“I’ve not been in a post chaise before,” Strathmore admitted as they settled in and began this next leg of their journey. “I’ve always been in the Strathmore carriage or that of a friend.”
“Ah, the life of a pampered duke,” she teased. “But I’m surprised that with your extensive travel you have not,” she admitted with a speculative look. He seemed relaxed and happy. It moved through her and expanded. Isabella tried to ignore it, but the feeling remained.
“How do you like the experience?” They hit a hole on the last word, and she said it much louder than she’d meant.
Strathmore chuckled, but his hand reached out to steady her.
“It’s entertaining watching you,” he admitted. They hit another bump. “However, it’s a bit jarring. Though I imagine it’s similar to the race to Gretna Green in the middle of the night by so many lovers.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, his eyes on hers. “And we’re joining their ranks.”
Isabella’s breath caught. Clearing her throat, she laughed instead and leaned forward. “The scandal! The Duke of Strathmore absconding with the mysteriously vanished Miss Harrington.”
“Oh,” he said with far more indecent intent than so simple a word should hold. “That can only enhance my reputation. Maybe we need to create a few scandals.” Then he winked, and Isabella’s stomach flipped. “For fun.”
His mouth was warm on hers, knowing. His hand cupped the back of her head as he slipped his tongue against hers; his other hand rested at the small of her back and pulled her closer. They’d been lovers for weeks now, and still Strathmore’s every touch ignited beneath her skin.
She relished him, his taste, his body, his passion. Deep, deep inside, however, Isabella feared it as well.
Slowly breaking the kiss, breathing heavily now, Isabella leaned into his touch. “I’ve never played a more rewarding game of piquet.”
Strathmore drew back and brushed his fingers along her cheek. “Neither have I.”
Her response died on her tongue. The way he looked at her and the sincerity of his statement caught the words in her throat. Whatever it was between them, this friendly companionship, this laughter and camaraderie, was more than it should be.
But Isabella leaned her head against his chest and arched into the sweep of his hand along her back, and let the rocking motion of the carriage lull her to sleep.
Isabella slept for an hour or so and woke with the changing of the horses. Several hours later they arrived in Gretna Green, where the post chaise took them to the Gretna Green Inn.
“I still don’t think this is necessary,” Isabella said as Strathmore handed her out of the carriage.
“Too late to back out now,” he said with a wink.
She’d grown accustomed to that wink. Now, weeks later, she knew what Mrs. Primsby meant by his wickedness — it wasn’t mAlison but mischievous with a healthy dose of desire. She’d learned much about Strathmore since their marriage. Since he’d offered her a small fortune to release him from his debt.
She’d worried since that day, worried he’d find a way to abandon her, to leave her in Dublin port the moment they arrived. His actions on the ship when Russell had threatened her showed otherwise. And now, with his wink, she realized she’d grown to trust him.
That knowledge slammed into her — shook her. But she blinked and realized it did not make her unsteady. Trust, she understood, she had to give.
Isabella looked around the inn as Strathmore spoke with the innkeeper about the high priest and the best chapel. It was beautiful, with fresh flowers, plenty of light from the sparkling clean windows, and candles that smelt of beeswax, not tallow. She’d not miss the scent of tallow.
Clearly the Gretna Green Inn did a brisk business.
“Yer Grace,” the woman said with a thick accent and low bow. “Ye can rest in the back room until all is prepared.”
Strathmore settled his hand on the small of her back and guided her into the room. A fire kept the slight spring chill out of the air, and soon enough tankards of wine and thick slices of bread were set before them. Meat stew followed, and as Raffella and Danvers went to see to their room, Isabella rested her head on Strathmore’s shoulder.
He leaned back and slipped his arm around her. She’d never felt so relaxed with anyone, she thought fuzzily as the warmth and comfort of his body seeped through her gown and into her.
The familiarity between them had no doubt grown from their constant intimate relations. Yes, that was it.
As soon as she thought that, however, Isabella pulled back. He probably hadn’t noticed; after all, it was far from proper to show such affection in public. Still, her moment of weakness had shaken her.
Isabella touched her bracelet, willing her heart to slow and her priorities to once more align. Things between her and Strathmore were still so new, so unknown.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said and resumed her role as duchess. No head on his shoulder, no cheeky smile up at him.
“We spoke of scandal in the carriage,” Isabella said, practicality and a sudden concern for his reputation shuddered through her but she kept her voice even. “Would it not be a greater scandal for us to marry here in Gretna Green? Perhaps we should simply return to your estate.”
“No.” His voice cut across the rest of her words. “We marry here. Then again at the estate.”
His gaze slipped to her belly, and she knew why he wanted their marriage to be unquestionable. Strathmore lifted her hand to his lips and bowed over it. “Besides, it will be a good story to tell — one you can use to be the envy of all other young women.”
Now his eyes twinkled with mirth. “One on how your duke insisted on a wedding at every stop on our tour, from Italy to Strathmore Hall.”
Isabella laughed and shook her head at his antics. She wondered if it was natural, his affinity for making her laugh, or if he spent time thinking of things to amuse her.
A maid entered with a tray of tea. With a quick bob, she set it on the low table and retreated. Isabella poured a cup for herself and offered Strathmore one. He shook his head, and she sipped from her own cup.
“Are you tired?” he asked, his voice low and solicitous, full of concern and intimacy.
“I’m fine,” she said and set the teacup down. “Simply adjusting to my new husband.” She looked up at him and winked. “Who will be my new husband again, shortly.”
“All has been arranged, Yer Grace,” the innkeeper said with a low bow.
“Very expedient,” Strathmore said with a gracious nod.
The innkeeper offered a slight smile, but his blue eyes sparkled. “We have a bit o’ experience with these things, Yer Grace.”
Isabella smothered a laugh. Mr. Campbell led them to the chapel, where the priest awaited. A young girl, Campbell’s daughter, Isabella assumed, offered her several sprigs of heather for her hair. She arranged them as best she could without a looking glass and met Strathmore at the front of the chapel.
He took her hands and watched her as if his whole focus settled entirely on her. For a moment, Isabella found that unsettling, the intensity of his gaze, but she shook it off and returned to the comfortable friendship between them.
The mid-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, and a slight breeze caused the candles to flicker. The sunlight cast a strange shadow over Strathmore’s face. She thought him handsome when they first met, but now he looked exceptionally so.
Isabella didn’t understand how that could be — men didn’t enhance their beauty as women did with color and shadow. And yet Strathmore’s eyes gleamed with life, and he looked so very beautiful to her.
Before she had another moment to study this phenomenon, the high priest of Gretna Green cleared his throat. “Are you prepared to wed?”
Chapter Sixteen
Once Isabella thought she’d run away to Gretna Green. However, she never envisioned this — a second wedding of three. Life was different with
Strathmore, different than she expected. Different than with anyone else. Strathmore fulfilled his promises.
At least thus far.
Their wedding had been beautiful, though certainly not what Isabella thought Strathmore was accustomed to. Somehow, for reasons she didn’t understand, she held this ceremony in a far more special place than their first. More than a foreign Milanese Catholic ceremony.
This ceremony would be recognized in England.
She questioned him about the need for so many. But now, after their Gretna Green wedding and returning to the inn, she understood his obsession with it. The final ceremony at the estate would only add the last touch of credence to their love affair. And that was what Strathmore wished to show the world — they’d had a very passionate and legitimate love affair and marriage.
There was no secreting about or hiding; it was simply three whirlwind weddings.
Yes, thus far Strathmore kept his promises and shown a true man beneath his ducal exterior. The man who honored his words with deeds to back them up.
Manning charmed her, had shown her the polish and shine of his exterior only. But his actions proved his true character, showed him to be the liar and coward he truly was.
Strathmore’s actions in the bedroom, on board that ship, and as he held her while she’d been ill on the coaster from Dublin to Maryport were more solid and telling than Isabella had ever experienced.
Words were hollow. Actions were not.
And Strathmore’s actions showed her so much more than Manning’s words. The realization hit her hard — not only the thought of Manning, who even now faded further into the past, but of the stark difference. Isabella remembered all Strathmore’s touches, the glances, the way his eyes darkened when he wanted her. Saw the difference in him, the difference from Manning.
After this, the second of three weddings, Isabella wondered how much weight she needed to give to that contrast. Confusion warred with keeping things between her and Strathmore even. Should she dismiss the contrast? Mayhap she should — dismiss those differences and simply be grateful Strathmore was the better man.
Their bedroom was comfortably situated. The inn itself was gabled with elaborate furnishings, well maintained and clearly the most prestigious establishment in Gretna Green. The only out-of-place item in the room was the large rug with purple heather along the border and a beautiful rose bush in the center.
Though certainly not what Isabella believed Strathmore used to, it was beautiful and perfect for their second consummation.
This time there’d been no hesitation or awkwardness as there’d been their first night. With weeks of intimacy between them, and more room to undress than on the ship, they’d made love slowly. Tasting and touching with long, languid kisses and passion burning between them as he entered her and she flew over the edge of pleasure.
Now, momentarily sated, contentment warming through her, Isabella folded her hands beneath her chin and looked up at him. His skin was warm; the smattering of hair on his chest rough against her nipples, and they hardened with the touch.
Danvers insisted on shaving him that morn, and Isabella ran her fingertips along his smooth cheek. Though Danvers had insisted on seeing to His Grace’s needs even on board the ship, she’d grown used to the slightly rough feel of his cheek beneath her touch.
Or between her legs.
Suppressing a shiver, she watched his lips curl in a faint smile, eyes still closed.
She’d grown accustomed to a great many things where Strathmore was concerned, such as his touch as they walked about the deck or the way his body felt pressed against her as they slept. The little touches, certainly improper in polite society — his hand on her shoulder or the small of her back. His fingers caressing the inside of her elbow as they sat curled together.
Isabella slipped her leg over Strathmore’s, the rough hair on his leg a pleasant tingle of sensation along her inner thigh. She hummed contentedly and continued to watch him.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice low, fingers still gentle on her back.
Not in arousal, though his touch always aroused her. But in simple contact, a soft stroke of affection.
“That you are mad,” she said with a wide grin she didn’t bother to keep from her voice. “I had no notion that winning this wager with you would lead to such an abundance of nuptials.”
Strathmore laughed, his chest rumbling beneath her hands. Opening his eyes, bright with humor, he settled her more fully atop him.
“It’s the wager you struck. And now” — his hands slipped into her hair and brought her closer — “you must endure the consequences.”
Isabella traced his cheek, the strong bone of his jaw. “Such consequences. If I left all this up to you, you’d have me with one heir and two dozen spares.”
His eyes darkened, but his tone remained light. Something on his face shifted, though Isabella couldn’t tell what. His mouth was hard on hers, the kiss aggressive but all too short.
“I see nothing wrong with that,” he said, his voice a low promise against her lips.
Pushing up, she slid off him and sat next to him. She felt perfectly comfortable, though they were both completely naked. Isabella rested her hand on Strathmore’s chest and leaned over just a bit.
“I’m famished.” She pressed a kiss to his smooth cheek. “The least you could do is feed me after such rigorous exercise.”
His hand was gentle on her own cheek. “I cannot allow you to perish from lack of sustenance.”
“Shall we call up for a tray?”
But before she could move from their bed, he stopped her.
“No, let’s dress,” he said, and the look in his gaze almost made her toss the idea of food aside. “I’d like to walk with my wife in the sun.”
“I’d like that,” she said quietly. “We were too long cooped up in a small cabin.”
His smile changed, and his eyes darkened. “True, but that cabin was not without its benefits.”
Isabella smiled, completely unguarded. She long doubted anything — or anyone — could make her feel so happy. Strathmore, for all their unconventional beginning, had the ability to do so with a look. A touch. A smile.
“Come then, husband.”
He sent Raffella down to request a picnic basket then helped her dress; he was becoming quite good at that. Though once Raffella returned, Isabella had her maid do her hair. Strathmore excelled at a great many things, but fashioning women’s hair was not one of them.
The midsummer day was cool but pleasantly sunny, and Isabella raised her face to the sunlight, enjoying the warmth of its rays. With her hand on Strathmore’s arm, they walked along a barely perceptible path toward a lovely grassy knoll behind the inn just next to a decent-sized lake.
The Campbells had outdone themselves. A large patterned rug laid spread over the ground, with fresh sprigs of heather lying around the edges. Several pillows were spread across the rug, plush and beautifully covered.
A young maid, the same who served them tea earlier, now set out plates of cheese and meats and crystal goblets for their wine. When she saw them, she quickly curtseyed and hastily left.
The scene looked utterly romantic. A dream from a fairy story. A permanent half-tent sat erected over the rug to shade from the sunlight.
Isabella looked around, but could see no others. She sighed in pleasure and closed her parasol before she sat down, carefully arranging her skirts around her legs as Strathmore sat next to her. They ate in silence for several moments, sampling each plate of delicious food. A footman waited a good distance away, far enough to offer a semblance of privacy.
“Tell me about Strathmore Hall,” she said as she cut a slice of cheese and offered it to him.
“I think Strathmore Hall will suit you very well.” He accepted the cheese but didn’t take his gaze from hers. “We’ll have many obligations and will need to throw a marriage ball; it’ll be your first exposure to the rigors of being my duchess.”
His fingers took hers and he smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll rise exceptionally to the occasion.”
Isabella leaned down and pressed her lips to his. She didn’t care about the footman or whoever else might lurk about. “Thank you.”
Clearing her throat, she arranged the pillows around her and leaned on them. “What of the Hall? What’s your favorite hiding spot? Is the Hall tall and graceful? Or more the medieval castle? Or is it a wooden barn with a spire atop?”
Strathmore’s laughter rang out. “It’s the most grotesque medieval castle you can imagine. Gargoyles everywhere and a moat! A moat the likes of which the French would be proud.”
“A moat?” she asked then laughed. “Perhaps we might fill it with water lilies.”
His hand reached out and rested on her shoulder, his fingers playing with one of the curls that lay there. “I love how you can brighten even the most horrific of scenes.”
Isabella leaned into his touch for a moment. “If you won’t tell me of the Hall, then tell me of the people there.”
“Granville will be there, or shortly after our own arrival.” Strathmore sat up and poured more wine. “And I’m certain his sister, Lady Octavia, will join him. And,” he added with a sigh, “my cousin Hamilton will no doubt show his face sooner rather than later. If he’s not already there, pilfering my wine even as we speak.”
“I see,” Isabella said with a wide grin. Strathmore didn’t seem overly upset about his cousin, though she thought she detected a hint of fond exasperation. “One of those cousins.”
“He isn’t destitute by a long shot,” Strathmore admitted and sipped his wine. “He owns a decent-sized estate in the next county.” He scowled and looked into his goblet as if something floated there. “He simply likes my stables — and wine — better.”
“Oh, I see,” Isabella said and laughed. “I think I’ll enjoy getting to know them all better. And pry secrets from them of your youth.”
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 14
