alyssa climbed up the stairs a step, a similar look of hurt in her near-black gaze. In the next instant Tracey recovered, the cover-girl smile firmly in place as she turned and rushed to Antonio, looping her arms in his. “I see you've met everyone,” she said too brightly.
It was hardly noticeable, but he disengaged their arms. “I have met your sister, but I have not met your daughter,” he said somewhat quietly. His smile was brief.
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