“May I escort you to our wedding bed?” Strathmore offered his arm again, and they ascended the wide staircase and walked slowly down the hallway.
The curtains were wide open, and sunlight streamed in across the carpet runner. Outside was a lovely day, but it meant nothing to Isabella.
Neither spoke, though the silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. It simply was, and when they reached the bedroom, Strathmore led her inside. The bed was turned down, and the room smelled of roses.
Clearly the staff had spared no effort for their duke’s marriage.
Isabella took a deep breath and turned to face him. Did he want to undress her? Or did it not matter to him, and he wished to wait until she was properly attired in the traditional bridal garments?
Looking around, she was startled to discover they were in his bedroom. The dark wood and ornately carved furnishing could be no place else. The wallpaper was a forest green edged with gold, and brocade curtains hung alongside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Strathmore crossed to the door again and locked it, but left the key in the lock. She understood the precaution, and anticipation fluttered through her. Isabella licked her lips and met Strathmore’s gaze.
She backed up until she reached the bed, but paused before she sat on the edge. He followed her, not crowding her, but mirrored her moves and now stood before her.
“We must consummate this marriage to make our union legal.” Strathmore’s voice dropped and now flowed over her like a warm caress. “It is a necessity.”
His hand cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping over the skin there. Isabella suppressed a shiver and met his gaze even as his fingers trailed over the sensitive side of her neck.
“A pleasurable necessity, I hope,” he whispered.
His hand brushed over her shoulder, and Isabella stiffened. She hadn’t meant to, but it’d been so long since a man had touched her in any way resembling passion. Or maybe she was simply more nervous than she admitted, even to herself.
“There’s no need to fear me,” Strathmore whispered, imperceptibly closer now. “We’re now husband and wife, and by the time of our ceremony in England, we’ll truly be united. There won’t be much that could break this union.”
She licked her lips again and watched the way his gaze followed the movement. Did he mean that? This wasn’t a love match; far from it. Affectionate, yes, and a match she easily saw as becoming comfortable. Under the right circumstances.
But for him to vow — for there was no other way to describe his words, his tone — that their union be unbreakable sent a hot jolt through her.
“Whatever the results of our nights together,” he continued his vow, his lips a breath from hers. “It will not be abandoned. Nor will you.”
Isabella nodded. She didn’t know what to say to that, how to react to his promises. But then he kissed her. His lips were cool and firm on hers, slow but not tentative. He tasted different — of their breakfast, yes, but in a deeper way Isabella didn’t know how to describe. Muskier, perhaps, whereas Manning always had a tang of salty sweat.
Broader and more muscular, Strathmore was a larger man than Manning. Isabella felt small and delicate in his embrace.
He kissed down her neck and she shivered, arching her body against his. He took his time, tasting her exposed flesh, nipping at the sensitive juncture between shoulder and neck. His hands, large and warm through her gown, cupped her breasts, his fingertips brushing along the exposed décolletage.
Slowly Strathmore turned her around, his mouth now kissing along the back of her shoulders. His fingers, long and far more elegant than she first realized, slowly undid the laces and buttons on her dress. He never stopped touching her, never backed away and cursed her gown or called for Raffella.
Jonathon Wakefield, the Duke of Strathmore, undressed her. It was more arousing than Isabella imagined such a move could possibly be.
The dress pooled at her feel, and she carefully stepped out of it. Clad only in her chemise, she stood before her new husband as he stepped back and watched her. He quickly shed his jacket and vest and tugged at his cravat.
Isabella drew in a ragged breath and watched the layers disappear until he stood before her in only his trousers. Mouth dry, heart pounding, arousal warming her blood, she stared at him. She’d seen Manning undress before her; after all, they’d been lovers for over a year. But she’d never expected to see another man do so.
And never expected to enjoy it quite so much.
How was this different from watching Manning, other than the very real fact that Strathmore was the type of man they created statues to honor. His chest was hard and well defined; his arms were far more muscled than she’d guessed up until she watched him tug his shirt over his head.
Whatever she thought about this marriage being affectionate and amiable, Isabella hadn’t expected to feel this hot arousal rushing through her. The way her fingers itched to touch Strathmore or the way her mouth watered to taste him. But Strathmore was still a stranger. She needed to remember that.
More, Isabella needed to remember to keep those walls around her heart. But for now, for today, she pushed those thoughts and reminders aside. And stepped forward. Her chemise rubbed against achingly hard nipples as she moved, and Isabella stifled a gasp.
Strathmore’s eyes darkened to nearly black, and he watched her as he quickly divested himself of his trousers.
Isabella drank him in, letting her gaze roam over his now-naked body. A thin smattering of hair covered his chest and legs, but she was unable to look away from his cock. Did she lick her lips? Yes and, embarrassed, her gaze flew to his.
Pride, sheer masculine pride, lighted his gaze. He stepped closer, then another, until his hands settled on her hips. His mouth covered hers again, harder and deeper than before, his tongue sweeping over hers. Isabella opened to him, tasted him again.
Her fingers brushed down his chest, over lean hips and waist. She wanted to touch him, wanted to get to know him as intimately as his kiss promised. But then he tugged her chemise over her head and tossed it away.
He lifted her to the bed, scattering rose petals as they landed, awkwardly, beside each other. Despite the heat pooling low within her and the nerves dancing along her skin, Isabella laughed. His own laughter echoed alongside hers, and he took a moment to settle onto the bed.
Isabella scooted down the mattress, away from where she nearly hit the headboard, and lay next to him. She wanted to say something witty, a quip about this first time together, but the words caught in her throat when she saw the way he watched her.
She looked up at him as the laughter faded. Strathmore leaned over her, bracing on one hand his other trailed down her body. Beneath his touch, Isabella’s skin jumped. When he reached her curls, she forgot how to breathe.
“It’s—” She stopped, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to say, unwilling to make more a fool of herself than necessary.
It had been a long time since she’d made love to a man, and longer still since she enjoyed it. But Strathmore silenced her with another kiss, this one slower and softer than before. His fingers brushed over her wetness, a teasing touch.
Isabella gasped and widened her legs, opening herself to his touch. Unwilling to beg for more, she angled her hips in a silent plea instead.
His mouth left hers then and he trailed kisses down her chest, over each breast before taking one nipple into his mouth. His fingers never left her core, however, and Isabella felt all sense of embarrassment and awkwardness flee.
All she felt was need, the pleasurable burn coiling through her. With every arch of her hips, every flick of his fingers, she felt herself ride higher and higher.
Her hands tangled in his hair and she opened eyes she hadn’t realized she’d closed. Strathmore watched her. Kneeling between her legs, his cock hard and proud against his stomach, he watched her with a gaze so black it sent a thrill of need through her sex.
Without a word he cupped her bum, angling her hips high
er even as he held her still against the bedding and pressed his mouth to her. Isabella cried out. Pleasure shook through her, the hard wave of desire surprising her. Strathmore tasted her as thoroughly as he had her mouth.
Hands fisted in the bedding, hips arching against his mouth, Isabella let herself go. She wanted to feel this, wanted to remember what sex, good sex, felt like. The blind pleasure of climax, the joining of two bodies.
Just as she started to crest that glorious wave of pleasure, he pulled back. Isabella cried out in frustration, but before she could voice it, he positioned himself over her.
With her breath caught, Isabella shook her head to find her bearings. Strathmore slowly eased into her, though she was wet and ready for him. Suddenly he thrust hard into her, seating himself fully.
Isabella wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper into her. When she looked up at him, she saw his jaw clenched, face set. With a start, she realized how thin his control remained.
And suddenly she wanted to snap that control. Her nails scratched down his back, digging into his backside as he moved slow — far too slow — for her. Her orgasm tightened through her, right there. She needed him to move harder to send her over the edge.
Her mouth crashed against his, teeth scraping his lip, tongue sweeping his mouth. She felt it the instant his control snapped and he moved. Suddenly she was hurtling over the edge and flying with the pleasure of her orgasm.
Oh, it felt delicious, this remembered delight so much more decadent now. When she opened her eyes, she saw him watching her, a smug look about his face. Strathmore thrust, each one harder than the last, filling her totally. She wanted to refute what he’d done, but already she felt desire build again.
Oh, yes.
Isabella shifted her legs higher, meeting each movement of his hips with hers. She kissed down his neck and flicked her tongue over the hollow at the base of his throat. He moved harder, and she urged him on. Her teeth sank into his shoulder, and he shuddered beneath her touch.
Struggling to catch her breath, to make sense of this, all Isabella could do was drown in the feel of Strathmore filling her more deeply with every thrust and her orgasm building higher and higher with every touch.
She shattered again, sobbing out her pleasure even as she felt him stiffen in her arms as his own climax shuddered through him.
He collapsed atop her, and she welcomed this remembered but unfamiliar weight against her. Eventually her breathing evened out and Strathmore slipped out of her, rolling to his side.
Isabella didn’t expect him to pull her close. They didn’t know each other, and in the bright aftermath of what turned out to be incredible sex, she felt threads of their earlier awkwardness returning.
But he did slip a hand about her waist and help her readjust so her head lay on the pillows. With a deep sigh, Isabella closed her eyes, utterly sated. No, he didn’t tug her against him, but he also didn’t remove his hand from about her waist.
Slightly bemused, she fell asleep with his touch still against her bare skin.
Chapter Ten
Jonathon looked at Isabella. Her golden hair now thoroughly mussed, her lips red and bruised from his, her dark eyes watched him sharply, but he could still make out remnants of sated pleasure.
Smug pride slammed through him, surprising Jonathon. Then Isabella smiled at him with a soft curve of her lips; not a sated smile nor a smug twist of those lush lips. One of the few moments of true, unguarded sincerity he’d witnessed in her.
It affected him and his reaction turned. That smile shifted something in his chest and spread through him.
Pushing it aside, Jonathon settled more comfortably against the pillows at his back and reached out to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Her eyes fluttered closed, but she didn’t lean into his touch. He pulled away, though his fingertips ached to touch her again.
He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected to want her again so soon. Oh, Jonathon knew he wanted her; that had been painfully obvious since their first meeting. But things had spiraled so far out of his control since that meeting.
And now, with her in his bed, his wife in the eyes of Milanese law and the Catholic Church, Jonathon found he wanted to explore Isabella.
Her body, yes — discover what made her shudder and what made her cry out his name. More, he wanted to know about her. What made a woman such as Isabella Harrington, a proper young woman with a well-received family, run away with a man who clearly had no appreciation of her?
On any level.
Jonathon didn’t understand it — was it because she was exceptional at cards? Could that man not appreciate how unique it was to have a woman so talented and so unassuming when it came to winning? Then again, that very reason might be it — her previous lover had not been able to cope with a woman besting him.
He, on the other hand, was aroused by it.
He almost snorted, but refrained. Her previous lover’s loss was most assuredly Jonathon’s gain.
He’d known exactly what he bet when he made the wager with Isabella. And while he had had some doubts as to her suitability as his duchess, she’d quickly put those to rest.
“He was a fool,” Jonathon said, watching her reaction. Waiting for it.
Her eyes flew to his and she frowned, confused. Almost immediately her gaze cleared and she nodded. “Ah. Yes.” She cleared her throat, but her gaze didn’t falter. “Yes, he was.”
“What made such a bright, perceptive woman fall for such a blaggard?”
Isabel shrugged, and her eyes slid from his. She shifted on the bed, sitting up as well and rearranged the blankets to cover her body. Pity.
But he understood why she did it and didn’t blame her. Part of him wondered if he pushed too hard too soon, but the larger part of him brushed that worry aside. If they were to truly have a marriage based on friendship and understanding, they needed to trot out her former lover and banish him from their marriage bed.
Jonathon refused to let even the memory of that bastard follow them around like a tethered ghost.
“He was not always a blaggard,” Isabella said. “Must we talk of him?” When she looked back at Jonathon, her chin had tilted and her voice cooled.
But he saw it, there in the dark depths of her eyes, the old hurt she carried. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Jonathon wanted nothing more than to wipe that hurt away.
“Yes,” he insisted. His voice held a brusque quality he tried to swallow, soften. “I want to know what kind of man could leave you.”
“Or what kind of reckless decisions a young woman could make?” she countered evenly.
“I’m curious about that too,” Jonathon admitted. He didn’t admit he was curious about all her life. “Did your parents not try and stop you?”
“They did,” she answered, still in that angrily cold voice. Then Isabella cleared her throat and sighed. Her shoulders moved in a restless motion, and one hand absently brushed her hair from her face. “But a bright, perceptive woman always finds a way to break free of other’s hold.”
Ah, yes. Leaning over, Jonathon tilted her chin so she understood the sincerity in his questions. “Did you feel a prisoner in your childhood home?”
“To a degree yes. I felt both prisoner and neglected — it was a strange combination.” Isabella sighed and shook her head, but didn’t pull back or look away. The coldness in her tone had eased as well. “Until...until I met...him.” She shrugged. “It was simply a girlish infatuation that should never have happened.”
“Do not push it aside,” he said sharper than he meant to. Isabella jerked, but he offered a smile and rested his hand on hers. “I want to know your story, Isabella. You are my wife now. Should I not know everything?”
Isabella offered a slight laugh, it rang genuinely across the distance between them. “Aren’t good marriages based on mutual pretense?”
“Some,” he admitted with his own smile. “And some are based on brutal honesty. I would rather have the latter.”<
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He waited until she nodded her agreement, felt her fingers relax marginally beneath his touch. “Tell me, how did you meet that man?”
It took her a long moment to answer. She turned from him, looked into the distance as if remembering. Jonathon knew, without her saying a word, Isabella wanted to brush the questions away — refuse to answer him.
But she swallowed hard and her expression softened. He squeezed her hand, tried to silently convey his support.
Isabella looked up at him again and nodded, breath releasing in a rush. When she finally spoke her voice sounded very far away. “He was a returning soldier, a lieutenant, dressed in the crimson jacket that attracted so many young women. We met in a shop in London; his red coat a beacon in a sea of gray. Then again at Lady Craven’s ball.”
She looked from him to the bedding and when she continued, he still heard the reluctance to do so in her voice. “That night at the ball, the attraction strengthened. In the next weeks, we met often; at a shop or party or another ball. And then he formally called on me.”
The fingers of her other hand picked at the coverlet, and she sighed. “My father received him at first, but after my mother inquired as to his family, we were forbidden to see each other again.” She looked up at him and said with no inflection whatsoever, “He had no family to speak of.”
Ah. “A disastrous alliance for a well-bred young woman of some means,” he offered. “Forbidden fruit is all too tempting. Is it not?” He waited for her to look at him again and saw the agreement in her gaze.
Isabella released a long breath. “We met in secret after my parents’ refusal to accept him. At times,” she admitted with a wry twist to her lips, “at highly inappropriate places. Then he came to me one day and told me he’d secured passage on a ship bound for Genoa. Manning knew a man in Milan who could introduce him to the more reputable gambling establishments.”
“You ran away with him?” Jonathon asked, though he already knew the answer. Still, he waited for her reluctant nod. “How long did he give you to decide?”
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 8