Bride By Mistake (15 page)

This unexpected, powerful desire for her was a gift. He might not be able to offer her his heart—he had nothing, less than nothing, to give—but honest, unfettered desire was, in Luke’s view, a far better substitute.

She wiped her plate clean with a crust of bread and gave a satisfied sigh. “Thank you, Lord Ripton, that was delicious.”

“Luke,” he reminded her.

The landlord, beaming, removed the dishes and replaced them with a bowl of walnuts, a plate containing two kinds of cheese, and a dish of quince paste. He also brought the bottle of homemade brandy and two more glasses.

Luke poured himself a glass of the brandy and, when she nodded, a half glass for her. The landlord left them alone. Luke sipped the drink and cracked open walnuts for her, and Isabella made little morsels with a slice of cheese, topped with quince paste or walnuts.

The rain had died down, but wind whistled around the eaves. The fire in its small iron box threw out a surprising amount of heat. They were warm, replete, and relaxed.

Next step: the seduction of his wife. He stared at her mouth, slick with hot, spicy liqueur.

She passed Luke a slice of hard cheese topped with half a walnut. “When we go to England, will we go straight to your home in the country?”

He forced himself to concentrate on conversation. It, too, could seduce. “London, first. I have a house on Grosvenor Square. You’ll need new clothes, from the skin out. An orgy
of shopping. You’ll enjoy that.” He shouldn’t have used the word “orgy.”

She gave him a doubtful glance. “Mmm. Will Molly be there?” She nibbled on a slice of sheep’s cheese topped with quince paste.

He watched her eat it. Salt-sweet, soft, and addictive. He swallowed, then realized she’d stopped chewing and was looking at him with an expectant air.

“Eh? What was that again?”

“Molly,” she prompted. “Will she be in London, too?”

“Yes, finally.” He found himself telling her about how Molly had had quite a lonely time of it while their mother was in mourning and Luke was away at school, and how, while Luke and his friends were away at the war, Molly had written to them all—cheerful, funny, affectionate letters that lifted their spirits.

“You’re very fond of her, I think.”

“Of course, she’s my sister.”

She glanced away, suddenly silent, and he knew she was thinking of her own sister. Dammit. It wasn’t the same thing at all.

“Molly’s my baby sister,” he told her, trying to gloss over the awkward silence. “I am less close to my older sisters. They’re both quite bossy. Thankfully, they have husbands and families they direct most of their energies toward.”

“You said at the convent that Molly is to make her come-out soon.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And is there to be a ball?” A tiny jewel of quince paste quivered at the corner of her mouth.

Luke stared at it hungrily. “Of course, on her birthday, April 4th. She and my mother have been planning it for months.”

“It’s not very long till April 4th. You might not get back to England in time.” Her tongue slipped out and swept the quince paste away.

Luke answered without thinking. “No danger of that. I promised her faithfully—” He broke off. “There is plenty of time,” he finished stiffly.

But the damage was done.

“That’s your very important engagement, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “Your sister’s ball.” Her eyes glittered.

He knew it was too late, but he found himself saying, “It’s one of several important engagements, but yes, I promised her when she was just a little girl that I’d be there to dance at her first ball. I don’t break promises if I can possibly help it.”

“And a dance with your sister is more important than the safety of mine.” She folded her napkin deliberately and rose. He moved to pull her chair back for her, but she raised her hands and recoiled as if to repel him. Her eyes were burning. “Good night, Lord Ripton,” she said coolly and swept from the room.

Damn, damn, damn!

Luke poured himself another glass of liqueur. There was no point going after her. Luke knew when a woman was so angry, soft words would not smooth over the situation. Especially since he had no intention of backing down.

But dammit, what on earth had possessed him, letting slip the reason for his desire to get back to England? The only reason he was prepared to admit to, at any rate.

He wasn’t even going to think about the real reason.

Fool that he was, he’d been so lust-mazed, staring at that beautiful, ripe mouth of hers and thinking about kissing her, he’d let his sister’s ball slip to the one person who it would matter to. Damn and blast!

He drained his glass and prepared for bed.

She was angry now, but in time she would forgive him. Or at least get over it. Once she was in London, distracted by a whirlwind of shopping— No.

If Molly was missing, no amount of shopping could distract him. Nothing could.

But he could appease her. He’d hire men, reliable, trustworthy men who would discover her sister’s whereabouts and report back on the situation. And if the sister needed help, if she needed rescuing, or money, or assistance of any sort, Luke would provide it. She could even come and live in England if Isabella wanted her there. Whatever was necessary.

As long as Luke didn’t have to do the searching.

Bad enough he’d had to return to Spain to fetch Isabella. He was not staying a moment longer than necessary.

Every sight, every scent, every sound of Spain was a reminder of things he wanted to forget.

S
o that was his urgent appointment! A ball! A dance! Bella punched her pillow. A
dance
was more important than her sister!

She was very worried that the rumors were true. And if Ramón
had
kicked Esmerelda off the estate, and moved Perlita into the main house and forced her to become his mistress, then Bella was partly responsible.

Ramón couldn’t have Isabella, so he’d taken her sister.

For revenge? As a hostage?

She didn’t know. But it was her fault that Esmerelda and her daughter had been left vulnerable and unprotected.

She hadn’t left them behind out of fear and panic. Nothing so excusable. Or forgivable.

It was jealousy, pure jealousy. And spite.

Now she was filled with remorse for what her thirteen-year-old self had done.

She lay in the wide, soft bed, high under the eaves with the wind rattling the shutters, and thought about the child she’d been. She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been until she went to the convent and had girls her own age to talk to.

For most of her life she’d been Mama’s main companion, and then, after Mama died, there was only Papa. She’d adored her father and thought herself the apple of his eye. Until she’d seen him with Perlita.

She curled around the soft pillow, remembering the day she first learned about Esmerelda and Perlita, his second, secret family, tucked away in the next valley.

It was the year after Mama had been killed. In the months following, Papa had taken Bella with him everywhere. The country was in a desperate state, he’d said, and the royal family had betrayed them all. Soon he would have to leave to fight
in the mountains, and the younger men would go with him. While he was away, the estate would be Bella’s responsibility.

He’d taught her to shoot, to hunt, to survive in any situation, for if enemy soldiers came again, she was not to stay in the house as Mama had done; she was to take to the hills and hide there. He’d taught Bella as much as he could about the management of the estate, instructing her, testing her, working her remorselessly.

Bella didn’t mind. She missed Mama desperately, but Papa had never paid her so much attention in her life, and she adored being so important to him. She worked and studied and practiced hard, pushing herself to exhaustion to please him.

And please him she did—often. She would never forget the day he’d patted her head and told her she was almost as good as a son. Her heart had swelled with pride.
Almost as good as a son.
Praise from Papa was rare.

She lacked beauty, Papa told her, but with his training and Mama’s fortune she would make a good wife for his heir. Back then, his heir was his brother’s son, Felipe.

Felipe, Papa said, was a shiftless wastrel, but harmless. He would get sons on her, and she would run the estate as Papa had taught her, and the future of Papa’s line would be assured.

Twelve months, Isabella thought, curled up in the bed in the village inn; a year she’d lived in glorious ignorance, Papa’s little girl, thrilled to be almost as good as a son.

And then he’d come home that time, from Barcelona. He usually brought her something when he’d been away—often it was sweets, one time it was a book on how to keep accounts, and once, on a never-to-be-forgotten day, he’d brought her a pretty pink ribbon for her hair.

This day he’d dumped his bags in the entrance and gone straight into his office to consult with his foreman. Isabella waited outside, listening to the rumble of male voices. She was impatient to greet him, hoping he’d brought her something.

Papa’s bags were right there. The flap of one was open. Bella was tempted to peek.

What she saw took her breath away—a golden-haired china doll, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life, dressed in a pink velvet dress, with real lace, so beautiful it almost made her cry.

Last time Papa had brought her a riding crop, elegantly tooled, and of course, Bella had been delighted, even if it was the kind of thing you gave a son. And she did love riding.

But this gloriously beautiful doll was for a daughter, a most beloved daughter. She didn’t know what thrilled her most—the beauty of the doll, or that Papa had thought to bring her something so lovely, so special. It made all her hard work worthwhile.

Every detail of the doll was perfect, even down to tiny oval pink fingernails on her dimpled china hands. Her shoes were of palest pink leather, fastened with tiny pearl buttons, and she wore white stockings made of silk. She even wore a necklace made of tiny seed pearls—just like Mama’s pearls, now Bella’s.

The doll’s eyes were bright blue, with long lashes made of real hair. The doll seemed to smile at Bella, like a friend, like a sister. She hugged the doll to her. She’d always wanted a sister. She would call the doll Gloriana.

She lifted the dress to see what the doll wore underneath—and heard a sound at the door. Someone was coming. Quickly she thrust the doll back into Papa’s bag and hurried away.

She would have all the time in the world to play with her doll.

She’d changed into her prettiest dress and waited until dinnertime with barely suppressed excitement.

“Have you been a good girl, Isabella?”

“Yes, Papa.” She felt almost sick with anticipation.

“I’ve brought you something from Barcelona. Do you want to know what it is?”

Her hands were shaking. “Yes, please, Papa.”

He’d handed her a parcel, square and heavy, too small to be the doll.

“Well, go on, open it.”

She unwrapped it. It was a book;
Equus
, on the care and treatment of horses. Puzzled, she glanced at her father, thinking perhaps he’d played a trick on her and would produce the doll in a minute. “Is that all, Papa?”

He laughed, and for a moment Bella thought he had played a joke on her, because Papa didn’t laugh very often. “No, of course it isn’t all. Now where did I put it?” And he started patting his pockets.

And Bella had laughed with him, laughing too loudly in relief and delight that Papa had joked with her, when normally he was so serious.

“Ah, here it is.” He pulled from his pocket a small twist of paper.

Bella’s laughter died. She eyed the brown paper twist. She knew what it contained, and it wasn’t a doll.

“Thought I’d forgotten your sweet tooth, did you?” He gave her the little packet of boiled sweets. “Now, come and give your father a kiss and then run along upstairs with your treasures.”

Bella kissed his cheek and murmured her thanks. He smelled of cologne water. He’d shaved. Dimly she recognized he’d changed into his going-to-church clothes. But it wasn’t Sunday, and anyway, Papa was a reluctant churchgoer at best, only attending on special occasions.

She didn’t run upstairs as she’d been told, but crept off to the side and watched, as Papa had his favorite horse brought around from the stables. He mounted, then one of the servants passed up two large parcels tied with string. One of the parcels was the exact size of a doll.

Without quite knowing why, Bella slipped out to the stables and saddled her own horse. Hanging back at a distance, she followed her father into the next valley and watched him ride down a track to a small cottage set into the lea of the hill; it was a pretty cottage of whitewashed stone, with bright geraniums flowering at the windows and in pots by the terrace.

Strangely, though it was quite close to home, Bella had
never visited this valley. She’d ridden with her father over almost every inch of the estate. Or so she thought. Who lived here?

She waited by a copse of birch trees, watching as a servant ran out and took the reins and the parcels while Papa dismounted. Then from the front door burst a pretty little girl. A year or so younger than Isabella, she was dressed all in pink and white. She ran toward Papa, long, glossy ringlets tied with pink ribbons bouncing down her back.

To Bella’s utter astonishment, Papa scooped up the little girl and swung her, squealing, in a wide arc. And then he kissed her warmly on each cheek and set her down.

Papa had never swung Isabella around in her life. And if Bella had ever squealed in that vulgar way, she would have been scolded for it.

A woman hurried out, also very pretty and beautifully dressed. Papa embraced her, planting a kiss full on the woman’s mouth. The kiss went on forever.

The little girl must have thought so, too, because she tugged Papa’s sleeve impatiently. Papa would hate that, Bella thought with a spurt of satisfaction. She waited for Papa to put the mannerless child in her place.

But to her amazement, Papa laughed—actually laughed at being so rudely interrupted—and patted the child’s head. He took the parcels from the waiting servant and gave one to the woman and the other to the little girl.