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

by Liana De la Rosa

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.

And Gideon feared any success he had found could be snatched away if he were to misstep. So while he enjoyed his evening chatting with Miss Luna—and she deserved all his smiles—Gideon could not afford to give her any more.

Gideon heard himself say, “I lost my parents when I was twelve. We were all felled by a fever, but I was the only one who survived.”

Gideon tried not to let the memories of his mother and father haunt him. They had very few tangible things to offer him as a boy, but they were rich in love, and they showered him with affection and praise.

“Everyone has a story of loss.”

“I’ve heard some members of the ton consider her a bit fast.”

“It’s rather unfair, don’t you think, that women are criticized for the very thing men do all the time.”

For Ana María knew that if her father learned she and her sisters were gallivanting about London, tasked with charming the very men who could choose to keep England out of Mexico, he would find a way to leave his hiding spot in El Paso del Norte and travel across the sea to collect them.

“Señor Avery seemed to believe cricket would be too much for my feminine sensibilities, so I told him of Mexico’s fascination with bullfighting.”

But do you not do the same thing? her mind whispered to her. Do you not hide your true passions under a veil of docile, feminine obedience?

“Señor Fox does not deserve such reproof.”

“It bothers me because I never would have expected you to court impropriety.” Isabel held her book so tightly in her hand, her knuckles showed white. “I never thought you the kind of woman to trifle with other men while in an agreement with another.”

“You like Señor Fox. It’s so obvious that you do, and I worry you are allowing it to cloud your judgment.”

“Dios mío, Isa, get off your high horse,” Gabby grumbled into the silence. “For all his solemnity, Señor Fox has been very amiable. He’s paid me more regard than Señor Ramírez ever did. Plus, he’s infinitely more handsome. His cheekbones make me want to cry, and those lips . . .”

“Do you think Señor Fox’s lips are as soft as they look? Like two feather-down pillows. I bet he’d whisper dirty words in your ear before he’d nibble across your jaw to claim—”

“The fact remains that Ana is here and Señor Ramírez is in Mexico.”

Fernando was not the man Ana María would have chosen for herself.

When he had announced that he had brokered a deal for her to marry Fernando—as if she were livestock he’d sold at auction—Ana María had almost been relieved to not have to wonder when she’d be married off.

waiting, had been unbearable. “And why shouldn’t Ana flirt with any man she chooses?”

Her muscles locked into place as warring emotions washed over her. Disappointment, shame, and embarrassment coiled in a ball in her chest, and Ana María dropped her gaze to the floor.

She thought of the letter to her mother, and wondered if she was brave enough to ask for instructions on how to hold her head high when one’s husband flaunted his affairs in front of all of society.

“Men will be men.”

The words were their mother’s, lessons she had dropped through their childhood and adolescence like bitter seeds . . . and the seedlings that sprouted had poisoned so much more than the sisters had realized.

“It shouldn’t be that way,” Gabby declared, tossing the newspaper on the ornate coffee table, her hazel eyes flashing. “Ana shouldn’t have to excuse such disrespect because Mother always did.”

“Fernando should want my respect—he should respect me—enough to end a relationship that intrudes upon our own.”

The word brought to mind Mr. Fox and the way his deep, dark eyes always considered her so keenly. As if every word that fell from her lips were interesting and smart and worthy of his undivided attention.

“Maybe it’s not my responsibility to hold him accountable. I’m to be his wife, not his mother.”

“Despite how it may seem, my allegiance is to you.”

“But regardless, I want you to be happy. And I’ve long known you could never be happy if you were not valued, and is there any greater sign of value than respect? And I respect you, Ana. More so now than ever before.”

Isabel was always so hard to read. Always an enigma, she’d given up trying to understand. So her words now were like the warmest embrace.

“I appreciate that you consider situations from a different perspective, and I’ve come to value your opinion . . . even when it stings.”

Ana María knew any mistake on their part could hinder Tío Arturo’s quest to earn British support. The urge to rebel, to revel in her newfound freedom, was not as strong as her desire to win international support for her countrymen.

No longer did he smile at her in that manner that made his dark eyes twinkle and her knees turn weak.

Ana María could not recall the last time she’d seen Isabel—her serious, bookish sister—so overcome with mirth she could not contain it. Which was a shame because Isabel had the most infectious laugh, and her toothsome smiles seemed to be illuminated from within.

“What I know is that the only reason you spotted the poultry wallpaper is that Señor Fox is seated against the wall.”

Since Mr. Fox had entered Lady Carole’s drawing room for the woman’s annual poetry reading, Ana María had been unable to think of much else.

Her gaze was drawn to him, over and over again, as if she were a moon snared in his orbit.

Since their names had been attached together in the paper, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her.

Every time his gaze met hers and quickly glanced away, every time his shoulders tensed when he heard her voice, and the way he politely excused himself whenever they found themselves in the same vicinity made her teeth clench and her nails dig into her palms.

Was she really such a pariah, so undeserving of even a few moments of his time? Never in her life had sh...

And despite his indifference, Ana María couldn’t stop t...

“He avoids you because he is a politician who must act in a manner that benefits him politically, and he does not benefit from an association with you.”

“You’re charmed by him because he doesn’t treat you as some exotic doll he can attach his fantasies to.” “He’s also handsome. Don’t forget that detail.”

“We’ve been taught since birth to seek the approval of men, and it’s a hard lesson to relinquish.”

“I may find men bothersome overall, but I am not ignorant of their charms.”

“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.”

It was no secret that Gabriela was of a fiery disposition, but seeing her orate—no, perform—a poem, solely in Spanish, was like watching a thunderstorm in all its ferocity.

If Lady Emily experienced one-tenth of the humiliation she attempted to bring down upon Isabel Luna, Gideon felt justice had been served.

Hearing her voice after weeks of depriving himself was like taking in a full gulp of air; his lungs rejoiced at being filled, and his blood sang.

“If I were to laugh at anything, it would have been at Lady Emily’s face when you asked when she would perform.” A gentle smile curled Isabel’s lips. “Thank you, señor.”