Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters

by Reed, Kristabel

  She looked up him and down and Jonathon waited. “I see you differently, Your Grace,” Raffella added softly. “And I pray that does not change.”

  Jonathon allowed a small smile. The sincerity with which Raffella spoke moved warmly through him. Before he had a chance to analyze them further, Isabella returned. He looked back at the maid and shared a knowing look with her.

  Isabella’s cheeks were flushed, and wisps of her hair clung to her neck. Without thought, he reached out to tuck the strands of hair behind her ear. She smiled up at him, eyes alight, and that earlier warmth bloomed hotly in his chest.

  Stepping back, he cleared his throat and dropped his hand.

  Raffella curtseyed. “I’ll get Danvers,” she said and edged around them to the door. “And proceed to deck.”

  Jonathon waited while she left to fetch his valet, his gaze on Isabella. Once the door closed behind Raffella, they were enveloped in silence. His fingers itched to touch her, but he resolutely kept his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Mrs. Keyes has my brooch,” Isabella said then cleared her throat. “She’s rather excited; I thought she’d be more skittish about the plan.”

  “I think,” he said and gave up. He reached for her, gathering her into his arms. “That we’re causing quite the scandal on board.”

  “Oh, yes,” Isabella said, her breath a soft puff of warmth against his throat, just above his cravat. “So much so that I gathered many are betting on the announcement as to when our first child is born.”

  Her hands slipped up his shoulders and around his neck. Jonathon chuckled, hands slipping along her waist to her belly. “I can’t imagine it’ll be too much longer,” he whispered. “Until then, I’m willing to keep trying,” His mouth brushed along hers. “We mustn’t disappoint them.”

  Isabella laughed, a quick, light sound, and kissed him back. All too soon, she pulled back, and a sigh of disappointment escaped her. “Are we prepared to proceed with this scheme?”

  His hands settled on her waist. “I’m not certain.” He dipped his head and kissed the soft skin under her jaw. “I’m certain I’m enjoying my preparations with you far more than I’ll enjoy the actual scheme.”

  Her laugh was far sultrier now. She guided his head down, closer to hers. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that you enjoy a celebratory evening after the Russells are exposed.” Her body pressed closer to his. “And I’ll make sure you enjoy our evening even more than the preparations.”

  Jonathon pulled back and saw her eyes twinkling with passion and delight and even anticipation over what they were about to do. He grinned back at Isabella and kissed her. Her mouth opened under his, and he felt her sigh move across his lips. Backing her up to the door, he cradled her head, uncaring of her hairstyle, and deepened the kiss.

  “We should go above deck,” he said, but didn’t release her.

  He felt her more relaxed today than since they’d married. Jonathon didn’t know what changed, but something had altered.

  Isabella hummed but made no move to step out of his arms. Jonathon kissed her again before reluctantly stepping away. Her cheeks were flushed for a different reason, one he found all the more enticing.

  She quickly patted her hair and straightened her cloak before placing her hand on his arm.

  On deck, several men were at the stern, sitting in what few chairs had been bolted to the wood. Jonathon scanned the small crowd, nodded to Russell and his wife, to the Collins, and several others. One of the men leaped to his feet and hastily offered his seat to Isabella.

  With a smile, she accepted and arranged her skirts around her legs.

  Just then Mrs. Keyes, clearly unused to subterfuge of any sort, burst onto deck. Jonathon watched her carefully. Not only did she seem far healthier than she had since they left Genoa, but the spark to her eyes clearly said she planned to enjoy whatever happened next.

  “I’ve been sick all this time and feel as if I’ve been confined to these cabins.” She let out a long, dramatic sigh and removed the shawl she wore over her spring coat.

  Pinned to the shawl was the sapphire brooch Isabella had given her. Jonathon had to admire the other woman’s aim — the shawl landed with the brooch over the side of the chair nearest where the Russells stood.

  Very impressive.

  Mr. Keyes led his wife to the railing as the other woman took deep breaths of the sea air. Not only was the woman’s recovery remarkable, but her performance was worthy of Drury Lane.

  Mrs. Keyes spoke animatedly with a couple of the other women about hosting a ball in London once they return. She turned to Isabella and invited her into the conversation. Very carefully, Isabella stood and walked so she passed the shawl and brooch as she joined the small group at the railing.

  As the chairs emptied of the women, Jonathon made certain to sit in one opposite the shawl. He sat through the normal ship talk; they’d been on board for long enough now that he’d heard several of these stories already.

  Isabella spent several minutes at the railing with the group of chattering women before returning to him. She smiled graciously as Burke, the man currently occupying the chair, hastily stood and bowed to her. Her touch on his arm steadied him, and it was only then that he realized how bored he was with the tedious conversation. How he moved in his seat, fidgeting like a schoolboy.

  “Patience is a necessity,” she whispered.

  It wasn’t his patience that needed work. It was his self-control. He didn’t seem to have any when it came to Isabella. Or rather, to being separated from Isabella when all he wanted was to eschew this gathering and return to their cabin.

  “A rather frustrating one at times,” he returned. No sense in telling her his thoughts, not out here where he could do nothing about them.

  “It’s possible,” she said softly, “that our lure will either go unnoticed or be passed over.”

  Jonathon shook his head and took a deep breath. He doubted that, but anything was possible. Frankly, he wanted this finished. He enjoyed scheming with her, the energy, the way they thought so similarly. But already he had had enough of the ploy.

  Isabella could have been hurt; the way Russell had slithered across the deck had been unmistakable. Jonathon wanted this over now. He far preferred to take the brooch from Mrs. Keyes’s shawl and pin it to Russell’s neck. He’d long been familiar with the lengths these petty thieves went to.

  He didn’t want Russell’s desperation to hurt any on this voyage. Particularly his duchess. If Russell didn’t show his hand presently, Jonathon planned to find a way to wrench a confession from his lips.

  One of the crew approached with refreshments. Jonathon didn’t see what happened next, but the crewman went down and drinks and sandwiches flew in every direction.

  “You bumbling idiot!” Mrs. Russell screeched. Jonathon could live a long time without ever hearing that sound again. “You ruined my dress!”

  Several other ladies kicked up a fuss and Jonathon knew without needing to watch Russell that this was exactly the distraction the other man needed. But he watched Russell, tracked him as the man took a rather roundabout route through the chairs to his wife — one that passed the shawl.

  Jonathon squeezed Isabella’s hand. She didn’t look up at him, but he knew she spotted the same thing. The shawl had been moved and the brooch was gone.

  Looking over the crowd to where Raffella stood off to the side, Jonathon raised an eyebrow. But the maid shrugged. He nodded and left it at that — the commotion had been a good one, and clearly Raffella had also been caught up in it.

  He met Mrs. Keyes’s gaze; the woman had brushed ineffectually at her skirt but suddenly seemed to remember her role. She froze, stopped her movements, and raised her head. Jonathon swallowed an impressed smile. She missed her calling; the woman was a born actress.

  Dramatically lifting her shawl, Mrs. Keyes gasped loud enough that everyone quieted. “My brooch!” she called through the silence now gathered around the group. “My brooch is missing.
It’s been stolen! The thief is here! Bring the captain!”

  Her voice carried rather impressively, and Jonathon doubted the captain needed to be called by a crewman. Several of the other passengers already looked around the deck.

  “Mrs. Russell was near the crewman that tripped. But her husband stood near the shawl,” Isabella whispered.

  Jonathon nodded in acknowledgement, but something within him snapped. He rested his hand on Isabella’s waist and squeezed once. Stalking to where the Russells stood, he glowered at the other man.

  “Where is Mrs. Keyes’s brooch?” he demanded.

  Every ounce of every Duke of Strathmore sounded in his voice. He tilted his head and looked down his nose at the man, haughty and arrogant, as aristocratic as he’d been bred to be.

  Russell looked shocked, but his eyes narrowed. “I don’t have it! I haven’t taken a thing.”

  “You are the worst kind of blaggard to deny it.” The words were flat. Jonathon didn’t raise his voice; he simply stated.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the captain appear. Russell turned to him.

  “Search me!” he insisted. “Search my person, search my cabin again if you must. But I am no thief.”

  “You, Davies,” the captain called. “Search Mr. Russell.”

  Setting his cane down on a chair, Russell shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the same chair. Davies searched Russell’s person while another crewman searched through his coat and waistcoat.

  Suddenly Isabella was beside him. He looked down at her and she mouthed, “The cane.”

  Nodding, he returned his attention to Russell. He stepped forward, his hand on the head of the cane. He didn’t see Russell move, but he heard a growl from the other man. Russell shoved Jonathon away from him.

  Furious, Jonathon left the cane and punched the other man. Russell went down, sprawled on the deck at his wife’s feet.

  Face purple, jaw swelling, he struggled to get up. “I demand satisfaction!” he sneered. It came out rather jumbled, what with all the hands trying to help him and his jaw swelling.

  Jonathon found no humor in the situation, only blind fury.

  Beside him, Isabella examined the cane. Mrs. Russell had left her husband’s side and was even now trying to wrestle the cane from Isabella. But Davies was there, yanking Mrs. Russell back, away from Isabella.

  With a triumphant “Ah!” Isabella twisted the head of the cane off and upended it. Bits of jewelry fell out, followed by Collins’s missing snuffbox.

  The only sound was the wind in the sails and the crew calling to each other. The bits of jewels, very clearly broken to fit inside the cane, moved across the deck with each swell of the ocean. Including Isabella’s brooch.

  The captain crouched beside the mess. Muttering to himself, he scooped the bits into his hand and stood. “It appears you are the thief. And your wife was well aware.”

  Russell glowered while his wife huffed and spluttered denials. The captain ignored them and motioned for his crew.

  “Oh, you were magnificent,” Mrs. Keyes gushed to Isabella, eyes flitting from her to Jonathon. “How you ferreted out these scoundrels.”

  “Take them to their cabins,” the captain ordered. He glared at the Russells. “Lock them in. You’ll be dealt with in Dublin. And the Irish have no love for thieves.”

  With his arms crossed over his chest, Jonathon watched them go. He had no idea what the captain planned to charge them with, and found he didn’t care.

  Isabella’s hand rested on his arm, and he looked down. The tension knotting his shoulders eased, and he covered her hand with his. Turning from the passengers and their accolades, Jonathon led Isabella back to their cabin.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isabella sat next to Strathmore as he spoke with the authorities.

  Dublin port was cold and wet and even more crowded than their voyage had felt. A fine mist fell steadily from heavy gray clouds and seeped into her bones. Even on the ship as they sailed from the temperate waters of the Mediterranean into the Atlantic, with the constant wind against her cheeks, she hadn’t felt this chilled.

  She shivered again and held the edges of her longcoat against her throat, a slight defense against the rain. Isabella brushed a gloved finger beneath her nose and tried not to gag on the stench of the port — unwashed bodies, decaying fish, and rubbish she’d rather not identify.

  After the first week or so on board the ship, she’d grown accustomed to the smells of close quarters.

  In the open air, with the cold rain coming down and the waves from the Irish Sea slamming angrily against the wharves, the smell crowded against her. It churned heavily in her stomach and Isabella hastily swallowed against the nausea.

  What she wouldn’t give for a cup of hot tea and a blazing fireplace. And a bath — more than a pitcher and basin afforded.

  She wanted to wash the last weeks of travel from her skin and stay on a ground that did not sway with the rolling waves of the ocean. She wanted to eat fresh food and sleep in a bed that was wider than she. Unfortunately, they still had to travel across the Irish Sea to Maryport in Cumbria.

  Surprisingly, all of it bothered her very little.

  Now, seated in a pub by the docks, she listened with half an ear as Strathmore gave the magistrate his statement. He didn’t want her statement, only Strathmore’s, but had dutifully taken it down with a grunt.

  Isabella tried to put into words the strange feeling bubbling in her veins. They sat close together, her and Strathmore, legs brushing beneath the table, the movement coordinated and one she didn’t notice until she pushed her plate toward him.

  She doubted the Irish official noticed, but hadn’t meant to show quite so much of their private, domestic life to anyone. She was so used to sharing a meal with Strathmore in the privacy of their cabin. Now, back on land and as the Duke and Duchess of Strathmore, Isabella needed to remember her role.

  She dropped her hands to her lap and ignored the conversation. Strathmore wiped his fingers in a linen cloth and found her hand beneath the table. He squeezed her fingers once, never missing a word as he continued his discussion with the official.

  That feeling, the strangeness bubbling beneath her skin, through her veins, increased. It curled in her stomach and warmed her heart. Isabella didn’t wish to examine those feelings too closely. The relationship between her and Strathmore had to remain friendly, yes. But she had to keep control — of herself and her feelings.

  She brushed her fingers over her bracelet, pressing it tighter into her skin. It reminded her not to allow her feelings to roam out of control, to extend beyond a certain point.

  They had fun — Isabella had had fun; she enjoyed being with Strathmore. Not simply the sex, though it was far more passionate than she expected. No, she enjoyed walking with him, talking with him. They played cards then invented new rules that ended with laughter and kisses, which led to soft sighs and gentle touches.

  They spent too much time in their cabin and she knew it. Isabella should’ve insisted they leave more often; why hadn’t she? Because of the frivolity of the sex? Or maybe she simply wanted their passion and friendship on solid ground. More than her parents had, certainly, and not the mess of emotions she and Manning had.

  A companionship with the two of them as friends, the closest of friends.

  Yes, Isabella decided as the magistrate left and Strathmore finished the last of her meat. She’d quite enjoy a companionable friendship with Strathmore.

  “Danvers has secured our passage on a coaster, we leave at sundown,” Strathmore told her. He leaned back in his chair, and Isabella felt his scrutiny even in the dimly lighted back room of the tavern.

  “When do we arrive in Maryport?” she asked, trying — and failing — to keep the weariness from her voice.

  Strathmore lifted her hand from her lap and kissed her knuckles. It was such a formal gesture yet so intimate that Isabella’s breath caught.

  “A day,” he said. “Two at most. I’ve had
Danvers pay the captain for his cabin.”

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. She felt a bit bad for the captain, but already knew Strathmore’s generosity — the man had been well compensated.

  The trip on the coaster — heading from Dublin to Maryport for another load of coal — was a blur. Isabella remembered leaving, she remembered curling into Strathmore as the ship sailed, and she remembered blearily waking to Raffella’s soft touch. The rest of the trip was a haze of the rocking ship, food she could barely chew or keep down, and fitful prayers that the wind would be good to them.

  And oh, what she wouldn’t give for a solid night’s sleep. It took a day and a half to reach the English coast. And hours more to cross the bay in a pair of dinghies as the coaster waited her turn at the dock.

  Isabella didn’t remember her voyage to Milan as this lengthy. Then again, she’d rather forget that voyage.

  Finally they were in England, and Isabella took her first breath of English air in years. Sadly, it smelt like wharves. She slipped her hand onto Strathmore’s arm and took a moment to rest her head on his shoulder.

  Isabella realized she should pull back; she didn’t want to lean on Strathmore as much as she was. But the trip on the coaster made her ill and physically weak. Or perhaps that was merely her excuse. Isabella didn’t know.

  “I’ve sent Danvers ahead to secure us a room at an inn,” Strathmore said quietly. “We’ll leave on the morrow in the post chaise.”

  Isabella nodded and looked up at him. “Do we have time for a bath?”

  The look in his gaze — dark and hungry and promising — told her he’d make it happen. And that he’d join her.

  * * * *

  The next morning, still exhausted but with a pleasant tug to her limbs and that same contentment settled round her heart, Isabella settled into the yellow post chaise with Strathmore. A second one with Danvers, Raffella, and their immediate luggage was loaded behind them, while a larger coach was weighed down with the rest of their belongings.