Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters

by Reed, Kristabel

  Jonathon didn’t necessarily blame Isabella for calling him one — in essence he dishonored their bet. But he did resent this unknown woman calling him such when she was clearly unaware of the accountability he carried to his title and lands.

  He held himself very still as he raked his eyes over Isabella. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her eye him warily.

  The lavender of her gown only served to highlight the fire in her eyes, the way she spit that fire at him. Her anger surprised him, the intensity of it; her defiance intrigued him and wounded his pride. He’d never been one to trifle with a woman in such a manner — to offer her hope, only to take it so cruelly away.

  And he didn’t want to be known as one who did.

  He could easily walk out those doors and never look back, forget this unique woman before him, her fire and her audacity and her cleverness. He could easily walk away and no one need know what had truly transpired between him and Isabella Harrington.

  Except him. And he’d not accept that. It’d have been easier if she accepted the money, of course, but she hadn’t.

  Contrary to her belief, Jonathon didn’t resent her for it. Her refusal made him respect her all the more.

  He understood the responsibilities of his dukedom all too well. And those responsibilities did not entail making a woman such as Isabella his duchess. Watching her carefully, he stepped closer to her; those gorgeous brown eyes of hers narrowed at his slightest movement.

  These last years, he’d been reckless. He lived his life, doing as he pleased when he pleased, and with whom he pleased. Last night was the culmination of those reckless choices.

  Put simply, Jonathon wanted her.

  Yes, he was attracted to her looks, but he much preferred the way she tilted that pert chin as she stood against the world. It attracted him more than he believed such an attitude could. She truly did captivate him from the first.

  Jonathon wanted her as his mistress. He’d willingly taken the risk to make her his wife simply to have her.

  Jonathon stepped closer to her; she did not flinch back but kept that fierce gaze focused on him.

  In these last years, there’d been many times he lived on the edge. And he’d always won — until last night. The loss should chafe. It didn’t. Now Isabella was within his grasp, and he’d almost walked away from her. Seeing her like this, the fire that attracted him only a few nights ago, Jonathon knew this was no loss he’d regret.

  The only part of this to give him pause was her standing in society. Yes, it’d have been simpler for her to accept his money, but at this moment he was glad she had not. Isabella Harrington was a formable woman, one he easily saw running his estate and who would never shrink from lofty duties.

  Her fire, her passion drew him in as no woman ever had, sparked a hunger that clawed through his veins. Even with the brief time he knew her, Jonathon wanted her with a desire he’d never felt for anything or anyone else. Damn whatever the consequences.

  He’d make her his duchess.

  He’d been right before — one night with her wouldn’t be enough. He cleared his throat and pushed that arousal deep inside, hiding it as best he could. Jonathon didn’t know if he hid it from her or himself.

  “I do not resent you,” he said firmly and let his arms fall back to his sides. Then, because this hadn’t been the easiest or clearest of conversations, he added, “Nor shall I.”

  “I find it difficult to take you at your word,” she stated, shoulders still stiff, hands clasped tightly together. “As I said when we laid down our terms, I do not want to exist as a wife who is loathed.”

  He didn’t much care for society or for the good opinion of the ton, so easily swayed. He did, however, care about the reputation of the Wakefield name and the Strathmore title and estate.

  Despite believing he’d never bet more than he was willing to pay, after losing last eve, Jonathon wondered if bringing home a duchess with Isabella Harrington’s reputation was more than the Strathmore estate could pay.

  Jonathon nodded and stepped closer, relaxing his own stance to show his sincerity. “You shall not. I offered to settle this debt in an ultimate manner believing it was best for my estate. But now I see otherwise. “

  Isabella released a breath and he watched some of the tension she held in her shoulders, her entire body, release. “How so?”

  “I wouldn’t have engaged in this wager if I didn’t” — Jonathon leaned closer and lowered his voice — “want you.”

  He saw the surprise in her face before she hid it behind her mask of casual indifference.

  “Propriety drove you to make this offer to settle your debt,” she said. Her voice was still even, but not as angry as it had been. “A visceral reaction, one born of fear.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “How could I possibly trust your word?”

  “We have our arrangement,” he reminded her. “And I now see what you can bring to the estate. And therefore I intend to honor our wager.” He waited, but her mask stayed firmly in place. “Are you no longer interested in your winnings?”

  Her facade cracked then. A pained look crossed her face, but Isabella didn’t avert her gaze. If anything, her back straightened and her chin tilted that little bit more.

  This morning her blonde hair was in a simple coiffure, with small ringlets at the base of her neck. Her pale skin glowed against the lavender of her gown, but it was her eyes, dark and full of fire, that continued to capture him.

  “Will you treat this as you would any gentleman’s agreement?” she finally demanded.

  “I will.” He nodded.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “We will marry.”

  “Good.” Jonathon nodded, gaze on hers. “We’ll need to arrange something here in Milan. A local parish priest, perhaps...” He trailed off and frowned.

  Isabella walked around the parlor, putting distance between them. He watched her movements, unable to look away. “Yes,” she said with a small smile. “That should suffice. I believe Nicolo knows a priest who can marry us.”

  “It won’t suffice,” he said unyieldingly. Jonathon saw the surprise on her face and added, “It’ll only do for the moment.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Her head tilted, but her gaze never left his.

  “I’m unfamiliar with these Milanese marriage laws,” he admitted slowly as he worked out how to make this marriage permanent. “It won’t do for a duke of the British Empire to be married by a Catholic priest.”

  Rubbing the fingers of one hand along his trousers, Jonathon paced in front of the fireplace. Coming to a stop before her, he watched the realization lighten her eyes. “There are customs that must be followed for our marriage to be legally binding. A certificate of marriage from Milan could be challenged in the British courts.”

  Isabella’s chin rose again and he watched her, fascinated and amused. His fingers itched to feel the soft skin of her throat, trace along her chin and watch her eyes blaze — not with the fire of anger, but with the fire of passion.

  “We’ll marry here for propriety’s sake,” he said firmly, hands once more clenched behind his back. He wouldn’t touch her until their wedding night.

  “Should anyone inquire as to your movements over the previous two years,” he continued, though his gaze lingered on her chin, her throat and then back to her eyes which watched him steadily, “it can easily be explained by travel to your sick relatives and then travel with Mrs. Primsby until our marriage.”

  “Yes.” Isabella nodded, still watching him carefully. “That will serve as a logical explanation for most.”

  Planning this out in his head, Jonathon paced again. He discarded ideas even as he followed the most logical steps toward their return to England, legally married to Isabella with no chance of being challenged.

  “Once we depart from Milan to England, we’ll need to take further precautions before returning to the estate,” he decided.

  “Further precautions?” she repeated.

  He looked
up at her, but her face was surprisingly open and her gaze even on his. Jonathon stopped and nodded, though he moved no closer to where she stood by the settee.

  “Yes. It must appear as if once we decided to marry, we took every possible avenue of propriety.”

  “What further precautions do you refer to?” she asked.

  But he could see the tension had disappeared from her shoulders. Even the hands clasped around each other in the front of her gown now curled easily at her sides.

  “We shall make a stop at Gretna Green and marry over the anvil.” He said it as if it made perfect sense, but the incredulous look Isabella gave him made it clear she didn’t follow the same line of logical thinking.

  “Is that truly necessary?” she asked, a slight laugh in her words. “We’d already have a certificate of marriage from Milan.”

  Very slowly and very seriously, Jonathon closed the distance between them. In a voice that brooked no argument and held no humor he said, “I believe it is a necessity. There are not many in England who’d recognize a Milanese Catholic certificate of marriage, but they will recognize one conducted in Gretna Green.”

  If he was going to marry Isabella Harrington, he damn well was going to make sure it was recognized. He didn’t want anyone challenging their marriage.

  “Those who marry in Gretna Green are known to be those who abscond from their homes for a wedding.” Isabella shook her head, but her humor vanished as well. “I’m not certain that’ll give you the propriety you seek.”

  Jonathon gave her a disbelieving look. “It will,” he promised, his voice absolutely certain. “We’re not absconding from England but returning to it. A stop at Gretna Green before returning to the estate for another wedding with a special license will ensure that when my son is born, none will question his legitimacy.”

  Then his voice hardened further, hands clenched at his sides. He saw Isabella’s wary look and consciously unclenched his hands. “With so prestigious a title and quite a bit of money at stake, I don’t trust the next in line not to use any means necessary to discredit our marriage and subsequent heirs.”

  She nodded slowly. “We’ll marry here, then at Gretna Green, then at the estate again?”

  “Yes.” He was adamant about that. “I’ll send a letter directly to the archbishop requesting a special license. It’ll be waiting for us when we return to Strathmore Hall.”

  “That’s quite a number of weddings,” she admitted, and her lips twitched. “There’ll be none who could deny we are married after all this.”

  Grinning with her in amusement, though Jonathon truly believed three marriages were necessary, he took her hand. “That, my dear, is the point.”

  Her smile widened, and her fingers were warm and relaxed in his. “This is quite a change from when you first entered my home today.”

  “I honor my debts,” he said, still smiling. “One way or another.”

  Stepping back, he bowed in farewell. “I shall attend to the letters.”

  Isabella followed him out of the parlor. “When shall I expect you for the wedding? Next week?”

  Jonathon turned to her even as the butler hurried with his hat, gloves, and walking stick. “Tomorrow.”

  She couldn’t cover her surprise and did not have anything to say to his statement, either. He nodded to her. “I’ll expect you at my townhouse by ten tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Eight

  It’d been eight tumultuous days since meeting Mrs. Primsby. It’d been a mere four since meeting Strathmore at the gaming halls and barely two days since winning their wager.

  When she wanted to change her life, to move forward from the scandal that held her here in Milan, Isabella hadn’t quite expected to do so in this mad rush of things.

  Now Isabella was on her third pot of tea; she was too tense for breakfast. The household moved in controlled chaos, but she believed most of her personal belongings had been seen to and packed. Not that she had much she called hers — all the furnishings in this rented townhouse belonged to the landlord.

  She’d written the company to break her lease and to direct further inquiries to Strathmore Hall. Tempted though she’d been to sign the letter as duchess, Isabella did not. She’d also told the staff of her plans and, with the exception of Raffella, who she intended to take with her to England, wrote them all glowing recommendations for their next employment.

  Now, as the sun rose higher on what was to be her wedding day, Isabella walked through the empty house. Her trunks were stacked by the door, with the exception of several personal items she’d yet to go through.

  She already selected her wedding gown, a fine cream muslin embroidered with primroses and satin flowers. Raffella now wove together flowers from the gardens to wear as a crown for the actual ceremony. Though Isabella didn’t think a crown of flowers necessary for this wedding Raffella insisted.

  Isabella walked slowly up the stairs, taking one last look, breathing in the scent of tallow and lemon oil. Was she sorry to leave this place? To move onto other things? She wanted to say no she wasn’t, but hadn’t a definitive answer. She had so many memories here, good and bad.

  Still, it was her choice to move forward with her life. Her choice to engage first a matchmaker then in a risky bet with a duke. No, she was not sorry to see the last of this townhouse.

  Sitting on the window seat, she looked through the small case that held her personal items. Earbobs, necklaces, several smaller brooches from Manning.

  Holding the bracelet of peridot and gold, she examined it in the sunlight. He’d given it to her because he liked the color, and at one point Isabella had many green gowns because of this bracelet. She rid herself of them long ago, almost immediately after he left. But she wore this bracelet as the reminder of his abandonment.

  Oh, it’d been so long since she’d pick the color of her gown simply because Manning favored it. How many tears had she shed for that man since his abandonment? How many sleepless nights had she spent wondering if he’d return, since the slightest noise in this house had been him come back to her? With flowers and regrets. Isabella knew she’d have taken him back and would have done so had he only returned.

  Until the day came, months after he left her, when she realized he wasn’t coming back and she did not want him to. She could’ve forgiven his leaving for a short while, forgiven his weakness. On that day, upon waking to a house entirely hers and Manning not the first thing she thought of, Isabella knew she’d never welcome him — into her arms or into her bed again.

  He left her. Alone. Taken with him all the money they’d saved, and all the jewels from her box save those she’d carelessly left on her vanity.

  She felt the fool. The fool her mother had called her. The young fool who put her trust in someone who did not deserve it. Yes, she’d be well rid of this house and these memories. Of Manning Bradford.

  Manning did teach her a lesson she’d never forget — she’d never lose herself like the young fool she’d been. Never let anyone use her as Manning had. Never fall in love to that degree again. Ever. If Strathmore kept his promise and continued to honor the terms of their bet, they could have a future that was amicable.

  Amicable? Amenable, mayhap.

  A friendship based on honesty but not on love. Even a wild creature occasionally trusted enough to survive.

  Isabella dumped the rest of her jewelry into the box. She should give these away, sell them; she should’ve sold them ages ago. These pieces were her past, and they no longer held any power over her.

  She needed to look to the future. Even if she never forgot the lessons she learned.

  Her gaze returned to the bracelet and she draped it on her wrist, purposely fastening it too tight.

  * * * *

  Strathmore sent a carriage round for her, a hired carriage to be sure, but one far nicer than those Isabella hired. She waited as Raffella settled across from her, and they were off. It wasn’t a long trip from her townhouse — former townhouse — to Strathmore�
�s, and Isabella used the time to gather her thoughts.

  This was it then. Her wedding day.

  She wondered if she was supposed to feel something; rather, she wondered what she should be feeling. Today was the culmination of careful planning and sheer luck at the card table. Should she feel more than that?

  Isabella did, but couldn’t quite place what that feeling was. Happiness? To put her past behind her, yes. Satisfaction? No, it wasn’t that she wasn’t pleased with how things between she and Strathmore played out; it was simply that she continued to carry her regrets.

  Now she had a future with a man she thought she trusted — to a degree. One she thought she could enjoy a friendship with during their marriage.

  Before that, however, she needed to marry the man and sleep with him.

  Isabella enjoyed sex with Manning. Well, she enjoyed sex with him in the beginning. He’d been a generous lover; one who learned her body and taught her how to pleasure a man. But that had been in the beginning. When money became tight and then later when she’d won more than him at the tables, he’d become jealous, hard, selfish.

  A lover out for his own pleasure and naught more.

  The carriage jerked to a halt and she waited as the door opened, a footman there to hand her out. The midmorning sun shone warmly down on her as she crossed the sidewalk and headed up the walk. The trees were in bloom, and spring flowers brightened the front gardens of Strathmore’s townhouse on the most prestigious street in Milan.

  Isabella breathed deeply, the last of her past falling behind her as she stepped through the gate. No longer would she look to her past; no longer did she drown in bad decisions and unworthy men.

  The butler opened the door and greeted her with a stiff bow. Ah. English, then. Italian butlers, she’d learned, held themselves far differently than their English counterparts. It was a difficult something to pinpoint, but it was there to those who knew.

  “Miss Harrington.”

  Isabella looked up to see Strathmore’s friend, Lord Granville, standing in the marbled foyer. He bowed in greeting to her and gestured to the front parlor.