Page 2 of Bride By Mistake
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,verywellborn—”
“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 snappedtogether.“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 meether?”
“In Spain, during the war.”
“During thewar?” 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 werenineteen?” She stared, her brow crumpled with bewilderment. “And all this time you never thought to tell me? Why, Luke? Why?”
