“Now show me,” he demanded, watching critically as she imitated his movement. “Not perfect, but it'll have to do,” he said. “From my description they'll expect you to be shy and retiring as befits the convent-reared daughter of a hidalgo grandee.”
He strode to the door, then stopped, remembering something that had somehow never come up, “You'll have to have a surname. Miss Tamsyn is fine for the staff, but not for the rest of the world. What is your last name?”
Tamsyn shrugged, still struggling with her chagrin.
She hadn't believed she was impossible. “I don't have one. My father was only ever known as El Baron.”
“Then you'll have to be the daughter of Senor Baron,” he said crisply. He came back to her, one hand catching her chin, his expression menacing in its gravity. “One indiscreet word or gesture in front of these people, muchacha, and that's the end of it. You'll be out of this house so fast you won't know what hit you. Is that clear?”
“Why would I be indiscreet?” she demanded. “It's hardly in my interests.”
“No, but just you remember that, because believe me, I have never been more serious. One slip of the tongue, however accidental, and you're on the road. I have my own reputation to consider in the county, and I'm not jeopardizing it for you.” His eyes held hers in a ferocious glare; then abruptly he released her chin and left the library.
Tamsyn dropped the books onto the desk. What did he think she was going to do, fling her arms around him and engage him in a lascivious embrace? Or was he simply afraid she would say something indiscreet, something overly familiar? Of course it was possible she might, since she didn't know what these strangers in this strange land might consider out of order. Her lessons hadn't reached that stage yet.
She stood on tiptoe to examine her reflection in the mirror above the mantel, combing her hair with her fingers, flicking at the wispy fringe. It really was getting too long. How would a convent-reared hidalgo maiden conduct herself? She tried a shy smile but somehow it didn't look convincing. Perhaps she should pretend she didn't speak English very well. That would ensure she made no accidental errors. She would sit in meek silence, smiling and nodding, willing to be agreeable but suffering from blank incomprehension.
It would have to do, for safety's sake. The colonel had meant every word he'd said, and she couldn't risk an accidental slip at this stage of the game. She marched out of the library and across the Great Hall to the drawingroom on the far side. Just in time she remembered to correct her stride. Shoulders back, bottom in, head up, neck straight… Por Dios! but how could one remember all these things?
She opened the drawing-room door softly and stood hesitantly on the threshold, waiting for someone to notice her. Her heart began to beat fast as she realized that this was the beginning, and for the first time, as she absorbed the group of people gathered in a circle at the far end of the room, she understood what a daunting task she'd set herself She'd never faced such a group of people before. Indeed, she'd never stood on the threshold of a drawing room before. What would they see when they finally noticed her? One thing she knew with absolute, instinctive certainty: despite her conventional gown, they wouldn't see a woman who looked like one of them. It was not so much her physical appearance that set her apart, as something indefinable she felt· in herself… something that grew from the way she'd lived her life and what she expected from that life. It marked her like a brand.
Three of the women were matrons in their middle years, clad in dark satins with severe lace caps. The younger one wore a driving dress of soft beige cambric and a chip-straw hat. For all her youth, it was clear in every line of her body, in the way she wore her clothes, that she would look exactly like the other women when she reached matronhood. Tamsyn knew she would never ever resemble any of the women in the room. She felt as alien as if she'd descended from the stars.
Lord Pendragon and the vicar stood in front of the empty hearth, sniffing appreciatively at the wine in their glasses. They were both corpulent gentlemen, with the self-satisfied air of those who knew their place in the world. The Reverend Thornton saw Tamsyn first.
“Ah,” he boomed genially. “Our little foreigner has come among us.”
The colonel rose from a spindle-legged chair that looked too fragile for his large frame. “Tamsyn, come and be introduced.” He came toward her, his expression grave. “I've been explaining to my guests your unfortunate circumstances.”
“Perdon?” Tamsyn said, smiling anxiously, “No comprendo, Senor St. Simon.”
Julian's expression was so astounded, she forgot her moment of apprehension and nearly gave herself away with a peal of laughter, but resolutely she maintained her composure, peeping around him to the visitors, offering them her nervous little smile.
Julian's hand closed over her bare elbow. “I think you will find that you do understand if you listen carefully,” he stated deliberately, his fingers hard on her flesh. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Senorita Tamsyn Baron?”
Tamsyn maintained her fatuous smile during the introductions, offering a series of creditable bows that nevertheless made her feel absurdly like a bird pecking in the dust. She was aware of the sharply assessing eyes of the elder women, who all offered noncommittal nods as she bowed and smiled. Lord Pendragon's scrutiny, however, was of a very different kind. She might be under the auspices of Lord St. Simon, but she was still a young woman, and he was appraising her as such. The vicar took her hand in both of his and said unctuously that although he assumed she practiced the Catholic faith, he hoped she would find his church not too strange. They were very High Church in the parish of Tregarthan, and he would be happy to hear her confession if that would comfort her.
Tamsyn took refuge in incomprehension, with lowered eyes and an inaudible murmur, before turning with relief to Miss Marshall, whose smile was warm and uncritical.
“You poor dear, it must be so strange for you, and so sad to have to leave your own country.”
“Perdon?” Tamsyn looked up inquiringly at Julian, who through gritted teeth translated.
“Ah, muy amable,” Tamsyn gushed, taking the offered hand and shaking it heartily. Too heartily, judging by the recipient's startled look as her fingers were gripped with unusual firmness by this diminutive creature.
“Tamsyn has made a remarkable recovery,” Julian said. “Sit down, nina.” He pushed her into a chair, hearing her swift indrawn breath with silent satisfaction. “She actually speaks and understands English perfectly well, but she's afraid to make mistakes.” He smiled at her with his mouth, but his eyes promised retribution.
Tamsyn looked suitably flustered. “The… the senor is… is… muyamable.”
“Oh, I believe you overstate the case,” Julian said smoothly. He turned to his visitors. “If you speak slowly, she has no difficulty following you.”
Hester Marshall nodded her comprehension and articulated slowly and loudly, “Do you ride, senorita?”
“Ride?” Tamsyn frowned. “A caballo? Oh, SI… I like it much… very much, but the Senor, St. Simon, he say I don't do it well.” She cast a doleful look at the colonel.
“Oh, I'm certain Lord St. Simon will be able to find you a quiet horse to practice on,” Hester said warmly. “We must ride together. I don't care to do more than trot gently around the lanes myself, so you needn't be afraid we'll do anything you're not ready for.”
Tamsyn gulped and Julian said, “That would be very nice for you, nina. I'm sure you'd enjoy that, now the weather has become so much pleasanter.”