Improper Wager
Scandalous Encounters
by Kristabel Reed
Copyright © 2015 by Kristabel Reed
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter One
Milan, Italy
May 1817
“Merciless animals stalk and devour their prey,” Isabella Harrington muttered. She watched a large, ragged dog slip down an alleyway across from her townhouse. He was surely hunting and some poor creature would soon meet its end.
Isabella now understood just how merciless Manning Bradford, like the wild dog, had truly been. He’d left her injured and beaten. If not in body then in spirit and heart.
His vicious words still taunted her, and when he left her, alone in a foreign city, only then had she seen that she’d never been his love. She was simply, always, his prey.
The lesson had been hard learned and hard lived.
But that lesson also taught her, prepared her, to relinquish the young girl Isabella had been for the woman who refused to allow the mistake of loving Manning Bradford to define her life.
The bracelet pinched her left wrist. She’d fastened it too tightly. Again. Isabella pushed and pulled the offending gold and peridot adornment but refused to loosen it. No, she wore it to serve as her reminder, a reminder of the man who gave the piece she once considered beautiful, but now saw as a testimonial to her own weakness.
Thirteen months since he’d left. Thirteen months living alone. The man she’d trusted with her future, her life, gone.
Loneliness and hurt clung to her like the stench of cheap tallow candles clung to her parlor walls. Isabella wanted nothing more than to be able to go back to her youthful self and choose differently.
She’d spent months wrenching herself free of the muck and mire. Months wallowing in self-pity, but needing to survive.
Survive was all she’d done.
The pungent scent of lemon oil permeated the front parlor, almost but not quite strong enough to hide the tallow used in their candles. The mixture of lemon and tallow made her stomach churn.
Turning from the window, she let the curtains fall and quickly crossed her small parlor to the nook beside the fireplace and retrieved the bottle of lemon oil. Isabella splashed some onto the rag and, with an energy born of nerves, wiped down the mantle.
She pressed hard into the wood, moving the rag over it again and again, trying to wipe her mind clear from her past as she did so. She rubbed the oil into the wood until only the scent of fresh polish filled the room. Until her stomach calmed and the sickening scent of tallow faded.
Just as she’d done the day she realized she hadn’t enough money to live out the month, as she realized she’d nowhere to go, as she’d forced herself out of bed to wash away the tears she’d shed over Manning, now Isabella forced herself to take the next step forward.
She ignored the nerves dancing through her, squashing them until all that remained was her pride, her determination, and her will to not merely survive, but to thrive. This was her fresh start, and she’d not allow anyone to hold her back, not any longer.
The front door creaked open and she heard, her one manservant, Nicolo usher her guest into the foyer.
This was it, the first step in reclaiming her life and in putting the mistakes of her youth behind her. Isabella nearly laughed at that — she’d experienced more in the previous two years than most young women of her stature experienced in their entire lives.
And she would create a life where she held her head high with pride and dignity against all the gossips and vicious stories. End this cold and lonely existence.
Isabella smoothed a hand down her gown. With her chin high, as regal as her respectable upbringing taught her, she watched Mrs. Camilla Primsby enter the sparsely furnished parlor. Mrs. Primsby was the tool Isabella planned to use as her reintroduction to proper society. She was well known for her successful — and more importantly discreet — matches.
So much so that at no small expense, won from many nights spent at the Milanese gaming tables, Isabella sent for Mrs. Primsby. If she were to polish her tarnished reputation, to salvage what was left of it, she needed someone of Mrs. Primsby’s esteem.
Still, she found it difficult to trust her future to such an unknown quality. Isabella had heard much about the renowned matchmaker before she’d left London. However, Isabella had spent the last thirteen months and ten days trusting no one save herself.
“Signora Primsby,” Nicolo announced with a bow.
“Grazie, Nicolo.” She smiled to the butler and asked in her now-flawless Italian, “Would you please see to tea?”
Nicolo nodded and retreated. Isabella gestured to the settee, worn but spotless, for Mrs. Primsby to take a seat.
She had expected judgment over the condition of her furniture; however, there was none in Mrs. Primsby’s reserved gaze. The other woman was well dressed and, while slightly older, still possessed the flush of youth and beauty. Mrs. Primsby watched Isabella a moment, holding herself aloof.
Isabella understood that and waited, assessing the other woman as she did so as well. Mrs. Primsby’s light brown eyes held hers, measuring her. Isabella wondered what the matchmaker saw but did nothing to reveal any emotion.
Mrs. Primsby smiled gently as she sat on the edge of the settee. She gave a quick nod, as if finding favor in her assessment. “For this to be successful,” the other woman said without any opening pleasantries, “there must be trust between us.”
Did she see Isabella as prey, as Manning had? Was she here simply for the money and to travel to Milan? Mrs. Primsby’s words had been so precise — almost too precise. Were they sincere?
Sitting opposite the other woman in a lone chair by the banked fireplace, Isabella set her hands on her lap. She wanted to raise an eyebrow at the matchmaker’s words, but kept her face impassive.
“Trust is a valuable and rare commodity.”
Offering a small, somewhat knowing smile, Mrs. Primsby said, “Your parents have done a decent job of it. Of explaining your absence from their home.”
Isabella didn’t wince at her words. She’d carefully trained herself during the last year to show no emotion whatsoever. Not even when so blatantly faced with the truth of her situation.
“But rumors persist,” she continued with a dark, pinpoint stare.
Her mother would, of course, lie. Not for Isabella’s benefit, but for her own. Though she held no faith her parents wanted to help her now.
“I am aware,” Isabella agreed, her voice cool and steady. “I’ve done my best to keep my departure from England uneventful. However, vicious gossip will do as it will.”
“It’s best if we speak plainly between us.” Mrs. Primsby, gaze never flinching, waited while Rafella, Isabella’s sole maid, served tea.
From the corner of her eye, Isabella saw the hard look her maid s
ent her way. The one that warned her not to give the matchmaker a difficult time.
“It’ll make our work simpler,” Mrs. Primsby finished once Raffella left the parlor.
Bristling at such implied intimacy, Isabella stiffened. At the other woman’s knowing gaze, she narrowed her own. She’d spent the time since Manning’s abrupt departure tamping down on every emotion she had. This woman’s desire to speak bluntly scraped along her nerves.
“I can see you’re a proud woman,” Mrs. Primsby said easily. “And clearly a resourceful one.”
She sipped her tea. “If you’re determined to start afresh,” Mrs. Primsby continued, “we must not play games with this matter but approach it directly.”
Isabella allowed her lips to quirk just the slightest bit. She wanted to be reserved and run round this matchmaker with words and subtlety. However, she hired the woman knowing her profession — specifically because of her profession.
She prepared herself for this conversation; however, the bluntness of Mrs. Primsby surprised Isabella. The matchmaker was correct, of course. She’d be as honest as necessary to acquire her goal.
Isabella needed to work with her in order to achieve what she desired.
“I can be very good at games,” Isabella said coyly, leaning forward slightly. Straightening, she nodded. “But I understand your point.”
Setting her teacup on the small table, Mrs. Primsby kept her gaze on Isabella. “When your name is mentioned, there’ve been a number of stories associated with it. I’ve heard you’ve been abducted by highwaymen.”
Her eyebrow raised in amusement and humor Isabella shared but did not show. “Or have run off with a performance group.” Mrs. Primsby leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “I’ve even heard you’re helping estranged family cousins in the Americas.”
But then she leaned back, her eyes serious now. She seemed softer, and Isabella hated that. The pity. “Some rumors have come perilously close to the truth.”
Isabella’s eyes widened. She’d been so careful not to tell anyone the truth. To leave London in the dead of night, with only a note to her parents. Knowing her mother, Alison Harrington, would never utter a word of such scandalous actions, if only to protect herself.
Of course, rumors that bore a resemblance to the truth were bound to circulate, even with her careful planning.
Not that Isabella had cared all that much about rumors and scandal. Not then.
“That you left England with a lover,” Mrs. Primsby confirmed. She leaned forward, as if they truly were the closest of friends sharing confidences. “Were you wed to the boy?”
“Must we speak of this?” Isabella demanded stiffly. “It is of no import.” She paused and shook her head. “No. There was no marriage.” She confessed the truth to this woman, who she’d only just met, and in contrast to what she’d told the Milanese establishment for the last year.
As far as anyone in Milan knew, Manning died.
Mrs. Primsby nodded to herself as if she accepted the explanation, and picked up her teacup. “Explanations as to your absence need to be decided on. The rumor you went to the Americas with your cousins may be part of it.”
She paused and gazed evenly at Isabella. “But the gossip mill had it wrong — it wasn’t the America’s but here on the Continent. For these last months, I have been your chaperone.”
Isabella tilted her head, partly in confusion and partly at the lies themselves. She’d given very little thought to lying about her whereabouts — had planned to simply ignore any gossip, refuse to address it.
“Is that feasible?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Primsby answered decisively. “I’ve been privately traveling these last months. No one will question my word.”
Surprised, Isabella nodded. She didn’t question the other woman; it truly was none of her business. But Isabella was pleased Mrs. Primsby thought of such details when she had not.
“Often, the devil truly is in the details, my dear,” Mrs. Primsby added. She paused again and set her teacup down. “Now then. I’ve invited a prospect for you to Milan.”
Blinking in surprise, Isabella felt her façade falter for a moment. She’d thought she might have to return to England for any prospects. Return and face the rumors and censure before beginning her new life.
Never that one traveled to Milan.
“It’s my understanding you frequent the theatre here, specifically the opera?” Mrs. Primsby asked, but Isabella knew she’d already known.
Nodding, she agreed. “The gaming hall is adjacent.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” Mrs. Primsby offered a small smile. “And it was wise of you to limit your exposure to the more reputable establishments.”
Wise of her? Anger flushed through her, and only through months of practice did Isabella not snap at the other woman. She’d done that, gambled and gamed with any who dared, because she had to. Needed to solely to survive.
Isabella nodded coolly to the other woman, though she had a feeling she wasn’t as successful in keeping her emotions private as she liked.
“You’ll meet him at the opera in two days,” Mrs. Primsby announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Standing, more to release the coiled tension beating through her than any true desire to once more gaze out the window, Isabella nodded.
This meeting was part of her plan. She needn’t become angry with a matchmaker she’d hired for doing her job because she knew painful parts of her past and asked uncomfortable questions.
“Who is this man?” she asked in that same cold voice, emotions once more tamped down. Out of sight.
“The Duke of Strathmore,” Mrs. Primsby said, very primly and matter-of-factly.
Isabella whirled around, too stunned to keep her surprise in check. After the year she survived, she hadn’t thought anything could astonish her.
She’d been wrong.
“A duke?” Isabella blinked at the now-smug Mrs. Primsby. She allowed the other woman her moment; it was well earned. “How is this meeting even possible?”
“Strathmore is a particular sort,” she said, as if on intimate agreement with the man. Her smugness hadn’t abated. “He enjoys bucking society. And it’d be just his humor to return to England with you as his duchess.”
Isabella didn’t like that he’d find her predicament humorous. She saw nothing humorous in her quandary whatsoever. Did that matter? Did her feelings on his reasons for marrying her matter?
No.
What mattered was his amenability to such an arrangement. What mattered was his agreement to wed her. On her terms.
That was all that mattered, was it not?
Returning to England as a duchess would quell any and all rumors about her abrupt departure from her country nearly two years ago. Returning as a duchess would quell all gossip.
No wonder the woman held the reputation she did. She turned a considering gaze on Mrs. Primsby and gave a sharp nod of approval.
Elegant and considering, Mrs. Primsby rose from the settee. “I’m pleased you approve.” She swept her gaze over the blue cotton day gown. Small white flowers embroidered the skirt. The gown was this season and impeccably kept.
“Now we must discuss your approach to the duke.”
Tilting her chin, Isabella looked down her nose at the slightly taller woman. “I’m fully schooled on proper etiquette.”
Mrs. Primsby sniffed. “You’re not hoping to turn a man’s head at a country ball.” She waved a hand out the window, where the afternoon sun shone down on the busy street. “Or entice one of these Milanese merchants. To do that, you would not need my services.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly not intimidated by Isabella. “This man is a duke, and you want more from him than a backroom affair.”
Taken aback by the forceful words of the other woman, Isabella slowly nodded. She needed Mrs. Primsby to get out of Milan and back to where she belonged.
Isabella gave a quick nod. “Agreed.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Primsby said smoothly. She gathered her reticule and started for the door. “I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll begin in earnest.”
The smile Mrs. Primsby gave was open and true, one Isabella expected from a close childhood friend. The smile made Mrs. Primsby look as if she truly wanted to help. For a moment, Isabella wondered how a woman like this matchmaker, and one not as old as Isabella imagined, came to be so very skilled at her work.
Nicolo saw Mrs. Primsby out. In the parlor of a house where she’d once been happy, Isabella stood still and listened to the door close with a decisive click.
If she were a fanciful woman, she’d believe this to be a joyous turning point in her life. However, her fancifulness had deserted her along with her passion and joy. They were too painful, too easily shattered.
Tears stung her eyes. Refusing to let them fall, Isabella blinked them away. She’d cried enough for Manning and all they’d once shared in this small house.
She should’ve listened to her mother — even if her mother’s desires were ill placed. As strict and unforgiving as Alison Harrington had been, still was, she’d been right about Manning.
Isabella had given her heart to Manning, her entire being. She’d thought it’d last forever, what they shared. Even though he hadn’t married her in London, that hadn’t mattered. Their affair had been passionate and zealous, and she’d immersed herself in it with every ounce of her youthful naivety.
Then he’d broken all her dreams, destroying all they’d built together. He’d abandoned her in Milan, left her with naught more than a note. She’d fallen for a handsome face and a uniform; she’d wagered he’d never leave her. That he’d always love and want and protect her.
That’d been her fool’s wager.
Once, she’d been inexperienced and didn’t understand one could feel such deep pain and still continue to breathe. Then again, once she’d thought herself in love.
She wandered back to the chair and sat, picking up her now-cold tea. She could either dwell on the past — the pain and the anger, the hopelessness and the fear — or she could move onward.
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 1