She snorted. “Did you imagine that I would make no inquiries about the man who married my niece?” She stood. “For heaven’s sake, Isabella, stop looking so tragic. You will live a rich and privileged life with a kind and handsome gentleman. You will go to elegant London parties and wear wonderful clothes. No other girl here has half as much to look forward to—and any one of them would take your place in an instant if she had the chance. Now pull yourself together. Lord Ripton is waiting to speak with you.”
“Now?” Isabella’s hands flew to her hair. She must make a terrible sight.
But nuns had no patience with vanity. “Yes, now. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.”
Luke paced back and forth in the cloisters. He was considerably dismayed by Isabella’s reaction. It was clear to him that she’d cherished… expectations of him.Romanticexpectations.
Women often did that—took one look at his face and imagined he was someone else entirely, some blasted Byronic hero, to be sighed and swooned over. Spin fantasies about.
He was no fit subject for any young girl’s fantasy.
He recalled the way her face had crumpled when she’d realized he’d tried to have the marriage annulled. He swore silently. A girl who’d lost both parents in a war, who’d fled her home in fear of a forced marriage to a despised cousin, who was brutally attacked on the road, and who was desperate enough to agree to a sham marriage to a stranger—how could such a girl cherish any kind of fairy-tale expectations, let alone eight years after the event?
Judging by her reaction, it seemed this one did. And Luke was going to have to deal with it.
It would be cruel to encourage any expectations she might have. The sooner she realized that this marriage would be a practical arrangement, the better. It might not have been what either of them planned, but with the right attitude they could make the best of the situation and forge a marriage of… of contentment.
With all that she’d experienced, she must surely realize—deep down—that it was better this way. That fantasies and romantic dreams were dangerous delusions, a trap for the unwary.
Life was grim, and looks could—and did—deceive. Bad things happened, even to people who didn’t deserve it. Especially to people who didn’t deserve it. She must know that.
And if she didn’t, Luke would set her straight. Because life wasn’t a fairy tale.
“Lord Ripton?”
Luke turned. “Reverend Mother?”
“Isabella is ready to talk to you now.”
He found her sitting on a stone bench in a small courtyard.
“I’m sorry you were upset,” he told her. “I didn’t realizeyou hadn’t understood about the annulment. It wasn’t a secret.”
“I know,” Isabella said in a small, stifled voice. Her face was turned away.
“It was no reflection on you.”
“I know. Reverend Mother explained it to me.”
Luke nodded. He felt awkward, because she was obviously still distressed, but he was determined to say his piece. “But just because it hasn’t ended up the way we planned it doesn’t mean it won’t work out well in the end. As long as we know what to expect.” He took a breath and added, “And whatnotto expect.”
She said nothing, and taking her silence as assent, he continued. “For instance, it would be foolish for either of us to expect love of the sort that poets write about. Ours will not be that sort of marriage.”
Still she said nothing.
“But I hope we will become friends,” he said. “Marriage is a partnership, and if we work together we can have a life of…” He paused, searching for the right word. “A life of solid contentment, even happiness. Is that not a worthy goal?” She didn’t respond, and he touched her shoulder. It was rigid. “Isabella?”
She finally turned to face him, her eyes drowned and burning. Her elaborate hairstyle was a mess, and her painted face, a travesty. Strangely it recalled to him the bruised, battered face of the little girl he’d married, and without thinking he slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “There, there, my dear, it will not be so bad, I promise you. I’ll take good care of you. You must not worry.”
“I won’t,” she said stiffly, scrubbing at her cheeks. Her hands were slender, brown, and ringless. Luke fingered the ring in his pocket. His mother’s ring. Despite her misgivings about the marriage, she’d asked him about a ring, and when he looked blank, she’d given him hers.
He took Isabella’s hand. “I’ve brought you a wedding ring.”
“But I still have the ring you gave me.” She pulled it from the neck of her dress, his old signet ring tied onto a worn ribbon. He remembered now he’d given it to her when the priest has asked about a ring. It was too big for her then and still was now.
“This one will fit better.”
“Do you want this one back?” Her fist closed possessively around his signet, giving him his answer.
