Ana María and the Fox (The Luna Sisters, #1)

by Liana De la Rosa

For the eldest daughters, who work so hard and do so much. I see you. I am you.

Ana María missed the warm sun on her skin, the taste of a tortilla fresh off the comal, the soft melodies her tía Susana coaxed from her guitarra on balmy summer nights. She ached for the feel of her mother’s fingers threading through her hair, her nails scouring her scalp and soothing her anxieties.

“And do not think that because you’re off on the other side of the Atlantic that you need not honor your engagement to Señor Ramírez.”

After twenty-four years as the eldest daughter of Señor Elías Luna Cuate, Ana María knew better than to expect love and affection to fall from his lips, even in farewell.

“However, having you three here will make my work easier, I believe.” “How so?” Gabby voiced for them all. “What I mean is that I now have three lovely, wealthy, intelligent heiresses to serve as goodwill ambassadors for Mexico.” Ana María’s thoughts froze even as sweat trickled down her spine. “You want us to . . . to be goodwill ambassadors? How would we do that when we’re supposed to be discreet?” “Very simply put, you won’t be.” The sisters gasped in unison.

Dropping his head, Gideon took in Sebastian Brooks, the Duke of Whitfield. The man was just a year or two older than Gideon’s eight and twenty years, and they had fallen into an easy friendship for all that they were different. Whitfield, the urbane, witty, arrogant duke who commanded attention wherever he went and couldn’t bother to vote his seat; and Gideon, an upstart who strived for power and wanted still more to create change for others. But Gideon appreciated the other man’s bluntness, and the advice he’d provided as Gideon ventured into high society had proven invaluable. Skulk, indeed.

Curious, Gideon turned to consider one of the women Whitfield had identified. She was young, not long out of the schoolroom, he imagined. With her rich mahogany hair and enticing hazel eyes she was undoubtedly pretty, a fact emphasized by the group of fawning young men who surrounded her. He watched her, waiting for her to smile, but she never did. “She’s quite the lovely bird,” Whitfield murmured, his deep tone containing a note of interest. Gideon shot him a glare. “That’s no way to speak of a lady.” “Touché,” the duke agreed, his gaze steady on the young woman in the green gown. “But then I’m certain she’s well aware of her loveliness.”

All pretenses of aloofness dissipated when an effervescent laugh had him turning his head, seeking out the source before he knew what he was about. Gideon’s skittering gaze landed on her with the force of a cannon blast. She was flanked by guests, like a sun in the center of the universe.

She was dressed in magenta, the fabric embroidered with exotic flowers in gold thread, blossoms he suspected flourished in her homeland. The brilliant color set off her luminous tan skin and accentuated her every enticing curve. Brindled brown eyes twinkled in amusement as she listened to the chattering man next to her, her body turned toward him as if she were genuinely interested in what he had to say.

“Do you suppose anything outside of Europe is incapable of beauty and culture and art? That only British history, European history, is worth knowing? As if the greatness of the British Empire, the Spanish Empire . . . the Roman Empire . . . weren’t built on the backs of those they stole from. Those they pillaged from, all while they claimed to be civilizing the native people.”

What it hadn’t prepared her for was the sting that lanced her when the most captivating man she’d ever set eyes upon had simply acknowledged her with a nod before disappearing back into the crowd. Ana María had seen him approach, his expression placid but his obsidian eyes fervent as they considered her and her new group of friends. His dress attire had been austere, with no embellishments aside from a crisp white cravat tie, but she supposed such things would have been overshadowed by the harsh beauty of his face.

Gasping for breath, Ana María rolled over and stared up at the cerulean sky, wondering how her day had turned so unpleasant. “Are you injured, miss?” A familiar face loomed over her. With his onyx eyes and striking face, this man had inconveniently plagued her thoughts since the night before. Her mouth gaped when she realized he cradled Dove against his broad chest.

“Many people we know are hoping President Lincoln and the Union are successful, especially as they fight to grant freedom to enslaved Africans. And seeing as how African people were also stolen and trafficked to Mexico by the Spanish, many members of Mexican society have African antecedents, so we share an affinity.”

And then he heard it. Gideon had doubted he would be able to hear her laughter above the din, but it floated to him through the noise, and Gideon’s seeking gaze finally found her. She wore a stunning shade of green. It was the color of lush verdant valleys, the bodice trimmed with delicate blond lace, which contrasted gloriously with her warm, tawny skin. Cream-colored roses were nestled in her ebony tresses, a crown on her beauty.

He’d grown used to the colors of the season, yet on Miss Luna, those shades were brighter and more vivid. She was so . . . so . . . alive, and Gideon could not look away.

“Miss Luna, buenas noches. Cómo está?” Gideon asked in halting Spanish, his gaze locked with hers and uncaring for Lord Simon’s presence. A grin lit her face. “Señor Fox, I was unaware you knew Spanish.” “I doubt I can claim to know it when I use it in such a horrific way,” he said, unable to keep a matching smile from his lips. “Not horrific at all.” She sank into a curtsy, which wobbled as she rose. “No one has tried to converse with us in our home language, and mi corazón hurts to hear it.”

It took him several moments to realize that his partner was struggling to keep up with the pace he set for their waltz, her eyes large and her hand holding tightly to his shoulder as she attempted to regain her balance. Holding back a sigh, Gideon slowed, tucking Miss Luna a bit closer to his chest. For support, of course. Her head barely reached his chin, but with his hand on her waist and her palm pressed against his, Gideon was overwhelmed by a sense of rightness.

“So because they were from Spain, they occupy a higher caste?” “That and because they are related to some of the richest, most influential families in Spain. Even now, my mother’s surname carries great weight.”

“Where does humble fall on the Mexican hierarchy, then?” A small, sad smile curved her lips. “My father’s people are Mexico. Like the maguey or águila or even the great mountain Popocatépetl. Long before the Spanish burned and pillaged their villages, and imposed Catholicism upon them, the Purépecha have lived and prospered in Mexico, and yet they are treated with derision.”

Her words washed over him. So much of what Gideon had learned about Miss Luna’s family explained what he saw in her. Her fierce pride. Her resiliency. Her poise and grace.

“And my future husband is welcome to share his opinion when he’s locked his chain about my finger and his surname around my neck.”

“You’ve never had alcohol?” Gabby’s expression turned impish. “Not even a gulp of tequila to celebrate el Día de la Independencia?” “Of course not,” she sputtered. “Have you?” Isabel snorted while Gabby threw her hands wide. “Sí. Many times.” Ana María’s gaze darted between her sisters, who stared back with exasperation. “Siempre tan perfecta,” Isabel murmured, but there was no ire in her words. “Not anymore it seems. And the worst part is that the only reason I even knew what had happened was that Señor Fox told me.” She moaned, dropping her head to her chest. “He strikes me as an honorable man, Ana. Surely he told you out of concern rather than mockery,” Isabel said gently.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Gabby patted the back of her hand. “And you are different . . . you were borracha at the ball, and I am immensely proud of you.”

And she would keep laughing, because, Dios mío, she had earned that right, and she would not allow anyone to tell her to stop.

A smile stretched his lips when he spied the familiar blond head of his friend Captain Sirius Dawson. He wasn’t aware the captain was even in town, and Gideon made a mental note to look for Dawson next time he visited their club.

Gabby raised a shoulder. “He’s just so serious. At the Richardsons’ soiree, I don’t think I saw him smile once.” Her brows drew together. “Although he was with the Duke of Whitfield, so that might be the reason.” “Perhaps you didn’t give him a reason to smile at you.” “That’s nonsense. I give everyone a reason to smile . . . even when I wish that they would go to el infierno.” “Traviesa,” Ana María huffed before returning her gaze to the stage.

“What I mean,” she began, mirth curling her lips, “is that Mexicans, like their Spanish ancestors, have a fascination with crass sports. Bullfighting, for example.” “Bullfighting?” Mr. Avery whispered. Ana María nodded. “Of course. If we are to speak of aggressive, barbaric sports, one cannot exclude bullfighting.”

Miss Effia Assan was the finest investigative journalist in the realm, for all that her detractors liked to comment that she was a woman. But upon their first meeting, Gideon had recognized a kindred spirit; a Black woman making her way in a world determined to squelch her ambitions and remind her of her place every chance it got. He had no doubt that Miss Assan would give MP Chambers, and his deplorable letter, the treatment it deserved.

Heaven knew that he had to work twice as hard for an ounce of the success he’d earned, because for some of his colleagues, he would always be an overreaching Black man from the East End.

The bacon and occasional rashers of sausage that made an appearance were always cause for silent celebration, but she still longed for fresh, zesty salsa to liven her eggs or vanilla bean for her porridge.

“Indeed.” The duke drummed his fingers on his forearm. “Miss Isabel is wearing blue, which I must say looks striking against her dark skin.” “Miss Isabel is quite striking all on her own,” Gideon murmured. “And Miss Luna could probably wear any color, although I do prefer this primrose color she’s wearing now.” “She’s not wearing primrose.” Gideon realized his mistake when Whitfield’s lip curved up. Damn it.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” The duke raised a brow. “It’s obvious to anyone who knows you that you want to.” “You’re the only one who knows me, Whitfield.” “Oh, that’s right.” His friend tugged on his lapels. “You really should make new friends.”

Without thought, Gideon grasped her hand, his thumb skating over her knuckles. Ana María gasped, but returned his tight grip. “I assure you, no matter what they may say, no one is immune to your charms.” And Gideon squeezed her hand in his, for once uncaring of who saw.

“Ladies, it is a pleasure and a bit of a surprise to see you here today,” the blond-haired man said as he bowed his greeting to them. His name came to her in a flash. “Capitán Dawson,” she murmured, sinking into a curtsy. “We are merely two young ladies of a curious nature hoping to learn about a curious subject.” He was handsome, Ana María noted as she observed Captain Dawson furrow his brow as he considered his response. She appreciated a man who thought before he spoke.

Ana María did her best to hide her surprise by coughing into her hand, but Captain Dawson remained focused on her sister, his expression changing from cordial regard to teasing flirtation in one blink of his striking eyes. “Are you worried my handsome face will corrupt you, Miss Isabel?” Taking a step forward, her sister chuckled. “You presume much, Capitán Dawson. I don’t believe I ever said you were handsome.”

Ana María was awed to learn nature contained more nuances than she had ever realized or been given the time to consider. She’d been taught to think in terms of black and white, right or wrong, all while her father routinely acted in shades of gray. But listening to Mr. Darwin hypothesize how mockingbirds in the Galápagos had changed and adapted to environmental conditions made her realize how, in essence, she had done the same. She, Isabel, and Gabby had arrived in England with very rigid orders on their shoulders, but in their new environment, they were changing. Adapting. Evolving, perhaps.

Mr. Fox made a sound in the back of his throat that Ana María thought might signify agreement. “When I first read On the Origin of Species and realized that it was possible my existence was a result not of divine creation but rather because creatures had evolved slowly over generations, I was flabbergasted.” “That is the perfect way to describe how I am feeling at this moment.” She folded the program in her hands, smoothing her finger over it until there was a crisp crease. “The thing is, I don’t doubt that this is exactly how things evolved for other animals b—” “But not for humans,” Mr. Fox interjected, with an understanding nod. “Exactly.” She added another fold to the program. “Scripture says we were created in God’s image, but how can that be possible if we’re just evolved apes?” “Well, if you must know, I’m certain several members of Parliament have not evolved much past our supposed ape ancestors.”

Pulling a handkerchief from his coat, Mr. Fox coughed into it, before neatly folding it and putting it away. She noticed it was a simple square of cotton, with no embellishments or initials stitched into the material. Her fingers suddenly twitched with the desire to do just that for him. To stitch a G and an F into the cloth, as a sign that someone valued him enough to gift him something pretty. Ana María suspected Mr. Fox had been on his own so long that he’d grown used to the utilitarian, and such details were beneath his notice. Ana María ached to give him a reason to notice beautiful things again.

Her heart slammed against her ribs so forcefully that Ana María was certain Mr. Fox would see how her frame vibrated from the impact. Hypnotized by his gaze, she searched her memory for a time someone—anyone—had ever looked at her as he did now. As if she were fascinating. Intelligent. Beautiful.

“Not everyone prizes light skin,” Gabby hissed, stomping her foot. “Isabel’s features, including her dark skin, are gifts from our people. Of those who lived and breathed and loved for hundreds of years since before the world knew it as Mexico, and were never defeated by the Tenochca Empire.” She flung a hand out at Isabel. “Her bronze skin was worn by warriors. By survivors. To bleach it away because of some grotesque beauty standard would be a cruel sin.”

What’s ridiculous is that people think if you somehow look like everyone else, you’ll be beautiful. But that’s boring.” She squeezed Isabel’s hand. “And you’re anything but boring, Isa.”

But when he saw her, she was all he could see. Her sisters who stood by her side, the guests who flanked them as they issued their greetings, were all part of the void. Faceless, unimportant figures blotted out by the sheer brightness of Ana María’s presence.

And when her gaze met his, her pink lips tilting up into a secret smile, his goddamned heart soared. For that shy smile was meant only for him.

“I am quite glad to see you will be a guest along with us this fortnight, Señor Fox.” She paused, darting her gaze about. “But do tell me, is His Grace with you?” Gideon barely contained his snort. “Whitfield will not be in attendance. He is busy hunting with our friend Captain Dawson.” Isabel stiffened in the corner of his eye. “And does Captain Dawson live close by?” “His estate is about a three-hour ride from here.” Gideon’s mouth quirked. “Is that too far or too close?” “Much too close and not far enough.” “I concur, Isa dear,” Gabby drawled.

A gasp caught in her throat, but before Ana María could respond, Mr. Fox had his hands on her waist, his long fingers dipping into her flesh. Even through her corset and stays, his palms were hot to the touch, and she closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment to simply relish the feel of his hands on her.

A tremulous smile pulled on her lips. “The mountains. The snow-capped Popocatépetl.” “What is Popo-cat-é-petl?” he asked, his careful pronunciation dancing across the back of her neck. “It’s a volcano. Popocatépetl is a name in náhuatl that means ‘smoking mountain.’ ” Ana María swayed slightly until she felt the ghost of his chest against her back. “There is a Mexica myth that says the mountain was once a young warrior who ventured out of the city to visit the grave of his beloved. The gods took pity on the grieving man and turned him into a mountain, covering him with snow.” “So he could be with his loved one forever?” Ana María shivered as his breath caressed her cheek. “I suppose.”

“Have you noticed that many myths, no matter which culture they originate from, focus on love or loss or revenge?” Gideon rested his chin on the crown of her head. “Why are humans so consumed with the three?” “Because they remind us we’re alive.”

He stared down at her now, his bottomless onyx eyes trailing over her face as if her features were a map to some long-sought destination. And when his gaze landed on her mouth, her lips fell open as her tongue darted out to wet them. “Señorita Luna”—her name was a growl—“I should very much like to kiss you.” Ana María took a step closer to him, daring to wrap her hands around the hem of his coat. “And I would very much like it if you did.” His mouth hitched up at the corner for a second before he mashed his lips together in a determined slash. With slow movements, he brought his hands—his deliciously bare hands—up to cradle her face, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones in reverent strokes, before he slowly, ever so slowly, brought his mouth down to meet hers.

Stroking his knuckles down her cheek, he kissed her temple, inhaling deeply of her scent. “You are an amazing woman, Miss Luna, and you deserve the world. And that’s the crux.” “It is?” she whispered. He hummed. “Because I’m not free to give it to you.”

“I’m not asking for the world, Señor Fox.” She adjusted the fall of his cravat, and then settled her palm over where his heart thundered in his chest. “I’m simply asking for another kiss.” His eyes went wide, but he didn’t hesitate to acquiesce, lowering his head to capture her lips with his own. Ana María sighed into his touch, his lips and hands drowning out the fruitless warnings that sounded in the back of her mind. For there would be time to mourn what could not be, and it was not now. Now was for indulging in the impossible.