by Anne Gracie
Two rooms be damned. He opened his mouth to tell her so and noted the white-knuckled grip of her reins. He glanced at her mouth. She saw him looking and swallowed.
Oh hell! It was nerves, bridal nerves. What the hell was he thinking, planning a night of passionate lovemaking on the first night they were together?
She’d been attacked as a child. And had spent the last eight years locked up with a bunch of nuns. She was probably terrified of the wedding night.
He glanced at her again, all big, dark golden eyes and gorgeous, vulnerable mouth. Of course she was scared of him; scared of what took place between a man and his wife in the bedchamber.
For one long, enticing moment he entertained the thought that it would be better to get it over and done with, show her there was nothing to fear, introduce her to a world of pleasure…
One glance at her white face and the set, tight look around her mouth, and he relented.
It was his own desire talking, not her needs.
Dammit!
He’d promised her friendship, and forcing a frightened bride to his bed was not at all to his tastes. He looked at her beautiful mouth with more than a pang of regret. Perhaps later he would introduce her to the pleasure of a kiss. It would be something, at least. And who knew where it might lead?
“It’s not spite,” she said, surprising him. “When we get to England, I promise you I will do my duty as a wife.”
Do my duty. That settled it. His body might ache for her, but do my duty killed any desire he had to bed her tonight.
When he finally made love to her, he vowed, duty would be the last thing on her mind.
They found a small tavern that could accommodate travelers. It was simple and rustic but very clean. “Two rooms,” Luke told the tavern keeper.
Seven
Bella’s bedchamber was small and, to her eyes, charming, nestled high under the narrow eaves with whitewashed stone walls and a sloping ceiling. It had a bare wooden floor with a coiled rag rug, a small cast-iron stove in the corner, and a squashy-looking bed with a bright red coverlet. Best of all it had two small dormer windows that looked out across the tiled rooftops and down into the valley, though at the moment the view was just a glimmer of wet rooftops and a haze of rain.
It was as far from her bare, narrow cell at the convent as she could imagine.
Lord Ripton had ordered hot water and a tub to be brought up to her and a fire to be lit in her room. It glowed merrily, throwing out the heat. Bella hung up her damp clothing to dry in front of the fire and slid into the gently steaming water of the bath with a blissful sigh.
I will take good care of you, he’d said, and it was true.
It might have made her feel more special if Lord Ripton had not also seen that their horses were well rubbed down and given a hot mash, and their tack dried, cleaned, and oiled.
Lord Ripton took good care of all his possessions.
Bella Ripton, stop miserating over nothing, she told herself. He could be the kind of husband who beat an unsatisfactory wife. He could be a poxed old vizconde. Instead he was handsome, kind, and took good care of her. And his horses, and that was good, because she loved horses.
If he was also impersonal, stubborn, and autocratic, that was nothing to complain about. She had no reason to feel melancholy. Or even wistful. If she did, it was only because she was tired.
And because for years she’d been spinning foolish, impossible dreams about him in which he performed brave and gallant deeds, all for the love of Bella Ripton.
Not for duty.
The solution was clear. Stop dreaming and get on with her life, her real life. With her real husband, not some impossible make-believe one.
She finished bathing and changed into her other dress. She’d just shaken out her damp plaits and was kneeling in front of the stove, drying her hair, when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called without getting up.
She heard the door open, and then nothing. She twisted around and peered from beneath the curtain of hair. Lord Ripton stood on the threshold of the room, staring. A bottle and two slender wineglasses dangled from his hand.
“Did you want something?” she asked.
He collected himself and stepped inside, closing the door. “You won’t want to dine in the public area, so I’ve ordered dinner to be served in my room in fifteen minutes. I hope that will be sufficient time for you. I brought you some of our host’s own brew, a kind of homemade sloe brandy; aniseed with a hint of coffee and vanilla. It’s different, but very warming.” He half filled the glasses and passed one to her.
“Thank you.” Bella put her glass on the tiled hearth that surrounded the small cast-iron stove. “I just need to finish drying my hair. I’ll join you in a moment.”
He paused, then said, “I’ll wait.” He sat down on her bed and watched her.
With him in it her little bedchamber was suddenly a great deal smaller. Bella felt very self-conscious. He watched with silent intensity as she ran her fingers through her hair, separating the clumps to help them dry more quickly. It had gone so curly with the damp, a comb or brush would only make it worse.
Dinner to be served in his room? Why? It would make it a very intimate meal. He hadn’t been at all pleased with her insistence on two rooms. Was this a ploy to get her alone with him? To seduce her? A delicious frisson, a mix of nervousness, excitement, and awareness, skittered across her skin.
She bent low to dry the underneath, and as she was curtained in hair, the scent of convent soap surrounded her. She’d washed her hair the night before. Now she felt a pang of homesickness.
Ironic when for so long she’d been desperate to leave the convent.
“Is the drink not to your liking?” he asked, his deep voice sending a tingle down her spine.
Startled from her reverie, she picked up the glass and quickly drank. She coughed at the bittersweet aniseedy taste of it as it burned its way down.
His mouth twitched in what was almost the beginning of a smile. “Not used to drinking?”
“No, we always drank water, except at Mass, of course,” she admitted. The rich, sharp liquid pooled in her stomach, warming her blood, and she felt suddenly ravenous.
Her hair was almost dry, so she twisted it into a knot and thrust a couple of pins into it.
Outside, the rain intensified, beating lightly against the windows. Her stomach rumbled. Had he heard?
“Good thing we stopped when we did,” he observed.
She hoped he was talking about the rain. “Yes, thank you. It was very considerate of you.”
She picked up a shawl, but he took it from her. He stood behind her and wrapped her in it. His arms encircled her. He’d shaved. The faint scent of his cologne water enveloped her.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.” It came out in a squeak. The brandy, she decided.
Luke was glad he’d been able to arrange the private dinner. In such a small village tavern, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to manage it, but the landlord and his wife bustled about happily—nothing was too much trouble for an English milord and his wife. The stableboy carted a small table upstairs to Luke’s bedchamber, and the landlord waited on them personally while his wife cooked.
It was a remarkably fine dinner, too, for such a tiny, remote place: vegetable soup, hare stewed with figs, a mutton pie, and an omelette filled with salt cod and herbs. Isabella ate everything set before her with relish, and he was reminded of what Reverend Mother had said: she did indeed have a healthy appetite. It boded well for his plans…
The candlelight danced lightly across her face, caressing her full, dark lips, turning her eyes into pools of mystery. She ate in silence, but he could look at her face all night and not be bored.
Luke drank a local wine with his dinner, finding it dry and very much to his taste, but after one sip, Isabella had grimaced and set it aside. He gave the landlord a silent signal, and the man nodded and returned in a few moments, telling
Isabella his wife had sent up some of her very own sweet apple cider for the young lady.
Isabella tasted it with a caution that would have amused Luke if he wasn’t focused entirely on the way her mouth seemed to caress the glass. She liked it, gave the man a dazzling smile, and sent thanks and warm compliments to his wife.
Would she ever smile like that at Luke?
Her hair, twisted high on her head, curled around her face in a riot of feathery tendrils, clustering around her temple and nape. Loose in the firelight, it had been a gleaming, silken waterfall of darkness against the pale delicacy of the skin at her nape, a dozen shades of ebony twisting between her slender fingers like a live thing.
He’d longed to plunge his fingers into that thick, silken mass, place his mouth against that tender nape. Instead he’d sipped the liqueur, the taste of which would forever remind him of her. Unexpected combinations: dark, yet sweet and sharp. Cool on the outside; a slow burn within. Firing his appetite.
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.
So 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 va
lley.
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.
