Despite their closeness and the way her blood heated with his touch, Isabella laughed. She closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his. Before he could deepen the kiss, she stepped back and walked toward the door. She backed through the pocket doors and down the hall, watching him as he followed.
At his bedroom door, she held out her hand. “We must see to our duty, first.”
Amused, Strathmore laughed and the happy sound went straight through her. She stretched up on her toes to kiss him, but found herself simply touching him instead. Isabella loved his eyes, the fathomless emerald of them. She traced the side of his face with a touch all too light, over his cleanly shaven jaw.
Would she have loved him had they met before? If they married before her scandal? Before Manning? Isabella knew the answer was yes. She’d have fallen in love with the handsome duke; he amused her, challenged her in ways no other had before. And he made her body sing.
A small part of her heart passionately wished she’d met him first.
But they hadn’t met before. She dropped her hands and tried to collect herself. Tried to stop her heart from making foolish wishes. They hadn’t met before her scandal, and Isabella didn’t wish to feel the clawing pain of love turned to dust.
She took a deep breath and slid her hands over Strathmore’s shoulders, pressed her fingers into his back, and pulled him to her.
Isabella couldn’t read the expression in his gaze and the dark intensity of his look as he watched her. But then his mouth was on hers, a softly demanding kiss that stole her breath and made her blood burn with want.
She joked about doing their duty, but every time they kissed and touched, with every brush of his fingers along her bare skin, Isabella felt less like duty and more like a cherished woman. Like Strathmore’s cherished woman.
Trying to shake it off, to push away these feelings of...of...Isabella couldn’t name them. Or mayhap didn’t wish to name them.
But then Strathmore’s hands were on her hips, and he pulled her closer. She whimpered and deepened the kiss, her hands pushing his jacket off his broad shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons to his waistcoat. She wanted to feel him against her, his hard body pressed to hers, filling her.
She’d grown used to his touch, more she craved it.
Isabella tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it away with the rest of his clothes. Strathmore broke the kiss and spun her around, kissing along the back of her neck and across her shoulders as he tried to unbutton her wedding gown.
“Damn it,” he cursed, and Isabella heard the rending of fabric.
She laughed as the gown pooled at her feet. Stepping out of it she grinned at him over her shoulder. “Half your fortune shall go to replace my wardrobe.”
She turned in his arms, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, down his hips. He still wore his trousers, and she hurried to unfasten them even as he tugged her chemise over her head.
Shoving the trousers over his hips, Isabella turned and pushed him onto the bed as she quickly finished stripping him. She climbed onto the bed and knelt before him. She traced her fingers over his hard cock, watching his face as she did so.
His green eyes darkened further but watched her with a complete focus that sent shivers of awareness through her. Isabella leaned over and pressed her lips to his hip, kissing up his belly even as her fingers continued to stroke him.
Strathmore’s breathing changed; his hands fisted in the sheets, but he said nothing. Isabella smiled. Wetness pooled in her belly, that same piercing need to feel him inside her. But she held back.
Isabella moved down the bed and, not breaking eye contact, kissed the tip of his cock. Strathmore growled her name and the thrill of power, of arousal, of sheer want that bolted through her made Isabella whimper.
She’d tasted him before, but the cabin on the ship had been cramped and hadn’t made it easy for her to explore her husband as much as she’d wished. Now, married in England with everything as official as it could possibly be, Isabella wanted to know him as thoroughly as he knew her.
“Isabella,” Strathmore growled again as she slipped the head of his cock between her lips.
He shuddered beneath her touch, and that power she’d felt earlier once more throbbed through her. She whimpered around his cock, still watching him. Releasing him, Isabella crawled up his body until she hovered over him.
Strathmore watched her; his jaw clenched, eyes nearly black, and he hadn’t moved. Isabella pressed her fingers into his chest and slowly sank onto him. She released a sigh at the feel of him within her and rotated her hips. She saw the instant he snapped.
His hands released the grip he had on the bedding and settled onto her hips, pressing hard enough to bruise. Isabella didn’t care. In fact, she reveled in the possessive touch. The feel of him beneath her as she raised herself up and slowly sank back down only made her want him more.
He filled her perfectly, and she paused and simply watched him for long, long moments. The warmth from earlier hadn’t abated, had only increased, spreading through her in seamless complement to the fire burning through her blood. Her heart filled with emotion and her breath caught.
Isabella slowly, slowly lifted her hips up, hands braced on Strathmore’s chest, utterly unable to tear her gaze from his.
His look burned through her, hot and piercing and weighted with things he never said.
Something in her snapped. The pace wasn’t slow or soft or leisurely. She rocked hard against him, nails scratching down his chest hard enough to leave marks. One of his hands slid up her back, fingers teasing her already aching nipples then down, finding her nub and circling it until she screamed out his name.
Her orgasm shuddered through her; sparks of light flashed behind her eyes and still she moved, taking him deeper and deeper. His fingers continued to work her nub, and Isabella cried out again, head thrown back, nails digging into his chest.
Strathmore moved, rolling them over and lifting her legs over his shoulders. He pounded into her, harder and harder still, his mouth on hers, possessive. On her throat, teeth nipping the sensitive skin. Isabella held him close, feeling her pleasure build again, and knew he was close.
She felt it; he wanted to possess her. He was possessive and had only become more so since they’d left Genoa. Isabella felt it, relished it — and felt herself possessive as well.
Right then she knew — he wanted to erase Manning. Erase her previous lover from her body, her mind, her soul. And Isabella knew she’d let him. Wanted him to.
“Isabella,” he chanted, and she forced her eyes to open and watch him.
“Yes,” she said, and even as the word left her lips, his climax rushed through him.
He held himself still, so still above her, and she shuddered as points of pleasure spread through her. With a whimper, her legs fell from his shoulders and he slipped out of her. Strathmore groaned and rolled to the side, breathing heavily even as he gathered her against him.
Isabella curled against his chest and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply of his scent, heart still racing, body pleasantly liquid, and sighed contentedly, letting herself drift off to sleep. When she woke, much later, it was to her husband watching her. One hand propped up his head while the other traced random lines across her belly, along the underside of her breast, and down.
“Should we rejoin the world?” he asked and dipped his head to press his lips to hers. “Or,” he continued, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “should we leave England again and have a proper honeymoon? It’s tradition for us to take a month or two abroad.”
Isabella chuckled and rolled atop him, resting her head on her folded hands. “We haven’t been traditional since we met.” She brushed a hand through his hair and laughed again. “I suggest we forgo that particular practice and stay home.”
The instant that final word left her mouth, Isabella realized that was exactly what she meant. Strathmore Hall, for all she’d been here less than a full day, was her home. S
he saw it in Strathmore’s gaze, the softening there, the gentle smile, the tenderness with which his hands stroked her bare back.
“Come,” she said and sat up. Isabella took his hand and kissed the palm even as she climbed from the bed. “I wish to explore the Hall.”
* * * *
Dressed in a simple day gown, Isabella sat before her vanity and waited for Raffella to finish pinning her hair. Just as her maid completed the task, Strathmore entered. He traded the heavily embroidered blue jacket and waistcoat for a simpler style, his cravat not as elaborate as the one he’d worn for their wedding just hours before.
She turned on the stool and grinned up at him. He crossed to where she sat and kissed her. “I need to speak with the gardener.” He pulled back and caressed her cheek. “I’ll be back shortly and we can explore.”
“All right,” she said and stood. “Come find me when you’ve finished.”
Isabella squeezed his hand and watched him walk out her dressing room doors. She could begin to get to know her new household, speak with Mrs. Hardy, the head housekeeper, and the cook.
Instead, she wandered through the portrait hall and library. Only her rooms, the duchess’s rooms, were so somberly furnished. Every other room she’d entered was well appointed and elegant.
She found herself in one of the smaller rear parlors, the doors open to the beautiful summer day, when Barrymore interrupted her. “Your Grace. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington request an audience.”
Isabella felt her heart stumble. Her parents? Here? She’d written them weeks before leaving Milan, but hadn’t expected to hear from them. Or, worse, to have them arrive here at Strathmore Hall.
Tilting her chin, Isabella straightened her shoulders. She should’ve known better. Should’ve known they’d never let her brief, simple letter be enough. With a quick look around the small room, she stepped forward.
“Thank you, Barrymore,” she said. “I’ll see them in the front parlor.”
The butler bowed and walked out, but Isabella waited another minute. The knot in her stomach made her nauseous. She thought she’d eventually see them, travel there with Strathmore — many, many months from now. Perhaps after their first child was born.
Isabella had no idea they’d travel here. But no, she should’ve realized her mother would’ve made the trip. Despite marrying Strathmore, despite now being the Duchess of Strathmore, it wouldn’t have mattered to Alison Harrington.
She hoped so prestigious a title as the Duchess of Strathmore had won her mother over. Her hope was in direct contrast with the knots tightening in her stomach.
But perhaps she did not give her mother enough credit; perhaps her mother was proud of her. Happy, at least, for what the title duchess afforded the family.
With slow steps, measured and even, Isabella walked down the hall. She fleetingly wished Strathmore was here, but instantly dismissed that. No, she had no desire for him to witness what transpired between her and her mother. At least not until she knew what her mother’s sentiments were going to be.
They’d never had a pleasant relationship, though after hearing of Strathmore’s relationship with his mother, Isabella was glad it was a different sort of relationship. Still, Alison Harrington had been a hard woman, always pushing for better connections, better prospects, much improve marriage proposals for Isabella.
Steps from the parlor door, she took one last deep breath, which did very little to help, and pushed the past aside. Isabella held her head high, hoped her mother understood what this marriage meant, and entered the grand front parlor.
They looked the same.
After two years, Isabella didn’t know what she expected, but her parents did look the same. Perhaps her father was a little grayer around the temples or the lines around her mother’s mouth a little harsher, but otherwise they looked exactly as they had when she’d snuck out of their townhouse and raced away from them.
Her mother sat in the settee, posture perfectly straight, her eyes, the same color as Isabella’s, piercing as they pinned Isabella to the floor the instant she stepped through the doors.
“Isabella,” her father said and crossed from where he stood by the banked fireplace. “It’s good to see you.”
He didn’t embrace her — of course not. Not with Alison Harrington sitting there as still and cold as a judge at the Old Baily. But he did take her hand and smile warmly at her. Isabella allowed a small smile in return and squeezed his hand.
“It’s good to see you as well, Father.”
Then her mother cleared her throat. Every barrier, each and every wall she built around herself from the moment Manning left her until leaving Milan with Strathmore, suddenly reinforced themselves. She’d allowed herself to grow soft, to let the friendship and passion she and Strathmore shared help her forget the hard lessons her mother taught her.
“Mother.” She raised an eyebrow but didn’t move further into the parlor or offer to ring for tea. “I didn’t expect you to make the long journey so quickly.”
“You sent us that letter months ago, Isabella,” her mother said with all the haughtiness she possessed. “Did you not believe we wouldn’t travel to see our only child?”
“No,” she admitted ruefully. Then she subtly cleared her throat and tried for an even tone. “It’s simply unexpected. If you arrived earlier, you would’ve been able to attend the wedding this morning.”
Did she truly want her mother at her wedding? It didn’t matter; today’s ceremony was neither here nor there as far as she was concerned. This morning? Was it only this morning? Suddenly their wedding seemed very, very far away.
Alison shifted on the settee. “We were here,” she said shortly. “We’re staying in the village. However,” she continued and Isabella braced herself.
She knew that look in Alison’s eyes, and it twisted painfully in her stomach.
“I chose not to attend.” Alison stood but didn’t step closer. Sitting in her daughter’s parlor — especially her duchess daughter’s parlor — had to be demeaning to Alison. Demeaning and in a position of less power, and if there was one thing her mother wielded, it was power.
“I had no interest in witnessing a duke lower himself to marry you.”
“I see.” Isabella gave nothing more away but stood there, rooted by anger and nausea. She wanted to move, pretend this conversation with her mother meant nothing to her, but found her limbs were locked in place.
“I cannot understand how you managed to fool the man,” Alison continued. “What trickery you used. You should not have returned to England, Isabella. You should not have disgraced a duke.”
Isabella briefly wondered if this was more about her shame or Strathmore’s supposedly inevitable disgrace for marrying her.
“You are nothing but a common whore,” her mother continued, stepping angrily closer. “You gave yourself away to no one for nothing.”
Isabella looked to her father, but Robert Harrington remained silent, as always. He studied his shoes as if they were the answer to all his problems. Her father had never been anything more than the decoration Alison Harrington used for her arm.
Clasping her hands before her, waiting for the numbness to recede and the pain to take hold, Isabella waited. Her mother was far from finished.
“And now, what is this?” Alison demanded, her hand a sharp gesture around the room. “Do you expect to flaunt yourself as a duchess?”
Swallowing her anger, Isabella stepped forward. Angry with her mother, and with herself for listening to Alison’s words, she snapped.
“I am a duchess,” Isabella bit out.
“You are not fit to wear the mantle of a duchess,” her mother said, ignoring Robert and focusing with unerring precision on Isabella’s words. “You are a fraud.”
Her mother’s words echoed in her head. And her heart. When Isabella had first proposed this wager with Strathmore, she hadn’t cared about his reputation — only about repairing hers.
Now, so many months later, she cared more fo
r Strathmore than herself.
“Where is the duke?” her mother continued. She scented blood now, and Isabella knew she’d not give up. “He should know what sort of woman lives in his household.”
Alison pushed past her, and Isabella let her go. What did her mother hope to achieve? She and Strathmore were already married — did she hope to force Strathmore’s hand in some manner and secure an annulment?
That would scandalize not just Isabella’s repaired reputation but hers as well; surely Alison saw that.
“Isabella.”
She looked up to see her father, looking wan and pale. He said nothing more, but she knew he hadn’t seen her mother this vitriol, either.
Without a word to her father, Isabella whirled on her heel and went in search of her mother. And her husband.
Chapter Twenty
“It’ll have to be done again,” Jonathon agreed with the head gardener.
The entire foundation of the fountain was cracked; he saw no way a simple patch could fix the leak.
Plus, it was the most expedient answer he could give. He didn’t care about the fountain today. Right now all he wanted was to return to Isabella and spend the day exploring with her. Or continuing his exploration of her body — her sensitive spot, those places that aroused her and those that amused her.
But he’d been gone months, now, and even though Strathmore had great faith in his steward, apparently the gardeners did not. With a final nod to the man, Jonathon turned on his heel and left, walking quickly lest anyone else have questions for him.
He just crossed the back terrace when a well-dressed woman he’d never seen before stormed across the lawn. Jonathon blinked. Had Isabella expected callers? No, surely everyone knew the proper etiquette for a newly married couple. Was this a friend of Octavia’s?
The woman barreled toward him, clearly on a mission, and all thoughts of callers vanished. This was no social visit.
This was Isabella’s mother.
The resemblance was clear, even if Jonathon doubted the other woman smiled a day in her life. But her hair was the same hue as Isabella’s; he’d spent hours combing his fingers through her hair, enjoying the silken feel on his fingertips. Her features, despite the harsh set to her mouth and the pinched look she wore, had clearly been passed along to her daughter, too.
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 18