Master of Hearts Read online

  Master of Hearts by Averil Ives

  When blue-eyed Kathleen O'Farrel became governess to the two small nephews of the Conde de Chaves it was all fixed up in such a hurry that she had very little time to reflect on what she was doing. The handsome Conde had strict ideas on how young women should behave, and although Kathleen's fearless approach to most things intrigued him there was a consequent clash of wills. But Portugal cast its spell on Kathleen. She was to know a good deal of heartbreak and to change her ideas about many things before final happiness was hers.

  PRINTED IN CANADA

  OTHER Harlequin Romances by AVERIL IVES

  1683—DESIRE FOR THE STAR (Original Harlequin title "Doctor's Desire")

  872—HAVEN OF THE HEART 1984—ISLAND IN THE DAWN I 1047—MASTER OF HEARTS

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  First published in 1959

  © Ward, Lock & Co. Limited 1959

  Harlequin edition published September, 1966

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Harlequin trade mark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  KATHLEEN emptied her drawers and folded away nylon underthings in the suit-case that lay open on the bed with the thought at the back of her mind that it was a sad thing doing anything at all for the last time.

  And the conclusion of a holiday is sad enough in any case.

  Only a fortnight ago she had been happily emptying the suit-case and thinking what an enchanting little bedroom it was she was going to occupy for fourteen glorious days. Glorious, sun-filled days that had lived up to every one of her expectations, because this was sunny Portugal, the month was July, and her hosts were her brother and sister-in-law, who were the nicest people in the world. Quite the nicest people in the world she thought, with a sigh, as she took a last look into the wardrobe to make certain it was bereft of all her light summer linens and cottons, and then walked to the window and threw it wide.

  What colour and romance and charm was to be found on this brilliant coast. The sky was as blue as a mountain harebell, and the sea lapped murmurously on the white beach. There was a translucent look about the water, as if it was made of glass, and she knew that when you swam in it it was light and buoyant and warm as oiled silk.

  The coast was deeply indented, and that made her think of far away Cornwall, where she had spent many happy holidays when she was a child. Her father, like her brother, had been an artist, and they had rented funny little furnished cottages that had clung dizzily to the edge of cliffs, and become towers of strength on wild and stormy nights. Here in Amara she had not had to live through any wild and stormy nights, but the sensation of light and space and carefree living was the same.

  She turned her eyes to the flower-filled gardens inland, the jewel-bright fields, and the countless other white and

  colour-washed villas that were dotted like birthday-cakes along the curving shore line, and she knew that the one thing Cornwall had lacked had been this glorious colour. It almost hurt the eyes, was like a violent assault upon the eye-balls, and the deep green of the umbrella pines and the rather dusty palms was something of a relief.

  Yes; Amara had colour and charm and romance. But if she had come here looking for real romance —hoping for it secretly at the bottom of her heart —she had been disappointed. For the only romance had been in the flaming dawns and the crystal-clear sunsets; the high-prowed fishing-boats putting out to sea, and the charming young varinas who flashed their black eyes at the sturdy young fishermen, and had the grace of ballerinas as a result of balancing huge baskets of fish on their heads.

  The door behind her burst inwards, and Peggy, her sister-in-law, came in with a quick tapping of her cork-soled sandals.

  "Darling, the most extraordinary thing has happened!" she exclaimed. She looked so excited that Kathleen regarded her with interest; the more so because instead of taking her basket of market-produce through to the kitchen Peggy had just dumped it on the bed. "It's really amazing how things work out sometimes, and I still can't believe that we may after all be able to keep you here!"

  "Keep me here?" Kathleen gazed at her for an explanation. "But—but, what do you mean?"

  Peggy fumbled in the pockets of her slacks for the soft paper package of cigarettes that usually reposed in one or other of them, and selected and lighted one before satisfying the other's curiosity. The deliberate movements of her slim, tanned fingers Kathleen found almost maddeningly exasperating just then.

  "Darling, you did say you would like to stay in Portugal if it was humanly possible, didn't you?"

  "Why, yes . . . You know I'd love to stay, but—"

  "And you're not really serious about that job that was offered you in the Home Counties? Or was it the West Country? It sounded terribly dull, so I didn't take

  much notice when you were telling me all about it . . ." "You mean the one with the backward girl? Coaching her?"

  "Something like that. Poor child, I'm sorry for her if she's backward, but what sort of a life would you have shut up with her in a schoolroom? And as soon as she'd picked up a bit and was ready for school you'd be sent packing! Whereas, with the de Chaves children you might be able to settle down for a year or two."

  "The de Chaves children?"

  "The Conde's nephews. You haven't met him because we don't normally mix in the exalted circles he moves in, and the atmosphere surrounding the people he knows is a little rarefied. We're just part of the English Colony here, and worse than that we're Bohemian . . . Artists, you know! And even in England folk who live by their brush are sometimes looked at a little askance."

  She sounded a little breathless, and Kathleen pulled her down on the end of the bed, alongside the suit-case and the shopping basket. The two girls were much of a height and much of a build — slim and lithe and lissom —but Peggy was obviously several years older than her husband's young sister. And Kathleen was as golden-headed as an English daffodil, while Peggy O'Farrel was sleek and dark and soignée.

  "Please go on," Kathleen begged. "I know you're rushing to get through it, but can't you leave the English Colony out of it? Don't forget that Daddy painted, and I know the looks you mean! But apart from breathing a rarefield atmosphere are you trying to tell me that the Conde has a job to offer me?"

  Peggy nodded in a pleased fashion.

  "How bright of you, darling! And you will accept if he really does offer it to you, won't you? At the moment I've let it be known that you're terribly sought-after and rushing back to England to take up an appointment under pressure, but you'd much rather remain in the warmth and sunshine out here. The Conde's two nephews are American—or, rather, their father was American—and his sister being left a widow so suddenly she's absolutely

  at her wit's end to know what to do with the children. Full of Americanisms, you know, and shouting Americanese at the tops of their voices . . ."

  "Please," Kathleen begged again, "begin at the beginning if you will, Peg!"

  "Very well!" Peggy smiled at her, took a long pull at her cigarette—incidentally, American, also—and obeyed. "I met Mr
s. Branston-Jones this morning — she's the wife of the manager of the travel-bureau. She had just been talking to Senhora Elvas, who is the sister of the housekeeper at the Quinta Cereus, which is the Oxide's summer residence — or one of his summer residences, because he's an extremely wealthy man and has houses all over the place. Apparently his sister is now staying with him at the quinta because, as I said, she's recently been widowed, and her two small boys are utterly unmanageable and turning the place into a circus. With all Portuguese families there is a tremendous strong family tie, and the Conde wouldn't dream of turning her adrift, or asking her to put herself up at an hotel, or something of the sort. So an appeal has gone forth for someone to take charge of the children . . . Give them a spot of discipline which the Portuguese nursemaid who is looking after them at the moment is obviously quite incapable of giving them. And, naturally, I thought of you!"

  "You — you actually said I might suit?" But for the first time Kathleen sounded doubtful.

  "I said I was quite sure you would suit, if only you could be persuaded to renounce your wonderful prospects in England!"

  Peggy's nut-brown eyes twinkled. "Darling, it's only a matter of dealing out a few spanks occasionally —probably very frequently until you've got the matter in hand! — and being terribly strict for the first few weeks, at least. You know how appallingly spoilt American children usually are, but underneath they're like all other children, and we all know what a way you have with other people's young! It's one reason why I maintain so strongly that you were simply cut out to be married . ."

  But Kathleen headed her off by shaking her head at her, although her eyes smiled.

  "Having a 'way' with children doesn't mean I can control unmanageable ones! Especially boys!" she pointed out.

  "Being the Conde's nephews, and therefore half Portuguese, I'll guarantee they won't be unmanageable for long — he'll see to that!"

  "Then why doesn't he start working on them now?"

  "Because, my dear, he's a bachelor with many other more interesting things to do," Peggy explained. "And he's also Head of the House of Chaves, and it would be below his dignity. I've no doubt he's suffering acutely at the moment, with youngsters rampaging all over the place, but if he employs you, and you're capable, he'll give you his support, provided you do your stuff! But you'll simply have to do your stuff!"

  "Then I don't think I'll even consider doing it," Kathleen said, and reached for her suit-case. "It's sweet of you, Peg to want me to stay, but I think I'd better catch that train. And first of all there's a 'bus to catch . ."

  "Shane is going to drive you in." Peggy caught at her arm, and spoke appealingly. "Kathie, I told Mrs. Branston-Jones that she could tell Senhora Elvas to mention you to the Conde. And, worse than that, I've already telephoned the quintal . . . And spoken to the Conde! He's expecting you about eleven o'clock!"

  Kathleen looked faintly appalled.

  "But I don't even speak a word of Portuguese!"

  There was a harsh grinding of brakes and a groaning of tyres that should have been replaced many moons before, and Kathleen saw her brother climbing out of his vintage car in front of the house. He looked bronzed and handsome and lovable, in spite of his little curly golden beard, and she wished she hadn't to leave him. Her heart swelled with sudden love for him, and the forlornness of going away. All those many miles away . . . back to England, and a jobless condition! Because her last position had come to an end just before she left

  England, with the departure of her two charges for a distant land with their parents.

  Shane lifted up his voice:

  "Where are you two girls?"

  Kathleen turned to her sister-in-law.

  "But, Peg," she said hurriedly, "I don't like the sound of the Conde! From the picture you've painted of him, he's arrogant and impossible."

  "Only because he's Portuguese and rich and sought-after."

  "That makes him sound worse than ever!"

  "And you needn't bother about Portuguese, because they all speak English. The children probably nothing else."

  Shane called again.

  "I want some coffee! And if Kathie doesn't hurry

  and finish that packing of hers we'll miss the train!" Peg took her sister-in-law determinedly by the arm. "Let's go and tell him he can drive you to the quints

  instead!" she said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS Kathleen sat waiting in the ante-room she felt as if Peggy had rather thrust her into this.

  It was one thing to have a holiday in Portugal, and to spend it in the company of her nearest relatives; but it was quite another to find herself alone in a Portuguese household, faced with the intimidating prospect of being interviewed by an unknown and autocratic Portuguese male. And a Conde at that!

  The title had meant little to her before she left England, but she had an idea now that the holder of it could be heir to a marquisate. And looking about her at the dignified elegance of the ante-room, and remembering how her breath had been slightly taken away by the size and magnificence of the quinta when she first saw it, she could well believe that this particular Conde was very much aware of his rank. As no doubt his sister was very much aware of her rank, too, despite the years she had spent with an American husband.

  Kathleen found herself wondering idly how she had ever secured for herself an American for a husband, when Portuguese women with even the most modest pretentions to refinement and fortune were kept very securely tied by the heel. If they had a mother they were laced to her apron-strings until an approved marriage provided them with their first taste of freedom — of a somewhat restricted order. If they had been deprived of a mother at an early age an aunt was called in, usually one with a mind above coercion, and the same programme was adhered to.

  Kathleen thought she heard a faint noise in the room adjoining, and she put back her head to listen. Surely that couldn't possibly be muffled laughter in such a silent house? The very thickness of the carpets seemed to, absorb all sound, and the heavy satin draperies cascading over the floor gathered up what delicate echo there might have been left after the almost sensuous pile had attempted to smother it.

  Kathleen stared at a portrait and felt sure it was a Velazequez; and she thought how rich and ornate was the gilding of the ceiling. Slender pillars divided the room into two halves, and were entwined with gilded leaves and bunches of grapes, and the damask-covered chairs and couches had fragile little gilt legs. Tall vases held sprays of brilliant blossom, and the colouring was extra vivid against the muted sage-green of the background. Outside, in the middle of a tiny square of emerald lawn, hemmed in by high hedges, a fountain played, and the sound of it came clearly through the open window, and then became lost in the general silence of the room.

  Kathleen started to glance at her watch, and she realised it was long past eleven. Yet the Conde had stated eleven o'clock, and Peggy had been terrified lest she should be late. She had barely been given time to change out of her travelling-suit and into one of her pastel-tinted linens that made her look as delicate as a mezzotint with her aura of soft gold hair and her apple-blossom skin Her eyes were an unclouded blue, and her mouth had all the inviting freshness of youth about it.

  She looked very young, and she was young; but she also had a certain poise as she sat there, patiently waiting, in the chair a most obsequious servant had pulled out for her. And it wasn't until the slight sound in the next room became unmistakably laughter — repressed, gurgles of laughter — that her curiosity got the better of her, and she stole across the room and opened the door a few inches.

  She found herself looking into a library, or a study, even more opulent than the room in which she had waited so long. It had a tremendous desk, with a glittering array of pens and inkwells and so forth; and seated behind the desk was a small boy whose chin barely reached to the blotter on to which he was busily shaking ink from a handsome gold-mounted fountain-pen, while another, who was startingly like him, sat cross-legged on the desk itself
and chuckled over the destruction of a letter

  with which he was strewing the room as if it was confetti he was manufacturing.

  Both boys looked up at her as she stood gazing in at them, and they each leapt guiltily — a condition of mind, Kathleen realised, they had every right to be in —and sprang for cover as she took a step forward. In the case of the boy with the fountain-pen it was under the desk, which he reached in one sinuous, boneless movement; but his companion on this destructive adventure made such an unwary movement that he fell on his head on the carpet, and Kathleen picked him up and even hugged him to her as he started to whimper.

  "There, there!" she said. "You haven't really hurt yourself, you know! You're still all in one piece!"

  He had the reddest hair she had ever seen in her life; flaming hair that would undoubtedly earn him the cognomen of 'Carrots' when he was old enough to go to school. And his eyes were the greenish-hazel colour that almost invariably go with such hair, and just now they were swimming with surprised tears. It would be several years before he was old enough to go to a preparatory-school, although he was about ripe for a kindergarten, and Kathleen didn't hold it against him that he allowed an unmanly sob or two to escape him. Then he rubbed his eyes as if he was annoyed at his own weakness and scrambled off her lap.

  "Who are you?" he demanded aggressively, with a marked American accent.

  "I don't need to be told who you are," she replied, deferring the business of introducing herself until later. And if she wasn't engaged to look after them there would be no need to introduce herself. "But, what are you doing here?" she demanded. She looked with sudden horror at the fragments of torn letter and the ink-spots on the otherwise unblemished blotter, and as the second redhead crawled out from underneath the desk and she decided that they were twins she challenged him, too. "What are you doing here? Isn't this out of bounds for you? It looks like your uncle's study!"