by Anne Gracie
The scent of her arousal fired his senses. He should take the time to bring her to orgasm first, as he usually did with women, but urgency, red-hot and explosive, drove him now. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. He positioned himself between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him and clung on tight, kissing his jaw, his neck, sliding her palms beneath the undershirt along his back, over his buttocks, eager, aroused. His bride. His wife.
He was hard and aching, and the strain was starting to tell.
Thank God she wasn’t a virgin, he thought, as he positioned himself at her entrance and thrust deep.
She stiffened and screamed. And not in a good way.
He was too far gone to stop. His body thrust of its own accord, pumping once, twice, into her stiff little body, and then the world exploded.
When he came to himself he withdrew from her, aware she winced with his every movement. He glanced down and, with a dull feeling of inevitability, saw a smear of blood. Her face was pale, her eyes dark and distressed. Tarnished gold. “You’re a virgin!” he accused.
“I… I can’t be.” Bella shuddered. How could it all end so horribly? One moment she was having the most blissful time of her life, and now she was in bed with a hard-eyed stranger. Naked. She gathered the bedclothes around her, covering her nakedness, burrowing away from his accusing stare.
“Obviously you’re not a virgin now. But you were.” His voice was caustic. His hard, dark eyes stabbed her.
It didn’t make sense. She’d never questioned that she wasn’t… But the evidence was there, the red smear of blood on the sheets. She’d have to get the stain out before the landlady saw it. It would be so mortifying after the fuss they’d made to get clean sheets.
“Well?” The hard voice intruded on her thoughts.
“Well, what?”
“Do you have an explanation?”
“For what?”
“I was told you weren’t a virgin. And yet…” He gestured at the sheet.
“I didn’t know! It’s not my fault.” She flung him an angry, wounded look. “What kind of bridegroom complains about his bride’s virginity, anyway?”
He clenched his jaw and looked away.
So she said it for him. “One who thinks he was trapped into a marriage.”
“Thinks?” His lip curled.
She punched his shoulder. “I was trapped into it, too, you know!”
“You?” he snorted.
“Yes, me. And I’m the one who’s stuck with a bad-tempered Englishman who’s going to take me away to a foreign country where it rains all the time and I don’t know a soul.”
His jaw dropped.
“You’re not that big a prize, you know,” she raged, tears—angry ones—blurring her sight. “I was an heiress before you married me! I could have had any man in Spain, almost.”
He frowned, an arrested expression on his face.
“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t you dare look at me like that! I know I’m not pretty, but with my mother’s fortune, I could have married well. Very well!”
Her mother’s fortune was substantial. There were bonds and land and various investments—a manufactory of some sort and a woolen mill. Bella had an idea there might even be a ship or two, for her mother’s grandfather had been a ship captain, and English, so most of the investments were in England.
Papa used to rant about it. It infuriated him that the fortune was so huge but he couldn’t get his hands on any of it. After Mama died it was kept in trust for Bella, until she turned twenty-one, or married.
That was why Papa had quarrelled so bitterly with her grandparents and banned them from Valle Verde. Her grandparents had died soon afterward. She’d been so sad when Papa told her, because they’d died alone, without family. As she was now.
She glared at the man who was her husband. “I didn’t need to entrap anyone into marriage, let alone a horrid, suspicious Englishman. And besides, it was your idea to marry me! I was only thirteen. What did I know?”
His mouth tightened.
“Yes, all right, I know I agreed to it. I was even happy about it, God help me for a naive fool. Saving my fortune from Ramón—so generous of you! Besides, I wasn’t the one who denied the annulment. I didn’t even know about it.”
He made an exasperated sound, and she wanted to hit him again. “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t.”
“But you must have told someone—”
“That I wasn’t a virgin? Wrong! Reverend Mother told me.”
“She told you?”
“Yes.” She scrubbed at her eyes with angry fists. “When I was first at the convent, I used to have bad dreams, nightmares about… you know, that day. I kept waking up screaming, and it upset the other girls, so they moved me to a room by myself.”
“Go on.”
“Reverend Mother—well she wasn’t Reverend Mother then, just my Aunt Serafina—she asked me about my dreams and what happened that day, and I told her.” Her mouth wobbled, and for a horrible moment Bella thought she might burst into tears, and she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction. “And then she said it was a good thing I was married because I was no longer a virgin. That that man who attacked me had known me—in the Bilical sense, you understand—and therefore…”
He gave her one of those long, enigmatic looks she was starting to hate.
She made a frustrated gesture. “Well, how was I to know any different? They never tell us anything! I knew how horses and dogs and chickens did it, but when I asked Mama about it she was horrified and told me we weren’t animals and it wasn’t like that between a man and a woman at all.” She broke off, frowning. “But it is like that, isn’t it? Only face-to-face and lying down.”
He said nothing.
“But I didn’t know what being a virgin meant until you hurt me just now. I mean, I knew it was supposed to hurt, but that man in the forest hurt me, too. They never said what kind of hurt it should be.”
Still he said nothing; only watched her with that steady, unnerving gaze.
“So I didn’t lie. Or try to trick you.”
There was a long silence, and she waited for him to say it was all right, that he understood, that he didn’t blame her for the mistake. But all he said was, “It’s late and we have another long day’s travel ahead of us. We’d better get to sleep.”
And then, as if nothing had happened, as if her world hadn’t just been shattered, he pulled on his drawers, passed her her nightgown, blew out the candles, walked around to the other side of the bed, and climbed in.
And then there was silence.
Bella was incredulous. “Is that all you have to say?” she said after a few minutes of lying tense and expectant in the dark.
“Good night,” he said politely, as if she were anyone, not the wife he’d just accused of entrapping him.
In fury she punched him on the back. And even then he said not a word.
Bella turned away from him. She curled up on the very edge of the bed, not wanting to touch him. And then the tears came, slow and silent, dripping down her face and soaking into her scrunched-up pillow.
She fought them, refusing to make a sound. She would not give him the satisfaction.
Luke lay in the darkness, his body sated, his emotions churning.
He didn’t give a hang whether she was a virgin or not. What he cared about was the lies. He couldn’t abide lies, especially from a woman. And especially from his wife.
And he had not blasted well married her for her fortune!
Had she lied or not? It was the one thing he couldn’t forgive in a woman, deception of that sort. Some women did that, entwined themselves and their bodies around a man’s heart, and while he was exposed and vulnerable and trusting, they lied, luring him, deceiving him, playing him for a fool…
If Isabella had done that…
He turned over in his mind all that she’d told him.
He supposed if anyone would be ignorant of the relations between men and w
omen, it would be a nun and a young girl. Why were women kept so ignorant? He didn’t understand it. Boys talked about it all the time. He’d supposed girls did, too. But perhaps girls’ ignorance was to keep them from worrying about the perils of childbirth. Though that didn’t make sense. Everyone knew women could die in childbed. Women bore all the serious consequences…
Isabella could have conceived his child this night.
Whatever the tangled web that had led to his marriage, it was well and truly consummated now. He couldn’t walk away from it—and her—now. Even if he could, he wouldn’t, he realized in surprise. Whatever her part in this—and he was inclined to think she was as innocent as she’d professed—she was his.
That decision made, he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep.
He was so aware of her in the bed, the sound of her breathing, the scent of her wrapping around his senses. He frowned. Was that a sniffle? He listened intently.
Her breathing was jagged, uneven, shuddery.
She was weeping; his bride was weeping silently in the dark.
He wanted to turn over, to reach for her, to draw her against him, to murmur that it was all right, that she was forgiven. He didn’t move. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
He turned over to face her. “You’re upset, I know, but—”
“Upset?” She sat up in bed and confronted him. “Most bridegrooms would be delighted to discover their bride was a virgin. I don’t know what it’s like in England, but in Spain a bride brings her virginity to a marriage as a pledge of honor, a sign of p-p-purity.” In the fading light from the fire he saw a couple of tears roll down her cheek. She dashed them away with an angry gesture and continued, “They don’t have their horrid, stupid, suspicious husbands accusing them of being a v-virgin as if it was something to be ashamed of!”
“I didn’t accuse.” But he had, he knew it.
She shoved him away. “Oh, go to sleep. Just go to sleep! I don’t want to talk to you.”
He’d planned to do just that, but now, seeing her weeping, fighting the tears instead of using them as a weapon against him… He hadn’t just upset her; he’d hurt her. And seriously offended her sense of honor.
He’d never considered women having a sense of honor. He hadn’t considered a lot, it seemed. But though the circumstances of his marriage were far from satisfactory, he couldn’t hold his anger with her, not seeing her like this.
“I apologize,” he said stiffly. He wasn’t used to making apologies. But he had to admit she’d come to her marriage a virgin, and he hadn’t appreciated that as perhaps he should. No perhaps about it, he realized suddenly. He was glad he’d been her first. He just wished he’d known.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn your honor. Of course I’m pleased to find you untouched. It’s the same in England as here, and I am very grateful, and proud that—”
She made a frustrated sound. “Oh, don’t lie to me! You’re not proud in the slightest. You’re still cross and you think you’ve been tricked. Well, Lord Ripton, I didn’t lie, and you got yourself a bride with no stain on her honor and a fortune into the bargain, so you can take your stiff-necked, halfhearted apology and… and… choke on it!”
She lay back down, the line of her spine rigid and unforgiving.
Morning finally came, and if he had not slept well, the same could not be said for his bride, Luke thought. Somewhere in the wee small hours her breathing had evened out and he knew she finally slept. Only then could he relax.
Not that he was relaxed at the moment; he’d awoken fully aroused. Under normal circumstances he’d wake her slowly and erotically and they’d make love again.
Now… He shook his head and willed his erection away. His marriage… Only a couple of days and yet anything that could go wrong, had. Lord knew what she’d spring on him next.
He slipped out of bed and pulled on his breeches, shirt, and boots. With any luck he’d be out of the room when she woke.
“Where are you going?”
He turned. She was sitting up, looking sleepy and far too enticing, with her hair tumbled around her shoulders and her nightgown half undone. Under his gaze—or maybe it was just the morning chill—her nipples peaked, and he felt his cock stir in response.
She saw where he was looking and pulled the bedclothes up to her chin. “Are you leaving me?”
“No, just going to send for hot water and order breakfast. I want a proper cooked breakfast, not a bit of bread or pastry.”
“And us?”
“I now accept it was an honest mistake born of ignorance,” he told her.
She regarded him steadily for a moment, then gave a brisk little nod. “Very well then, I forgive you.” She climbed out of bed and marched toward the washstand, the hard little points of nipples swaying beneath the cotton.
“You forgive me?” Her imperious attitude amused him. Surely he should be the one forgiving her. He watched her nipples bobbing their way across the room and realized he already had.
“Yes. Now go and order your big greasy English breakfast. I will have churros and hot chocolate.”
A short time later Isabella came downstairs with the long skirt of her riding habit looped neatly over her arm. She looked fresh and neat, and there was a lithe spring in her step that belied the long days of travel behind her. And the long night.
The landlady came hurrying out to inquire after her, and Luke heard Isabella reassuring the woman that her bites no longer itched and that the ointment was most effective, and yes, of course all was forgiven.
The question was, did she mean all? Time would tell.
She joined him at table with a tentative smile. “Did you order my churros?”
“I did indeed, and chocolate, as you desired.” He decided to test the waters. “Our landlady is so mortified by the mishap last night she would give you whatever you asked for, including the head of her husband on a platter.”
Isabella laughed, a delicious gurgle of mirth. “I would say, especially the head of her husband on a platter. Poor Carlos. But she’ll forgive him.” She arranged her napkin and added, “He adores her, of course.”
“He does?”
She nodded. “Oh yes, it’s obvious.”
The landlord—head intact—arrived with Luke’s breakfast of ham, eggs, sausages, and coffee. His wife followed with a napkin-lined basket of churros, piping hot and golden, and hot chocolate, thick and dark and very sweet.
The landlord hovered, seemingly inclined to linger and talk, but his wife steered him away, saying gently, “They want their breakfast, Carlos, not a conversation.”
Isabella only had eyes for her breakfast. She regarded the churros with such greedy pleasure, Luke couldn’t repress a smile.
She noticed. “What?”
“Years of gruel in the convent?”
She laughed. “Just bread, usually stale. And never with hot chocolate.” She dipped the end of the churro in and sucked the chocolate from it with such a look of bliss on her face, he almost groaned aloud.
Tonight he would show her all the pleasures of the marriage bed. And this time it would end very differently.
Luke addressed himself to his breakfast. Isabella didn’t hold a grudge; he had to give her that. She was a fighter—he liked that about her, too. He liked that she’d ripped into him when she thought he hadn’t given her her due. She was angry and she’d told him why. No having to guess. No petulant miffs and silent, female sulks. She’d given him an earful and a couple of angry thumps. Open and straightforward.
And now it was over. Thank God.
He watched Isabella licking sugar from her fingers. She wasn’t at all the quiet, conformable bride he’d expected. He was very glad she wasn’t. One thing was certain: he wasn’t going to be bored. She would lead him a merry dance—a huff of laughter escaped him—she already had.
She tilted her head with a quizzical look. “Something funny?”
“Just wondering if you knew how to dance.”
/>
She shook her head. “Only country dances from when I was a child. Dancing wasn’t taught in the convent. Is it important?”
“No, I’ll teach you.”
“I look forward to it,” she said softly, and the look in her eyes told Luke she really had forgiven him for accusing her of entrapment. Something loosened in his chest.
He put his napkin down and pushed back his chair. “If you’ve finished, we’d better get moving.”
His bride was good company on the road, too, Luke discovered. She made observations here and there, but they were interesting ones. She wasn’t like some women he knew, thinking it their role to fill a silence—any silence—with aimless chatter. Nor was she the sort who expected a fellow to entertain her.
With Isabella, sometimes they rode in silence, other times they’d talk. It was easy, effortless. A bit like traveling with his friends, only more interesting, because he never knew what she’d say.
She asked him about his family, and he told her about Mother and Molly and Molly’s come-out, which had been delayed so many times. “You’ll like Molly,” he finished. “She’s fun and very sweet-natured. Everyone likes her, and she’ll like you, I know.”
Isabella pulled a wry face. “Maybe.”
“You doubt it?”
“She probably had one of her friends lined up to marry you. She won’t be at all pleased with you bringing home a foreign wife who isn’t even pretty.”
He shook his head. “Molly isn’t like that. As long as I’m happy with you, she’ll be happy, too.”
“Then that’s the question, isn’t it?”
Before he could respond, she broke into a canter and forged ahead of him. He raced after her, caught up, and cantered alongside her until their horses began to tire. When they slowed to a walk, he leaned over and caught hold of her bridle, bringing them both to a halt.
“Molly will like you.”
She gave him a wry look. “Even though I’m difficult and disobedient and quarrelsome?” She wasn’t talking about his sister’s opinion.
He smiled. “I’m not exactly a bundle of laughs, myself.”
