Bride By Mistake by Anne Gracíe Page A

what to expect.” He took a breath and added, “And what
not
to 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.
    “No, you keep it.” He reached for her hand again and slipped the golden wedding ring onto her finger, and then, on impulse, he kissed the hollow of her palm.
    She shivered and snatched her hand back. “You don’t even know me.”
    “And yet we are married.”
    “Many marriages begin thus,” said her aunt from the entrance to the courtyard. “Your own parents’ marriage, for instance, Isabella.”
    “This is different,” Isabella said.
    “Indeed it is,” Luke agreed. “It is our marriage, and we will make of it what we will.” He patted her hand and left.
    I sabella knuckled her eyes fiercely. He’d been so
kind
. So
understanding
.
    She’d rather he’d
beaten
her. It would have been easier to bear than this…
    Humiliation scalded her.
    All her own fault. Because Isabella Ripton was stupid, stupid, stupid! Dreaming silly schoolgirl dreams instead of paying attention to what was really happening.
    She wished he hadn’t been so kind. It would have been so much easier if she could be angry with him, blame him. But he’d given her the protection of his name for the last eight years, and now it was time for her to pay that debt.
    He’d offered her a life of security, of contentment, and Reverend Mother was right—it was more than that. She’d take her place in English society. She’d have pretty dresses and go to parties and…
    She bit her lip. She didn’t care about dresses and parties.
    But that didn’t matter, she told herself. It was wrong for her to be sitting here filled with self-pity because she was married to a kind and handsome man, when poor Alejandra might be forced to marry a horrid old poxed
vizconde
. And the others might never marry at all.
    She was lucky. There were so many reasons why she should feel deliriously happy that Lord Ripton had come for her.
    A single tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She dashed it away. She was her father’s daughter and she would not weep over what could not be changed.
    She was not a child anymore to rail at fate. She was a woman and she would make her own happiness.
    T he small, scruffy boy appeared from nowhere again, as the convent gate shut firmly behind Luke.