Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters

by Reed, Kristabel

  It aroused him, but he held himself in check.

  Now certainly wasn’t the time to indulge in the taste of her bare shoulder or that tempting spot just behind her ear. There’d be plenty of time for that later.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Harrington.” Dursey stepped closer and offered Jonathon a friendly nod. “Are you ready to resume our game?”

  “Please forgive me, Lord Dursey,” she said as composed as ever. “I’ve promised His Grace a game of piquet.”

  The other man looked surprised. His light brown eyes swung to Jonathon with an understanding Jonathon didn’t think Dursey actually had. “I see Strathmore has made a play for the most eligible lady in attendance.”

  Dursey returned his gaze to Isabella. “I certainly hope I can steal you back once your game has concluded.”

  Jonathon remained stoic and silent. Isabella offered a charming smile that, once again, didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “I’ll not abandon you completely this evening,” she promised.

  He caught the distinction. Jonathon wondered if Dursey did as well.

  Dursey bowed to them. “I shall keep your chair waiting.”

  Isabella nodded and waited until Dursey had retreated before crossing to one of the two-person tables. At one of the occupied tables a pair of ladies played what looked like the final hand of piquet with much laughter and talk. They ignored them and settled at the next table.

  Clearly their stakes weren’t nearly as high as his this eve.

  After securing the table once their hand completed, Isabella returned to his side.

  He offered to escort her to the buffet, but she refused. Jonathon wondered if it was from nerves or disinterest. He looked forward to learning more about her, far better than what he understood now.

  Before they started, she looked across at him as the steward brought a fresh deck of cards to the table.

  “Shall we endeavor to cross the Rubicon?” he asked.

  Rubicon Piquet was a more difficult version of piquet, but was worth it.

  “Oh yes,” she said in a low voice. “You are ready for a good and sound thrashing.”

  He offered a little chortle. They took the piquet deck of thirty-two cards and began. Jonathon gestured for her to cut the cards, and then he took another small stack. They showed each other their cards, for who was to be the younger hand and the dealer. He held a six, while she held a queen. As dealer, the younger hand put her at a disadvantage, but Jonathon didn’t think that bothered her overmuch.

  They exchanged cards once, and despite the odds, Isabella declared carte blanche and exchanged her cards.

  Interesting. She didn’t cheat; he had a sense about those things. The crowd that appeared around them buzzed in anticipation.

  He won the first set and already planned how he’d enjoy her. He waited as she gathered the cards for the next set. Did he wish to begin tonight? Take her to his rented townhouse after this game and taste her then?

  Or wait several nights, build anticipation?

  Once back in England, he’d procure a cottage for them, near his estate. Dursey pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and Jonathon scowled.

  If Isabella married Dursey, he could think of only one advantage: Dursey’s estate was near to his own.

  As he looked at his hand, Jonathon was shocked to realize he didn’t want to share her. Despite his agreement on their wager, he wanted Isabella Harrington to himself.

  He looked back up at her. There was much to learn from an opponent, and as he waited for her to play, Jonathon saw just how clever she truly was. At the end of Rubicon Piquet, there were twelve rounds of tricks.

  He won one; she won another. Then he lost three tricks in a row.

  Isabella truly was a worthy opponent, and he needed to remember that. She’d caught up in points, and there were still several tricks left. If he wasn’t careful, Jonathon could easily lose.

  Debating which card to play — highest or lowest — he ignored the crowd, the wagers going on as to who’d win the next trick. They each played a king on this round, which gave them equal points.

  No, he decided, with two rounds remaining, she wouldn’t play her highest card on the last round. She’d anticipate he’d hold his highest for the final round. Jonathon played a queen, believing she’d play a lower card.

  Isabella played a king and bested him.

  Down to the final trick, the score was equal, and he held a jack. Jonathon looked up at her, but once more she gave nothing away. He believed she’d already played her highest card.

  No matter the ending of this game, he’d get what he wanted — her.

  Jonathon set down his jack. Isabella trumped him with a queen.

  He nodded. “Well played.”

  Chapter Six

  Isabella stood by the window as her lady’s maid, Raffella, slowly buttoned the back of her gown. Properly covered, she wandered to look over the small courtyard and watch the sun shine brightly down on the spring flowers. Today she’d chosen a pale lavender gown with white embroidery along the neckline and hem.

  She loved Milan in the spring. It was alive in ways Isabella didn’t remember England being. Or maybe she was being overly harsh on her homeland, her memory clouded by her mother’s rigidness, the unforgiving memories of her youth.

  “It’s a wonder, your skill at the gaming tables,” Raffella said as she hooked each button of the gown. “But to hear such news!”

  Isabella saw the other woman shake her head in the reflection from the window. She wanted to say something in return, but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “Now you shall have all you desire,” Raffella added in English, her accent heavy. She wanted to practice for their move to England.

  All she desired. Isabella had once thought she had everything she’d desired when she’d arrived in Milan. A simpler life, one with love and laughter — a life she’d thought they’d live until she and Manning were ready for the grave. It’d taken Isabella a long while to part with that notion.

  Now that she’d risked what virtue she retained, to regain entry into London society, her life was about to become so very different from what she’d once imagined it. Now, she was with a man of incredible wealth and power. A man who could, as Raffella said, give her all she desired.

  Unlike Manning, Isabella didn’t know the first thing about the Duke of Strathmore. Except his naivety at the card table.

  “You must forget the past.” Raffella stepped beside her.

  Her lady’s maid and confidant, Raffella had stayed by her when Manning left. She’d not judged Isabella, nor had Raffella gossiped about her in the aftermath of Manning’s desertion. Now, her maid watched her for a long, silent moment.

  When Isabella didn’t look away from the flowers below, Raffella sighed. “I’ll see breakfast is ready.”

  Was she supposed to feel different today?

  After the first night she spent with Manning, she had. The morning after they’d decided to flee England for Milan, she had. The morning she’d woken alone and abandoned, she had.

  Today, Isabella did not feel different.

  No, that wasn’t strictly true. A thrill of anticipation raced through her, and she was honest enough with herself to admit it had just a little to do with the Duke of Strathmore. He was a handsome man, and the way his gaze followed her last night had sent a rush of long-forgotten pleasure through her.

  Perhaps she’d been a bit hasty in releasing Mrs. Primsby, but Isabella doubted the duke would’ve married her if it hadn’t been for last eve’s bet.

  He’d seemed fascinated, to be sure. The way his gaze followed her the entire night showed her that. Isabella wondered if he’d watched the gaming room the previous night as well, waiting for her. The thought made her stomach flip, and as she turned from the view, she did not know how she felt about that.

  However, as the terms of their bet showed clearly enough, fascination didn’t necessarily lead to the marriage she’d desperately needed. If she hadn
’t won last night, she’d have returned to England as the man’s mistress.

  She would be mistress to a powerful man, one who commanded authority and respect, but his mistress only.

  Walking down the staircase, Isabella put all that aside. She had won last night. And while Mrs. Primsby had originally introduced them, she had not been the one to secure the betrothal.

  Still, perhaps she’d send the matchmaker a note once she returned to England.

  Isabella nodded to Nicolo, her manservant, as he held the chair out for her. She’d learned to live simply since coming to Milan and hadn’t missed having dozens of servants. Her small staff — Raffella, Nicolo, and Signora Pagano the cook — had kept her small townhouse running more smoothly than her mother’s staff ever had.

  Perhaps, she thought as she ate a light breakfast of pastries and tea, that had more to do with her than the size of the staff.

  Her servants, like she, were frugal. Each meal was simple, and while Isabella had secured enough coin to see her through the next year, she refused to ever again live with that fear of not knowing if tomorrow she’d end up on the streets.

  It wouldn’t take much to grow accustomed to the extravagance of the duke’s estate. Isabella wouldn’t forget the lessons she learned in Milan nor would she lose the appreciation for the work required to maintain even the simplest lifestyle.

  Strathmore had been a gentleman during the negotiations; he hadn’t treated her poorly and hadn’t scoffed at her terms. Those terms set forth to see to her security.

  He’d seemed confident enough while agreeing to the terms of their bet, confident even when congratulating her on her success. He hadn’t flushed with anger over losing and now that Isabella remembered that, she wondered why.

  Perhaps he was simply a very good actor.

  Still, the terms of their agreement had been settled upon, and now all that was left was the actual wedding. Isabella had a feeling their marriage could be civil. Cordial. Mayhap, in time, affectionate even.

  Nicolo rushed down the hallway, startling Isabella from her thoughts. Where was he in such a rush to? Then she heard the faint pounding on the front door.

  She didn’t need to see who it was. She rarely had visitors here, and never before noon. And never after the most successful gamble of her entire life.

  Hastily wiping her mouth, Isabella slipped through the hidden door and into the front parlor to await His Grace. She listened for the conversation, but only heard the faintest of murmurs from the foyer.

  Sitting in the sun-lighted room, with the curtains opened to the busy street outside, she breathed deeply to calm her suddenly racing heart and waited. She didn’t have to wait long.

  In the light of day, the duke was far more striking than she remembered. The green of his eyes were crystal clear as they immediately found her; Isabella couldn’t read him. His face was impassively blank, his eyes sharp, as vivid as she remembered, but no emotion peeked through.

  His black trousers moved gracefully around his legs as he walked into the parlor. His hands were clasped behind his back, making the gray tailcoat stretch rather enticingly across his broad shoulders.

  Pulling her gaze back to his, Isabella nodded serenely as Nicolo introduced him.

  “I did not expect you to be so anxious to see me again, Your Grace.” She offered a small smile and tried to gain the measure of him. The fact she could not made her slightly uneasy — she was usually so good at reading people.

  “I expected you to send round a note or a summons about our wedding,” she added.

  He stepped further into the room and closed the doors behind him. One eyebrow raised over her boldness, but she said nothing to it.

  “It’s our wedding I’ve come to speak to you about.” He continued to watch her with that same penetrating look that saw everything but revealed nothing.

  Isabella nodded and waited a very long moment for him to continue. She was quite unfamiliar with betrothals, having skipped that entire process with Manning; she was also a tad unclear as to what marrying a duke entailed.

  She’d been properly groomed for a good match, but Strathmore was quite above her station; even if she hadn’t run off with Manning, Isabella never would’ve caught the eye of a man like Strathmore.

  Gesturing for him to sit, Isabella waited. Strathmore moved with that same coiled grace she observed since first meeting him. It was lithe and dangerous, and tempted her beyond what she was willing to give.

  “I’ve come to offer a settlement for our debt,” he said in a coolly even voice.

  Curious, she tilted her head. “I don’t see an Anglican priest over your shoulder,” she said with a faint smile. He didn’t return it. Clearing her throat she added, “I’m curious as to what you consider a settlement of our debt.”

  “I’ve placed myself in an awkward position,” he said slowly. But his gaze never wavered, and his voice remained clear. “My duty to the Strathmore estate goes beyond my personal desires. Or my right to risk the estate in any manner.”

  If Isabella hadn’t the feeling he was about to back out of their agreement, she’d admire his duty to his estate. So few people felt that way. However, ice formed in the pit of her stomach and spread through her veins.

  “I hadn’t the right to enter into the wager I did with you last eve.” He took in a deep breath, but Isabella had a feeling it was not to keep his courage. “Therefore, I ask you to accept one hundred thousand pounds as settlement on the wager.”

  Isabella stifled a gasp. A hundred thousand pounds? That was a king’s ransom. But she narrowed her eyes. Furious he’d try to back out of paying his debt — which he seemed perfectly willing to accept last night — she snapped.

  “No,” she spat at him, fingers pressed hard into her thighs.

  “Miss Harrington,” he continued in that same cool voice, seemingly unaffected by her refusal, “this allows you to return to England a wealthy woman. I’ll also secure you a townhouse in London.” He watched her for several heavy beats of her heart. “And of course, my unwavering support for your return to society.”

  Jaw clenched, Isabella slowly rose to her feet. She needed to hide away her emotions, keep them in check for this conversation. Strathmore wasn’t a man to be swayed by emotion; his words attested to that.

  But she couldn’t stop the anger in her gaze and when she spoke, it wasn’t with the cool detachment with which he did. It was with the heat of fury.

  “I do not accept your offer,” she said slowly, careful to enunciate each word. Isabella wanted no misunderstanding. “I release you from your debt. I see you’re not a man of good character or one who honors his wagers.” She sniffed haughtily. “But a coward who hides behind a heavy purse. I require nothing from you, Your Grace.”

  Stiff with anger, she swallowed hard, the bitter taste of failure like ashes in her mouth. Pointing to the door, she raised her chin defiantly. “Except for you to see yourself out.”

  He stepped closer to her. When had he stood? But he retained that unflappable aloofness that only infuriated her further.

  “Miss Harrington, I’m fully aware of your situation.” His gaze swept over her, not in a crass way, but Isabella was too furious to decipher the nuances of the Duke of Strathmore today.

  “This settlement would alter things immeasurably. Do not reject it so easily.”

  A hundred thousand pounds would alter anyone’s life, anyone’s future. But she didn’t want his money.

  “I’ve released you from your obligation,” she snapped. “Good day.”

  She held his gaze for a long while. He didn’t move and even through her anger, Isabella wondered why he wasn’t retreating like the coward he was. But he watched her, jaw clenched, eyes hard on hers.

  A stalemate? With a revelation such as his, he thought he could...what? Somehow force her to accept his money?

  Annoyed and, yes, slightly tempted, Isabella stepped aside. If he refused to leave for reasons only he seemed to know, then she would. And for the
first time in years, Isabella wished she had a strong footman to physically toss the arrogant duke onto the street.

  “Have your legs grown roots in my parlor?” she demanded. “Should you not take your leave?”

  Strathmore took a deep breath that suddenly broke the tension. It made her uneasy. “I think,” he said slowly, “you meant our parlor.”

  His lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “After all, you shall be my wife...Duchess.”

  Isabella’s head swirled, but she slowly lowered her hand. The man was utterly maddening! But she kept her chin raised and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “As I have now said, many times,” she told him slowly in case he hadn’t understood her the first several times she’d spoken, “I’ve released you from this debt. Please dispense with any attempt to rescind your dishonorable behavior and simply leave.”

  “I wasn’t sure I saw it in you,” he admitted in the strangest change of subject yet.

  Isabella didn’t know what to make of it. Or him. He made her head spin and her blood heat. His offer of a hundred thousand pounds tempted her more than Isabella wanted to admit, even to herself. To return with that kind of wealth would ensure society accepted whatever story she gave them.

  But she hated when another tried to rescind on his debt, and the Duke of Strathmore had tried just that.

  “Saw what?” she hissed, annoyed she felt the need to ask.

  “I see you possess the temperament of a duchess,” he said quite seriously, in an almost analytical tone. He nodded once. “That will help solidify your position.”

  The ice inside her melted. Just a bit. Isabella nodded and said honestly, “I don’t want a husband who resents this match.”

  Isabella bit back further words. She feared that more than she’d realized, marrying a man who hated her and resented her place in his life. One who, in turn, had the power to make her own life miserable.

  That was no way to live. Not for either of them.

  Chapter Seven

  He took umbrage being called a coward.