by Anne Gracie
Stupid, dreamy fool…
When the others found out he’d tried to annul the marriage, how they’d pity her. She couldn’t bear it.
There were whispers once, about someone’s cousin whose marriage had been annulled because she didn’t please her husband. The girl was returned home, shamed and disgraced.
How much worse to have had your husband try for an annulment and fail? All of the shame, and none of the comfort of escape. She’d become one of those stories that girls whispered about. Utter, public, never-ending mortification.
“Isabella?” Reverend Mother’s voice came from the courtyard entrance.
Isabella hastily wiped her eyes and turned to face her, expecting a scold, but though it was Reverend Mother who came toward her, it was her aunt who held out loving, sympathetic arms, saying softly, “Oh, my dear.” Isabella fell into them, sobbing afresh.
“My dear, I thought you knew,” Reverend Mother said when Isabella had finally sobbed herself out. She handed Isabella a clean handkerchief. “Wipe your eyes and blow your nose.”
“What do you mean, knew? How could I know?” Isabella blew her nose loudly.
“Lord Ripton was correct; annulment was the plan from the beginning.”
“It was?” Isabella whispered.
Her aunt nodded. “I thought you knew.” She gave her a compassionate hug. “But there was a lot for you to take in that day, I know, and you were still a child, so I suppose it’s understandable that you didn’t fully comprehend.”
“But…” Isabella swallowed to remove the lump in her throat.
“Lord Ripton married you solely to protect you from a forced marriage to Ramón.”
Isabella nodded. “I knew that. But the marriage was still real.” Wasn’t it?
“It was legal, of course, but at the time it was just a stratagem. His intention—our intention—was to have it annulled when you were twenty-one.” She patted Isabella’s hand. “He planned to set you free to make your own choice, my dear.”
Bella sniffed. “Why didn’t you warn me—you must have… Didn’t you know how I feel—felt about him?”
A rueful expression crossed Reverend Mother’s face. “I could see you had a schoolgirl crush—not surprising when a heroic young man rescues you, and such a handsome one, too. But I believed you’d grow out of it, and you did.” She eyed Bella with a mixture of concern and doubt. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Bella said dully. She did, she told herself. She felt nothing at all for him—now.
Humiliation twisted in her gut. How foolish, getting all upset about an arrangement that had been in place for eight years, only she’d been too stupid to remember it.
All the dreams, all the glorious romantic stories she’d told about her husband.
All stupid, vain, childish… lies.
She stared down at the worn stone cobbles of the courtyard and wished she could seep between the cracks and dissolve deep into the earth.
“In any case,” Reverend Mother continued, “shortly after you came here I knew an annulment was not possible.”
“How did you know?”
“My dear, you told me yourself of the… attack.”
“Yes, but… but what has that to do with it? Was it because Lieutenant Ripton killed the man? Because he was a deserter and—”
“No, my dear, it was because the man… er… compromised your virginity and that is why no annulment could be granted.”
“But Lieutenant Ripton didn’t—”
“No, no, of course not. But after that, no other man—no gentleman, I mean—would be prepared to take you to wife.”
Bella frowned. “Lieutenant Ripton is a gentleman.”
“He is indeed, and now a titled one—you really must learn to call him Lord Ripton—and so we must be grateful for his forbearance in this matter.”
Bella wove the handkerchief between her fingers. So now she must be grateful he was willing to overlook this terrible flaw in her—because he had no choice in the matter. Grateful that he’d come to collect this defective package that no other gentleman would want.
Grateful that she had no choice in the matter, that she must go with a man who clearly did not want her but was prepared to regard her with forbearance.
Foolish Isabella Ripton, dreaming of love when her lot was to be forbearance.
She twisted the handkerchief, tightening it around her fingers until it hurt. She would be just as trapped in an unwanted marriage as she had been by convent walls.
“Isabella? Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Bella nodded, as if reconciled, but her aunt wasn’t deceived. “It is a good marriage,” she insisted. “Lord Ripton is not of your father’s rank, but he is a titled gentleman, a good man of good family, and his war service was very distinguished.”
“How do you know about his war service?”
She snorted. “Did you imagine that I would make no inquiries about the man who married my niece?” She stood. “For heaven’s sake, Isabella, stop looking so tragic. You will live a rich and privileged life with a kind and handsome gentleman. You will go to elegant London parties and wear wonderful clothes. No other girl here has half as much to look forward to—and any one of them would take your place in an instant if she had the chance. Now pull yourself together. Lord Ripton is waiting to speak with you.”
“Now?” Isabella’s hands flew to her hair. She must make a terrible sight.
But nuns had no patience with vanity. “Yes, now. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.”
Luke paced back and forth in the cloisters. He was considerably dismayed by Isabella’s reaction. It was clear to him that she’d cherished… expectations of him. Romantic expectations.
Women often did that—took one look at his face and imagined he was someone else entirely, some blasted Byronic hero, to be sighed and swooned over. Spin fantasies about.
He was no fit subject for any young girl’s fantasy.
He recalled the way her face had crumpled when she’d realized he’d tried to have the marriage annulled. He swore silently. A girl who’d lost both parents in a war, who’d fled her home in fear of a forced marriage to a despised cousin, who was brutally attacked on the road, and who was desperate enough to agree to a sham marriage to a stranger—how could such a girl cherish any kind of fairy-tale expectations, let alone eight years after the event?
Judging by her reaction, it seemed this one did. And Luke was going to have to deal with it.
It would be cruel to encourage any expectations she might have. The sooner she realized that this marriage would be a practical arrangement, the better. It might not have been what either of them planned, but with the right attitude they could make the best of the situation and forge a marriage of… of contentment.
With all that she’d experienced, she must surely realize—deep down—that it was better this way. That fantasies and romantic dreams were dangerous delusions, a trap for the unwary.
Life was grim, and looks could—and did—deceive. Bad things happened, even to people who didn’t deserve it. Especially to people who didn’t deserve it. She must know that.
And if she didn’t, Luke would set her straight. Because life wasn’t a fairy tale.
“Lord Ripton?”
Luke turned. “Reverend Mother?”
“Isabella is ready to talk to you now.”
He found her sitting on a stone bench in a small courtyard.
“I’m sorry you were upset,” he told her. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t understood about the annulment. It wasn’t a secret.”
“I know,” Isabella said in a small, stifled voice. Her face was turned away.
“It was no reflection on you.”
“I know. Reverend Mother explained it to me.”
Luke nodded. He felt awkward, because she was obviously still distressed, but he was determined to say his piece. “But just because it hasn’t ended up the way we planned it doesn’t mean it won’t work out well in th
e end. As long as we know what to expect.” He took a breath and added, “And what not to expect.”
She said nothing, and taking her silence as assent, he continued. “For instance, it would be foolish for either of us to expect love of the sort that poets write about. Ours will not be that sort of marriage.”
Still she said nothing.
“But I hope we will become friends,” he said. “Marriage is a partnership, and if we work together we can have a life of…” He paused, searching for the right word. “A life of solid contentment, even happiness. Is that not a worthy goal?” She didn’t respond, and he touched her shoulder. It was rigid. “Isabella?”
She finally turned to face him, her eyes drowned and burning. Her elaborate hairstyle was a mess, and her painted face, a travesty. Strangely it recalled to him the bruised, battered face of the little girl he’d married, and without thinking he slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “There, there, my dear, it will not be so bad, I promise you. I’ll take good care of you. You must not worry.”
“I won’t,” she said stiffly, scrubbing at her cheeks. Her hands were slender, brown, and ringless. Luke fingered the ring in his pocket. His mother’s ring. Despite her misgivings about the marriage, she’d asked him about a ring, and when he looked blank, she’d given him hers.
He took Isabella’s hand. “I’ve brought you a wedding ring.”
“But I still have the ring you gave me.” She pulled it from the neck of her dress, his old signet ring tied onto a worn ribbon. He remembered now he’d given it to her when the priest has asked about a ring. It was too big for her then and still was now.
“This one will fit better.”
“Do you want this one back?” Her fist closed possessively around his signet, giving him his answer.
“No, you keep it.” He reached for her hand again and slipped the golden wedding ring onto her finger, and then, on impulse, he kissed the hollow of her palm.
She shivered and snatched her hand back. “You don’t even know me.”
“And yet we are married.”
“Many marriages begin thus,” said her aunt from the entrance to the courtyard. “Your own parents’ marriage, for instance, Isabella.”
“This is different,” Isabella said.
“Indeed it is,” Luke agreed. “It is our marriage, and we will make of it what we will.” He patted her hand and left.
Isabella knuckled her eyes fiercely. He’d been so kind. So understanding.
She’d rather he’d beaten her. It would have been easier to bear than this…
Humiliation scalded her.
All her own fault. Because Isabella Ripton was stupid, stupid, stupid! Dreaming silly schoolgirl dreams instead of paying attention to what was really happening.
She wished he hadn’t been so kind. It would have been so much easier if she could be angry with him, blame him. But he’d given her the protection of his name for the last eight years, and now it was time for her to pay that debt.
He’d offered her a life of security, of contentment, and Reverend Mother was right—it was more than that. She’d take her place in English society. She’d have pretty dresses and go to parties and…
She bit her lip. She didn’t care about dresses and parties.
But that didn’t matter, she told herself. It was wrong for her to be sitting here filled with self-pity because she was married to a kind and handsome man, when poor Alejandra might be forced to marry a horrid old poxed vizconde. And the others might never marry at all.
She was lucky. There were so many reasons why she should feel deliriously happy that Lord Ripton had come for her.
A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She dashed it away. She was her father’s daughter and she would not weep over what could not be changed.
She was not a child anymore to rail at fate. She was a woman and she would make her own happiness.
The small, scruffy boy appeared from nowhere again, as the convent gate shut firmly behind Luke. “You want your horses now, señor?”
Luke considered it. “How far is it to the village?”
“Just a few steps,” the boy assured him.
“Is there an inn?”
The boy laughed heartily at the idea. “The nearest inn is more than ten miles away, señor. But if it is a drink you want… or a bed for the night?”
“A bed.”
“Then you must stay at my home,” the boy said. “I am Miguel Zabala, and I am the man of the family.”
He was small and skinny and barely ten years old, but Luke didn’t laugh. “Take me there and we’ll see,” Luke told him.
He soon learned Miguel’s “few steps” were the estimate of a large-minded spirit, but Luke didn’t mind the walk down a narrow, dusty track. The boy skipped along beside him, chattering incessantly, part travelogue of the places they could see from the road, and part his views on life and the various people he’d known.
Luke listened with half an ear.
Isabella’s reaction to his arrival had been a little disturbing. It was clear to him that she wanted the marriage as little as he had. A situation that could not be allowed to continue.
His title hadn’t impressed her in the least. Well, she was the daughter of a conde.
She’d seen through him at once. He did need an heir. There was no shame in that. It was his duty to his family name. Bearing an ancient name herself, she should understand that.
And if nothing else, duty would have been drummed into her at the convent. Particularly the wifely duties: to love, honor, and obey.
They were stuck with each other and would have to make the best of it. He needed to reconcile her to their situation, and quickly. He had no intention of putting up with tantrums from a reluctant bride.
His own attraction to her was lukewarm at best—not that she’d shown herself to advantage, with that ghastly old-fashioned dress with the frills and flounces, and that hairstyle, and the paint. But that didn’t matter. He’d give her no cause to regret their marriage. He’d treat her well and be a faithful husband to her. And by the time children came along, they might even have found love of a sort. Many people did.
He thought of her odd golden brown eyes staring out from behind the powder and paint like an angry little hawk hidden in a posy. She might have changed out of all recognition, but those eyes of hers were exactly as he remembered, especially when they flashed with temper or were drowning with hurt.
The one part of her that was without artifice, reminding him of the brave little girl he’d married. Change was inevitable, he supposed, after eight years. He would have to get to know the young woman she’d become. And she would have to accustom herself to the man he’d become.
A new start for them both, to begin at dinner.
They rounded a rocky bluff, and a small village came into view: a handful of ragged-looking cottages huddled on the edge of the mountain. Not a prosperous place.
Miguel pointed to the smallest and meanest-looking house of all. “I will tell my mother you are coming,” he said and ran ahead.
Luke resigned himself to a night spent in the company of bedbugs and fleas. He’d had worse during the war.
By the time Luke reached the cottage, the mother was waiting in the doorway. She was fairly young, not yet thirty. Two small children peered out shyly from behind her skirts. Miguel, with a freshly washed face, introduced them, then took Luke around the side of the house so he could see what good care he’d taken of Luke’s horses.
They were tethered in a kind of open lean-to shed and had been given clean straw and water. The tack was hanging from nails driven into the wall, and the horses had been rubbed down. Luke nodded his approval, and Miguel led him back to the front door of the cottage, stepping aside with a flourish to allow Luke to enter.
The cottage was gloomy inside, but once Luke’s eyes adjusted, he saw that though poor, it was clean and neat. The only smell he could detect was of something cooking, some kind of stew pungent with garli
c and herbs. He’d slept in much worse conditions during the war.
“You can sleep here,” Miguel announced, pulling back a curtain and pointing to a pallet on a kind of raised shelf in the corner of the room. It was large enough for two and covered in a handwoven cloth. Luke’s leather portmanteau sat beside it.
He’d been offered the only bed in the house, the mother’s bed. And possibly the children’s, too.
“No, no, I couldn’t—” he began.
“The bedding is clean, señor, just washed today, and dried in the sun, the mattress straw fresh and sweet,” the woman told him. “And the children will not bother you—they will be quiet as mice. Or if you want, we will all sleep outside.” She bit her lip and twisted her hands in her apron.
“There is no better place in the village,” Miguel assured him. Four pairs of big brown eyes watched Luke anxiously.
They needed his money. Desperately.
“Very well,” Luke agreed. “And I wouldn’t dream of putting any of you outside.” He nodded at the two little curly heads peeping out from behind their mother’s skirts, and they immediately disappeared.
Luke pulled out his watch and checked the time. “Would there be any hot water?”
“He will want the hot water to make tea,” Miguel, knowledgeable in the ways of Englishmen, explained to his mother and siblings.
“No tea,” Luke said, running his hand over his chin. “I need a shave.”
An hour later, Luke set out again for the convent, changed out of his riding clothes, freshly shaved and as neat as he could make himself in the limited conditions of the cottage. His every move had been made under the solemn gaze of two dark-eyed little girls who had no regard for the sanctity of an Englishman’s curtain.
He’d sent the diminutive man of the family off to buy wine, bread, meat, and whatever else he could think of, just to get rid of him and his incessant chatter. The family could do with the food.
But now, as he made his way back up the path to the convent, Miguel joined him. “You look very handsome, señor. And you smell beautiful, too. You are courting one of the young ladies, yes?”
“No,” Luke lied.