Bride by Mistake

One

London 1819

'You're a madman, Ripton!'

Luke Ripton shrugged and gathered his reins. 'The curricle can be repaired, Jarvis. At least your horses aren't injured.'

'No thanks to you!' Jarvis snarled. 'Passing me like that— you damned near grazed my wheels—'

'But I didn't,' Luke coldly interrupted. The man drove like an over-anxious debutante. 'There was no need to swerve so violently. You had only to hold your nerve.'

'Nerve? I'll give you nerve.' Jarvis started forward, only to be restrained by the friends who'd come to witness—and bet on—the race.

'Steady on, Jarvis. Lord Ripton won fair and square,' said one of his friends.

'You were a fool to challenge him in the first place,' said another, a little too drunk for tact. 'Everyone knows Ripton don't care if he lives or dies. Makes him—hic!—unbeatable.'

Luke tipped his hat to his still fuming opponent and drove away. Was it true? Did he care if he lived or died?

He considered the question as he drove back into town. It was not untrue, he decided as he turned into Upper Brook Street. He wasn't certain he deserved to live. He'd tempted fate often enough.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans for him.

The letter in his pocket confirmed it.

He pulled up outside his mother's town house. The house belonged to him, of course—it came with the title he'd inherited when his uncle and cousins had been drowned two years ago. But though Luke was fond of his mother and youngest sister, he preferred not to live with them. His mother had a tendency to fuss. Luke preferred his bachelor lodgings, a neat suite of rooms in Clarges Street, where nobody questioned his comings or goings.



'Thank God!' Lady Ripton exclaimed as Luke entered the drawing room. She rang for fresh tea and cakes.

He kissed the cheek she raised. 'I'm not unduly late, am I?' She'd asked him to call on her in the morning. It was just before eleven.

'No, but I was worried about you, of course. These frightful races! I don't understand why—'

'—why impertinent busybodies bother you with things that are not your concern,' Luke interrupted. He'd done his best to keep such activities from his mother, dammit.

'Not my concern? My son, my only son, risking his neck in the most reckless—'

'My neck is in perfect order, Mama. I apologize for any unnecessary worry,' Luke said crisply. And when he found out who'd been passing tittle-tattle to his mother, he'd wring their neck. 'Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?'

As if he didn't know. Molly's impending come-out was all his mother and sister talked of. Even though Luke had given her carte blanche to order whatever she liked, Mama still wanted him to approve all the arrangements—her way of reminding him he was head of the family. How she'd react if he ever actually made a suggestion of his own . . .

Mama had been a widow since Luke was a schoolboy and Molly a little girl. Luke had been away at war since he was eighteen, and Mama had managed to launch and successfully marry off Luke's two older sisters. She was accustomed to ruling the roost, though if anyone suggested as much, she would be horrified. It was a man's job to rule.

So each week they went through the ritual of Mama producing plans and expenditure and Luke approving.

He drank his tea and listened with half an ear. Today he was even less interested in her arrangements than usual. He had to tell her about the letter in his pocket.

She wasn't going to like it.

'Now, about the ball, I thought we'd invite forty to dine beforehand. Molly and I have compiled a list, but there's the question of who you would like us to invite. I don't mean dearest Rafe, Harry, or Gabe, and their wives, of course— naturally they are already on the list. Molly has never forgotten how, when she was still a little girl, all you boys promised to dance with her at her come-out. Thank God you all came back from the war.'

Not all, Luke thought, but then his mother hadn't known Michael very well.

'Is there anyone special you'd like me to invite? Any special lady?' she said with delicate emphasis.

'Lady Gosforth?' he said, naming his friends' great aunt.

His mother slapped him lightly on the hand. 'Do not be provoking, Luke. You know very well what I mean. It's two years since you came into your uncle's title, and it's high time you thought seriously about marriage.'

Ah. His opening. Luke set down his teacup. 'As to that, I have been thinking seriously about marriage.' Damned seriously, in fact.

His mother leaned eagerly forward. 'You have a bride in mind?'

'More than in mind; almost in hand, you might say.' He swallowed. It was harder than he'd thought to admit what he'd done.

'Almost in hand? I don't understand. You mean you're about to propose?'

'No. I'm married.'

'Married?' Her teacup froze halfway to her mouth. Her wrist trembled and the cup dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the table, spilling tea over the delicate polished surface. His mother ignored it. There was a long silence, then she said in a voice that shook only a little, 'You cannot be serious!'

'I am. Quite serious.' He rose and went to the sherry decanter.

'But when did you marry? And who's the girl? And why, for God's sake, why?'

He poured her a glass of sherry and thought about how to present his marriage in the best possible light. It wasn't going to be easy. He wasn't sure there was a best light.

She took the glass in a distracted manner. 'Don't tell me—she's some designing harpy who tricked you into—'

'Nothing of the sort!' he said firmly. 'Do not take me for a fool, Mama. She is a lady, very respectable, very well born—'

'A widow,' said his mother in a hollow voice.

'Far from it. She is young, the same age as Molly, not yet one-and-twenty.'

His mother eyed him shrewdly, looking for the fly in the ointment. 'What's her name? Who are her people?'

'Her name is Isabella Mercedes Sanchez y Vaillant, and she is the only daughter of the Conde de Castillejo.'

His mother's elegant brows snapped together. 'Foreigners?'

'Spanish aristocracy.' It was a quiet reprimand.

'Refugees.' She sighed. 'I suppose she is desperately impoverished.'

'On the contrary, she is an heiress. And she is not a refugee.'

She frowned, looking puzzled. 'I haven't heard of any Spanish heiresses visiting London. Where did you meet her?'

'In Spain, during the war.'

'During the war?' His mother blinked. 'So long ago? Then what has she been doing all this time?'

'Sewing samplers and doing her lessons, I imagine.'

'Sewing—' She broke off, gave him a narrow look, then said with dignity, 'This is no time for teasing, Luke. Why have I not met her? Met her parents? And why such a hole-in-the-corner wedd—'

'Her parents are dead. And you have not met her for the very good reason that she is still in Spain.' And he wasn't teasing.

'In Spain?' She frowned. 'But it's years since you were in Spain. I don't understand. How can you have married a girl who is still in Spain?'

Luke glanced away. 'The marriage was some time ago.'

She leaned forward, her face filled with foreboding. 'How long ago?'

'In the spring of 1811.'

She did the sums. 'Eight years ago? When you were nineteen?' She stared, her brow crumpled with bewilderment. 'And all this time you never thought to tell me? Why, Luke? Why?'

'It seemed the right thing to do at the time.' It was the only explanation he was prepared to give.

Closing her eyes as if it was too much to bear, his mother leaned back in her chair and fanned herself, even though, being March, it wasn't the least bit warm.

'Samplers?' Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a jerk. 'How old was this girl? In 1811, Molly was a child of—'

'Thirteen. And yes, Isabella was almost thirteen when I married her.'

'You married a child?' she almost shrieked. 'Oh, the scandal when this gets out!'

'I have no intention of letting it be known.'

'But Luke . . . Thirteen! A mere child! How could you?' She looked at him with faint horror.

'Don't be ridiculous, Mama,' he said with asperity. 'Of course I never touched her. What do you take me for?' And because he could still see the confusion and anxiety in his mother's eyes, he continued, 'I married her to protect her, of course. And then I gave her into the care of her aunt, who is a nun.'

His mother shook her head and said in a resigned voice, 'Catholic as well. I might have known.' She swirled her sherry pensively for a few moments, drained her glass, and said decisively, 'We shall have it annulled.'

'No, we shall not.'

'But you were not yet one-and-twenty, not of legal age to marry without parental permission. And if the girl is untouched, an annulment is—'

'No.'

'Of course you must. You simply apply to—'

'Mother.'

She bit her lip and subsided.

Luke said, 'I applied for an annulment. It was refused.'

'On what grounds—'

'The marriage is legal, Mother,' he said in a voice that brooked no argument. Luke had no intention of explaining to his mother or anyone else why an annulment was not possible.

She looked at him with dismay but read the resolution in his eyes. 'So what will you do?'

'Honor the marriage, of course. I have no other option.'

'And the girl?'

'She has no other option, either.'

'So I collect, Luke, but what does she think? How does she feel?'

He gave her a blank look. 'I have no idea. It doesn't matter what she thinks or feels—the marriage is legal and we're both stuck with it—and I hope I don't need to say, that's for your ears only, Mama.'

'Of course,' his mother murmured.

'The Spanish are used to arranged marriages; this will be no different. Besides, she's been raised in a convent.'

His mother gave him a puzzled look. 'What has that to do with it?'

'She'll have acquired the habit of obedience,' Luke explained. 'Nuns devote their lives to poverty, chastity, and obedience.'

His mother blinked. 'I see,' she said faintly.

'So, that's that. I'll be off then.' He stood to leave.

'Luke Ripton, do not dare step a foot out of this room until you have finished explaining.'

Luke raised a brow. 'I've told you everything you need to know.'

His mother rolled her eyes. 'How like a man.'

It seemed to be some sort of accusation, though what else he could be like was beyond him. But clearly his mother felt the need to hash over the thing some more. Luke reluctantly sat down again.

'Why did you not tell me about your marriage before?'

'I thought it wouldn't matter.' Thought he'd be dead. Or the marriage annulled.

'Not matter?' Her mouth gaped. His mother never gaped.

'It was wartime, Mama. Anything could happen. To her. To me.' He shrugged. 'But it didn't.' She shut her mouth, then opened it, and he quickly added, 'I made the necessary arrangements in the event of my death. Everyone taken care of; you had nothing to worry about.'

She stared at him in silence. 'Only the loss of my son.'

He shrugged again. 'But it didn't happen. As to how the ton will react to the news of my marriage, I plan to put it about that I'm traveling to Spain on some other purpose—'

'Visiting your Spanish properties? It's the only part of the estate you've neglected.'

He stiffened, not liking the accusation, though it was true enough. He'd intended to sell off the Spanish properties, wanted nothing to do with them. He wanted no reminders of his time in Spain. He loathed the place. It made him feel ill just to contemplate returning there.

But fate had risen to bite him once more. The annulment had been denied and he had no option but to return to the country he'd sworn never to set foot in again. Stirring memories he'd tried so desperately to forget.

'Yes, the Spanish properties, if you like. And then I'll return with a Spanish bride on my arm.'

'I suppose that will work,' his mother agreed. 'But oh, Luke, this makes me so sad. I've always hoped you'd find a lovely girl who'd—'

'A marriage of convenience will suit me very well,' he said in a crisp voice. 'Now, is there anything else you wish to know before I leave?' No point in letting his mother dwell on her dreams for him to make the kind of marriage she'd had with his father. They were her dreams, not Luke's.

His dreams . . . A sliver of ice slid down his spine. The less said of them the better.

'Is she pretty, at least?'

He thought of Isabella the last time he'd seen her, her face all bruised and swollen, all angles and that too-big nose, like a fierce little baby bird, new hatched and ugly. 'She was barely thirteen, Mama. She'll have changed in eight years.' He hoped so, at least.

His mother saw he'd avoided the question. 'Will I like her?'

'I don't know,' he said helplessly. 'I knew her for barely a day, and it was under extraordinary circumstances. Who knows what she is like now? Now, I really must go—'

'One more thing.'

He waited. There was a long silence. His mother shifted restlessly in her seat, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers. 'Luke, I know you don't like to talk about . . . about . . . and I have respected your privacy, you know I have, but now I have to ask. Was this the thing that happened to you in Spain, the thing you will not talk of?'

He stiffened and looked away. 'I don't know what you mean.'

She said gently, 'Just because you choose not to acknowledge it doesn't mean your mother can't see that something terrible happened to you in Spain.'

'I went to war, Mother,' he said in a hard voice. 'War changes people.'

'I know,' she said softly. 'I saw it in all you boys. You all came back changed. But with you, my dearest son, there was something more; something very personal that cut deeper.'

He almost flinched at her choice of words. She could not know, he reminded himself. Nobody knew. He hadn't spoken of it to anyone, not even Rafe or Harry or Gabe.

'I've seen your friends recover, and settle down, one by one, but not you . . . Whatever it was, it still haunts you.'

He forced a careless tone. 'Well, whatever you imagine haunts me, it isn't this marriage. To be honest, I barely gave it a thought. She was just a young girl, Molly's age, who was in trouble, and by marrying her I was able to save her from a nasty fate. I thought we could get an annulment, but . . .' He spread his hands in a fatalistic gesture.

Before his mother could persist, he rose to his feet. 'I've been in correspondence with Isabella's aunt—the nun, you will recall—and advised her I would collect Isabella at my earliest convenience. I leave tomorrow for Spain.'

'Tomorrow?' She sat up, distracted as he knew she'd be. 'But Molly's ball is in three weeks!'

'I'll be back in time for that,' he assured her. 'I promised Molly when I first went to war, and then again when I went to Waterloo, that I'd return to dance at her come-out. There's no danger I'll break my promise now. There's enough time to get to the Convent of the Angels and return. I'll inform Rafe and Harry of my plans, and they'll be on hand should you require any masculine advice or assistance.'

His mother dismissed that with an impatient gesture. 'And what if you're delayed?'

He placed a light kiss on her cheek. 'I've survived everything that Boney could throw at me, Mama. What could possibly delay me now?'



Luke went directly from his mother's house to the Apocalypse Club in St. James. Established shortly after Waterloo, the club catered largely to young officers who'd served in the war. It was a small, discreet establishment, and Luke and his friends found it a convivial place. Contrary to the assumptions made by nonmembers, the one subject members almost never discussed was the war.

Tonight would be an exception.

Luke found Rafe and Harry in a private salon, lounging in overstuffed leather armchairs, sipping wine, boots stretched out toward the fire, the picture of masculine contentment.

How did they do it? Restlessness still gnawed at Luke's vitals, and it was years since the war had finished. Four long years.

Rafe rose to his feet. 'About time you got here.'

Harry drained his wineglass, gave Luke a friendly punch on the shoulder, and jerked his head toward the dining room. 'Come on. The scent of steak and kidney pie has been calling to me for the last twenty minutes.'

'No time for that,' Luke said. 'I'm off to Spain in the morning.'

'Spain?' Both his friends looked at him in stupefaction.

'You swore you'd never set foot in Spain again,' Rafe said.

Luke shrugged. 'Needs must. Sit down and I'll fill you in,' he said.

He told them the story, just the bare bones—the circumstances of the marriage was his business and Isabella's, and not even these, his closest friends, needed to know the sordid details.

'Married all this time?' Rafe was incredulous. 'And never a word to any of us? I don't believe it.' He sat back, his bright blue eyes boring into Luke.

'It's true,' Luke told him. 'I had a mission into the mountains and came across her on the way back to headquarters. It was'—he swallowed—'I married her for her own protection. It was—you know what can happen.'

'You mean you were trapped into it? We were green boys back then.'

Luke shook his head. 'Not trapped at all. The marriage was my idea.'

After a moment, Rafe asked, 'So this Isabella, where is she now?'

'Where I left her. In the convent. In Spain.'

'A convent?'

'Good God, she's not a nun, is she?' Harry said.

'No, she's damned well not a nun,' Luke said irritably, fed up with questions, even though he knew they were perfectly natural. He'd had enough from his mother.

'Does your mother know?' Rafe began. 'No, of course she doesn't, otherwise she wouldn't have spent the past couple of years flinging debutantes at your head.' He shook his head. 'Explains why, when you had your pick of the prettiest girls in the ton, you never gave any one of them a second look.'

Luke grimaced. 'I couldn't have married any of those girls. They were babies.'

Rafe snorted. 'As opposed to your mature thirteen-year-old bride.'

'She was the same age as Molly, Rafe,' Luke snapped. 'Would you have left her unprotected in the mountains?'

Rafe had known Molly since Luke had brought him home as a lonely schoolboy. Chubby-cheeked toddler Molly had adored him on sight. Rafe shut his mouth.

'So why did you leave her in Spain?' Harry asked. 'Why didn't you send her home to your mother?'

'Because it wasn't supposed to be a permanent marriage,' Luke said, exasperated. 'It was just a temporary measure. I—we thought the marriage could be annulled later. And besides—' He broke off.

Harry twirled his brandy slowly in his glass. 'Besides, you thought you'd be killed before that happened.' He glanced at Rafe. 'We remember what you were like after Michael was killed.'

The fire hissed and crackled in the grate.

'This was before Michael died,' Luke said.

In the distance they could hear the clinking and clattering of crockery and silverware. Michael was the sunniest one of them all; bright, uncomplicated, the golden boy.

Luke forced his mind back to the present. 'I told my mother about Isabella this evening. She's not very happy about me leaving the country so soon before Molly's come-out—'

'I'm not surprised—' Rafe began.

'—so I told her she could call on you for any advice or assistance she and Molly might need. Escorting them to balls and routs, shopping, that sort of thing.'

Rafe struggled to hide an appalled look. 'Er, delighted to assist Lady Ripton, of course.'

Harry let out a crack of laughter. 'Haven't you heard how delightful Rafe's found the preparations for Ayisha's first London season? Endless discussion of silks and laces and bonnets and the intricacies of female what-have-yous.' He waved his hand to indicate reams of never-ending discussion. 'Rafe, my lad, you'll be in your element.'

Rafe sent Harry a black scowl. 'You and Nell should never have introduced Ayisha to Lady Gosforth. The woman lives to shop! She has even infected my sensible Ayisha.'

Harry chuckled. 'Force of nature, Aunt Gosforth.'

'Naturally I included you in the offer, Harry,' Luke said smoothly. 'You know how fond my mother is of you.'

Harry's grin slipped. 'Blast. You know I'm no good at all that society stuff.'

'But you'll do it.' It wasn't a question. He knew they would.

His friends sighed and nodded. Rafe refilled their glasses. 'There'll be a deal of talk about this marriage, you know,' he said. 'Could get ugly. You know they're betting on who'll be married first, you or Marcus.'

Luke grimaced. 'I know. I want you to put it about that I've been called away to Spain on an urgent estate matter— my uncle owned vineyards in the south of Spain, if you recall. No mention of any bride; just estate business.'

'Excellent notion,' Rafe declared. 'Then, when you return from Spain with a blushing bride on your arm, everyone thinks you two met, fell in love, and married in the space of a week or two.'

'Let the ton gossip about the whirlwind romance.' Harry nodded. 'I'll drink to that.'

They drank.

After a moment Rafe said, 'You do know, I suppose, that if you bring a Spanish bride home, every eligible female in the ton will want to claw her eyes out. I hope she's ravishingly pretty.'

Luke sipped his brandy. 'She's not. But she's a brave little soul. She'll manage.'



Luke's mother tossed and turned late into the night. Her son had always brought home strays and wounded creatures, from the first bird he found with a broken wing, to boys from school, like Harry and Gabe who had no family to go to, or Rafe whose father had no use for him and showed it. It was one thing to love your son for his kindness to wounded creatures; it was quite another to see him bound to one in the shackles of marriage. For the last four years she'd watched the young ladies of the ton simper and flirt and do all but throw themselves at Luke, seeing only his handsome face and, since his uncle died, his title. It hadn't worried her that Luke showed little interest. They were shallow creatures for the most part, not worthy of her beloved only son. This year she was confident she'd found several very pretty girls with character, the type of girls who would love Luke for himself. She'd been looking forward to introducing them. Now there was no point. She reached for the hot milk she'd ordered, but it was cold now with a nasty skin. She pushed it away. Her bed felt colder and emptier than ever. She'd never stopped missing Luke's father; never stopped reaching for him in the night and waking to find herself alone. The love of her life; she shouldn't complain. They'd had twenty of the happiest years together.

It was what she wanted for Luke, for all her children. A love to last a lifetime.

She pulled the covers around her and tried to sleep.

Luke and his friends had returned from the war heartsick and weary, yet imbued with a restlessness that caused them to perform feats of wild recklessness that were enough to make a mother's hair turn gray. Grayer.

Oh, Luke tried to hide them from her. He took care never to do anything in front of her that she might worry about, but still, she'd heard.

Luke's father had been just as wild as a young man, so she tried to be patient with her son and his friends. And when Luke and Rafe had those shocking curricle races, driving at those frightful speeds, she reminded herself to give thanks that at least they'd returned safely from the war. Even if they seemed bent on breaking their necks at home.

But one by one Luke's friends had married and, oh, it had done her heart good to see the lonely, unloved boys she'd once known grow to manhood and each fall in love with a woman who adored him in return. She'd watched as a deep inner certainty, a profound happiness, replaced their former restlessness.

She'd wanted desperately for her son to find the same.

But eight years ago one good deed had shackled him forever to a strange foreign girl; a girl who wanted to be married to Luke no more than he wanted her.

For her sake, and perhaps for the sake of this unknown girl, Luke had put the best possible face on it, but it was just like his racing. She knew he hadn't told her the whole story.

She had the deepest misgivings about this marriage.

Something dreadful had happened to Luke in Spain when he was a young lieutenant. His denial hadn't convinced her that it wasn't connected with this girl.

Her son was very good at hiding his feelings. Luke would make sure that no one—not his mother, nor his sisters, nor even his friends—would suspect a thing.

Gallant to the bone, he was, and proud, just like his father. He would rather die than let anyone know this foreign girl had—wittingly or unwittingly—trapped him in a loveless marriage. And that he was desperately unhappy.

Lady Ripton grieved.