“The duke is currently engaged in the library with the priest,” Granville added as he followed her into the well-appointed room.
The chairs were upholstered with finely embroidered tapestry, and heavy brocade curtains framed the windows, allowing the morning sunlight to brighten the room. Elegant vases with hydrangeas of all colors sat on various tables. Their scent filled the room beautifully, and Isabella breathed in deeply.
“Strathmore has informed me of the circumstances behind your wedding.”
Isabella stiffened and raised her chin. She couldn’t quite make out Granville’s tone of voice; it was too smooth, too even.
“I take it,” she said in an equally cool voice, “you do not approve?”
His face relaxed into an easy smile that had her at a complete loss. “To approve or disapprove, that is Strathmore’s decision. However” — he looked at her with fathomless dark eyes — “I do wish you both well.”
Isabella blinked up at him, stunned. “Truly?”
“Truly,” he said with more sincerity than she expected. He cleared his throat and nodded to himself.
“Circumstances have changed since our first meeting,” he continued. “As his friend, it was my duty to not allow him to be swayed by a beautiful woman. But the choice has been made.”
Isabella noted his use of words — choice not bet. She couldn’t help but feel a modicum of gratitude for Granville’s discretion.
“I shall always support him and his wife,” Granville added, again with that sincerity.
Isabella wondered what it was like to have a friend such as Strathmore had in Granville. Jealousy flushed her cheeks, but she simply nodded in thanks.
She walked away from all her friends, because of Manning. And she would not make such a mistake again. Nodding slowly, Isabella offered Granville a slight smile. He returned it, and the sincerity in his dark gaze did much to reassure.
“Shall I ring for tea?” Granville asked
Yes, tea sounded lovely. Isabella set her reticule on the occasional table by the settee and smiled wider. Before she could agree, Strathmore and the priest arrived.
She duly curtseyed to Strathmore and the priest, who inclined his head. When she met Strathmore’s gaze, she noticed a change in the way he looked at her. He smiled at her, a genuine smile that looked at odds with how she expected him to look.
Quite frankly, Isabella expected him to look as if he were headed for the gallows.
Strathmore crossed the parlor and took her hand, kissing the back of it. “You look lovely,” he said in a low voice meant for the two of them alone.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, keeping her voice even and ignoring the way his hand felt against hers.
“I trust all is settled with your former residence?” he asked, not releasing her hand.
“It is,” she confirmed. “And thank you once again for sending additional household staff to be of assistance.”
He nodded and threaded her hand through the crook of his arm. Strathmore guided her to the low table before the settee and the papers the priest laid out. Isabella sat and looked over the licenses.
“Father Dominic,” Strathmore began with a nod toward the priest, who smiled genially at them, “has several papers for us to attend to before the ceremony. I take it here will suffice?” He gestured around the parlor.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, of course.”
The marriage licenses and register and Isabella didn’t know what all else littered the table top. Strathmore set an inkwell on the table and handed her a quill pen. She signed where indicated: Isabella Rose Harrington.
Handing the quill to Strathmore, she moved to the opposite end of the settee. She supposed a woman ought to know her husband’s full name and titles. Curious, she watched Strathmore sign his name: Jonathon Philip George Xavier Wakefield, 7th Duke of Strathmore, Earl of Glenmoore, Viscount Dover.
Isabella blinked. Then stifled a laugh. She pressed her lips together and watched him sign his full name and titles on every single paper. And there were a lot of papers. When he looked up, she tried to smooth her expression and resume the facade she’d maintained until this moment.
It was no use, and laughter broke through her resolve. Strathmore grinned, the tension she hadn’t realized tightened his shoulders eased.
“Perhaps you should you allow your wrist to rest a moment, Your Grace,” Isabella said with as straight a face as she could manage. Laughter peeked through, and she pressed her lips together to keep it in.
“I shall press on,” he said grandly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’ll learn the Strathmores are a rather persistent lot.”
He returned to his signing, and Isabella returned to watching him. She found it oddly curious and was unable to tear her gaze away.
“Yes,” she muttered. “You’d have to be persistent.”
A momentary pang of trepidation twisted through her. Oh, dear. After today, she now had to write all that. On every official document presented to her. Isabella fervently hoped she’d never be presented with an official document again.
Finally he came to the last page and finished with a flourish. Strathmore set down the quill and massaged his wrist. Isabella wondered if it was for her benefit, as the humor still lighted his gaze.
Her instinct was to reach out and run her fingers over his wrist, easing the muscles there. She forcibly dug her fingers into the muslin of her dress to keep her hands to herself. Even if she still remembered the feel of his skin against hers. Isabella looked from where his elegant fingers pressed against his skin to his gaze.
And her breath caught. The humor was still there, bright and alive, but deeper she saw the same interest, the same arousal that had been present since their first meeting.
She pressed her fingers harder into her gown, against the tops of her thighs. Swallowing hard, Isabella tore her gaze away and grasped for the threads of their light amusement.
What was it about this moment, about his lightness, that made her uneasy? She swallowed and regained her composure.
“You wish to do this how many more times?” she asked, though her voice caught.
But Strathmore grinned at her and stood, extending his hand — his writing hand — for hers. She didn’t hesitate as she placed her palm against his and did her best to present herself as his soon-to-be duchess.
He led her to the fireplace, and they turned to face the priest. Father Dominic watched them with the same genial gaze as before, and for the first time Isabella wondered what he’d been told about this marriage.
Raffella entered the parlor with the crown of flowers and curtseyed deeply to those assembled. “Father, Lord Granville.” Then she turned to Isabella and Strathmore and curtseyed again, so deeply her head all but touched the floor. “Your Grace, it’s such an honor to join your household.”
When she stood from the extremely deep curtsey, she stumbled off balance. Strathmore offered his arm to steady her maid.
“I’m not as young as I thought,” Raffella muttered in Italian.
Isabella swallowed a chuckle and nodded to the other woman. The suppressed smirk on Strathmore’s face told her he understood Raffella perfectly.
“It’s an honor to have you,” he said.
Impressed, Isabella smiled warmly at her lady’s maid and didn’t feel quite so alone. Raffella placed the crown atop her head and took her place next to her by the fireplace.
“Just the right touch,” Father Dominic said warmly as he stood before them.
“Miss Harrington,” Strathmore said, “are you ready?”
His use of Miss surprised her, and Isabella looked up at him. In a short time he’d no doubt take to calling her Isabella. Or would it always be formal between them? She cleared her throat and forced her stiff muscles to relax, then nodded.
“Yes, I am.”
Chapter Nine
Isabella wasn’t certain, having never been to a Catholic wedding, but she had a feeling her ceremony to Strathmore
was much shorter than normal. Father Dominic was very kind and seemed genuinely pleased for them.
During the ceremony she’d brushed her gloved fingers over the too-tight bracelet, her constant reminder. The reminder of her foolish decisions of how she’d never lose herself to anyone like Manning again.
And a reminder of her wager with Strathmore. She’d treat Strathmore decently if he treated her with decency; she’d honor their wager and show him what affection she was capable of. But never would it go further than that affection, that politeness between them.
After the ceremony, Raffella excused herself to rejoin the servants as they enjoyed their own celebratory feast. Strathmore escorted her into the breakfast room, a light blue room with wide windows that overlooked the townhouse’s rear gardens.
She took a moment to look at the gardens, with bright spring flowers in all colors and green vines creeping slowly up several trellises. Isabella had always enjoyed her garden, though it paled in comparison to what she now witnessed. It suddenly occurred to her that the gardens on Strathmore’s estate surely covered twice the footage of her own townhouse — or former townhouse.
That life now lay very firmly behind her.
With a smile and a lighter feeling than she expected, Isabella turned from the view to look up at her husband. He watched her carefully, and she wondered what he sought. What he searched for. She smiled cordially up at him, an odd mixture of relief and curiosity.
He guided her to the buffet, where a sumptuous feast had been laid out on the light wood sideboards and the round, intimate table set appropriately for both Strathmore’s stature and the wedding feast.
He watched her oddly, or perhaps not oddly, but with an expression Isabella couldn’t place. There was a strange tension to him as he held out her chair himself. She didn’t know what she expected from this morning, from their wedding, but this surprised her. And in a very pleasant way.
Strathmore turned to one of the footman. “Be sure to serve the duchess the fig and grape jam.” Strathmore smiled down at her. “It’s rather delicious, my dear.”
Isabella barely heard any word he spoke after the duchess. She knew, oh she knew, that marrying a duke made her his equal. But hearing him say it, hearing Strathmore call her duchess made her appreciate he was the first to call her that. It wasn’t so much the title as the way he said it, the fact he had said it — with no repudiation and no mAlison.
Clearing her throat she managed, “Thank you, I look forward to it.”
She tried to tear her gaze from his as the footman held out his chair and Strathmore sat beside her. It was no use; she continued to observe him and wondered what he thought.
“I think old Strathmore here will show you quite a number of new things,” Granville said. Then he stopped and looked horribly embarrassed.
Isabella turned to Granville and blinked. It took a moment for her to understand the full implication of that sentence. When she did, Isabella offered a slight grin at who she hoped would become a new friend.
“Such as foods!” Granville continued, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, though at that point, whatever he tried to say was of little use. “And new places! He can show you new places.”
“Yes,” she said with a wider smile now as she helped Granville out of the hole he continued to dig for himself. “And I’ll help him improve his game of piquet.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Strathmore blanch. Amused, she turned to look at him, her husband. One of his eyebrows raised, but he was unable to contain his grin.
Another coil of long-held tension eased within her.
Mayhap this marriage could become affectionate and amiable. It looked to already be off to a great start.
Granville coughed. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I’ll be off for England in the morning, leaving the two of you to enjoy a private, and pleasurable, honeymoon without guests underfoot.”
“For new marriage,” Father Dominic said, that twinkle still about him, “that is a blessing.” He held up his slice of bread. “And you are quite right about this fig and grape preserve. In all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
Isabella agreed. “It is delicious.”
The pride and pleasure Strathmore took in her compliment was clear, and once again she had to suppress a laugh. Turning to Granville instead she said, “I did not expect you to rush off — please don’t feel as if you must.”
He looked taken aback by her words, and she wondered, despite their earlier conversation, what he expected of her once she became the Duchess of Strathmore. The fact Granville accepted his friend’s choices, blindly or not, warmed Isabella anew.
“Thank you.” Granville inclined his head. “But it’s time for me to return. Though I hope to soon be a guest at Strathmore Hall to welcome its new duchess.”
Then he lifted his glass. Stunned at Granville’s words, Isabella reached for her glass.
“To the new Duchess of Strathmore,” Granville toasted.
She stopped and didn’t raise her glass. The toast warmed a part of her that had long been cold and she smiled as they raised their glasses to her.
Father Dominic repeated the tribute, and Isabella felt the sincerity at the gesture. She turned to Strathmore and saw a softness, a tenderness, in his gaze. She’d not fallen into an unwelcome situation; instead, she’d found herself with what appeared to be men of honor.
She’d see if her observation held true.
“To my duchess,” he said.
* * * *
They’d seen Father Dominic off with more well wishes and blessings. Now, Granville and Strathmore conversed in the foyer, and she waited beside her new husband, her hand resting on the crook of his arm.
No blushing virgin, she felt no nerves at consummating their marriage — it was a part of their wager, after all. Being honest with herself, she realized she didn’t mind sleeping with Strathmore in particular; mayhap she even looked forward to this afternoon.
He was tall and handsome, with a strong jaw and wide shoulders, and he was far more muscled than she expected from a man of leisure. And his eyes, a startling green, mesmerized her. No, she would not mind seeing his naked body, feeling those muscles beneath her fingers, against her own body.
That surprised her. The act of sex was pleasurable enough; the feel of a man sliding into her body was thrilling. At least it had been. Strathmore no doubt had the experience to make it far from unbearable and Isabella resolved to enjoy it. With all his experience from his years and travel, she wagered he was a skilled lover.
Unless, of course, he was an inadequate lover. In which case she’d simply have to bear it until she produced the appropriate heir.
The front door stood open to the late morning sun, and the sounds of an active city came clearly through. She’d miss Milan. But not enough to ever return. If she and Strathmore traveled, there were plenty of other places to explore.
Milan, though beautiful and vibrant, was as firmly in her past as her rented townhouse, the opera gaming hall, and her entire life here.
“Where are you off to?” Strathmore asked.
“Off to the galleries,” Granville said with a dramatic sweep of his hand. “I can’t return from Italy without gifts — Octavia would have my head.”
Snickering, Strathmore agreed. “Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, your sister would.”
He bowed deeply to Isabella. “I’ll be off midmorning.” The glint in his dark eyes was unmistakable — it looked like Granville wanted to be nowhere near her and Strathmore for what counted as their honeymoon.
To Strathmore, Granville said, “If I don’t see you, I wish you and your duchess safe travels. And look forward to a happy reunion at Strathmore Hall.”
“I wish you safe travels as well.” She released Strathmore’s arm and extended her hand. Granville kissed the back of it and straightened with a smile. “Thank you for welcoming me so warmly.”
“Of course, Duchess.” Granville tipped his hat to Strathmo
re and offered him a wicked grin. Without another word, he left.
The butler closed the door, bowed to them, and disappeared as well. Suddenly only the two of them stood in the foyer. Isabella turned and looked up at her new husband. This was it, then, and she wanted it. Wanted him.
Her stomach fluttered in trepidation — the flutter of the new and uncharted. Isabella ignored it. This had to be done and she’d move forward with it.
His dark gaze shone with humor and arousal, the same combination she was coming to associate with Strathmore. A combination she was growing to value greatly.
“We survived the first ceremony,” he said and offered his arm again. “It was rather pleasant, was it not?”
“More so than I had expected,” she admitted as they slowly walked across the foyer and toward the stairs.
He peered down at her and asked, “And why is that?”
Isabella chuckled wryly. “The circumstances of our betrothal weren’t exactly traditional. I wasn’t certain,” she admitted, “if I’d find this pleasant man” — she gestured at him — “or a man who resented the situation.”
“Resentment, my dear duchess,” he said very matter of fact, “was not a part of our terms.”
She smiled up at him, one eyebrow raised at his droll sentence. Isabella hadn’t expected to enjoy Strathmore’s company quite so much; he had a wit about him and one she quite appreciated.
When she first sought marriage with him, she hadn’t known what to expect. Then, after the wager, she still hadn’t been certain. There hadn’t been time to think that far ahead before he tried to break their terms.
But this, this ease between them, this humor and lightness, showed her a possible friendship she hadn’t hoped to ever find in her match.
“No,” she agreed softly. “It was not.”
He gave her another disarming smile and for a brief moment, Isabella wondered why he accepted her so readily. Perhaps it was simply because he wished to bed her. Most men understood an amenable attitude solicited what they desired from a woman. Would he change his mind, his entire attitude, once he’d had her?
Or perhaps he’d remain amenable. She need to keep her senses sharp and wait and see what he changed into. Would he remain a lamb or not?
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 7
