you were the heir to a… ?”
“Barony. I had no expectations of it, but my uncle’s two sons drowned with him, and so the title and estates came to me.”
“Estates?” she inquired delicately, a reminder that however the marriage had been made, any alliance was still about blood and wealth. She was still Isabella’s aunt, after all.
Luke, however, had no intention of discussing it. “Suffice it to say I still have no need of Isabella’s fortune. How is she?”
“Isabella is well. Grown up. In two weeks’ time she will be twenty-one. She will, I am sure, be surprised to see you after all this time.” Said with an edge of acid.
Her tone annoyed Luke. He pulled out the letter he had received and broached the matter bluntly. “This letter denies my application for annulment. It says, ‘On information received by the Mother Superior of the Convent of the Angels.’ ” He slapped the letter on her desk. “Eight years ago you told me an annulment would be a straightforward arrangement.”
She fixed him with a steady gaze. “I did not know then that Isabella was no longer a virgin.”
Not a virgin?
Damn. The bastard must have got to her after all. Luke had been sure he’d saved her in time. Apparently not. His brows snapped together as another thought occurred to him. “Don’t tell me she—”
“No, there were no unfortunate consequences,” Mother Superior said in an austere tone. “Isabella herself told me of the attack—she had nightmares afterward, you see. But what’s done is done, and so…” She spread her thin-veined hands in a fatalistic gesture.
Luke nodded. “How did Isabella take the news?”
“Isabella is a lady by birth and training.”
In other words, Isabella was resigned to her fate, as he was. So be it.
The Mother Superior steepled her hands and rested her chin on the points of her fingers, peering down her long nose at him. “What are your plans, Lord Ripton?”
“We leave immediately for England.”
The elegant arched brows almost disappeared under the wimple. “Immediately?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he amended. She would need to pack, he supposed. But the sooner he was gone from this accursed country, the happier he’d be.
The nun inclined her head graciously. “Then this will be Isabella’s last night in the convent. We will hold a small farewell at dinner for her. You are, of course, invited.”
Silence lapsed. Luke drummed his fingers lightly on the desk.
Mother Superior eyed his fingers contemplatively. Luke stopped drumming.
Where the devil was Isabella? She was taking her time.
Mother Superior began to tell him about the history of the convent and the story behind the broken angel. She eyed him thoughtfully when he shifted restlessly for the third time.
Sitting still was not Luke’s forte. Nor were tales from a convent. At least not this kind.
The Mother Superior moved on to the subject of his bride. His
bride
.
“Isabella is a good girl, really. A little hotheaded and impulsive—her father was like that, too, as a boy. She will steady once she’s given adult responsibilities. That’s the trouble—she’s not suited to convent life. She’s not the contemplative sort.”
Nor was Luke. His gaze wandered the room. Lord, but he would have gone mad cooped up in this place for eight years.
He recalled Isabella’s sudden dread when he’d brought her here all those years ago. She’d panicked suddenly andbegged him again not to leave her there, to take her with him. Of course, it was impossible.
He remembered her as a battered little scrap, all big eyes and questions, his little baby bird. Had she grown into a swan in the last eight years? A man could only hope.
Eight years… Where had they flown? He still couldn’t believe she was now in truth going to be his wife. For the rest of their lives.
“And then there’s her sewing.” Reverend Mother paused, and Luke realized she was testing his concentration.
“Her sewing?” he prompted,
“Barony. I had no expectations of it, but my uncle’s two sons drowned with him, and so the title and estates came to me.”
“Estates?” she inquired delicately, a reminder that however the marriage had been made, any alliance was still about blood and wealth. She was still Isabella’s aunt, after all.
Luke, however, had no intention of discussing it. “Suffice it to say I still have no need of Isabella’s fortune. How is she?”
“Isabella is well. Grown up. In two weeks’ time she will be twenty-one. She will, I am sure, be surprised to see you after all this time.” Said with an edge of acid.
Her tone annoyed Luke. He pulled out the letter he had received and broached the matter bluntly. “This letter denies my application for annulment. It says, ‘On information received by the Mother Superior of the Convent of the Angels.’ ” He slapped the letter on her desk. “Eight years ago you told me an annulment would be a straightforward arrangement.”
She fixed him with a steady gaze. “I did not know then that Isabella was no longer a virgin.”
Not a virgin?
Damn. The bastard must have got to her after all. Luke had been sure he’d saved her in time. Apparently not. His brows snapped together as another thought occurred to him. “Don’t tell me she—”
“No, there were no unfortunate consequences,” Mother Superior said in an austere tone. “Isabella herself told me of the attack—she had nightmares afterward, you see. But what’s done is done, and so…” She spread her thin-veined hands in a fatalistic gesture.
Luke nodded. “How did Isabella take the news?”
“Isabella is a lady by birth and training.”
In other words, Isabella was resigned to her fate, as he was. So be it.
The Mother Superior steepled her hands and rested her chin on the points of her fingers, peering down her long nose at him. “What are your plans, Lord Ripton?”
“We leave immediately for England.”
The elegant arched brows almost disappeared under the wimple. “Immediately?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he amended. She would need to pack, he supposed. But the sooner he was gone from this accursed country, the happier he’d be.
The nun inclined her head graciously. “Then this will be Isabella’s last night in the convent. We will hold a small farewell at dinner for her. You are, of course, invited.”
Silence lapsed. Luke drummed his fingers lightly on the desk.
Mother Superior eyed his fingers contemplatively. Luke stopped drumming.
Where the devil was Isabella? She was taking her time.
Mother Superior began to tell him about the history of the convent and the story behind the broken angel. She eyed him thoughtfully when he shifted restlessly for the third time.
Sitting still was not Luke’s forte. Nor were tales from a convent. At least not this kind.
The Mother Superior moved on to the subject of his bride. His
bride
.
“Isabella is a good girl, really. A little hotheaded and impulsive—her father was like that, too, as a boy. She will steady once she’s given adult responsibilities. That’s the trouble—she’s not suited to convent life. She’s not the contemplative sort.”
Nor was Luke. His gaze wandered the room. Lord, but he would have gone mad cooped up in this place for eight years.
He recalled Isabella’s sudden dread when he’d brought her here all those years ago. She’d panicked suddenly andbegged him again not to leave her there, to take her with him. Of course, it was impossible.
He remembered her as a battered little scrap, all big eyes and questions, his little baby bird. Had she grown into a swan in the last eight years? A man could only hope.
Eight years… Where had they flown? He still couldn’t believe she was now in truth going to be his wife. For the rest of their lives.
“And then there’s her sewing.” Reverend Mother paused, and Luke realized she was testing his concentration.
“Her sewing?” he prompted,
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