by Anne Gracie
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.
She sat straight down—down on the grass in her pretty pink and white dress! And nobody reprimanded her for it! She ripped open the parcel and gave a squeal of delight and pulled out… Gloriana.
Hugging the doll tightly, she jumped up and ran to Papa again, and he picked her and the doll up, laughing as she planted kisses all over his face. All over his face, and yet Papa was laughing.
Then, holding the little girl in one arm—even though she was far too big to be carried—he slipped his other arm around the woman and they all went into the house together.
Like a family.
Bella watched with burning, bitter eyes. She felt sick, furious, betrayed.
And she hated the horrid pretty pink and white creature who’d stolen her doll.
And her father.
Papa returned home late the next day. And when Bella ran to greet him as that little girl had, he frowned and told her it wasn’t dignified to run like that, and had she been a good girl and studied her book? No hug or even a kiss, just a pat on the head.
One of the servants must have told him how Bella had asked about the people who lived in the white house in the next valley, because Papa called her into his study and explained that the lady and her daughter were relatives.
Bella didn’t believe him. Relatives visited. They didn’t hide away in the next valley. Not that she cared who the lady and the little girl were; she still hated them.
It was only later, when she was twelve and Papa was leaving to fight in the mountains, that he told her the truth; that she was old enough to understand that many men had mistresses, and no doubt her husband would keep one, too, but she was not to worry about it.
Such things were never discussed or even acknowledged by ladies in polite society, and she should never mention Esmerelda or Perlita to anyone other than himself. If it was ever necessary for him to mention them in a letter or message, he would refer to them as his jewels—his emerald and his pearl.
Bella must have looked sour at that, because Papa had taken Bella’s hand and explained that a mistress and any children she bore were, of course, to be looked after—it was a man’s duty to do so—but they were not a man’s true family. Perlita, the little girl, was her half sister, but Isabella was more important to him than Perlita could ever be.
Bella didn’t believe his assurances. She’d seen the hugs, the kisses, and the doll, and over the years there had been many other presents—she’d made a point of sneaking a peek into his bags whenever he returned, and the things he brought Perlita were always much finer than Bella’s gifts. She knew which daughter was Papa’s duty and which daughter received his love.
But she promised to do her duty by Esmerelda and Perlita and to make sure they were well looked after in Papa’s absence. Promised faithfully.
After a fitful night’s sleep, Luke woke to a chilly gray dawn. Under normal circumstances he would rise, break his fast, and continue on his journey, but now he had Isabella to think of.
Yesterday had been a long, hard day for her, emotionally as well as physically. Leaving her home of eight years would have been a wrench, and she’d be stiff and sore from riding all day. He’d let her sleep as late as she wanted.
And with a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast inside her, she might be in a better mood.
She would put on a tantrum or two, he felt sure, but he’d remain firm. He was the husband, after all, and her role was to obey. Another three or four days’ travel and they’d reach San Sebastian, and from there, depending on the winds, they could be back in England in as little as a day.
He lay in bed, dozing for another two hours, and at nine o’clock he rose, washed, dressed, packed up his things, and went downstairs. He ordered breakfast—a proper English one with eggs and ham and thick fried slices of the spicy local sausage. One could not ride for hours on a couple of rolls and coffee.
Luke finished his breakfast, had a third cup of coffee, and glanced at his watch. Time she woke. He called for the landlady. He’d send her upstairs to wake— No. He rather fancied the idea of waking Isabella himself, seeing her all warm and sleepy from her bed.
The landlady came in. “Sí, señor?”
“Another breakfast, please. The same again, only this time on a tray.”
She beamed. “Another one, señor? You must be very hungry.”
“It’s for my wife.” Luke jerked his head upstairs.
The woman followed his gesture with a puzzled expression. “Your wife, señor? But she has already eaten.”
“Already eaten? When?”
“Before she left, señor. She drank a cup of coffee and took some jamon and bread and apples for her journey.”
“Before she what? When was this?”
“Just after dawn, señor.” The woman faltered at his expression and twisted her apron between worried fingers. “I hope we did no wrong, señor. She said to let you sleep, that you knew where she was going.”
“I do indeed,” Luke growled. Valle blasted Verde.
“I did think it was odd, so young a lady traveling alone without guards or duenna, and dressed the way she was, but…” She shrugged. “The English are different from us.” She crossed herself in thankfulness.
“Have my horse brought around,” he snapped. He took the stairs to his room three at a time and shoved open her door, just to check that the story was true. Empty. The bed was pulled up tidily, and a folded scrap of paper lay in the center of it. He snatched it up.
Dear Lord Ripton—
Dammit, how many times did he have to tell her to call him Luke?
I apologize for leaving you like this. Please believe that I have every intention of honoring my marriage vows—
Luke snorted.
—but as I have told you repeatedly, I have a duty to my half sister, just as you feel you must keep your promise to your sister, Molly. I go now to Valle Verde to do what I must. After that I will join you in London.
How the hell did she imagine she was going to manage that? She had no money that he knew of.
Please do not worry about me. My father taught me how to live off the land and survive in the mountains, as the peasants do. Yours truly, your obedient
—no, she’d crossed out “obedient”; she had that right, at least—
wife, Isabella Ripton.
Luke crushed the note in his fist.
Live off the land as the peasants do? Over his dead body.
He grabbed his portmanteau—thank God it was already packed—and stormed back downstairs. She had three hours on him, but his horse was faster and stronger, and with luck he’d catch her up before the end of the day.
He slammed down a small pile of coins to pay for their accommodations and flung open the front door. And stopped dead.
Half the village seemed to have accompanied the groom that had brought his horse around. They stood waiting, grinning, nudging each other, and watching him for all the world as if he were the circus come to town.
And then he saw why and swore.
Damn her, damn her, damn her! The cunning little vixen!
“Fetch me another saddle,” he snapped.
The groom grinned. “Nothing else in the village, señor. No other saddle, no other horse, only donkeys.” A chorus of happy agreement from the villagers. “Only donkeys.”
Luke swore again, long and bitterly.
The chorus of comments that followed all agreed that it was wonderful to hear an Englishman with such excellent command of Spanish, even if his Andalusian accent was unfortunate.
He tossed his portmanteau to the grinning groom to tie on, then realized that mounting this horse was not going to be as simple as it usually was. And that everyone was waiting to see him struggle to do it alone. “All right then,” he growled. “Which one of you bastards is going to boost me up?”
There was a press of bodies as his rustic audience scuffled and shoved, each villager wanting to be the one to boost the English milord into the lady’s sidesaddle.
Legs tucked neatly in front of him, Luke rode off in pursuit of his wife with as much dignity as he could muster.
Which was none at all.
He was followed by a tribe of hooting urchins, with cheers and laughter coming from the watching villagers.
He’d strangle the wench when he caught up with her.
If he didn’t break his neck on this blasted contraption first.
Eight
Cold morning mist stung Isabella’s cheeks, clinging to her lashes and settling like a veil of gleaming silver beads on her horse’s rough coat. They were on the cold side of the mountain where the sun had not yet touched. Fog hung thick in the valleys, motionless.
They trotted along the narrow stony track that skirted the hills. Bare winter trees etched stark, then softly blurred by the mist. The silence was almost eerie, broken only by the occasional soft scuttle of a startled creature diving for cover, or a sudden beating of wings.
She was alone, on top of the world.
Freedom. She breathed in deep lungfuls. The pure, chill air bit into her. She shivered, drew Lord Ripton’s greatcoat closer around her, and urged her horse a little faster. It would be better when she was in the sun again.
She felt a small twinge of guilt at taking his greatcoat as well as his horse, but he’d thrown her cloak away and given her this to wear, so what else was she to do? His coat was warm and soft and smelled faintly of horse, and of him, some clean, masculine fragrance. Disturbingly pleasant.
The morning sun gilded the tips of the hills across the valley. At the convent they’d be finishing up morning prayers and filing silently in to break their fast. Eight years, the same breakfast: convent-baked bread and fresh cold water from the spring. Only the freshness of the bread varied. And in the darkest days—thankfully well behind them now—the quantity.
If the bread was stale, Dolores would again recall her halcyon days at the convent in Aragon where the nuns made delicious cakes and custards with the yolks of eggs given to them by the local winemakers, who’d used the whites for clarifying wine.
Dolores would start describing the cakes, and then Luisa would tell her to be quiet, she was only making them miserable. Then Alejandra would start on about chocolate and how uncivilized it was to start a day without it. And then one of the sisters would tell them to be quiet, that morning was a time for contemplation of the day, not chattering about worldly things.
Isabella smiled, thinking about them all, and how each day was the same, variations on the same daily theme. She’d probably never see any of them again. How strange that thought was. The convent had been her home for eight years; the same people day in, day out, the same routine, the same food, the same conversations until there were days she was ready to scream.
She’d been so desperate to leave, she’d neve
r thought of the convent as home. Only now she’d left there forever did she begin to realize it.
Now she had no home at all.
Valle Verde? No, that wasn’t home. It didn’t belong to her anymore, and she didn’t belong there.
She belonged nowhere.
Legally she belonged with Lord Ripton. Her home was with him.
Whither thou goest… Another pang of guilt. Surely the Bible had something to say about saving sisters. But she could think of nothing. This is what comes of not paying attention in class, a nun said in her mind. A bad pupil and a bad wife.
She wasn’t really his wife. Not yet. Not until the marriage was consummated. And she wasn’t running away from him, just seeing to her sister first.
If he hadn’t been so unreasonable…
What kind of priorities did the man have? The welfare of an admittedly unknown and illegitimate sister-in—all right, half sister-in-law—or a dance!
A dance! It beggared belief.
She thought about his sister. The dance might be a frivolous reason to Isabella, but it wasn’t to Molly. Her first ball, her first dance, her come-out party. It was special.
It wasn’t the dance that was important; it was the promise he’d made to his sister, his beloved younger sister.
A man who didn’t take promises lightly.
Isabella had made her own promise, even if her sister wasn’t beloved.
Love, honor, and obey.
She would honor those promises, too, she made a silent vow. She would be a good wife. Just not yet.
She rounded a bend, and a small group of birds gathered around the remains of some creature erupted into the air with a violent flapping of wings. Startled, her horse plunged backward. One of his rear hoofs slipped, and he scrabbled desperately for purchase on the loose, stony ground of the narrow track.
Bella gripped on with her thighs and flung herself onto his neck, forcing him forward and down. For two long, breathless seconds she feared they would plunge down the steep slope into the ravine, but then he found his feet and moved on, emitting a few loud, indignant-sounding snorts.
