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

by Liana De la Rosa

“Isn’t England supposed to be green? I didn’t expect London to be quite so . . . so gray.”

And Our Lady of Guadalupe knew there were no more difficult people than her sisters.

Two months at sea—first in a small skiff that delivered them from Veracruz in the black of night, then in a packet ship that stopped at Santo Domingo, followed by the very freighter they had just disembarked—had tested all of their resilience.

But more so than trading in their affluence for anonymity, it was the forced proximity that had proved the most trying for the sisters. For they were not close.

Constantly competing for scraps of affection and attention from their father had made them more antagonists than bosom friends,

“Even at her sickest, she wanted to read a book.”

As the studious, bluestocking sister, Isabel had shown herself to be happy only when surrounded by the written word.

As the eldest, Ana María had been held to completely different edicts than either of her sisters.

This was her chance to truly know her sisters and improve their relationships despite the ways their father had worked to undermine them.

A deep wave of homesickness engulfed her, and she blinked back tears.

But he was not here, and she had to secure their safety and comfort on her own.

They had escaped imminent danger when they’d fled Mexico City in the dead of night, with only the moonlight to illuminate their path, their gowns and corsets weighted with family treasures their maids had carefully stitched into the linings.

your mother as a girl, but you have her spirit. Puedo ver a mi hermana en tus ojos.”

All the air had been siphoned from her lungs, leaving a yawning emptiness inside of her.

She adored her mother, but was she truly like her? Always acquiescing? Always striving to make others happy at the expense of her own happiness?

The exquisite cut of her gown, the delicate Spanish lace that lined her bodice, and the tasteful elegance of her home were a testament to her wealth.

“You three will be wealthy Mexican ladies seeking refuge from the French occupation. There will be no reason for anyone to investigate your background . . . unless you plan to marry an English gentleman, I suppose.”

Repeating her father’s command brought her back to that moment of goodbye two months prior, when advancing Conservative and French troops forced Ana María from her mother and the only place she’d ever called home.

“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.”

Even the dim lighting could not hide their strained expressions, although Isabel was much more adept at hiding her contempt. She could imagine his threats to them were the same as the ones he’d uttered to her.

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.

She had long learned not to voice her discomfort. She dared not speak a word of her heartache at leaving her home or her mother, for no one cared.

their father had secured their escape from the country, not out of love or concern for their safety, but to protect his daughters in their capacity as broodmares he could marry off to secure political alliances.

“What I mean is that I now have three lovely, wealthy, intelligent heiresses to serve as goodwill ambassadors for Mexico.”

“What your uncle means is that you will accompany me to social events throughout the season. Balls, operas, boat races, garden parties, and all number of activities. Using what I am sure is your natural wit and charisma, Mr. Valdés hopes you will bolster the image of the Mexican people and show the British public that the French occupation is hurting citizens, like the three of you.”

“You will dress in your finest gowns, and you will laugh and charm every lady and gentleman you meet so the next time they read about how Napoleon the Third has claimed authority over the supposed Second Mexican Empire, the British public will remember the lovely Mexican heiresses they’ve come to know because they’ve cruelly been pushed from their home by the French.”

“Public perception is everything,”

“B-but,” Ana María breathed, her heart racing with panic, “our father will not approve.” “He will not . . . but...

For Ana María to willfully disobey her father was the most foreign concept she could imagine.

And perhaps by helping her countrymen, Ana María could learn a bit about herself while she did it.

Sliding her gaze to first Isabel and then Gabby, she glimpsed in their eyes the same longing, the same hope that was sparking like a newly lit candle in her chest.

Gideon had long since learned that politics was more about networking and forging alliances than it was about the actual governing that politicians were elected to do.

The sight made his stomach twist. Just two generations ago, his family were the ones in service—servitude—and now here he stood, in his fine black tailcoat, his shoes polished until they reflected his image. But unlike his ancestors, when he climbed those front steps, he would be welcomed as a guest.

His grandmother had looked up at the same sky when she had stolen aboard a freighter departing Charleston for London. If she could endure that awful voyage, he could certainly endure a grand ton ball.

Was he treated as an outsider because he believed himself to be one?

The whispers about his tawny-colored skin and dark eyes. About his imposing height. His childhood in Whitechapel. He may be a member of Parliament, but to many, he was still a grasping outsider.

But while Gideon may have had a humble start in life, his role models had been fierce.

Gideon tried to remember that when stiff smiles were directed at him, the owners’ gazes curious. Some critical.

Gideon enunciated the word Confederacy with so much disdain, he almost winced.

“If I accomplish anything during my time as an MP, let it be the absolute abolishment of the slave trade across the world.”

With Montrose adding his support to the cause, suddenly the idea of delivering a death blow to the transatlantic slave trade seemed possible.

Gideon did his best to hide his good mood, but it was hard not to gloat at the prospect of securing such a powerful ally.

“I insist you give me my due, sirrah. I’m certain that at least eighty percent of the words that fall from my lips on any given day are ridiculous. I don’t save my antics for you alone.”

ignoring the people who tried to snag his attention, mostly marriage-minded mamas as best as Gideon could gather.

He watched her, waiting for her to smile, but she never did.

“But then I’m certain she’s well aware of her loveliness.”

The lady in question did indeed appear aware of her charms, the slight curl of her pink lips as she listened to the swains about her a contradiction to the hard glint in her eyes.

a faux pas only a duke could be forgiven of.

Leaning on a column, Gideon sipped idly on his champagne for a time, taking in the festivities around him yet ignoring most of it.

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.