“I’m not angry,” he said. It came out as a husky croak.
She seemed not to hear, but went on, “During the war, things came to such a state, you see, and without Isabella’s skills—” She broke off and took a deep breath. “Even if she were not my last living relative I would still say this—take good care of her, Lord Ripton. Isabella is a treasure. I know it is not immediately obvious, but—”
“I will take good care of her,” Luke promised.
Reverend Mother stepped forward and put her thin, careworn hands over his. “She has a heart made for loving, that girl, and—”
He pulled his hands out of her grasp. “I said I will takegood care of her. I am not in the habit of breaking my promises.”
She raised one questioning brow, a mute reminder of wedding vows that he’d tried to have annulled.
He knew what she was doing—trying to do—but dammit, he was the last person to be entrusted with a young girl’s heart. That kind of thing—no, never again.
He would take good care of Isabella and make sure she was safe and warm and well fed and in all material respects well cared for.
Her heart was not his concern.
He snapped the crop against his boot. Where the hell was she? How long did it take to put on a skirt, dammit? He wished to be gone from this place.
Reverend Mother gave him a searching look. “I hope I’ve done the right thing,” she murmured.
Dammit, what did the woman expect? She knew damned well this marriage was not what either of them had intended eight years ago.
That he’d honored those original promises and come to fetch Isabella, that he was willing to make a life with her, provide for her, and get an heir on her, that should be enough. It was all he was prepared to give—all he could promise.
Whatever she had thought of Lieutenant Ripton all those years ago, he was no longer that boy. He could barely remember that boy.
Had he not—well, it was no use going down that path. What was done was done. No point in looking backward and bewailing what couldn’t be changed.
He would protect and provide for her niece, honor and respect her, and that would have to be enough.
There was nothing else left in him now.
And the sooner they left this benighted country, the happier he’d be.
Finally Isabella returned dressed in a long gray skirt, the short, dark blue coat she’d been carrying now buttoned to her throat. A blue hat dangled from a string on her wrist. She handed Luke her bag, but before he could ask her about the rest of her luggage, she turned away, saying, “I’ll just say good-bye to everyone.”
One of the girls uttered a loud sob, and in seconds they were all at it, sobbing and embracing and uttering promises to write, to stay in touch. Even some of the nuns were weeping.
Luke busied himself strapping her bag to the back of her horse. He hated this female emotional sensibility. It made him feel helpless and at sea.
Isabella embraced each girl, one by one, and then each nun—they were all here now to see her off. He supposed eight years was a long time. He couldn’t see if Isabella was weeping or not. No doubt she was.
Luke, having made his farewells to Reverend Mother and the others, waited outside the convent gate with the horses. His riding crop snapped rhythmically against the side of his boot. He hated seeing women weep, had no idea what to do.
Lastly Reverend Mother embraced Isabella and kissed her on both cheeks. She slipped a thin gold chain over Isabella’s head and blessed her solemnly. Nuns and schoolgirls crossed themselves.
With a choked sob, Isabella flung her arms around Reverend Mother’s waist and hugged her convulsively. She turned, crammed the hat on her head, and marched resolutely through the gate to where Luke waited with Miguel and the animals.
“Where’s your luggage?” Luke asked brusquely. Her eyes were red and her skin blotchy and wet with tears.
She scrubbed her hand across her wet cheeks and pointed to the bag tied behind her saddle. “There.”
He blinked. “That’s your luggage? All of it?”
She nodded and took the mare’s reins.
“But I bought a donkey,” Luke said, and immediately felt stupid.
