by Anne Gracie
“No, they are usually eighteen or nineteen,” he explained. “Molly’s first come-out was delayed by the death of my uncle and postponed again the following year because of an illness. This year she is hoping it’ll be third time lucky.”
“Is she pretty, this Molly?”
“Very.”
“Are all your sisters pretty?”
“Yes, they are.” His oldest sister was a famous beauty. And as bossy a female as he’d ever seen.
“When you go to England, will you and Isabella live in London?”
“Part of the time. I have a house in the country and would prefer to spend most of the year there.” He glanced at Isabella. “We will, of course, come to London for the season.”
“The season in London!” they exclaimed. “Isabella, you are so lucky!”
He glanced at her again, and she gave a polite, noncommittal smile. Catching the exchange, the one called Alejandra asked, “Has Isabella changed much since you saw her, Lord Ripton?”
“Somewhat,” he said dryly. “She’s grown up.” This produced a gust of feminine tittering.
“Perhaps you and Isabella will spend part of the year in Spain, as you did when you were a boy. Perhaps she can visit us.”
“No.” They looked startled. He must have said it more brusquely than he’d intended. “I won’t be returning to Spain again.”
“But—”
He glanced at Reverend Mother. “That’s enough, girls,” she said immediately. “Lord Ripton and Isabella have a long journey ahead of them tomorrow—”
“And a long reunion tomorrow night,” the frizzy-haired one said, causing an outbreak of fresh giggles.
“Luisa!” Reverend Mother said sternly, and the girls immediately put on solemn faces. “Bid Lord Ripton good night; he is no doubt weary of your silly chatter.”
One by one, they bade him good night, Isabella waiting to the last.
Reverend Mother rose. “Good evening, Lord Ripton. Isabella will show you out. I imagine there are one or two things you will wish to say to each other in private. I will see you in the morning. I hope the village accommodations are adequate.” She swept from the room in a stately manner, shooing the girls still hanging around the door before her.
Luke offered Isabella his arm.
She hesitated. “Lord Ripton—”
“Luke,” he reminded her.
“I don’t want to go straight to England from here,” she told him bluntly. “I want to visit my home first.”
Luke frowned. “You told me when we first met you no longer had a home.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and strode toward the door.
“I don’t. It’s not my home anymore. But I still want to go there.”
“It’s a bit late to be having second thoughts about Ramón, isn’t it?”
She pulled away from him, stopping dead. “Ramón! This is not about Ramón. I despise Ramón. I never want to see him again.” She folded her arms. “But I must return to my former home.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why?”
She hesitated. “I need to check that everything is all right. That everyone is all right.”
“There’s no point in wondering about that now,” he said crisply. “Besides, if it’s not all right, if the place is in a mess, what can you do about it? It’s Ramón’s responsibility now.” They emerged into the main courtyard.
“But—”
He patted her hand and said in a firm voice, “No, there’s no point in going back. Trust me; it’ll just upset you to no purpose.”
“No, you don’t understand—” A nun hurried across to unlock the convent gate and, distracted, Isabella broke off. The nun took a lantern from a hook, lit it, and handed it to Luke. She waited, smiling, ready to lock the gate after his departure.
The opportunity for a private conversation was over. Luke could not regret it. He’d said all he intended to say on the matter; there was nothing further to discuss.
He bowed, touching his lips to the back of Isabella’s hand, and as mouth met skin, the desire that had been simmering in him all through dinner spiked.
She shivered, blinked at him wide-eyed, then snatched her hand back.
Luke tried not to smile. So she felt it, too.
“Tomorrow will be a long, hard ride. I’ll collect you at eight,” he told her. “Sleep well.” For, he thought, tomorrow night she’d get no sleep at all.
That hadn’t gone well, Bella thought as she slowly made her way back to the girls’ dormitory. He hadn’t listened to her at all.
She had to go back to Valle Verde. The guilt was eating away at her.
She would have to make him listen. It was a simple matter of respect.
She might not know how to make a man love her—from all she’d ever seen it depended on being beautiful and knowing how to flirt and flutter eyelashes. Well, she wasn’t ever going to be beautiful, and she felt stupid trying to flirt—like a dog trying to perform ballet—and anyway his lashes were longer than hers.
Respect, however, was just a matter of being strong-minded. Reverend Mother was not the least bit pretty, but everyone respected her—even Lord Ripton. And her predecessor, the old Reverend Mother, had been tiny and gentle with the sweetest little crumpled face, like a pale little raisin, yet even Ramón had obeyed her. Both women were, in very different ways, strong-minded. They simply assumed people would obey them, and everyone did.
Tomorrow she would look Lord Ripton in the eye, tell him firmly and clearly what she needed to do, and assume his cooperation.
She hoped he wouldn’t demand an explanation—she would have to think of something convincing. She was too ashamed to give him the real one, and have him know what a selfish, small-minded, disloyal creature she truly was. And how she needed to make up for what she had done.
She hoped it would still be possible.
She didn’t want to start her new life with the weight of Valle Verde on her conscience.
She reached the girls’ dormitory, but Sister Josefina was just coming out. “Time for bed, Isabella,” she said.
“Yes, Sister. Good night.” Isabella headed for her own room. She’d only slept in the dormitory a few times when she’d first arrived at the convent, but her nightmares had disturbed the other girls, and eventually she’d been moved to a cell in the same wing, where she had her own little window looking out into the sky, barred, admittedly, but the fresh air and the sight of the stars had helped. She couldn’t bear to be closed in, especially in the dark.
In one way she would have liked to spend her last night in the dormitory, with the girls whispering secrets and sharing laughs, and she was sure Sister Josefina, who was kindhearted and sweet, would allow it.
But in another way it was a relief to be spared the questions. After meeting him, the other girls would be full of envy for her, and excited, and would ask all kinds of questions about the man who was her husband, and she didn’t think she could bear that. Especially knowing he didn’t want her at all.
Besides, she had to pack.
Packing took her less than ten minutes. She’d arrived at the convent with nothing, and she’d leave with not much more. She packed a change of clothes and a few small items of sentiment: a decorative comb and a small, silver brooch—gifts from friends over the years—and a small Bible with inlaid mother-of-pearl on the cover, given to her by her aunt. It had once belonged to Papa’s mother.
As for a trousseau, she owned nothing like that, nor any dowry chest full of embroidered linen like the other girls all had. Not so much as a monogrammed or lace-edged handkerchief.
She stuffed everything into a cloth bag and fastened it with a strip of leather. Not much to show for eight years. Almost half her lifetime.
Poverty, chastity, obedience: all that was about to change.
Six
She was late. Luke put his watch away and resumed his pacing. Sixteen minutes past eight o’clock and still, there was no sign of Isabella. Several nuns and a couple of th
e schoolgirls clustered in the courtyard, waiting to say good-bye.
He was about to pull out his watch for the third time when he heard faint commotion around the corner, voices only just audible, in a hushed dispute.
“I don’t care.” Isabella’s voice, and the sound of swift footsteps.
She marched into the courtyard. Luke’s eyes widened.
“Isabella!” several of the nuns exclaimed. Exasperation rather than surprise, he noted distantly. But he wasn’t interested in the nuns; only Isabella.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Dressed in a pair of men’s buckskin breeches, she strode toward him on long, long legs, the heels of her high leather boots ringing on the flagstones. He’d never seen anything like it. A white lawn shirt, a leather jerkin, and a belt completed the outfit. She held a cloth bag in one hand and carried a short, dark blue coat slung over her shoulder.
She crossed the courtyard with a loose, open stride. The breeches fitted her like a glove. The soft buckskin hugged the length of her thighs, caressing her hips and outlining every slender curve. She seemed not the least bit self-conscious.
His throat thickened.
How had he ever thought she lacked feminine curves? They were slender and subtle and they made his mouth water.
A bevy of nuns fluttered in her wake, remonstrating.
“Isabella! You cannot leave the convent dressed like that!” Reverend Mother appeared in another doorway. “It is indecent.”
“It’s practical,” Isabella argued. “We’re riding.”
“I don’t care if you’re flying! You will not leave this place dressed like that.”
She met Reverend Mother’s gaze and raised her chin. “I am no longer a ward of this convent.” Gasps from the schoolgirls at her temerity.
“You are still my niece,” snapped the nun, “and you will obey me. Go back inside and put on a skirt, at once.”
The two women’s gazes clashed. Isabella made no move.
“If I have to ride astride in a skirt my thighs will chafe,” she said. At the brazen mention of thighs, there was a murmuring among the nuns and much pursing of lips.
Luke finally got his tongue to work. “You won’t be riding astride.”
She whirled around and stared at him. “What? I thought you had a horse.” Her frown darkened. “I won’t travel in a litter!”
“Of course not. I told you I’d found a suitable mount. I’ve brought a sidesaddle.”
“A sidesaddle?” Her eyes narrowed, and Luke gestured outside to where Miguel was waiting with two horses and a donkey.
Reverend Mother swept forward. “Of course he brought a sidesaddle for you to ride. What else would a gentleman expect from a lady?” Her eyes bored into Isabella in silent imperative. “Now, go and remove those masculine abominations and put on a skirt at once.”
Isabella looked mutinous for a moment, then with a muffled exclamation she turned on her heel and marched back the way she’d come.
Lord, but the sight of her striding away from him in those breeches, the superb curve of her backside… Luke could only stare. And hope his glazed look wasn’t visible to his companions. His body began to harden… He gritted his teeth and willed it to stop. What a time and place to battle with arousal, standing in a convent surrounded by nuns.
Isabella disappeared, and a buzz of conversation followed her departure.
Reverend Mother swished forward. “Isabella can be a little… willful, but she is a good girl at heart. I hope you won’t hold this against her. I have perhaps allowed her a little more leeway than I should have—”
“I’m not angry,” he said. It came out as a husky croak.
She seemed not to hear, but went on, “During the war, things came to such a state, you see, and without Isabella’s skills—” She broke off and took a deep breath. “Even if she were not my last living relative I would still say this—take good care of her, Lord Ripton. Isabella is a treasure. I know it is not immediately obvious, but—”
“I will take good care of her,” Luke promised.
Reverend Mother stepped forward and put her thin, careworn hands over his. “She has a heart made for loving, that girl, and—”
He pulled his hands out of her grasp. “I said I will take good care of her. I am not in the habit of breaking my promises.”
She raised one questioning brow, a mute reminder of wedding vows that he’d tried to have annulled.
He knew what she was doing—trying to do—but dammit, he was the last person to be entrusted with a young girl’s heart. That kind of thing—no, never again.
He would take good care of Isabella and make sure she was safe and warm and well fed and in all material respects well cared for.
Her heart was not his concern.
He snapped the crop against his boot. Where the hell was she? How long did it take to put on a skirt, dammit? He wished to be gone from this place.
Reverend Mother gave him a searching look. “I hope I’ve done the right thing,” she murmured.
Dammit, what did the woman expect? She knew damned well this marriage was not what either of them had intended eight years ago.
That he’d honored those original promises and come to fetch Isabella, that he was willing to make a life with her, provide for her, and get an heir on her, that should be enough. It was all he was prepared to give—all he could promise.
Whatever she had thought of Lieutenant Ripton all those years ago, he was no longer that boy. He could barely remember that boy.
Had he not—well, it was no use going down that path. What was done was done. No point in looking backward and bewailing what couldn’t be changed.
He would protect and provide for her niece, honor and respect her, and that would have to be enough.
There was nothing else left in him now.
And the sooner they left this benighted country, the happier he’d be.
Finally Isabella returned dressed in a long gray skirt, the short, dark blue coat she’d been carrying now buttoned to her throat. A blue hat dangled from a string on her wrist. She handed Luke her bag, but before he could ask her about the rest of her luggage, she turned away, saying, “I’ll just say good-bye to everyone.”
One of the girls uttered a loud sob, and in seconds they were all at it, sobbing and embracing and uttering promises to write, to stay in touch. Even some of the nuns were weeping.
Luke busied himself strapping her bag to the back of her horse. He hated this female emotional sensibility. It made him feel helpless and at sea.
Isabella embraced each girl, one by one, and then each nun—they were all here now to see her off. He supposed eight years was a long time. He couldn’t see if Isabella was weeping or not. No doubt she was.
Luke, having made his farewells to Reverend Mother and the others, waited outside the convent gate with the horses. His riding crop snapped rhythmically against the side of his boot. He hated seeing women weep, had no idea what to do.
Lastly Reverend Mother embraced Isabella and kissed her on both cheeks. She slipped a thin gold chain over Isabella’s head and blessed her solemnly. Nuns and schoolgirls crossed themselves.
With a choked sob, Isabella flung her arms around Reverend Mother’s waist and hugged her convulsively. She turned, crammed the hat on her head, and marched resolutely through the gate to where Luke waited with Miguel and the animals.
“Where’s your luggage?” Luke asked brusquely. Her eyes were red and her skin blotchy and wet with tears.
She scrubbed her hand across her wet cheeks and pointed to the bag tied behind her saddle. “There.”
He blinked. “That’s your luggage? All of it?”
She nodded and took the mare’s reins.
“But I bought a donkey,” Luke said, and immediately felt stupid.
She glanced at the donkey, standing patiently with Miguel. “So I see. What for?”
“For your luggage.”
“But I only have this.” She gestured to t
he bag.
“So I see.” The conversation was getting ridiculous. Luke cupped his hands to give her a boost up. She placed a booted foot in his linked hands and sprang into the saddle. A slender featherweight.
She seemed comfortable in the sidesaddle, hooking her leg around the pommel and draping her skirts as naturally as if she’d ridden only the day before instead of eight years ago. Luke handed her the riding crop and adjusted her stirrup. As he did, he noticed something that made his mouth twitch. Under the skirt she still wore her breeches.
The docile and obedient bride of his imaginings was fading fast.
“What are you going to do with the donkey?” she asked.
Luke mounted his own horse. “Miguel can take him.”
The boy, hearing his name, looked up. “Take him where, señor?”
“Wherever you like. I don’t need the donkey after all.”
The boy’s eyes widened. He clutched the donkey’s lead in his grubby fist and glanced from Luke to Isabella and back at Luke. “How much?”
“Nothing. It’s a gift,” Luke told him.
“A gift?” The boy’s eyes gleamed, then the excitement faded. “Señor, my mother would not allow such a gift. You paid her already, most generously.”
“They may be poor, but they have their pride,” Isabella said softly to Luke. She said something in the boy’s language, and Miguel turned to Luke in surprise. “Is true, señor?”
“Tell him it’s true, Lord Ripton,” Isabella said with a hint of a smile.
“It’s true,” Luke said, hoping it was. He had no idea what she’d said.
Miguel’s face split in a brilliant grin. “What a place England must be! Thank you, señor, may you have many fine sons, many fine sons!” he told Luke enthusiastically. “My mother will be so happy. With a donkey I can collect more wood for winter. With a donkey we can carry goods to market. With a donkey I can—”
“Become the man of the village,” Luke said dryly. “I have no doubt of it.” He glanced at Isabella. “Ready?”
She nodded, and they set off, the convent community clustered in the gateway calling last good-byes and waving.
Miguel and the donkey ran along beside them for a short while, waving, whooping, and wishing them even more fine sons, until Isabella called to Luke, “My mare is a little fresh and needs a run. Shall we canter?” Without waiting for Luke’s response, she shouted a final good-bye to Miguel and urged her horse into a canter. She had an excellent seat.