‘You’ve been a widower for a year now.’ It was Estefania who responded.

‘Is there a point to that obvious statement?’ Leandro enquired drily.

‘You’ve spent enough time in mourning to satisfy the conventions. It’s time to think of remarriage,’ his mother informed him.

His lean, strong face rigidly controlled, Leandro stared steadily back at the older woman. ‘I don’t agree.’

Julieta, his younger sister piped up, ‘Nobody is going to replace Aloise, Leandro. We don’t expect that and neither can you-’

‘But you must put the family’s unbroken line of inheritance first,’ Doña Maria declared with gravity. ‘There is presently no heir to the title or the estate. You are thirty-three years old. Last year when Aloise died we all learned how fragile and fickle life can be. What if something similar were to happen to you? You must remarry and father an heir, my son.’

Leandro compressed his handsome mouth into a bloodless line that would have encouraged less determined opponents to drop the subject. He had no need of such reminders when he had spent his life being made aware daily of his many responsibilities. Indeed he had never known an hour’s freedom from the weighty burden of expectations that accompanied his privileged social status and great wealth. He had been raised in the same traditions as his ancestors to put duty and honour and family first. But an exceptional spark of rebellion was finally firing inside his lean, well built body.

‘I’m aware of those facts, but I’m not ready to take another wife,’ he retorted crisply.

‘I thought it would be helpful if we drew up a short list of potential brides to help you,’ Doña Maria contended with a wide smile that struck her angry son as bordering on manic.

‘I don’t think that would be helpful. Indeed I think it’s a ludicrous idea,’ Leandro replied coldly. ‘When and if I remarry, I will choose my own wife.’

His aunt Isabella, however, would not be silenced.