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She fixed him with a steady gaze. “I did not know then that Isabella was no longer a virgin.”

Not a virgin? Damn. The bastard must have got to her after all. Luke had been sure he’d saved her in time. Apparently not. His brows snapped together as another thought occurred to him. “Don’t tell me she—”

“No, there were no unfortunate consequences,” Mother Superior said in an austere tone. “Isabella herself told me of the attack—she had nightmares afterward, you see. But what’s done is done, and so…” She spread her thin-veined hands in a fatalistic gesture.

Luke nodded. “How did Isabella take the news?”

“Isabella is a lady by birth and training.”

In other words, Isabella was resigned to her fate, as he was. So be it.

The Mother Superior steepled her hands and rested her chin on the points of her fingers, peering down her long nose at him. “What are your plans, Lord Ripton?”

“We leave immediately for England.”

The elegant arched brows almost disappeared under the wimple. “Immediately?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he amended. She would need to pack, he supposed. But the sooner he was gone from this accursed country, the happier he’d be.

The nun inclined her head graciously. “Then this will be Isabella’s last night in the convent. We will hold a small farewell at dinner for her. You are, of course, invited.”

Silence lapsed. Luke drummed his fingers lightly on the desk.

Mother Superior eyed his fingers contemplatively. Luke stopped drumming.

Where the devil was Isabella? She was taking her time.

Mother Superior began to tell him about the history of the convent and the story behind the broken angel. She eyed him thoughtfully when he shifted restlessly for the third time.

Sitting still was not Luke’s forte. Nor were tales from a convent. At least not this kind.

The Mother Superior moved on to the subject of his bride. His bride .

“Isabella is a good girl, really. A little hotheaded and impulsive—her father was like that, too, as a boy. She will steady once she’s given adult responsibilities. That’s the trouble—she’s not suited to convent life. She’s not the contemplative sort.”

Nor was Luke. His gaze wandered the room. Lord, but he would have gone mad cooped up in this place for eight years.

He recalled Isabella’s sudden dread when he’d brought her here all those years ago. She’d panicked suddenly and begged him again not to leave her there, to take her with him. Of course, it was impossible.

He remembered her as a battered little scrap, all big eyes and questions, his little baby bird. Had she grown into a swan in the last eight years? A man could only hope.

Eight years… Where had they flown? He still couldn’t believe she was now in truth going to be his wife. For the rest of their lives.

“And then there’s her sewing.” Reverend Mother paused, and Luke realized she was testing his concentration.

“Her sewing?” he prompted, trying to look interested. Where the devil had the girl got to? He wanted to get this over with, meet her, make the arrangements, and then leave this blasted country as quickly as possible. He found himself rubbing the spot just below his left shoulder and stopped.

“I do hope you are not expecting exquisite embroidery from your wife.”

“Exquisite embroidery?” Luke repeated blankly.

“The convent is famous for its embroidery,” she said with gentle reproof. “World famous.” As if he should know who was whom in the world of embroidery.

“Congratulations,” he said politely. Where was the chit? Dragging her heels?

Had she other plans? A marriage to some Spanish fellow, for instance.

No, she couldn’t have met anyone stuck here in the mountain fastness with a bunch of nuns.

Although the Spanish did tend to arrange such things…

“Isabella, alas, was never able to acquire the skill of fine sewing.”

“It’s of no interest to me whether she can sew or not,” he said bluntly. Right now he was wondering if she could walk. Where was she?

If he didn’t know better, he might think he was nervous. But that was, of course, ridiculous. There was nothing to be nervous about. It was a done deal. They were married. No way out of it. Firmly leg-shackled.

If he was feeling mildly jumpy, it was nothing to do with meeting his wife after eight years, and everything to do with being in this blasted country again. He needed to leave. Immediately.

“It’s to be hoped you will take an interest in what your wife does do well,” she said severely. Luke was reminded of being back in the nursery. She went on. “Showing an interest in a woman’s daily concerns is a way to strengthen a marriage. A neglected wife is an unhappy wife.”

Bloody hell. He was being lectured on marriage by a nun .

“Isabella’s taking rather a long time to get here,” he observed coolly. “Is there a problem?”

She gave him a thoughtful look then reached for her little bell, but before she could ring it, there was a knock on the door.

Luke jumped as if it were a gunshot. He straightened his neckcloth, ran a hand over his chin, and smoothed back his hair.

“Enter,” Reverend Mother said, and the heavy oaken door swung slowly open.

A small, thin girl in a fussy, frilly dress entered, her hair twirled into an elaborate nest of curls and draped with a lacy mantilla.

Her face was made up, pale with some kind of powder, her lips brightly rouged into a tiny bow, her cheeks glowing with the same color.

She curtsied and darted him a shy glance from huge golden eyes.

He remembered those eyes. This, then, was his bride.

Luke politely rose to his feet, hoping his disappointment didn’t show.