Isabella did not stiffen; she merely nodded. She’d expected Octavia to broach the subject last night, so this morning’s conversation did not surprise her. “Yes. We should discuss that. Strathmore and I spoke of it on the final leg of our journey.”
Frankly they should’ve discussed it earlier, in Genoa or even while still in Milan. However, it had only been after Gretna Green when Strathmore had mentioned it. She’d cursed herself for not bringing it up sooner, but hadn’t wished to dwell on what her past scandal meant for her now that she’d married the Duke of Strathmore.
“There’ve been rumors and speculation.” Octavia shrugged. “But gossip does as it does. With the right explanations, that gossip shall fade away into nothing.”
She nodded in return. “I left abruptly.” Isabella began the story she and Strathmore had decided upon. “A cousin of mine who I’d been close to as a child was in ill health. She recovered quickly, and I spent quite some time with her in France. We eventually traveled across the Continent for an extended stay in Milan. When she decided to return to her family, my parents sent Mrs. Primsby for me, as a chaperone back to England.”
Isabella maintained eye contact with Octavia the entire time; neither woman flinched despite both knowing the fabrication of this story.
“However,” she added, “I met Strathmore while still in Milan, and we married there before returning home.”
“A perfectly reasonable explanation that should suffice,” Octavia agreed. She took a deep breath and said reluctantly, “However, the rumors around you were lent a semblance of credence by your mother. Her refusal to discuss your whereabouts only fueled the gossip.”
Octavia paused again then asked gently, “Have you written her?”
Isabella had no wish to discuss her mother, the words they’d had over Manning, or Alison Harrington’s part in these rumors. But she took a slow, deep breath and nodded. “I have. And I’m hopeful that as a duchess now, she will not betray me.”
Octavia squeezed her hand, and the look in the other woman’s gaze showed Isabella that she hoped the same. No, Octavia’s offer of friendship had not solely been for Strathmore’s sake. It’d been honestly given.
Isabella wondered about Octavia’s story, the past she barely hinted at. Perhaps one day the other woman might share her secrets.
Something eased within Isabella, a tension she hadn’t realized she carried. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a friend to confide in — Raffella notwithstanding. She spent the last years on her own. But it was nice, this genuine offer of friendship.
It made her feel welcomed.
“I cannot imagine she would. Now,” Octavia said and stood, “I don’t think we should keep the men waiting.”
“I’ll be down in a moment,” Isabella said.
She wandered to the window and looked out over the vast estate. Was Strathmore in love with her? How did she feel about that? It changed things, to be sure, but he’d never pressured her or declared his feelings for her, either.
However, for her household to be free of scandal, Isabella needed to rely upon her mother. She wasn’t certain she could. Isabella hoped Alison Harrington’s desire to be mother to a duchess preceded her desire to hurt her daughter.
Like Strathmore, Isabella had never had a truly affectionate relationship with her mother. But it had been challenging. All the more so when Manning entered her life. Putting her mother out of her mind, Isabella thought only of Strathmore.
Should she pull back? Instill distance between them? Mayhap not — she had no wish to ruin what they already shared.
Octavia had to be mistaken.
Isabella knew Strathmore held some affection for her, and she for him, but love? No, what Octavia saw was merely her wish to see Strathmore happy. What Octavia saw was Strathmore’s lust.
Isabella had to believe that. Love rarely entered into these sorts of marriages.
Turning from the window, Isabella dismissed the thought and moved forward. Silly though it may be, and she and Strathmore had laughed about it, today was the third of their three weddings, and she had no wish to be late.
* * * *
Strathmore left the coach for her and Octavia while he and Granville had taken the curricle. Smoothing her hand over the fine silk of her wedding dress, Isabella looked out the window. It was a beautifully bright day, with more than a hint of warmth in the air. She closed her eyes and tilted her head just enough to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin.
She thought their wedding in Milan had been the start of a new life, but now anticipation bubbled along her skin and she smiled.
Her life may have drastically changed in the last weeks, but Isabella knew it was all for the better.
The road to the parish church was lined with people. More people than she expected waved to them and tossed flowers at the passing carriages. It looked as if the entire county came out to greet the Duke of Strathmore and his bride.
Isabella was unable to help the flutter of happiness that settled in her stomach. She made no attempt to hide her joy. She wanted to villagers to see her happy; to see the young bride marry their duke.
This was truly the start of her new life, of their new life. And Isabella wanted everyone to have the correct impression of her. Of the duke’s new wife.
Octavia led her in as the crowd murmured and whispered as they jostled to see her. Another flutter of nerves gripped her, and Isabella scanned the crowd. They seemed happy to see her; no scowls or hints of malicious gossip reached her ears.
Nonetheless, her feet stumbled just inside the church doors.
“What’s wrong?” Octavia asked, alarmed.
“What do they think of me?” Isabella whispered, just barely stopping herself from looking over her shoulder at the crowds. “I wonder what they think of me with Strathmore.”
Octavia squeezed her arm. “You’re a duchess now,” she assured her. “They admire you.”
Isabella nodded and breathed deeply, trying to push her nerves away with each breath. She wanted them to think well of her for Strathmore’s sake.
The ceremony itself was a blur. Isabella couldn’t remember how she made it to the altar next to Strathmore or what the priest said, but knew it was different from the first two ceremonies they shared. She didn’t listen all that intently, but looked at Strathmore.
And memorized how he looked at her.
Had Octavia been right? Had Strathmore fallen in love with her? Perhaps. The thought made her skin tingle and her stomach flip. Or perhaps she fooled herself by thinking she had no deep feelings for Strathmore herself. Feelings she wanted to squash. Feelings she couldn’t seem to keep at bay.
How strange was this, to feel as if she were in love with her husband. Oh, she was a fool. But at this moment, a happy fool.
“This is the ring you’ll wear,” he whispered as he slipped it onto her finger. “This is it. The last time I’m going to marry you.”
Isabella stifled a chuckle as she looked into his gaze, the private, happy grin he offered her. With the ring on her finger, and Strathmore looking at her like she was all that mattered in the entire world, Isabella leaned closer and raised her hand. She briefly caressed his cheek, completely uncaring as to what anyone thought about the intimate gesture.
They walked, arm in arm, outside to cheers as the people called out for their good fortune. Strathmore tossed coins into the crowd, and the townsfolk scrambled to catch them. Isabella knew the village would celebrate well into the week and couldn’t help the happy laugh that bubbled out.
Once more settled into the carriage next to Strathmore, she rested her head on his arm as they returned to the Hall. Octavia and Granville traveled in the curricle behind them but this moment was private, between her and her husband.
His hand tilted her chin up, his mouth warm on hers. Isabella hummed in the back of her throat and kissed him back. She leaned into him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his cheek.
She wanted to feel his s
kin beneath her fingertips, but settled for this kiss. Happiness and warmth and affection bloomed through her, making her shiver from it all.
“Now you are truly the Duchess of Strathmore,” he said against her lips. Strathmore pulled back and cupped her cheeks. “No one in the world could deny you that.”
“No.” She laughed. “Not with three weddings. Not anymore.” Isabella pressed her lips to his again and leaned back. “Your heir will most assuredly be legitimate.”
His hand brushed down her cheek and along the line of her neck. “And no one will ever deny you are my duchess.”
She leaned into his touch, her gaze on his as she weighed his words. “You’ve protected me with all this, have you not?” she asked, her hand on his cheek. Isabella already knew the answer but needed to hear him say the words.
He took her hand and kissed the back of her gloved fingers. “There is no scandal with you any longer. As far as anyone is aware, you were on the Continent with family when we met. And we took every possible precaution once betrothed and married.”
“I’ve said as much to Lady Octavia,” she told him.
Strathmore nodded and settled her beside him, holding her tight. The move was familiar and comfortable, and Isabella sighed as he held her against his warm, hard body. “Octavia tells me the village is awed by the care we took.”
With his simple words, with the actions he made sure they went through from Milan to here, and despite the laughter they had over the three weddings, Strathmore had made sure the shame and scandal she’d been through the last two years vanished.
He created the story of three weddings that everyone was certain to remember: a most romantic gesture made from a duke to his duchess. No other story could ever tarnish that.
Isabella felt lighter than she had even after winning their bet or after their first wedding. She felt lighter and more carefree than she had in a long, long time. Mayhap ever.
It was, without a doubt, the biggest romantic gesture she’d ever witnessed, let alone had the pleasure of being the object of.
Chapter Nineteen
The staff once again awaited their return. As she looked out from the carriage window, Isabella was pleased they seemed quite happy for them. From what Octavia said, the entire county viewed their three weddings with awe; on how romantic the duke was and how lucky they considered Isabella.
With her hand securely through the crook of Strathmore’s elbow, Isabella acknowledged the staff as they slowly walked along the line. A small part of her wondered if they heard the rumors of her past, but if they had she saw no sign of it on their faces. Each and every one looked happy.
Their acceptance warmed her, and she smiled wider. Their happiness reflected hers.
However, it took Isabella a moment to realize the warmth spreading through her was less about their acceptance than it was about Strathmore. Yes, she’d won the wager between them and yes they married first in Milan then in Gretna Green. But this — all this here at his home, with his people and tenants and friends, all this made Isabella realize one thing.
She was not as resistant to love as she thought.
She looked up at Strathmore, felt the heat from his body and the steady, constant pressure on her arm and wondered if she let her guard slip too much; if he’d already found his way into her heart. Not because he was handsome, a duke, and wealthy. Or because he treated her well and made her laugh and was a better card player than she suspected.
Because he trusted her, and made her trust him simply by being himself.
When she smiled, wide and happy, it was less about how the townspeople surrounding Strathmore Hall accepted her and more about how Strathmore did. He looked down at her and that warmth heated.
Not with the heat of desire, though that simmered beneath the surface, always there, always for him. When had that happened? When did those feelings turn from enjoying the physical contact between them, enjoying the sex she hadn’t had in such a long time, to enjoying him?
With a warmth that crumbled the walls surrounding her heart. Those same walls she painstakingly built to protect herself now didn’t seem necessary. Not with Strathmore by her side.
She should be frightened. Somehow, Isabella was not. Not anymore.
Barrymore, the butler, stood at the head of the line, his back straight, chin high, the very epitome of an English butler. He bowed slightly and stood to the side with the rest of the staff.
“Congratulations, Your Graces,” Barrymore said. “We’d all like to wish you many wonderful years here at Strathmore Hall.”
“Thank you, Barrymore,” Strathmore stated.
“We’ve taken the liberty of having a breakfast set out in Your Grace’s private breakfast room.”
“Thank you very much,” Isabella said with a nod and smile. “And please express my sincere gratitude to the staff for their care and congratulations.”
Barrymore once more bowed, and Strathmore led her into the Hall. She hadn’t the opportunity to study the interior last night or this morning before they left for the church.
As elegant as she imagined it to be, the foyer was marble with sage green wallpaper and the wide staircase curved to either side of the house. No portraits lined the staircase, and Isabella assumed those hung in the portrait hall. Instead, detailed landscapes of fields and woods decorated her walk.
Their private breakfast room lay several doors down from her rooms. The pocket doors opened to a perfectly situated place where the morning sunlight brightened the interior. To the right was her morning room, she realized, and she wondered what the room to the left of this lovely little spot held.
French doors opened to a small balcony which overlooked the rear gardens. Isabella stepped outside and looked at the grounds. She saw the gardeners below, then farther out the tenant farms that were such a part of Strathmore Estate. Breathing deeply of the fresh summer air, of trees and flowers she hadn’t smelled in years, she studied the layout of the estate.
Several outbuildings lay farther across the fields, and a copse of trees enticed her to walk through them. Her entire time in Milan had been spent in the city; never once — with Manning or after his departure — had she ventured to the outlying countryside.
Now, looking at the trees, at the open fields and, to her left, the stables, Isabella wondered if there was a stream or lake there where she and Strathmore could picnic by. Though it’d been years, she wanted to ride across the grounds or simply walk for miles of open air and woods.
She wanted to talk with Strathmore, learn more of him and his estates, of the people here.
Isabella wanted to embrace this new life. Wanted it more than anything; the feeling overwhelmed her. It was stronger than in Milan when she’d wanted to change her life; stronger than it’d been in Scotland when Strathmore shared the story of his mother with her.
Today, after this wedding, Isabella wanted to finally release her fears and embrace all he gave her.
Isabella hoped they might turn this Hall into a home.
Perhaps erase memories they both had of pasts that were imperfect.
With one final breath of fresh air, Isabella turned for the sideboard. The servants had provided what looked like a wedding feast, each item more scrumptious than the last. It seemed as if she barely had time to breathe since meeting Mrs. Primsby two months ago.
Now with her final wedding to Strathmore official and about to settle into their new home, Isabella took the time to slow down. To select from the delicious food laid out before them and take her time to simply enjoy.
Though she did miss the fig and grape jam.
She sat next to him at the round breakfast table. The midmorning sunlight slanted just across his back, highlighting his dark hair. She studied him for a moment and sipped her tea. Strathmore watched her intently, the green of his gaze alight with interest and the fire that continually burned between them.
Her heart jumped and that warmth she felt, had felt since Ireland, since the ship, spread. Isabella tried
to pull back, but she shifted in her seat to more fully see him. She lifted one of his hands and held it in hers, brushing her lips along his palm.
“I was not certain that the outcome of our wager was something I truly wanted.”
She picked up a sausage and nibbled on it, only to set it down almost immediately. She’d honestly not expected any of this when she’d made her end of the wager in the Royal Opera House. Not the warmth between them or the sincere reception his staff, and his dearest friends, offered her. Not even, she realized now, the passion that never cooled.
Strathmore stood and silently rounded the table.
His hands were warm on her bare shoulders, and his fingers caressed the back of her neck. “Neither was I, at first,” he admitted quietly.
Twisting slightly to see him, Isabella watched him. Before she could say anything, though what she was uncertain, he continued.
“All this time with you.” He stopped and shook his head. “No. From the moment you challenged me and rejected my generous offer to be released from this wager, I knew we were well matched.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice heavy with innuendo. “We are well matched in many ways.”
Isabella paused and took a deep breath before looking directly into his eyes. “I have one fear well,” she stopped and added, “one at the moment. I fear I may have cheated you.”
His eyebrow raised. “At the card table? Then it was an expert cheat.”
She shook her head and breathed out in amusement. “I won that game with all fairness,” she said primly. “But I fear I may have cheated you from finding a woman who was truly your choice.”
Before she could continue, he kissed the palm of her hand. Her breath caught and whatever else she wanted to say disappeared.
“If you were not my choice,” he said softly and with utter sincerity, “I wouldn’t have played the game.”
Mouth dry, she tried to speak but no words came out.
His eyes darkened and his hands reached up to cup her cheeks. He urged her to stand, his body close to hers, lips a breath away. “Shall we save the cake for after we’ve fulfilled our duty?”
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 17