Bride By Mistake (33 page)

She considered that for a moment. “Papa was not much given to praise. The best thing he ever said of me was that I was wasted as a female.” There was such a look of desolation on her face as she stared across the range of hills, Luke couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t agree,” he said. “As a man, you’d be in no way remarkable. As a woman, believe me, you’re… unique.” And he leaned across and kissed her.

It was meant to be just a light kiss, a gesture of comfort, but she leaned into him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss with such feeling that they both forgot where they were and almost fell off when their horses moved apart.

They laughed, a little self-consciously, but her eyes clung to his, and her mouth was damp and beautiful and slightly swollen, and before he knew it Luke had dismounted and pulled her off her horse into his arms.

Laughing, still kissing him, she slid slowly down the
length of his body, twining her limbs around him, an agonizing, delicious friction. Her body was soft and pliant, the taste of her intoxicating.

They slid to the ground, and the fragrance of crushed, new grass mingled with the scent and taste of her as he pressed her down beneath him, covering her with his body, devouring her with his mouth. He pulled urgently at her clothing, eager to peel her out of it, to reveal her lithe body with the high, perfect little breasts, but she pushed his hands aside.

“You first,” she murmured, reaching for his neckcloth. She dragged it off, tossed it aside, and started on the ties on his shirt.

“No.” Luke pulled back abruptly.

She lay still, the grass against her back. “Why not?”

For answer he covered her mouth with his, trying to recapture the mindless passion of a few moments before. Her question lay between them. Luke ignored it. He reached for the fastenings of her bodice.

“No.” She caught his hands and stopped him. “Not until you take off your shirt.”

Fifteen

T
here was a long silence. Luke could hear some bird circling high on the wind, calling bleak and harsh.

“If you’re not in the mood,” he began, getting off her.

Bella caught him by the arm. “I am in the mood, but not a button, a lace, or a hook will I undo unless you show me whatever it is you’re hiding.” She waited. Surely it could not be such a terrible sight. And even if his wound was hideous, it wouldn’t, couldn’t, make him any less attractive to her. She was not such a shallow creature.

And besides, she loved him.

He didn’t respond, just looked away across the hills, his profile grim and unyielding, his jaw clenched tight.

She said in a soft voice, “Luke, please don’t worry. It will make no differ—”

“It’s clouding over and it looks like rain. We’d better get back.”

She rose, brushing grass from her skirts. “Pretending it isn’t there will not make it go away, Luke. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter—”

“If it doesn’t matter, why make such an issue of it?” His voice was almost savage.

“I haven’t made it an issue, Luke. You have,” she said quietly. “You have only to trust me.”

For answer he fetched the horses. In silence he brought them back, and in silence he boosted her into the sidesaddle.

He mounted and gazed for a moment at the vista spread before them. The land of her birth. “We shall leave for England first thing in the morning. Enough time has been wasted here.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, and when they moved off, he rode at a distance that was too great for conversation. Bella followed, guilt and anger warring within her.

Anger won, anger that he was making such a meal of something she was sure was not so terrible. It was a handsome man issue, she supposed. Having been born beautiful, he couldn’t bear now to be less than perfect.

But she was his wife. She had no quibble with him concealing his wound from the world, but she would not be stripped naked, giving up all the secrets of her body to a man who refused to take off his shirt for her.

It hadn’t been easy. For the last eight years she hadn’t even seen her own body—the girls had been made to bathe under a shapeless linen gown—but had she refused him when he’d wanted to strip her nightgown from her? No, even though she hadn’t felt at all comfortable when he’d laid her bare, knowing she was inadequate, too skinny, and lacking the womanly curves men preferred. But she’d trusted him and revealed herself to him. Because he was her husband.

If he’d removed his shirt today, she would have happily sent years of trained convent modesty to the winds and bared herself to him and the skies and the endless rolling hills.

But would he trust her with one simple little scar? It wasn’t big; she’d felt it. No bigger than her palm. But no, Mr. Too-Beautiful-for—no, Lord Too-Beautiful-for-Words wouldn’t trust his wife with his one small imperfection.

It wasn’t even anything to be ashamed of. A scar gained in war was a mark of heroism.

Besides, she desired him. It was all very well for him, running his hands over every inch of her skin, touching her wherever he wanted and causing her to shiver with delight.

Did he think she wanted to caress a
shirt
?

W
hen Bella told Perlita it was their only night in Valle Verde, she nodded. “Then we will dress for dinner and make a special event of it.”

Dress for dinner? Isabella washed, braided her hair into a coronet, and put on her new red dress. It looked pretty enough, but a dress bought at a town market couldn’t compete. Not that she wanted to compete with her sister. Not that she could.

She looked at her reflection in the looking glass and sighed. “It will have to do.”

“No.” Luke, bathed and freshly shaved, looked heartbreakingly handsome in his elegantly tailored dark blue coat, buff breeches, and shining, freshly polished boots. He’d picked up a bit of color in the open air, and his cheekbones were lightly bronzed. He looked magnificent. “That dress needs something else.” It was the first time he’d spoken to her since their argument in the hills.

“I haven’t got anything else.” Her mother’s pearls would have looked perfect.

“What about this?” He placed a shawl around her shoulders. Made of heavy cream silk, it was embroidered with dark red flowers. Bella couldn’t speak. She’d never worn anything so beautiful in her life.

More than that, it was a peace offering.

“Where did you—”

“Last night, after the gypsy dance, when I went out for a walk. An old crone gave me a price I couldn’t resist. Pretty, don’t you think?”

Bella stared at her reflection. The red flowers were the same shade as her dress, and the creamy silk made her complexion glow. She could go to supper not feeling completely inferior to her sister for once. In this shawl she felt almost beautiful. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Ramón and Perlita were waiting for them in her father’s study. Bella stepped into the room on Luke’s arm. Perlita wore a fine gown of emerald green overlaid with gauze. She rose from her chair like a goddess emerging from the sea. Her eyes were tragic and guilt-ridden.

Bella suppressed a gasp. Her fingers dug into Luke’s arm with the effort of keeping silent. He glanced at her face, then followed her gaze.

Around Perlita’s neck was a long rope of pearls. Glowing, perfect South Sea Island pearls.

Ramón stood with a proprietary arm around Perlita’s waist. He looked smug.

Whatever was left in this house eight years ago now belongs to Ramón and is his to do with what he chooses.

And he had, Bella saw. Perlita met her gaze and gave a small, sad shake of her head.

She hadn’t known. Bella nodded and sent her sister a reassuring smile. She knew very well who was to blame. Ramón knew exactly whose pearls they were. And he was watching Luke like a wolf, waiting for him to start a fight over the pearls. Wanting him to.

Having Perlita wear them tonight was deliberate provocation.

Luke would fight him, too, Bella knew. He might have given her the shawl, but he was still wound tight from their argument on the hills. All he would need was an excuse.

Luke bent and murmured in Bella’s ear. “Your mother’s pearls?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. She would say nothing.

A servant she did not know handed around glasses of wine. She sipped hers gratefully and grimaced in surprise. It was not the smooth Valle Verde wine she knew.

Ramón was more observant than he looked. “The wine is not to your liking?”

“Not at all,” she said with deliberate ambiguity. “I was just expecting it to be one of the Valle Verde vintages.”

“It is Valle Verde wine.”

“Indeed?” It tasted nothing like the wine Papa had made.

“Made from Valle Verde grapes, at any rate. With the size of the vineyards here, it was impractical to continue making wine at Valle Verde,” Ramón explained. “To maintain the winery in a profitable state, your father should have put more fields under vines, but he preferred horses, as do I. But the vines still produce well, so I sell the grapes to a neighbor and he makes the wine and gives me a share.”

“I see,” Bella said politely. It was a false economy. The neighbor was a terrible winemaker.

Ramón laughed. “But why do I bother explaining business to an empty-headed woman?” He turned to Luke. “Perlita tells me you inspected the estate this afternoon, Englishman. So, what do you think?”

“It’s beautiful country,” Luke responded, but before he could say anything else, Perlita tinkled the little bell, giving the signal for them to go in to supper.

As dish after dish was brought out, Bella saw that Perlita had made a special effort with the meal. Every dish was one of Isabella’s childhood favorites. The servants would have known which dishes, but the order to make them was her sister’s gesture.

A silent apology for the pearls. Bella sent Perlita a little nod of acknowledgment and thanks.

A servant came forward with a silver carafe of wine. “I would prefer one of the old Valle Verde vintages,” Bella said.

“None left,” Ramón said. “I sold it all.”

“Then just water for me, thank you.”

His brow darkened. “What’s the matter with my wine?” he growled. “Not good enough for you, my fine lady?”

She hesitated. “No,” she said, deciding honesty was more important than politeness. “It’s dreadful. The old Valle Verde wine was much better.”

Ramón snorted. “Of course it was. That’s why I sold it.”

“Selling good grapes for a little money and a few cases of bad wine is poor business,” she said briskly.

Ramón bristled and leaned forward. “You think so, eh?”

“I do. You’d be better off continuing to make a smaller
quantity of wine here and keeping the Valle Verde label, which you will know from your sale of the old vintages has a reputation and is worth something. It would also maintain the wine-making expertise on the estate. Once old Luis—my father’s winemaker—dies, his knowledge and skill will go with him, and he is nearly seventy. When I left, he’d begun to train his grandson, but I noticed today you had Manuel mucking out the stables.”

“The main income of Valle Verde now comes from the horses.”

“Yes, but putting Manuel to work with horses is another false economy. Anyone can muck out stables, but Manuel, he has the ‘nose’ for wine.” Ramón looked blank, so she added, “A winemaker’s ‘nose’ is a talent you are born with. It cannot be taught. Manuel is completely wasted on horses.” So much for not discussing business with an empty-headed woman, she thought, seeing Ramón’s stunned expression.

“How do you know all this?”

Bella shrugged. “My father taught me. He knew Felipe had no interest in estate management.”

Ramón glowered as he shoveled food in his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You should never have married that damned Englishman. With your fortune and that knowledge you would have made me a very useful wife.”

“She will make me an even more useful wife,” Luke interposed silkily across the table.

Ramón grunted. “Careful, Englishman. I can still make her a widow.”

Perlita spoke for the first time. “Ramón.”

He glanced at her, frowning. She met his gaze steadily and fingered the pearls at her neck, and after a moment he looked away, his color slightly heightened.

In his eyes Bella saw a fleeting glance of… was it shame? Surely not. She recalled what Perlita had said about the other side of her lover.

Didn’t stop him being a thief.

In a different tone, Ramón said to Bella, “You are not the
simpleton I thought you were, cousin, so what will you do now you know your husband has made no provision for you in his will?”

“Keep him very healthy,” she said without hesitation.

Ramón gave a snort of laughter. “Almost I could envy you, Englishman.” And he glanced at Perlita and his gaze warmed. “Almost.”

For the rest of the evening he engaged Luke in conversation, firing questions at him about crops and livestock and estate management in England. Luke answered with assurance and intelligence, Bella noted. He would not need her skills or knowledge.

Bella and Perlita, on opposite sides of the table, couldn’t speak of anything they did not want Ramón to hear, so except when Luke addressed them in conversation, they spent most of the night in silence.