He leaned closer, though there was no reason to think anyone listened in on their conversation. Those vivid eyes held hers. Isabella felt an unusual tension pass between them at his intense scrutiny.
“Then you vanished the next.” He snapped his fingers as if performing a magician’s show. “No explanation given, only gossip offered.”
He nodded but didn’t step back, didn’t move to give her the space he so clearly thought required. Strathmore stayed close, looking down at her with interest. “There was indeed a curiosity behind my journey here tonight.”
“Mrs. Primsby wouldn’t have asked you here if you were not, in fact, ready for a wife.” Isabella drew in a deep breath. “But I see that while you are ready for a wife, you’re still playing boyish games.”
She saw how his gaze once more darkened. The way all humor fled at her jibes. Isabella stepped back with that same coy smile, the one that tempted and beckoned. “A serious man wouldn’t bother with such frivolity. Or fear any risk.”
Isabella took another step back and curtseyed with as much mockery and as much disdain as fit in that move. “Your Grace.”
She turned away, but his voice moved in the space between them, halting her in her step. “And you believe I fear what you are?”
Turning back to face him, Isabella raised her hand to her chest but made certain the wicked humor, the unflappable sneer, came clearly through. “What else? Unless you believe I’m a beast with sharpened claws.”
“You’re wrong about Mrs. Primsby,” he said and closed the distance between them in one step. “She’s merely the woman who has the ear of many mothers of note in England. She’s no way to know whether or not I’m ready to be matched. Whether that is to a sharpened clawed beast or to a lamb in beast’s clothing.”
Strathmore walked around her with that same grace, the way he moved so smoothly, each movement a predator stalking his prey. Isabella stiffened and tilted her chin higher. She’d never be another’s prey. Not tonight, not ever.
His entire look changed. No longer was he the vaguely interested duke who traded barbs with her. Now he was all power and hunger. Leashed — his control held tightly. The way his hands fisted behind his back and his jaw clenched, his gaze narrowed at her taunts.
Clearly he wanted her. Those green eyes of his told one story, a story of passion and want, deep-seated and intimate. A break in his facade. And just as clearly, he bowed to his own — or society’s — propriety. His words told that story, the story of the Duke of Strathmore, who should not have a wife as mired in scandal such as she.
That knowledge flowed through her. The challenge of him — she hadn’t met someone like the Duke of Strathmore in a long, long while. Her body responded against her will, his restrained desire awakening a part of her she’d forgotten.
Or buried.
Yes, she’d planned to sleep with him. Give him heirs. But this, the way his look heated her blood, Isabella had not expected. It was shocking and arousing, and she instinctually stepped away from it.
Self-preservation.
She didn’t miss the way his gaze caressed her. His own interest and arousal. That made her feel desired again and powerful in her own right.
“I, however, don’t fall prey to such feminine manipulations.” His eyes had further darkened as they held hers.
“Then it’s more masculine games that entice you.” She nodded. Her body felt flush, but she ignored it. Tonight was a game of sex — of desire and arousal.
“Not the games of women in parlors,” she continued. “But the games such as there are here. Of chance and high risk.”
His grin was lightning quick and stole her breath. He was still the hungry predator, but she thought he now accepted her on equal footing. She’d make sure he did see her as an equal, no longer as his prey.
“I’m very good at these games.” Strathmore’s whispered words dripped innuendo, his breath a caress against the skin of her neck.
“Allow me to invite you to a game.” Isabella turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes burned into hers, but she refused to give in, to step back. “Perhaps we can conceive of several interesting wagers.”
“I wouldn’t want to take unfair advantage of a woman in a far-off city,” he said, his voice low and enticing. “But I could help you.”
Curious, she watched him straighten and realized she’d stepped back just enough to see him clearly.
“Be my mistress. I can take care of you, see you’re installed in proper quarters in London.” He paused and added softly, “Bring you home.”
One eyebrow shot up. “As the mistress of a duke?”
“There are worse ways to return home,” he told her.
Anger flashed through Isabella. He was right, but that was not how she planned to return home. Not how she planned to return to society. It wasn’t necessarily her place in society she craved, but the respect.
“No.” She said it softer than she intended, with none of the anger that surged through her. Isabella shook her head. “I am not interested in being anyone’s mistress.”
His eyes glittered and, inexplicably, his posture relaxed. Clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels and studied her. Isabella didn’t flinch as she waited.
Determination beat through her, like the steady sound of a drummer during a march. She’d known this particular game, this first meeting between them, might not work as she wanted. But she’d come too far to back away.
“What of the rumors?” He asked far too cordially for his question to be off the cuff.
“As far as London is concerned, just as you yourself confirmed, it could simply be vicious, untrue gossip.” She shrugged negligently. “And these past two years I’ve simply been traveling.”
“Are they vicious rumors?” Strathmore asked. Demanded.
She raised her chin and held his gaze. Her answer wasn’t a lie, but she refused to outright say the truth. “Who need ever confirm such a thing?”
Isabella offered a small smile that told him all he needed to know. Strathmore nodded, as if he suspected and, strangely enough, accepted it. Whether his acceptance was in her favor or simply because he had no intention of marrying her was of no consequence.
She curtseyed to him once more, nodded farewell, and left. Mrs. Primsby still stood by Lord Granville, the pair of them chatting amiably.
Discouragement pounded through her to every beat of her heart, but Isabella forced a smile as she caught Granville’s eye.
No. One loss did not break her. If that were the truth, she’d never have conceived of this plan, never had the courage to return to a place that gossiped and spread hearsay about her.
She nodded politely to Lord Granville, but dismissed him as a suitable suitor. He already knew of her scandal, and no friend of Strathmore’s — especially one who traveled with him to this meeting — was suitable for her admittedly desperate plan.
“You’ll pardon me, Mrs. Primsby,” she said softly. Her voice didn’t catch, though her stomach clenched nauseously. “I’m feeling unwell and would like to return home for the evening.”
Isabella ignored the sharp look the matchmaker gave her — the analogy of a hawk seemed well suited — and curtseyed to Lord Granville. “My lord,” she said and nodded in farewell.
She was silent as they waited for her hired carriage to arrive. Beside her, she felt the weight of Mrs. Primsby’s study but ignored the other woman. Isabella had known disappointment, tasted the bitterness of it. She knew better than to pin all her hopes on one creature.
She knew better than to trust anyone save herself.
The cool May breeze chilled her to the bone, but Isabella ignored that, too. She stared straight ahead, unseeing of the carriages and horses, of those walking the sidewalks, the shouts of vendors and the laughter of street urchins.
Finally their carriage pulled up, and the hired footman helped them into the dim interior.
“I take it,” Mrs. Primsby said as soon as the door close
d, “your encounter with His Grace was unsuccessful. Or,” she added with a hard, direct stare, “do you simply play coy?”
Watching her from the corner of her eye, Isabella took a deep breath to steady herself. She wondered, for a moment, if this was the correct play, but knew she’d have to trust herself in this from now on.
“I’m uncertain why you chose to introduce me to that man,” she said, unable to keep the hostility from her tone. “If this is what you have to offer, if he is the type of prospect you for me, then I will no longer need your services.”
She turned and looked at her. “I believe I’m in a better position on my own.”
Mrs. Primsby nodded. Isabella wondered if she expected that, or if she always prepared herself for such a reaction. Isabella did not care about the money, about Mrs. Primsby’s fee.
“If that is how you feel.” Mrs. Primsby banged on the wall between the interior and the driver. “Driver!” She called in halting Italian, “You may let me off here.”
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Mrs. Primsby watched Isabella for another moment. “I wish you all the best, Miss Harrington. And I hope you find what it is you seek. But I ask that you not discard a potential success so easily.”
With a final nod, Mrs. Primsby exited the carriage and didn’t look back. Isabella heard the door slam closed and released a long, slow breath. Dread and disappointment churned in her stomach, but she called out to the driver to continue on.
She couldn’t recall the ride to her townhouse; her thoughts jumped from one idea to the next. Mrs. Primsby’s words, Strathmore’s heated gaze, the leashed power as he watched her. Her next effort at restoring her reputation and returning to London.
Isabella’s head pounded by the time the door opened. The spring wind cooled her heated cheeks and eased her headache.
She’d exposed herself to those two Englishmen, opening herself wide to their scrutiny. Felt them throw her mistakes back in her face.
Abused.
Yes, that was how she felt. But if she couldn’t survive this encounter with two men who had probably already forgotten her, how was she to survive all of London’s intimate examination? How was she supposed to move on from her past, from her mistakes, if others refused to let her?
She needed to put this night behind her.
However, returning on a duke’s arm would’ve been a triumph. Returning on Strathmore’s arm would’ve made a practical marriage more desirable. Isabella couldn’t ignore the way her body responded to all that leashed power in the man. It raced along her skin.
More than that, however, Strathmore wasn’t a man to be denied. She’d thought that when he’d circled her, but now wondered. That power flowed off him, and one couldn’t fabricate such a thing. It was either inherent or absent.
He simply played with thwarting society. The realization made Isabella pause with one foot on the steps of the foyer stairs. If he was a man unused to being denied, but simply played at thwarting society, then where did he put all his energies?
Where did that hunger come from, the power that sparked over her skin? He made for an interesting puzzle, and Isabella admitted she’d have enjoyed the games they could’ve played.
But that was all. He couldn’t help her.
She tossed her head back and started up the staircase. Yes, it would’ve been a triumph returning on his arm. A simple way for her to erase the rumors and polish her reputation.
Strathmore merely pretended to frustrate the ton. She’d actually done so.
And she refused to so cowardly allow a man to stand in her way of returning home. Perhaps there was another suitable prospect in the gaming hall. She’d have to look, to ferret out those prospects, especially now that more men traveled due to the warmer weather.
Isabella refused to give up; she refused to allow this one setback to disrupt her plans. Refused to allow Strathmore to wreck her victorious return.
Chapter Four
Jonathon Wakefield, 7th Duke of Strathmore, sipped a rather fine whiskey from a cut crystal glass and watched the room. It was still early for a gaming establishment, but each table was occupied. The noise vibrated along the walls and over his skin, making him itch in unpleasant ways.
He stepped onto one of the small balconies that overlooked the street below, and drained his drink. Curling his hands over the railing, he let the cold stone dig into his palms. It was a pleasant enough night for Milan in May; a slight spring breeze blew over the balcony and through the open glass doors. From this angle he couldn’t see the sky, but no hint of rain scented the night air.
It wasn’t the noise that bothered him, that beat restlessly though him with every breath. Two days ago, he met Miss Isabella Harrington, and in those two days, he’d yet to forget her.
She was beautiful, no doubt, with blonde hair that shimmered in the candlelight, pale skin, and brown eyes so dark they looked almost black. Though stunning, it wasn’t her beauty that wormed its way beneath his skin.
It was the way she held herself, the way those intelligent eyes watched him. Mocked him.
Jonathon wasn’t used to being mocked. Edmund, his oldest and closest friend, came close, but never the way Miss Harrington had.
No proper young lady ever spoke to him the way she had — with fire and passion and pride. With that knowing tilt of her head and the arrogant set to her shoulders. A brashness he never encountered before — not in anyone, man or woman.
Was that a result of having nothing to lose? Or in spite of it? Jonathon wasn’t certain.
Even Jolene, his last mistress, hadn’t ever been so forceful — except when she’d thrown porcelain statuary at his head when he tossed her out. Then again, Jolene had a childish temperament and often threw things at him whenever he displeased her.
Miss Harrington showed no childish temper. He clearly displeased her, and yet she held herself with confidence, holding her own against his harsh words in a manner that clearly bested him.
She refused his offer of becoming his mistress given her dire situation. At least he believed her situation to be dire. Still, her refusal surprised him; she could’ve enjoyed an easy life with him, been assured she’d be taken care of.
Jonathon respected that she wanted more.
Then again, Miss Harrington was no proper young lady.
He supposed he should be angry with her for the incredible disrespect she showed.
Instead, she intrigued him.
For the last six months, he and Edmund traveled across the Continent; they’d been in Milan for only a few days. Yesterday, Jonathon purposely avoided this gaming room, preferring, or pretending to prefer, other establishments in Milan. This evening, when he casually suggested it, Edmund had given a slow half-smile and blandly agreed.
Now his friend played whist at one of the tables near the wall of alcoves. Not a brilliant player, he’d flatly refused to play at Jonathon’s table since their first week in Eton; tonight Edmund looked to be holding his own.
Jonathon didn’t feel like gambling. He knew why he suggested the Royal Opera House; neither he nor Edmund were fooled as to his reasons.
He wanted to see Miss Harrington again.
Annoyed with himself, Jonathon pushed off the balcony and stalked inside. The woman fascinated him. From the moment they met, Jonathon saw something different form other women. Not simply how she held herself or dressed. However, that did draw him in.
No, she did not act a part. She was simply herself.
He’d no intention of marrying her. He didn’t care if he needed an heir, and he didn’t care that he agreed to meet Mrs. Primsby’s prospect. But, Miss Harrington interested him, plain and simple.
Looking around the room, he spotted Germaine Beaumont; he’d last seen the Frenchman in Flanders nearly three months ago. A poor loser, Beaumont preferred recouping his losses behind an alleyway. Several others looked vaguely familiar, but none were the woman he sought.
Jonathon wondered if she’d even attend tonight.
I
t’d been Edmund who’d first mentioned it, mentioned that he needed to be careful about Mrs. Primsby. Mentioned Miss Harrington had entirely too many rumors associated with her to ever become a proper duchess.
Now, as he leaned against the alcove wall and surveyed the gaming room, Jonathon wondered why he’d let his friend’s warning sway him. What did he care about rumor? Yes, Edmund was only being his friend, but when had Jonathon ever done what others told him to?
When had he ever listened to a warning? Normally he did the exact opposite of whatever warning he received — give the direct cut to the Earl of St. Claire? No. Jonathon made a private loan to the older gentleman so the earl avoided bankruptcy.
He cared very little for what others thought. His title was strong enough, and he was powerful enough in government and wealthy enough in society that any rumors associated with his duchess died on the vine.
Yet he’d stepped back from Miss Harrington. For the first time in his life, he’d listened to a warning and taken heed. And now, now he was prowling a gaming establishment she was known to frequent, for what?
One more glimpse of her?
He easily envisioned how she’d looked the other night — the way the gold of her gown highlighted her hair and the confident way she’d carried herself. The lift of her lips and the challenge in her voice. She meant to be captivating. She was there to capture a duke, after all, and with Mrs. Primsby’s teachings.
The next time he saw her, would she be so captivating? Or would the bloom on the flower have faded?
Jonathon wanted to speak with her again. Perhaps find a better sense of the woman beneath the scandal. Then he’d truly make up his mind in regard to marriage, contrary to what he’d previously said to her.
Jonathon took another drink, partook in the buffet laid out for the guests, and waited. The night grew long. Perhaps Miss Harrington graced another establishment with her presence? Or perhaps she simply had no desire to gamble this eve.
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 3
