I will show you the ballroom.’
It was the last thing Domine wanted, but her silent signals to Mark produced only the most resigned of apologies. No doubt he was not too overjoyed at the prospect of keeping Inez company, and he probably thought she deserved all she got.
Luis was standing now, waiting for her to get to her feet, and with a determined stiffening of her shoulders she did so. Mark made a perfunctory gesture of rising, and then she was walking swiftly across the floor, trying to keep pace with Luis’s longer strides.
Outside the restaurant he turned sharp right, and now she could see the small ballroom that opened at the end of the corridor. The sound of music was louder now, predominantly violins, with none of the throbbing rhythm of guitars that Domine was used to dancing to.
‘So,’ he said, as they halted in the open doorway to the ballroom, ‘you seek to inquisition my sister with your questions.’
His voice was low and angry, and Domine felt the increasingly familiar feeling of frustration where he was concerned. ‘There’s no such verb as inquisition,’ she declared crossly, glancing up at his taut profile. ‘Inquisition is a noun. One can conduct an inquisition, but one doesn’t inquisition anyone.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You should know that, coming from the race of people who introduced the word.’
His antagonism was palpable, but she knew there was no point in trying to reason with him. Someone, perhaps this sister of his, had given him this inflated opinion he had of himself, and it was time he realised that not all females bowed before his rampant superiority.
‘Thank you for that lesson in English, Miss Temple,’ he said now, his eyes narrowed and hostile. ‘But I beg to correct you, on one point at least. The Spaniards introduced the inquisition, and I consider myself Peruvian, not European!’
Domine shrugged. ‘You speak Spanish in Peru, don’t you?’
‘They speak English in the United States, but I doubt if they consider themselves British,’ he retorted brusquely, and then made a sound of impatience. ‘But this is ridiculous. I am allowing myself to be drawn into one of these pointless arguments that you seem to thrive on. I did not bring you out here to discuss my poor grasp of the English language.’
‘You know your English is faultless,’ exclaimed Domine indignantly, and suffered another of those belittling stares.
‘That tempts me to an obvious retort, does it not?’ he demanded, shaking his head. ‘But I refuse to make it. My reasons for bringing you out here were——’
‘—to show me the ballroom,’ interposed Domine wickedly, and the thin lines of his mouth relaxed into reluctant humour.
‘You are incorrigible!’ he affirmed, with resignation. ‘Did your mother never teach you that it is unfeminine to be so presumptuous?’
Domine hesitated. ‘My mother died soon after I was born,’ she replied slowly. ‘Grandpa was the only parent I’ve ever known.’
‘Your father?’
‘He was drowned, when I was six.’
‘Perdone!’ For the first time since she had known him she heard him lapse into his own language for a moment, and the betraying sensitivity was disturbing. But he quickly recovered himself. ‘I regret,’ he said, his words still a little shaken, ‘I mean not to pry into your private affairs.’
‘That’s all right.’ Domine was offhand. ‘I don’t mind. I have nothing to hide.’
The ironic twist to his lips revealed his understanding of her last statement, and with an inclination of his head he said: ‘No more do I, Miss Temple,’ but he made no attempt to elaborate.
Deciding to take the initiative yet again, Domine stepped through the doorway into the small ballroom. It was not an attractive room, unless one liked Gothic mirrors and gilt decoration, but in spite of its heavy carving and gloomy lighting the acoustics were remarkably good. There were few people circling the floor to the music of the string quartet playing on a dais at the far end, and the musicians themselves were making hard work of a popular tune of the day. Most of the guests present seemed quite content to sit at the tables surrounding the dance floor, or congregate together near the doorway where Domine was standing. It was a typical gathering of middle-aged to elderly people, and she wondered what Luis’s reactions were to this collection of Englishmen taking their leisure.
Glancing round, she saw he had come to join her, standing slightly behind her, surveying the scene with enigmatic eyes. Domine wondered if they had dances like this in Lima, or whether the young people were allowed to indulge in more exciting rhythms than the jerky quickstep at present being executed.
‘Do you dance—Luis?’ she enquired irrepressibly, and he regarded her tolerantly.
‘I do not recall giving you permission to call me by my given name,’ he said without heat. ‘My sister was most shocked, as you may have noticed. In Peru, one does not do such things. It may seem terribly old-fashioned to you, but we are brought up to respect our elders.’
Domine couldn’t suppress a gurgle of laughter. ‘Your elders?’ she echoed. ‘Are you saying that you are my elder?’
‘I am much older than you are,’ he agreed smoothly, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Shall we return to the others?’
‘No.’ Domine was mutinous. ‘I want to clear up this point about names here and now. Are you saying, if I got to know you in Peru, I would be expected to call you Señor Aguilar all the time?’
He sighed. ‘No. Once we had been introduced, you might call me simply señor, or perhaps Don Luis.’
‘Don Luis?’ Domine shook her head. ‘But why? Why shouldn’t I call you Luis? That’s your name, isn’t it?’
He gave a resigned shrug of his shoulders. ‘Why can you not accept that that is our way? It is not your way, I know, but I cannot help that.’
Domine hunched her slim shoulders. ‘Well, if you think I’m going to call you Señor Aguilar, you’re mistaken. It’s too archaic for words. This is the twentieth century—the fourth quarter of the twentieth century! I’m not some Victorian miss, meeting a man for the first time!’
‘No one could doubt that,’ Luis retorted drily, and she knew an unexpected impulse to please him.
The rhythm of the music had changed to a slow waltz, and the musicians were evidently more capable in this tempo. The tune was one of Domine’s favourites, usually sung by a group with their guitars, but still as haunting, played by the Percy Manfield quartet.
With an appealing eagerness she turned to Luis, putting a hand on his sleeve and saying: ‘Dance with me!’ in low breathy tones.
His reaction was predictable. ‘You do not give up, do you, Miss Temple,’ he exclaimed tersely. ‘And even in this liberated country of yours, surely it is still the prerogative of the male to invite the female to dance?’
‘Are you inviting me?’ she enquired, arching her eyebrows interrogatively, and he expelled his breath with impatience.
‘No,’ he retorted, and she could see the way his fists had balled in his pockets. ‘But as I know you will persist in this foolishness until you get your own way, I am forced to the conclusion that it might be easier to give in to you.’
Domine’s expression mirrored her delight. ‘Then you will?’
‘If you insist,’ he conceeded shortly, and she cast him a mischievous smile as she preceded him on to the dance floor.
However, her ideas of dancing and his were as converse as their opinions. Luis held her stiffly, with one hand in the small of her back and at least six inches of space between them. His other hand held hers at the required angle, and although his fingers were firm around hers, there was no feeling of intimacy between them.
‘Can’t