Page 17

B ella’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 withahint 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 finishdrying 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 stoodbehind 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.

L uke 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.