Eight Weeks Later — Spain

Don Juan Byron Dempsey was, he was starting to realize, the personification of the answer to the question What's the worst that could happen?

Coming to Spain was supposed to be him laying low after the Yaxley scandal. He was supposed to do very little in general and precisely nothing that would cause any ripples back home in England. He'd started flirting with Valencia Delgado Ruiz to distract himself from his own feelings, mostly. Along the way he'd grown passingly fond of her. The compliments he gave her had grown more earnest; his smiles more genuine; his calls more frequent. And then somehow, as he picked up innocent little gifts for her and bundled his way through conversations in Spanish, he'd managed to get himself engaged. The realization had dawned on him slowly; at first when her family made little remarks about marriage he thought they were teasing him, the way society Mamas in England teased their daughter's suitors. It took a while before the frequency and severity of the remarks made it clear they were serious, and that plans were actually being made for a wedding.

There were several problems with this. One: he didn't want to be married to anyone. He had long since given himself off as a lost cause in that regard; being devoted to one person seemed well outside the realm of his capabilities. Two: his mother would kill him. Gone off to Spain after he ruined one woman just to return with a different woman he'd ruined? Because with his current social situation, being married to him was as good as being ruined, he was pretty certain. Three, last but certainly not least: he was probably still married to a Dutch woman named Ana. At least, no one had ever told him otherwise — and since they'd said till death do us part and not till snide remarks and arguments do us part he was fairly sure it still applied.

So he needed to break things off, but obviously he couldn't do that when he was surrounded by her friends or family — which was most of the times they were interacting, as it turned out. Doing it in a letter would have been easier, logistically, but that felt callous. He did like her, and thought he owed her a real conversation before abandoning her after (apparently) proposing. Private interactions with her were, however, maddeningly difficult to find (at least now — he suspected that perhaps her brother had either heard or guessed that they'd shared a few kisses and was determined not to let things go any further before the upcoming wedding).

They were walking now, which was... private ish, but given that her family was trailing behind at a respectable distance, he wasn't sure it was private enough for a let me ruin your whole life sort of conversation.

"Could we... go by the water?" he asked. His Spanish had improved — too little too late, but es lo que hay.

---

The wedding was a mere weeks away and Valencia still couldn't quite believe just how quickly all the preparations had been made. The arrangements were all falling into place perfectly; from the flowers to the invitations to her dress - it was almost as though all of the arrangements had been made years ago and were merely waiting only to be finalized with the name of her groom and the date of the wedding. In truth, Valencia might have been miffed by the idea of her family pre-planning her life to this degree were she not so excited to wed Don Juan.

Unfortunately for the soon-to-be newlyweds, the confession of kisses shared forced from her to Ignacio did them no favors in terms of being left unsupervised. He'd gone from the garden to their parents with her secrets and the rest had spiraled out from there. She was surprised to hear how readily Don Juan had agreed to her father's demands, though that too was quickly dismissed by what she presumed to be his excitement to wed as well. Soon - soon he'd be permitted to take her into his arms and never let go.

Soon.

For now, though, walking with her mother and grandmother trailing closely behind was all they would be able to manage.

"Yes," Valencia agreed despite knowing neither of her chaperones would enjoy the route change too much. The hill leading down to the water was difficult for her grandmother to walk back up and her mother would be hesitant to leave her grandmother alone. Did he know this? Was this how Don Juan intended for them to have a moment alone? They wouldn't be able to touch, of course, but - but he'd once written her such beautiful letters. Perhaps he had another to read aloud? Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, she added "Think of it, in only a few weeks we will not need be followed about at all times. There is a small clearing we used to go to as children I can show you next summer. It will be lush and shaded, more beautiful than you could imagine."

---

He caught some of that. A few weeks — the wedding, presumably. They'd told him the date they picked and he had nodded along, but hadn't committed it to easily recallable memory (wasted effort when he knew very well it would never occur). So in a few weeks something would change. Then her tone shifted, like she was telling a story. A small something she had done as a child (a place, he thought, somewhere she'd gone as a child, but he couldn't be fully confident that it wasn't an action she'd performed as a child). Verano, was that spring? He got the gist, anyway, that she was recounting a memory, sharing nostalgia. Hopefully she didn't intend to quiz him on any of it later. His Spanish listening skills were the slowest to improve. But he caught that whatever she was talking about was beautiful, which was enough to give him something to respond to.

"Not as beautiful as you," he said, with a grin. She did look magnificent today; this color on her was one of his favorites, and being out in a more rural area to walk did wonders to bring out her personality. She walked different out here in the open air, compared to a crowded ballroom — did she know that? There was a depth to her that could be glimpsed at moments like this, when she wasn't so boxed in, that was harder to glean from society events. The difference between having a pool of water in a garden and seeing the tumbling waves of the open ocean — even without knowing what lurked below the surface one could appreciate the wonder of it. She was like the ocean, out here. He might have said as much, but he knew even with the improvements to his Spanish he'd botch the metaphor if he tried to describe it.

The ground sloped. He offered his hand to steady her as she walked. The older generations lurking behind them were slowing, and they had a touch more distance now. Maybe a good time to start the conversation? Merlin knew it would take him long enough to get through it.

"It surprised me," he began. "That your family could be glad." What he meant to say, but what he hadn't quite been able to form words for, was that he continued to be surprised by how keen everyone was on such a fast-moving relationship. Doesn't this seem a little insane to you? he wanted to convey, but — well, it was difficult to handle anything delicately with his language barrier. Were there potions to make people speak other languages well? Maybe he ought to look into it.

---

"More," she insists despite being obviously pleased by the compliment. "This field in summer is more beautiful than anything you have seen." It was, too. The wild roses were in bloom then, as were the stretches of wildflowers and the thick grass beneath their feet. She once dreamt of building a small cottage in the field for herself, a place of dreams and freedom. She almost frowned then, lost as she was in the memories of that place. It'd been years since she last ventured down that overgrown path, years since she removed her slippers and allowed her toes to sink into the dirt.

Thankfully, Don Juan began speaking again and her distant thoughts snapped like the twig beneath her feet.

It took a second for her to register his words beyond a simple, this is crazy, isn't it?, because why would Don Juan be asking such things? Surely, he was as excited as she for their wedding. Surely, he felt the same as she. Why else court her as intensely as he had? He must have been concerned about his status as a foreigner, perhaps even doubtful over his inclusion in her family. She squeezed his hand then. "They wish only for my — our happiness. Once they were assured of my feelings for you, they were nothing but glad." Valencia explained softly, her words purposely slowed so he might better grasp them.

---

He had no trouble parsing that, especially not when she'd clearly slowed down for him. Secure in the idea of her happiness, indeed. The irony of Don Juan's situation was that he could have dissolved the arrangement very easily by talking to anyone else; if he'd said even once to her siblings or parents that he didn't love her or didn't want to marry her, they would have dropped him instantly. But having just fled a duel in England he was eager not to find himself on the receiving end of another one any time soon — and nevermind what it would do to her to have the engagement disrupted so unceremoniously.

"I wish," he said wistfully — in English, because he was more soliloquizing than he was trying to convey anything to her at the moment. "I could take you somewhere. The Cliffs of Moher. The Alpine Mountains. The tulip fields in Holland. I wish we had something special. It's hard to do anything romantic in a situation like this, but I wish we had something grand to look back on." It would have been nice to think that when he left there would be some mix of memories; something sweet to accompany the hurt that he was sure to leave. As it was, the best he had given her was a handful of hurried kisses in the corner of a garden at someone's party. Hardly enough to stand up in the face of what would come next.

But it made him feel better about himself to think that he would have given her some fond memories, if the circumstances had made it easier for him to do so. Obviously he couldn't kidnap her and whisk her away to the Alps; he could barely pry her away from her mother and grandmother long enough to walk down a hill alone. But if he couldn't act on anything, it was at least helpful to his self-image to think his intentions were good; that he had only ever wanted to give her some fun and a touch of adventure.

---

Her English, while improving by the day, was nowhere near progressed enough for her to understand what he was saying beyond the most general sense of his words. There were certain ones she caught onto more than others (did he say Holland? Why was he talking about Holland?) but it was his final statement look back on that had her raising her brow at him. Instinct told her that he meant it in more of the figurative than literal sense, so she didn't cast a glance back at her mother like she originally meant to.

Which left, look back - like memories. Did he think she wasn't enjoying this time between their engagement and marriage? The honeymoon would be a trip enough. Maybe that was why he had mentioned Holland?

Valencia allowed too long a silence to lapse while she tried to parse through her sudden confusion. By now, she ought to have agreed to the trip or asked for clarification on his phrasing, but in the end all she quietly asked was, "are you okay?" Her concern for him was clear across her face, her desire to comfort him in the limited ways she could plain.

---

He hadn't been looking at her while he rambled, or for the beat of silence after while they walked. He glanced up when she asked if he was alright and was struck by the expression on her face. Such a stark contrast between how she'd been smiling a moment earlier, telling him about the place from her childhood. She was worried, and it twinged something deep in his chest that he had caused the shift in her demeanor.

"No," he said, tone quick and reassuring. "I mean — yes. Si. It's not — no problems," he continued, switching from English to Spanish. "I'm alright, it's — I'm happy. With you. You make me happy."

---

For the first time since their meeting, Valencia didn't know whether or not she believed him. She wished she had put more of an emphasis on learning English; she was working on it, but with all of the wedding preparations she hadn't focused on it as much as she ought to have. He was worried about something — presumably something with her family — and wanted to - what?

She didn't know.

Now wasn't the time to push the subject, not when they had witnesses to whatever serious subject they had to discuss. And so, with his reassurances firmly in mind (even if she didn't believe them), Valencia replied, "you make me happy, too. This -" she glanced back up the hill, "- will get better in time." Even Ignacio would have to warm up to him in time.

Having finally made it to the bottom of the hill, Valencia steered them towards a path that led closer to the water. Now, tell me about Holland."

---

Better in time — time they didn't have. Don Juan chewed the inside of his lower lip as they walked. When she said tell me about Holland he let out a hollow laugh. Holland was where he'd met Adriana Spaans. There was little he'd like to do less than tell her about Holland. His fault, he realized, for mentioning the tulip fields; probably the name of the country was the only thing she'd been able to glean and now she thought he wanted to talk about it.

"I prefer Spain," he replied. Then, keen to change the subject, he asked, "Where do you most want to visit?"

---

He preferred Spain but had just been chattering on (in a language he knew she didn't understand!) about Holland. A fire sparked deep in her chest, the one that she always struggled to control and frequently forced her to lash out at her loved ones. She released his hand, using her mother's questioning gaze as her excuse, and tried to silently smother the rippling flames.

Where did she want to travel? Holland, if for no reason other than he didn't want to discuss it. But, Don Juan had never witnessed this side of her. The one that was violent and cruel and spiteful. If he saw it now when he already had doubts about her family ...

She had to smother it.

"I miss France." Valencia replied simply, looking out at the water instead of him.

---

She pulled her hand away. Don Juan immediately had an impulse to reach out grab it again, to pull her back in. (It was going to be impossible to break things off with her in this state, he realized; he wanted too badly to keep hold of her). It wouldn't do to stretch the premise of contact any farther, though, if her chaperones were still watching. Though why ought he care about their opinion when he was about to break her heart? They certainly weren't going to have any glowing remarks for him in a day's time.

"That's cheating, somewhere you've already been," he teased. He glanced back at her mother and grandmother, still turning over whether or not he cared about their opinion. There was a copse of trees to the left of the path, where he was standing — a few steps farther and the trunks would block their view of him.

Well, what the hell? he thought. He reached out to take Valencia's arm and pull her towards him (probably not entirely out of the older women's sight line, but he'd made half an effort) and kissed her.

---

Valencia was halfway through forming an argument to defend her choice of France (she hadn't seen all of the country after all) when she felt his grip on her arm. Neither of her chaperones would be pleased with this turn of events, but who knew when they would have this opportunity again? Their wedding was weeks away (it might as well be a century at this point) and her family most certainly wouldn't permit an escape down the hill again after today.

She leaned into the kiss, her hands rising automatically to cup his face gently. There were cautious warnings echoing from up the hill, but they all fell on deaf ears even as she withdrew long enough to say, "I love you, Don Juan."

---

He'd been thinking — if he was going to break things off, he wished he could have left her with at least one more pleasant memory. He'd been thinking — if this was the last time he talked to her, he wanted to at least hold her again. He'd been thinking — if today was the end, then what did it matter what her family thought? He'd been thinking —

But then she said she loved him. In his language — she'd practiced the phrase, he realized, thought about how to say it, prepared it for the right moment, and she thought this was the moment. He didn't deserve the sentiment, or the effort she'd put in to learn how to express it — but he could hardly call the wedding off now. Not in the same breath that she had said I love you. He'd have to do it later, he'd have to do it eventually, but he didn't need to ruin this moment for her. He was going to leave her with so little, when he left — he could at least leave her with this.

"Valencia," he breathed, already leaning in to kiss her again.

---