As they continued round the deck, the wind whipping her dress scandalously about her ankles, Isabella wondered what it’d be like seeing her mother after over two years of no communication.
She stopped again to look at the crystal sky and the vastness of water around them. The strait rose high on either side of the ship, and Isabella wanted to soak it all in.
Strathmore’s arms came around her, a sharp diversion from the formal walk they’d taken. Startled, she looked over her shoulder, a smile, unbidden, playing around her lips.
His arms were warm around her middle, comfortable. When he drew her back, against him, Isabella felt his hardness settle enticingly against her derrière. She shuddered, her earlier thoughts of their passionate nights once more flooding her mind.
“What brought this on?” she asked, uncaring there was a distinctive breathless quality to her voice. Isabella ran her fingers down his arm.
“My beautiful wife.” His mouth brushed the side of her neck, his breath a caress against the shell of her ear. “I find I can’t resist you. Your body tempts me even on a simple walk.”
“Strathmore,” she breathed.
Isabella thought she should be scandalized, with such open affection where anyone — crew, passengers, everyone — could see them. Instead, she wanted to turn in his arms and kiss him — and whoever watched, be damned.
The strength of her desire shocked her. Purposely looking at her bracelet, still too tight on her wrist, Isabella forced herself to remember her reasons for marrying Strathmore. Passions cooled all too quickly and she’d not be caught up in them again.
She leaned against the railing, not quite moving from his arms but trying to put distance between them. Emotional if not physical distance, she warred with herself — her passion for Strathmore on one side and the powerful need to keep herself safe on the other.
She couldn’t afford to give into her passions blindly, to confuse emotions — love — with sex. Not again.
With a reluctance she felt in every touch of his body against hers, Strathmore pulled back. He didn’t look around guiltily or bow stiffly or formally or any of the other awkward gestures he might’ve done.
No, he offered his arm and a very naughty wink.
“Oh.” Isabella didn’t know if she said that aloud or if it caught in her throat.
Strathmore led her to their cabin, a cramped space without much in the way of luxury and one that required a greater intimacy between them. The instant the door closed, Isabella allowed herself to give into him. It was for the best for their good relations, but she needed to control the desire that burned through her, even as she wanted to simply give into it.
As with every time Strathmore touched her, Isabella was forcibly reminded how different sex felt with him.
The way his touch so easily aroused her and how she craved that touch. How his naked body moved against her, skin to skin, with an eroticism she’d never experienced before. Or the taste of his kiss she’d already memorized and enjoyed far more outside of the bedroom than she ought to. The way his tongue swept along hers even as his hands brushed down her body.
He made her forget herself.
Even now, inside the privacy of their cabin, Isabella struggled to remember all her very valid reasons for maintaining emotional distance between them. They screamed at her, those reasons, and Isabella tried to keep them close, at the forefront of her mind.
But then she kissed him back, shoving his jacket off his shoulders. Fingers craving to touch his bare skin. Her sex throbbed for his touch, for his thickness filling her.
All those reasons suddenly went silent, gone with the feel of Strathmore against her, the taste of him, the burning pleasure that rushed through her. Isabella deepened the kiss and slipped her fingers beneath the band of his trousers to feel the heat of his skin.
As she unbuttoned the flap of his trousers, she heard the distinct rend of material.
“Damn,” Strathmore cursed, his mouth nipping along her throat, the juncture of her shoulder. His hands on her breasts, fingers rolling already aching nipples.
“Sorry,” he murmured. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded about as far from sorry as possible.
Her gown fell to the floor in a forgotten pool of material. It was the fourth dress he’d torn since they left Genoa. Isabella had lost track of how many gowns he’d ruined in Milan as they finished packing up both townhouses.
“I don’t care,” she admitted.
With her mouth back on his, she gave into the moment and for the first time gave voice to the words. He could rend every gown she had and she wouldn’t care.
His growl vibrated along her skin, shooting directly to her core. Isabella gasped at the sound, the feel. The masculinity of it as her blood burned through her. Yes, she wanted him.
Her need for him had only grown since that first night. It wasn’t a sentiment she dwelled on. Apart from her rational need to keep her walls secure around her heart, the need between them simply was. She’d not allow it more purchase than what it already had.
“Strathmore,” she breathed, finally unbuttoning his trousers.
She slipped her hand around his hardness, stroking the thick length with long, sweeping teases of her fingers. She’d learned a lot about her lover — her husband — in the weeks since their marriage.
She had learned what pleased him, what drove him over the edge. What brought her own arousal to such a precipice she sobbed and begged him.
Isabella swept her thumb over the tip of his cock, back down to the base. He growled again and lifted her chemise over her head and then her onto the bed. In one hard thrust, he entered her.
Her need of him surged and she cried out his name, her orgasm there, right there. Shuddering, clenching around him, Isabella wrapped her legs high on his waist and pulled him even closer. They could make love slowly later, with long touches and gentle kisses. Right now she needed. Oh, she needed.
“Harder,” she sobbed, her mouth on his, nails digging into his muscled back. She pulled him closer, deeper into her. “Harder. Now. Please.”
He pulled back and thrust into her, his pace hard and fast and her orgasm tightening through her. Yes, just like that. Did she say that aloud?
But then the wave broke, crashed over her and she cried out, pulsing around him as her orgasm pushed her over the edge.
Still he moved, his pace brutal. When she opened her eyes, she saw his locked with hers, dark, so impossibly dark, and focused entirely on her. Isabella shuddered, and before she had the chance to recover, felt her body tighten around him, pleasure ruthlessly pushed higher.
“Yes,” she breathed, her teeth sinking into his shoulder.
He moved faster, more erratic now, and she knew he was close. Combing her fingers through his hair, she brought his mouth back to hers. The kiss was sloppy and desperate, but Isabella didn’t care. She raked her nails down his back, hips meeting his.
One hand moved from his skin, the broad expanse of it, to her nub. With a few short strokes she cried out again, slamming her hips hard to his and tightening around him. Sparks flickered behind her eyelids, but Isabella didn’t care. She rode out her orgasm, wave after wave of it.
With a strangled cry of her name, Strathmore climaxed, head thrown back, eyes closed, body frozen in utter beauty.
Exhausted, breathing heavily, Isabella forced her eyes to remain open and watch. Suddenly she wished for the strength to move, to lick his neck, taste the salty tang of pleasure on his skin.
Next time.
When he collapsed on her, she tightened her hold on him and sighed. His weight felt so right, so good against her. Her eyes drifted close and she moved just enough to kiss the side of his head, the only spot she could reach.
Eventually he moved, slipping out of her and pulling her tight against him. Isabella didn’t bother to open her eyes but curled into him. She rested her head against his chest, just over his pounding heart, and once more sighed. Utterly content.
Isabella
didn’t know how long they lay there, but when Strathmore moved, she decided she didn’t want to. Possibly ever.
“As duchess,” she said coyly as she watched him dress, “I shouldn’t need to leave our bed.” Isabella reached out and ran her fingertips across his cock. He sucked in a breath and she grinned. “And neither should you.”
He leaned over her, his mouth gentle on hers. Softly at first, then deeper, a brand, she thought fuzzily as she wrapped one hand around the nape of his neck and opened totally to his kiss.
“I can arrange that,” he promised, his voice a dark caress over her body.
Isabella hummed and pulled him back for another kiss. No, she did not care what any of the other passengers thought. This was their honeymoon and they were married.
“Maybe we should’ve stayed in Milan another week,” Strathmore said as Isabella reluctantly climbed from their bed. “Or in Genoa.” He kissed her shoulder. “For another month.”
“Too late now.” She sighed then laughed, watching his eyes lighten and his deep, rich laugh fill the cabin. And fill her with an emotion she couldn’t name. Didn’t want to.
“Help me dress,” she said, grinning widely. “I don’t want to call Raffella in.”
“No,” he agreed, tugging her chemise, miraculously still in one piece, over her head. “She already has to mend your gown.”
Isabella looked at the lovely light blue day dress longingly but shrugged. Raffella was a miracle worker when it came to Strathmore’s treatment of her clothing. She’d need to give her lady’s maid a bonus as soon as they made it to Strathmore Hall.
It was the least she could do for the other woman.
Strathmore helped her dress — if helping her dress included his hands on her thighs as he tugged her stockings into place. Or his mouth on her sex as he made certain the stockings were properly secured. Or his kisses along her back and shoulders as he did up her stays. Then she’d allow him to help her every day.
By the time he finished helping, all Isabella wanted was to undress for him and take him deep inside her until neither could move.
She needed to tamp down on these thoughts — these feelings that wanted to overwhelm her. She needed to remember her reasons for maintaining distance. Then again, what would it matter? Strathmore was not only her husband but her lover; as her lover, his touches should excite her as much as they did.
But they were expected on deck. And as much as she didn’t care to leave this bed, they had promised the Keyes they’d see them there.
“Strathmore,” she whispered, the word caught in her throat as his fingers finished doing up the buttons on her gown.
He placed a final kiss on her shoulder, turned her round, and looked at her with an air of intense scrutiny. She took a moment to re-pin her hair into a simple chignon and hoped it looked as presentable as she’d ever managed these last days on ship.
Isabella knew what she looked like — flushed and aroused and no doubt looking exactly as she felt — like she’d just made love to her husband and wanted to do so again. She hadn’t felt this uninhibited with a lover in — she couldn’t remember if she ever had felt this way.
But all he did was place a kiss on her lips and offer his arm with a wink.
On unsteady legs, she hastily straightened her longcoat and followed him out of their cabin and into the passenger hallway. Isabella took a moment to take deep breaths of the cooler air in the vain hope of cooling her skin.
Back on deck, they walked arm in arm in the open air, ignoring the knowing snickers of the crew. Isabella leaned closer to her husband but refrained from too intimate a display. They no doubt caused quite enough scandal for one day.
“It’s a pity one cannot travel without finding these snakes everywhere,” one of the men on deck, a Mr. Russell, she recalled, said with a sneer as he looked condescendingly over the crew. A short man, Russell was wiry with absurdly long fingers and a cane he constantly carried though never seemed to use.
Strathmore turned in that direction, clearly as curious as she. Before either of them said a word, the second man, Mr. Collins, bowed. Taller than even Strathmore, Collins was gaunt, with a hooked nose that twitched whenever he moved.
Isabella tried not to stare.
“Your Grace,” Collins said to both of them with a bow. “Do be careful. There’s a cutpurse, a thief, amongst us!”
Beside her, Isabella felt Strathmore stiffen, pulling her to him just a little tighter. Startled both by the men’s words and Strathmore’s actions, she looked up at her husband. Strathmore didn’t look at Russell or Collins or scan the deck for this so-called thief, but looked down at her.
His dark gaze focused directly on her, hard and intense in the setting sun. His look sent a shiver through her of awareness and arousal but also deeper, of protection.
Isabella blinked, but Strathmore’s gaze did not soften. His stance had not yielded. With a warmth that spread through her, easing a tension she hadn’t realized she carried, Isabella knew Strathmore would protect her.
A feeling she’d not experienced in a very long time.
Chapter Twelve
Isabella looked between Collins and Russell, her fingers flexing on Strathmore’s arm. A cloud obscured the setting sun, casting a sudden chill on deck. But Strathmore wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her just a little closer.
Their intimate moments continued to grow, expand beyond their time in the bedroom. She needed to put distance between them. Instead, she marginally relaxed against him, strangely secure in his protective embrace. Her limbs still felt heavy and languid and her body continued to hum with Strathmore’s remembered touch.
Frankly, Isabella didn’t want to examine the closeness between them.
They were lovers, new lovers at that. Their intimacy in the bedroom was one thing — Isabella knew what aroused Strathmore better than she ever had Manning. But outside the bedroom, this affection carried over.
She didn’t know why. Didn’t understand it. And certainly didn’t want to scrutinize too closely. Or at all.
“What do you mean a thief?” she demanded, pushing all thoughts of Strathmore, and what they did or did not share, away. “What’s been taken?”
“Your Grace.” Collins bowed again. “I set down my snuffbox for a few moments, only to turn around to find it missing! And Mrs. Russell removed her silk shawl; it was as if it sprung legs and walked off!”
Intrigued, Isabella looked to Strathmore, who watched the men with a hard gaze. He offered no platitudes but simply watched.
“We have a horrible snake thief amongst us,” Collins reiterated. “So take care, Your Graces. Who knows where he might roam around this vessel.”
“We shall,” Strathmore said evenly, with a small nod of acknowledgement. “And keep an eye out.”
“Yes,” Collins said. “It’ll be a great thrill to see this thief apprehended. If you’ll pardon me, Your Graces, I must check on my wife.”
Russell bowed and followed his friend, apparently to check on his wife as well.
Isabella watched them go. “It seems this will not be a dull voyage.” She smiled up at him and watched his features somewhat relax. “By the time we arrive in Dublin, the thief will have grown ten feet tall, with claws for hands and the devil’s eyes.”
“You forget.” He leaned closer, his eyes bright with amusement now. “He’ll have the ability to vanish before our very own eyes.”
She laughed, and they moved toward Mr. and Mrs. Keyes, just emerged from below deck. The earlier cloud moved on and with it that strange sense of cold foreboding. While Isabella enjoyed the scent of the sea, the way the wind blew across her skin, poor Mrs. Keyes looked terrible.
“Oh, Mrs. Keyes,” Isabella said as they drew even with her. “How are you feeling?”
The other woman looked a darker shade of green than she had even earlier. This voyage had not been kind to her.
“Oh, Your Grace,” Mrs. Keyes began and waved as if her illness was nothing. The reality wa
s that she’d spent nearly the entire trip sick. “I’m so sorry, but we’ve come to beg off our drinks for this eve. I don’t believe I can tolerate anything but bed, what with the waves so violent.”
The ship sailed on smooth, calm waters. Still, Isabella nodded in sympathy.
“Of course,” she assured Mrs. Keyes. “Don’t give it another thought.”
“Thank you, Your Graces,” Mrs. Keyes said and looked even worse for the conversation. “I hope to hold a full conversation with you before the voyage is over.”
Isabella nodded and watched her newly formed acquaintance turn back over the railing. “Or at least once on dry land,” she said kindly.
“Come my dear,” Mr. Keyes said and rubbed his wife’s back as she took deep breaths in a vain attempt no to be ill.
Isabella watched the couple and didn’t miss the look that passed between Mr. Keyes and Strathmore — that protective look that had so surprised her earlier. Mr. Keyes was very protective of his wife and that warmed a part of Isabella — the part she chose not to examine too closely.
Shaking it off, Isabella rested her head on Strathmore’s arm as they moved further along the railing and glanced back at the land, far behind them now.
“At least we can be certain the Keyes’ aren’t involved with the thief,” she said quietly.
She didn’t want to stay with the emotions swirling around her and did her best to steer the conversation back to solid, unemotional, ground. Safer ground. Sounder topics.
“No,” Strathmore said with a sympathetic wince. “I can’t imagine either one of them would be such a talented actor as to use the illness to mask their crimes.”
He turned around and leaned back against the railing. Isabella looked up at him and watched his gaze flicker over the people behind her — the crew, the captain, the other passengers.
“But there is someone who masks their true intent, their crimes,” he added.
“You’re right. Most people don’t see what’s right before them.” She turned into him and chose not to think about the intimacy of the move. “I wonder if we can pick him out of the crowd.”
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 10
