Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters

by Reed, Kristabel

  Strathmore looked pained and sighed dramatically. “And Hamilton would have the temerity to reveal those secrets.”

  She paused and weighed her next words carefully. He’d never brought it up, but she felt closer to him, so much closer than she thought they were capable of.

  “Do you have any other family?” she asked.

  “No.” He shook his head. “My father passed some years ago.”

  He didn’t elaborate, and she almost whispered her next words. “And your mother?”

  Strathmore’s face hardened, closed off. “She died.”

  His tone brooked no further discussion, though Isabella longed to hear more. Not for the gossip or the story behind his hard, short words. Because of the bitterness coating them. Or the way Strathmore swallowed the rest of his wine in one gulp. Because of the tightening of his hand into a fist.

  “I have no siblings.”

  Isabella reached for his hand, gently uncurling his fist until she could wrap her fingers around his. For the first time since they’d met, Isabella saw something deeper than the Strathmore she’d come to know. She’d thought him to generally be a content man, one who knew his place in this world and lived it; however, now she glimpsed a pain she’d not realized he carried.

  She licked her lips and plunged ahead. “Did your mother die long ago?”

  Strathmore’s face hardened, but Isabella had a feeling that hardness wasn’t directed at her but rather at the memory of his mother. She’d spoken her words softly but still felt as if they hung heavy between them.

  “She died after my father,” he said as if each word had been ripped from his throat. “She was neither a pleasant nor affectionate woman.”

  Isabella squeezed his fingers, still tight with tension. “I don’t mean to bring up a topic that causes you distress,” she insisted still in that soft voice. She paused and waited until his green eyes, now dark with past pain, met hers.

  “But I do want to know about you.” She paused again.

  The wind shifted and brought the scent of the lake, clean and fresh. Isabella breathed it in and wondered how to phrase her next words. How to draw this out of him. How to let him know she truly wanted to know about his past, not to poke at an open wound.

  To understand him, this man she’d married.

  “I’ve been, as you first put it, brutally honest with you.”

  Strathmore looked sharply at her, a faint understanding in his gaze.

  “You know of Manning,” she continued, somewhat surprised that the mention of the other man no longer sent a piercing pain through her. “And all I’ve done in the last two years.”

  He released a breath, and with it the tension seemed to release from his fingers, too.

  “It wasn’t easy to tell you those stories,” she said, threading her fingers through his. She wanted to push him further — both for herself and for him. Isabella doubted he’d ever spoken of this, not even to Granville. Mayhap especially not to Granville.

  But he looked at her again, and she cut herself off and waited.

  “My mother and I did not have the type of relationship mother and son should,” he said. His voice was low and dark, and his fingers tightened briefly around hers. “She resented me my entire life.”

  Strathmore shifted and faced her fully. “I want you to know — that will never happen between us. Ever.”

  “Why did she resent you?” Isabella wondered and reached out to take his other hand as well. “You’re her son.”

  “She resented my father and the position she was placed in.” His lips tightened. “Her family pressured her to accept his proposal, but she loved another. Their marriage was a combining of business interests rather than even a cordial match. Once she provided the duke an heir, she saw that as the end of her business arrangement. Until the day she died, she never enjoyed her position as duchess.”

  Strathmore took a deep breath then released it slowly. When he spoke again, his voice had quieted — not softened exactly, but it no longer contained the hardness he’d had. “She died a bitter woman.”

  Her heart ached for this man, and Isabella leaned over to lightly press her lips to his. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  He closed up then, and Isabella knew he was going to dismiss his past hurts. Push them to the side as it seemed he’d done his entire life. Before he did so, his face softened and his fingers tangled in her hair, cradling the back of her head.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

  Isabella’s eyes fluttered closed, and she stayed where she was. Her heart broke for the boy her husband had been, ignored by his mother and molded into a proper duke by his father. Mrs. Primsby’s words came back to her, spoken so long ago.

  “Strathmore is a particular sort. He enjoys bucking society. And it’d be just his humor to return to England with you as his duchess.”

  Remembering those words now, she wasn’t filled with the same feelings of contempt as before. A particular sort, perhaps, but one who never treated others as he had been. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and hold him, but knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t appreciate that.

  Instead she leaned back just enough to see his gaze, clear and open to her.

  “So it’ll just be us in that big medieval castle with the gargoyles.” Her voice dropped and she very deliberately leaned closer to him, uncaring how she wrinkled her dress.

  “You, me, and Horatio.” His hand cupped her cheek, and he offered a slight grin. “The gnarled gargoyle over the eastern wing.”

  “I certainly hope Horatio is a decent conversationalist,” she whispered, lying next to him. “And he’ll tell me more secrets than my husband will.”

  “Oh, no,” Strathmore said and flopped back on the pillows. “Horatio will never spill my confidences.”

  “Not like Hamilton will?” she asked, barely keeping her laughter quiet.

  Strathmore grimaced as her laughter broke free. Isabella rested her head on a pillow next to him. She felt very wanton, so obviously intimate with her husband on a grassy knoll in Scotland. But she found she didn’t care and closed her eyes against the glare of the sun.

  Strathmore took her hand in his and rested their joined fingers over his chest. Content, Isabella sighed in the soft silence.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jonathon set the broadsheet aside and sipped the rather smooth Scottish whiskey the innkeeper offered. Isabella was above stairs, overseeing the last of their packing, and he’d retreated to the small back parlor. The room was as tasteful as the rest of the inn, quaint but pleasantly furnished.

  And private.

  There were advantages to being the Duke of Strathmore, advantages to having the purse of the Duke of Strathmore.

  Jonathon used every single one of those advantages. It didn’t bother him, and he knew Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were not bothered, either, considering the large retainer he’d given them when he and Isabella had first arrived.

  He’d wanted privacy, and privacy was what he paid for. Now, three days after their second wedding, they prepared to leave. For Hamilton, he’d even managed to purchase a bottle of the local scotch and a blanket with purple heather stitched along the border.

  Jonathon would never understand Hamilton’s life-long passion for all things Scottish. The man hadn’t even traveled to Scotland until he’d been one and twenty. Still, having been in Scotland, he couldn’t very well return and not bring Hamilton back a gift.

  Quite frankly, Jonathon didn’t wish to return to Strathmore Hall just yet. He didn’t want to end these weeks with Isabella, the closeness they’d shared, not simply the tentative openness that developed between them and not only the passion that continued to burn despite their weeks together.

  When they first married, Jonathon hadn’t been certain what sort of marriage he and Isabella might forge. That concern had been part of the reason behind his offer, made before their marriage, to vanquish the debt between them. Since then this woman, thi
s wounded woman, grew more important to him than anything else.

  Jonathon knew his estate needed him, despite the rather competent steward he employed. But Jonathon didn’t want to end his time, this quiet, private time, with Isabella. He wanted more of her, more of her laughter and her secrets, more of her smiles and kisses.

  More of her heart.

  Even the parts she held back from him.

  He ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath. If he thought they’d share the same privacy at Strathmore as they had even on the ship from Genoa to Dublin, he’d return with all due haste. However, worry tainted Jonathon’s desire to return; he didn’t know what scandal awaited them in England.

  And he didn’t want that scandal marring their time together, damaging the trust and the truce, the promise of more than a cordial marriage they’d begun on the weeks’ long voyage.

  Not yet. Not before he had the opportunity to introduce Isabella to Strathmore Hall. Not before she met his true friends. And not before he had the chance to quash all hint of scandal.

  Mrs. Primsby had mentioned it, of course, before she arranged their meeting at the Royal Opera House. The woman was notoriously honest about her clients. But it’d been Granville, who had heard the rumors from his sister, to truly inform him.

  “It’s unbecoming a duke to have that sort of woman on your arm.”

  Granville’s words, which had once swayed him, even now echoed in his memory.

  At the time, Jonathon had thought of Isabella’s scandal in terms of only how it affected him. Granville had been correct in that, at least — Isabella’s past affected not only him on a personal level, but his estate and his people. The tenants who relied upon him, the village, even his outside business interests.

  All that fell away once he’d met her. Once she’d proved to be more than any other woman he’d ever known. Isabella was unique in the way she held herself and the way she challenged him.

  Her cool tone as they discussed her past clashed with the way her dark eyes burned with fire. She’d aroused him from the first; made him want her in every sense. Her passion drew him even as her gamble intrigued him.

  In those first hours he’d known her, he’d listened to logic and backed away. If he’d listened to his instinct, Jonathon knew he wouldn’t have. Isabella was more than any girl he’d met — she was a woman who knew herself and her worth.

  Who had risen above those wounds inflicted upon her. And that was a rarity.

  He’d wanted her enough to agree to her wager. Now, months and two weddings later, he wanted her more than he had even in Milan. He didn’t merely enjoy her company; he enjoyed everything about her. She was witty and observant, and a hell of a piquet player, and it invigorated him to play with so worthy an opponent.

  He relished simply playing cards with her in their rooms or discussing the latest happenings in Parliament as they walked the Scottish moors.

  He loved her.

  Jonathon supposed that revelation should be a surprise. It was not.

  And all he wanted to do was protect her from every hint of scandal that tried to cling to her skirts. True, they needed to discuss what they’d tell others as to her absence from England these last years. They needed to come to an agreement — and inform Granville and Lady Octavia — as to what story they chose regarding Isabella’s whereabouts.

  Damn.

  They should’ve had this discussion weeks ago, before they boarded the ship in Genoa. It was his own fault for wanting to live in the present. For wanting to know the woman Isabella, not simply the gossip surrounding Miss Harrington.

  But on board the ship, they could’ve planted the seeds of what rumor they wished to sow.

  He cared naught for what the ton said of him. He cared everything for what they said of his wife.

  The whisky slid smooth and potent down his throat. Jonathon wanted to keep her isolated and safe either on the Continent or here in Scotland. His obligations prevented that, and he refused to keep her holed up in Strathmore Hall.

  She’d only grow to resent him.

  Still, perhaps he could convince Isabella to stay in Gretna Green a while longer. A few more days, a week or so, with only the two of them.

  Doing so would afford him enough time to correspond with Granville and Lady Octavia, and ascertain what reception he could expect for his Isabella. And who he needed to worry about with regard to the scandal. Or potential scandal.

  There was a chance, a slim one at that, that they’d be able to avert all gossip on the matter. That he’d be able to protect her from malicious shrews bent on hurting Isabella with every vicious barb.

  Jonathon looked down at Granville’s letter. He’d made sure Granville knew of their itinerary and their plan to stay at the Gretna Green Inn once in Scotland. Granville’s letter awaited him when they arrived, but Jonathon wanted to proceed with their marriage post haste.

  Mostly so he could make love to Isabella that eve. But also to solidify their marriage on British soil.

  Granville’s letter assured him their marriage license from the archbishop had been procured and the Strathmore Village priest was ready to perform the ceremony as soon as they returned to Strathmore Hall. Granville hadn’t elaborated as to any rumors on either Isabella or their marriage.

  Annoyed with his lack of foresight and Granville’s lack of information, Jonathon crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. Frustrated, he rose to pour another glass of whisky.

  Damn. Why hadn’t he thought to ask his friend to inform him of anything related to Isabella? Why had Granville not taken the initiative?

  He swallowed the smooth whisky in one breath and set the tumbler on the sideboard with a hard click.

  It wasn’t Granville’s fault, but his own. Jonathon wanted more time with her, wanted to shield her from whatever scandal may or may not await them in England. He wanted to prolong their honeymoon for as long as possible until he figured out how to crush every rumor associated with — or once associated with — her.

  All honeymoons ended, of course, but these last weeks with her had been exceptional.

  Now, ready to leave on their forthcoming trip, Jonathon found he wanted to live in these moments only, to look forward to the future they shared. Not his past or hers, not the scandal surrounding her or the changes that awaited them once they returned to Strathmore Hall.

  So many demands awaited them there. Demands from the village and the tenants and estate in general. And social obligations. He shuddered to think what cards and letters awaited him, the invitations, once they returned.

  Jonathon poured another glass of whisky and restlessly moved to the window, the one overlooking the grassy knoll by the small lake where he and Isabella frequently picnicked these last days.

  Her gaze haunted him, dark and heavy with sleep as she stretched awake, naked, beside him. Or how the early light slanted over her cheeks, highlighting her hair. He’d never been with a woman he wanted so much. Yes, she was beautiful, but he’d been with other beautiful women.

  Why did Isabella draw all his attention?

  Jonathon might spend the rest of his life trying to figure that out. Trying to figure out why her laugh made him smile or why her observations on any subject made him listen far more intently than he had to anyone ever before.

  Figure out where he’d fallen in love with her.

  He’d never willingly looked for love, though he was not opposed to it, either. He cared for his mistresses, enjoying their affections and conversation. Once he even entertained the idea of a match with Octavia because he cared for her as more than his closest friend’s sister.

  Isabella was so wholly different, however; whatever he felt for any past mistress, or even for so dear a friend as Octavia, paled significantly.

  And he knew as surely as he knew exactly how to touch Isabella so she made a breathy moan of pleading, or how her eyes lightened whenever she challenged him to a new hand of cards. Or how her head fit exactly so in his shoulder as they lay to
gether.

  Jonathon knew he loved her.

  It’d be quite the win, taken from the loss of their first game, to hear her reciprocate that love. That’s what he wanted now, more than anything else.

  “Your Grace,” Raffella’s distinct voice carried across the parlor. “Her Grace is ready to leave.”

  “Whenever you are,” Isabella said, directly behind Raffella.

  Jonathon didn’t see Raffella bow out of the room, though he knew she did. He had eyes only for Isabella. His beautiful wife. The woman he loved.

  In three long strides, he crossed the room. She looked startled but then smiled a warm, happy smile that did something to his insides. A rush of heat, a shock of lightning.

  He cupped her face tenderly and lowered his lips to hers. With infinite care, with all the love and passion and want he felt, Jonathon kissed her. Gently at first, his lips pressed to hers. But he heard her breath catch and felt her hands slide along the inside of his wrists, dancing over his skin.

  Deepening the kiss, Jonathon felt her open to him, the sigh she always gave, the little whimper of pleasure. It was soft and easy, more a kiss of affection — of love — than of passion. Oh, that burned immediately beneath the surface, a slow build of need. But Jonathon ignored it.

  This kiss was far more than a quick tryst in the back parlor. It was about the entirety of what he felt for her. Of how he loved her.

  Breaking the kiss, Jonathon pulled back and looked at her.

  Cheeks flushed, Isabella glanced around the parlor. “We need to leave,” she said quietly, but he heard the catch in her voice. “We don’t have any more time for diversions.”

  He grinned down at her and swallowed his words of love. Now wasn’t the time. He could wait. “Let’s go home.”

  * * * *

  His carriage awaited them at the Fox and Hound Inn, only a half-day’s journey from Strathmore Hall. Normally, he would have continued on to the Hall in the post chaise, as it was most expedient. Not this time.

  He refused to insult his duchess by allowing Isabella to arrive at her new home in a battered hired chaise. Isabella would arrive in the Strathmore carriage and greet her new household as she should. They would start this new life of theirs off correctly.