“Good night,” he said politely, as if she were anyone, not the wife he’d just accused of entrapping him.
In fury she punched him on the back. And even then he said not a word.
Bella turned away from him. She curled up on the very edge of the bed, not wanting to touch him. And then the tears came, slow and silent, dripping down her face and soaking into her scrunched-up pillow.
She fought them, refusing to make a sound. She would not give him the satisfaction.
Luke lay in the darkness, his body sated, his emotions churning.
He didn’t give a hang whether she was a virgin or not. What he cared about was the lies. He couldn’t abide lies, especially from a woman. And especially from his wife.
And he had not blasted well married her for her fortune!
Had she lied or not? It was the one thing he couldn’t forgive in a woman, deception of that sort. Some women did that, entwined themselves and their bodies around a man’s heart, and while he was exposed and vulnerable and trusting, they lied, luring him, deceiving him, playing him for a fool…
If Isabella had done that…
He turned over in his mind all that she’d told him.
He supposed if anyone would be ignorant of the relations between men and women, it would be a nun and a young girl. Why were women kept so ignorant? He didn’t understand it. Boys talked about it all the time. He’d supposed girls did, too. But perhaps girls’ ignorance was to keep them from worrying about the perils of childbirth. Though that didn’t make sense. Everyone knew women could die in childbed. Women bore all the serious consequences…
Isabella could have conceived his child this night.
Whatever the tangled web that had led to his marriage, it was well and truly consummated now. He couldn’t walk away from it—and her—now. Even if he could, he wouldn’t, he realized in surprise. Whatever her part in this—and he was inclined to think she was as innocent as she’d professed—she was his.
That decision made, he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep.
He was so aware of her in the bed, the sound of her breathing, the scent of her wrapping around his senses. He frowned. Was that a sniffle? He listened intently.
Her breathing was jagged, uneven, shuddery.
She was weeping; his bride was weeping silently in the dark.
He wanted to turn over, to reach for her, to draw her against him, to murmur that it was all right, that she was forgiven. He didn’t move. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
He turned over to face her. “You’re upset, I know, but—”
“Upset?” She sat up in bed and confronted him. “Most bridegrooms would be delighted to discover their bride was a virgin. I don’t know what it’s like in England, but in Spain a bride brings her virginity to a marriage as a pledge of honor, a sign of p-p-purity.” In the fading light from the fire he saw a couple of tears roll down her cheek. She dashed them away with an angry gesture and continued, “They don’t have their horrid, stupid, suspicious husbands accusing them of being a v-virgin as if it was something to be ashamed of!”
“I didn’t accuse.” But he had, he knew it.
She shoved him away. “Oh, go to sleep. Just go to sleep! I don’t want to talk to you.”
He’d planned to do just that, but now, seeing her weeping, fighting the tears instead of using them as a weapon against him… He hadn’t just upset her; he’d hurt her. And seriously offended her sense of honor.
He’d never considered women having a sense of honor. He hadn’t considered a lot, it seemed. But though the circumstances of his marriage were far from satisfactory, he couldn’t hold his anger with her, not seeing her like this.
“I apologize,” he said stiffly. He wasn’t used to making apologies. But he had to admit she’d come to her marriage a virgin, and he hadn’t appreciated that as perhaps he should. No perhaps about it, he realized suddenly. He was glad he’d been her first. He just wished he’d known.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn your honor. Of course I’m pleased to find you untouched. It’s the same in England as here, and I am very grateful, and proud that—”
She made a frustrated sound. “Oh, don’t lie to me! You’re not proud in the slightest. You’re still cross and you think you’ve been tricked. Well, Lord Ripton, I didn’t lie, and you got yourself a bride with no stain on her honoranda fortune into the bargain, so you can take your stiff-necked, halfhearted apology and… and… choke on it!”
She lay back down, the line of her spine rigid and unforgiving.
Morning finally came, and if he had not slept well, the same could not be said for his bride, Luke thought. Somewhere in the wee small hours her breathing had evened out and he knew she finally slept. Only then could he relax.
