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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.

L uke 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 women, 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.

M orning 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.