Free At the Spanish Duke's Command by Fiona Hood-Stewart Page B

A vase filled with wild flowersstood on the antique dresser, and when she opened the creaking door of the armoire her nostrils filled with the unmistakable scent of lavender.
    Taking off her jeans and T-shirt, Georgiana wondered what she would wear for dinner. Her backpack contained a meagre selection of clothes, but she’d had the foresight to bring one dress. Rummaging, she pulled it out and grimaced at its rumpled state. Perhaps if she hung it up in the bathroom while she showered it would shed some of its creases. The thought of going to dine with Juan looking like a freak didn’t appeal to her in the least. The only other choice was another pair of low-slung jeans and a clean T-shirt, and she had a pretty good idea what his opinion of those would be.
    Taking the dress with her into the bathroom, Georgiana slipped into the shower, enjoying the warm water and relaxing her body. She let it run for a while. She must prepare herself for the evening. What would she do, she wondered suddenly, if Juan kissed her again?
    Instead of disgust, the thought sent delicious shivers arrowing through her. But she banished them. This was her chance, she realised reluctantly, to put matters on a different footing. There was no way she could allow what had occurred between them before to continue. And if he didn’t know any better, then she did.
    Priding herself on this righteous objective, Georgiana got out of the shower and picked up one of the soft lavender-scented towels folded on top of the wooden chest, determined to make good her intent. Juan must become a friend, or return to being merely the man under whose roof she happened to be staying. She couldn’t—mustn’t—think of him in any other terms.
    But it was hard not to dream of his lips devouring hers, of his hands—those wonderful hands—caressing her inways too delicious to dwell upon, teaching her things she’d only read of and wondered if they really existed.
    Now, she reflected ruefully, she knew they did.
    The other worrying symptom was the fact that she now found her university companions nice, but uninteresting. She recalled how on the first day of class she’d looked over at Sven and thought, Hmm, very attractive. Now she didn’t think anything at all. Other men had been simply eclipsed by Juan, as though he were the sun and they mere satellites. Every fleeting moment seemed filled with images of the wretched man.
    She’d do better, she realised, shaking out her dress, which had improved no end thanks to the bathroom steam, to think of him walking down the aisle with Leticia instead of daydreaming fruitlessly.
    Married.
    Letting out a long sigh, Georgiana slipped fresh lace underwear under her dress, then brushed her long hair back and tilted her head and glanced critically in the mirror. She looked okay. The dress, a sleeveless pale blue number that defined her elegant figure, made her feel attractive and sexy. Not that this was her objective, she reminded herself hastily, and wondered if she wouldn’t get cold, since the evening air had cooled considerably. Dabbing on some lip-gloss, she added a dash of mascara to her eyelashes, then made her way downstairs, set on carrying out her plan.
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    Juan sat on the verandah and waited impatiently for his guest to descend. Why had he done this? Why had he invited her here when he knew it was only courting further danger, encouraging an impossible situation? What would Leticia do if she knew?
    Nothing, he realised, guilt engulfing him. She would think it exactly the situation he’d portrayed to the housekeeper. Georgiana was his mother’s goddaughter, whom he’d happened to come across in Seville and to whom he had extended his hospitality.
    He sighed. He was not proud of his behaviour. And it must be put a stop to at once. Perhaps this was his chance to change their relationship. They would talk about the situation over dinner in a rational manner, he decided.