But dammit, what on earth had possessed him, letting slip the reason for his desire to get back to England? The only reason he was prepared to admit to, at any rate.
He wasn’t even going to think about the real reason.
Fool that he was, he’d been so lust-mazed, staring at that beautiful, ripe mouth of hers and thinking about kissing her, he’d let his sister’s ball slip to the one person who it would matter to. Damn and blast!
He drained his glass and prepared for bed.
She was angry now, but in time she would forgive him. Or at least get over it. Once she was in London, distracted by a whirlwind of shopping— No.
If Molly was missing, no amount of shopping could distract him. Nothing could.
But he could appease her. He’d hire men, reliable, trustworthy men who would discover her sister’s whereabouts and report back on the situation. And if the sister needed help, if she needed rescuing, or money, or assistance of any sort, Luke would provide it. She could even come and live in England if Isabella wanted her there. Whatever was necessary.
As long as Luke didn’t have to do the searching.
Bad enough he’d had to return to Spain to fetch Isabella. He was not staying a moment longer than necessary.
Every sight, every scent, every sound of Spain was a reminder of things he wanted to forget.
So that was his urgent appointment! A ball! A dance! Bella punched her pillow. Adancewas more important than her sister!
She was very worried that the rumors were true. And if Ramónhadkicked Esmerelda off the estate, and moved Perlita into the main house and forced her to become his mistress, then Bella was partly responsible.
Ramón couldn’t have Isabella, so he’d taken her sister.
For revenge? As a hostage?
She didn’t know. But it was her fault that Esmerelda and her daughter had been left vulnerable and unprotected.
She hadn’t left them behind out of fear and panic. Nothing so excusable. Or forgivable.
It was jealousy, pure jealousy. And spite.
Now she was filled with remorse for what her thirteen-year-old self had done.
She lay in the wide, soft bed, high under the eaves with the wind rattling the shutters, and thought about the child she’d been. She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been until she went to the convent and had girls her own age to talk to.
For most of her life she’d been Mama’s main companion, and then, after Mama died, there was only Papa. She’d adored her father and thought herself the apple of his eye. Until she’d seen him with Perlita.
She curled around the soft pillow, remembering the day she first learned about Esmerelda and Perlita, his second, secret family, tucked away in the next valley.
It was the year after Mama had been killed. In the months following, Papa had taken Bella with him everywhere. The country was in a desperate state, he’d said, and the royal family had betrayed them all. Soon he would have to leave to fight in the mountains, and the younger men would go with him. While he was away, the estate would be Bella’s responsibility.
He’d taught her to shoot, to hunt, to survive in any situation, for if enemy soldiers came again, she was not to stay in the house as Mama had done; she was to take to the hills and hide there. He’d taught Bella as much as he could about the management of the estate, instructing her, testing her, working her remorselessly.
Bella didn’t mind. She missed Mama desperately, but Papa had never paid her so much attention in her life, and she adored being so important to him. She worked and studied and practiced hard, pushing herself to exhaustion to please him.
And please him she did—often. She would never forget the day he’d patted her head and told her she was almost asgood as a son. Her heart had swelled with pride.Almost as good as a son.Praise from Papa was rare.
She lacked beauty, Papa told her, but with his training and Mama’s fortune she would make a good wife for his heir. Back then, his heir was his brother’s son, Felipe.
Felipe, Papa said, was a shiftless wastrel, but harmless. He would get sons on her, and she would run the estate as Papa had taught her, and the future of Papa’s line would be assured.
Twelve months, Isabella thought, curled up in the bed in the village inn; a year she’d lived in glorious ignorance, Papa’s little girl, thrilled to be almost as good as a son.
And then he’d come home that time, from Barcelona. He usually brought her something when he’d been away—often it was sweets, one time it was a book on how to keep accounts, and once, on a never-to-be-forgotten day, he’d brought her a pretty pink ribbon for her hair.
This day he’d dumped his bags in the entrance and gone straight into his office to consult with his foreman. Isabella waited outside, listening to the rumble of male voices. She was impatient to greet him, hoping he’d brought her something.
