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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 thehill; 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.

P apa 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.

A fter 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, senor? ”

“Another breakfast, please. The same again, only this time on a tray.”

She beamed. “Another one, senor ? 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, senor ? But she has already eaten.”

“Already eaten? When?”

“Before she left, senor . 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, senor .” The woman faltered at his expression and twisted her apron between worried fingers. “I hope we did no wrong, senor . 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, senor . 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 hisAndalusianaccent 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.