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Doña Carmen, a ninety-year-old great-grandmother who had taught three generations of her family to dance, stood behind Pembroke and grasped his hips in her hands. He twisted to give her an affronted glance, but she briskly motioned for him to face the other direction.

Reina realized Doña Carmen was trying to teach him to dance in a style that was foreign to British men. In England, especially, a rigid posture was regarded as masculine, and anything else was considered effeminate. Spanish men, however, weren’t nearly so inhibited—and a dance like this required natural, sensuous movements.

Talking volubly, Doña Carmen tried to loosen Pembroke’s hips. She pushed them right and left as if unscrewing the top off a difficult jam jar, then side to side as if working the cork from a bottle. Pembroke tolerated the rough handling with remarkable patience, but eventually he turned around to say something to her. As soon as Isabel translated, the abuelas all exploded with laughter, a couple of them shrieking in hilarity.

As the dance lesson continued, Isabel made her way to Reina, looking pleased with herself. “They adore him,” she said.

“What did he say to make them laugh so hard?” Reina asked.

“After Doña Carmen shook his hips to loosen them, he told her he had just lost his innocence.”

Reina grinned. “What do you think of him?”

“Delicioso,” Isabel replied without hesitation. “Charming . . . respectful to the abuelas . . . and in the past few minutes, he’s already learned some Spanish words. There are so few men who have his . . . ah, what is the word . . . seguro de sí mismo . . .”

“Self-confidence?”

“Sí.” Isabel snapped open a fan and spread it to shield their conversation. “Which is the most important, for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Querida, you have too much money. And you are too smart. Why do you think I’ve never been able to find a Spanish man for you?”

“I didn’t know you were looking for one,” Reina protested with a laugh.

“No Spanish man could marry a woman so far above him. People would always ask, ‘Who is the head of the household?’ You would be too hard on his pride. He would have to keep you low enough to the ground that your shadow would never go beyond his.”

“I’m not sure British men are any different,” Reina said ruefully.

“This one might be.”

Her friend’s words raised gooseflesh. Even the downy hair on her arms prickled beneath the lace gloves. Reina glanced at Pembroke’s slim, dark form and trembled with a feeling difficult to separate into parts: excitement, happiness, yearning, fear.

“Oh, Isabel,” she said unevenly. “You’re speaking of possibilities I haven’t even let myself consider.”

“Have you kissed him yet?”

“Certainly not.”

“But he’s so handsome.”

“He works for me,” Reina protested.

“Pfff.” Her friend blew out a dismissive breath and regarded her with tender concern. “I worry, amiga mía, that you’re going to be queen of a lonely castle.”

Reina slid her an ironic glance. “I live with seven people.”

“Not the same, tonta. What is the word for that little room in the center of the castle, where they go to be safe?”

“During a siege? The keep.”

“You need to find someone to take in there with you.”

“I’ve told you before why that’s almost impossible.”

“ ‘Almost impossible’ is the same as ‘possible.’ ” Smiling, Isabel took her shoulders and faced her in the direction of Pembroke and the abuelas. “He’s passed the test. Go rescue him.”

“Test? I thought it was a dance lesson.”