Her husband, the Marquess of Searle, had been hell-bent on dueling with Alessandro because he believed him responsible for his imprisonment by enemy soldiers. Alessandro had been leading a band of guerrilla soldiers against the French when he had been charged with taking Searle behind enemy lines. The men he had chosen for the incredibly difficult operation had been overtaken by the French themselves. Searle had been taken captive and tortured.
But after falling in love with Leonora, Searle had decided to abandon his quest for vengeance. Only, he had failed to inform Alessandro himself, instead relying upon his second, the drunken reprobate Duke of Montrose. Montrose had stood in Searle’s stead, and in the sotted state he had been in, waving a pistol, Alessandro had been given no choice but to be the first to inflict a wound.
“We will leave the past where it belongs,” he told his sister tightly as the dance came to a conclusion and Lady Catriona dropped into a pretty curtsy. “Thank you for helping to ensure my betrothed an entrée back into society.”
Though he wanted nothing to do with the pompous lords and ladies of thebeau monde, Lady Catriona would be remaining in England as his countess. He had no wish for her to suffer in his absence, nor did he want his heir raised in ignominy. Knowing she would have a staunch ally in Leonora pleased him.
“It is my pleasure,” Leonora said genuinely, for his sister had a heart as pure as an angel’s. “I am so pleased you are deciding to wed, Alessandro. I have missed you these past few years.”
Guilt pricked him. “I am not remaining in England for long,hermanita.”
But still, his gaze would not leave the graceful figure of his future countess across the chamber. Lady Catriona had a partner for the next dance as well, it would seem.Perdición.
“But you will have a wife,” Leonora protested, her voice steeped in disappointment.
“I will,” he acknowledged, “but that will not alter my intentions.”
He had not had the heart to tell her his stay in England was only predicated upon getting an heir on his wife. That he had every intention of returning to Spain—and the war—as soon as he could. He had known his sister would disapprove, and he wanted nothing more than to avoid exchanging words with her.
He loved Leonora far too much for that.
She was all he had left.
Until he had Lady Catriona.
But he did not have her yet. And she was currently smiling at yet another pallid, English fop. Resentment boiled within him. Old fears and feelings he had thought long banished returned.
“What do you mean having a wife will not alter your intentions?” Leonora demanded. “Alessandro! You cannot mean to return to Spain after you wed. Surely not.”
He forced his gaze back to his sister at last, knowing the irritation inside him would only swell to a dangerous crescendo if he continued watching his betrothed dance with other gentlemen. Gentlemen who would have been only too pleased to cut her, given her damaged reputation, before she had become his betrothed, and Leonora had launched a campaign to see Lady Catriona’s reputation restored.
The scandal tainting her was not gone completely, it was to be sure. But tonight was a beginning.
Leonora was frowning at him.
“Spain is where I belong,hermanita,” he said simply. “You know this.”
“You belong at your wife’s side,” she countered. “You cannot abandon her.”
He gritted his teeth. “She will not be abandoned. She will want for nothing as my countess. Her pin money will be more than generous, and she will have you and my heir as her family.”
“Your heir,” Leonora repeated. “Alessandro, if you have a child, you must remain.”
He had already had a child. But not even Leonora knew about Maria and Francisco.
He said nothing. On this, he would not be moved.
“Alessandro,” his sister prodded, condemnation dripping from her voice.
“All will be well,” he told her simply. “You shall see.”
In truth, nothing would ever be well, including Alessandro, again. But there was no point in dwelling upon that which could not be changed. His wife and son were buried beneath the red, Spanish clay. He had died along with them. The shell that remained, bitter and broken, would carry on. War was all that was left for him.
He knew how to fight. How to kill.
He had become a monster, and he knew it.
He was spared from making further conversation by the appearance of Leonora’s husband, the Marquess of Searle. They bowed to each other. The marquess’s expression was wary. And well it should be, for the bastard had used Alessandro’s sister as a pawn in his game of revenge. If it weren’t for Leonora’s gentle disposition and obvious love for Searle, Alessandro would have torn him limb from limb.
