Better than their less-than-auspicious beginning in Milan.
Now, nearing ten at night and a mere mile from the Hall, her hand lay in his, her head on his shoulder. She’d fallen asleep almost as soon as they’d changed carriages, and he’d watched the soft rise and fall of her breath as the carriage bumped its way along the road.
He hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t said, but Jonathon wondered if she was with child. His child. They’d spent weeks together, first on the ship then in Gretna Green. Her courses had arrived shortly after they’d boarded the ship, but nothing since then.
Excitement bloomed in his chest then quickly banked.
He’d wait. He could wait. It might be the travel and the changes to their lives. Or any number of other things he couldn’t quite think of at the moment. Jonathon gathered her to him and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Isabella stirred and blinked sleepily up at him. “Hmm,” she said and stretched slightly. “I don’t want to see the inside of a carriage or another ship for a long, long time.”
Jonathon huffed in agreement and resisted the urge to pull her back to him as she straightened, fixing her cloak and adjusting her hat.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
Strathmore Hall was ablaze with candles and activity. They’d been well informed of his arrival and if Jonathon knew Granville, he knew his friend had arranged everything exactly.
As the carriage rolled to a halt, Jonathon picked up Isabella’s hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Duchess,” he said with a cheeky wink.
Clearly amused, she grinned up at him. A footman opened the door and handed her out. Jonathon held his arm to her and she placed her hand lightly atop it, all very proper and regal. It was a pity, but he wanted no whispers amongst his staff as to her unsuitableness.
Isabella was the only suitable woman for him.
“There are no gargoyles,” she whispered and frowned up at him.
Jonathon laughed as they walked down the line the staff formed.
“But it’s breathtaking,” she added as they entered the grand foyer.
Introducing Isabella to Barrymore, the butler, and Mrs. Hardy, the housekeeper, Jonathon felt a flash of pride as she graciously returned their greeting. Granville and Octavia waited for them in the foyer as well.
“Isabella,” Jonathon said softly and with a touch to her elbow turned her in his friends’ direction.
“Duchess.” Granville bowed deeply before crossing the marble foyer and taking both her hands with a sly smile. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Octavia.”
Octavia curtseyed and Isabella nodded, offering a warm smile in return.
“Lady Octavia, it’s such a pleasure to see you. I’ve heard nothing but lovely things from Granville.”
“From my brother, Duchess?” She eyed Granville and slanted an equally knowing glance at him. “I find that hard to believe, but it’s kind of you to say.”
Isabella moved toward Octavia and the women wandered down the hall to the front parlor, hands wrapped around each other’s waists as if they’d been friends for years instead of new acquaintances.
He watched her go with a fond smile, listening with half an ear as she admired the décor and paintings.
“We received the missive Strathmore sent ahead with the post boy,” Octavia said as they gathered in the parlor. She smiled and there was a hint of happiness in her voice. “The priest is prepared for a morning wedding.”
Isabella nodded to the maid, who poured four cups of tea.
“I do hope you don’t mind,” Octavia continued as she accepted the tea, “but I’ve taken the liberty of having several gowns sent up from London. Granville said we were close in measurements.”
Jonathon refused to let the bolt of jealousy at his friend eyeing his wife’s figure take hold. He simply accepted the cup of tea and sent a glare at Granville, who shrugged and grinned.
“However, I pity the woman who relies on a man’s judgment for such things,” Octavia added. “I’ve a local seamstress in residence for any last-minute modifications.”
“Thank you, Lady Octavia, you’ve thought of everything.” Isabella’s words sounded genuine, and the slight tension in Jonathon’s shoulders eased.
Octavia was as dear a friend as Granville, and he wanted Isabella to get on with her.
“I wanted everything perfect for you,” Octavia added, a thread of honesty in her voice.
“For such things,” Granville said, “my sister is the one to rely upon.”
Jonathon looked at his friend with a slight smirk. “Yes, most assuredly. I hesitate to think what sort of frock Granville would’ve chosen.” He frowned. “Or Hamilton for that matter.”
His words were received with a round of laughter, as he intended. The relaxed atmosphere lulled him in, and Jonathon watched as Isabella and Octavia conversed with an ease between them that belied their incredibly short acquaintance.
“Everything is ready for the morning wedding,” Octavia assured them. “You have naught to worry about. I believe my brother and I should retire now and allow the duke and duchess their time.”
Jonathon saw the surprise on Granville’s face, even as his friend reached the decanters. But Granville had no time to speak; Octavia was already guiding him out the door, leaving him alone with Isabella.
He set his teacup on the low table and crossed to where his wife sat, just as the doors to the parlor closed soundly behind him.
“Strathmore,” she breathed. Isabella looked over his shoulder to the closed doors. “She is quite...” She trailed off and admitted, “Kind.”
“I knew you’d like her,” he said, gathering her in his arms.
“I wasn’t certain how I’d be received,” she softly admitted. “I was afraid. And admit I was ready to defend myself.”
“And now?” he asked just as quietly.
“I’m happy not to have had to,” Isabella said and smiled up at him.
She nodded against his chest, her arms around his waist. Jonathon pressed his lips to the top of her head and heard her release a long, slow breath. She leaned back just enough to look up at him and when she did, the atmosphere changed between them.
“Are you going to show me the gargoyles?” she asked cheekily.
“I’ll show you the entire Hall,” he promised, dipping his head to brush his lips over hers. “But particularly one room tonight.”
Isabella laughed, and he led her from the parlor to his rooms.
Chapter Eighteen
Isabella spent the night in Strathmore’s bed and only now, with several hours before their third and final wedding, went to hers. Adjacent to Strathmore’s, the rooms were large enough to encompass her entire townhouse in Milan.
Last night, she’d sent Raffella off to settle in — the unpacking could wait. Now, standing in the duchess’s chambers, she watched Raffella tentatively enter the rooms.
Dressed in a blue gown with a white apron, Raffella eschewed the cap. Isabella didn’t mind, but wondered what the rest of the household thought. Then realized she didn’t care about that, either.
“Is very dark,” Raffella said even as she turned in a circle, no doubt trying to look at everything at once. “What kind of woman wants such a...sad room?”
Isabella turned to her maid and said simply, “A sad woman.”
The bedroom was all dark woods and dark blue fabrics; heavy brocade curtains covered the windows and the bed. Tasteful, yes, decorated in the style of the previous century, but not as ornate as that decor had been.
In this room, Isabella saw the woman Strathmore described.
He called his mother bitter. Isabella looked around the bedroom and thought the previous duchess had been lonely. Angry, yes. She saw cracks in a sideboard where she easily envisioned his mother venting her frustrations.
Shouting and kicking her anger and isolation.
“It is awful,” Raffella pronounced. “Just awful. These curtains must come down.” She
tugged on them in distaste.
Though the room boasted wide windows overlooking the back gardens, the heavy dark blue curtains hung in silent testament to a woman who rarely left her rooms. They were dark and utterly depressing.
“The duke will let you change them, yes?” Raffella asked, wiping her hand on her skirts. Her accent sounded thicker than usual and Isabella wondered if she was as nervous as Isabella. “No one should be left with such depressing things. Why would a duchess be so sad?”
Isabella looked around the room, from the dark curtains to the scratches and dents in the walls. While every curtain was opened to let as much early summer sunlight in as possible, Isabella couldn’t shake the feeling of a closed-in space, one that pressed in on her.
“The former duchess,” Isabella said quietly, “did not wish to marry Jonathon’s father. I suppose this was the result of her feeling trapped.”
“This will not be your result.” Raffella said it with such certainty Isabella blinked. “Mr. Manning trapped you. Remember that.”
Isabella looked at her bracelet, still there and still tightly bound around her wrist. For the first time since she began the habit of wearing the reminder of her poor choices, Isabella considered removing it.
“And this time,” Raffella said, “you have a true friend. Not a lying, cheating bastardo like Mr. Manning. That man was nothing but a devil.” She nodded decisively. “The duke is not him and of course he will let you change this room. And it should be done quickly.”
Raffella, stood before her, determined in many ways. She brushed her hand along Isabella’s arm and nodded again. “Now, I shall prepare your bath.” She turned but stopped at the door. “Try to think of cheery colors.”
Isabella stifled a chuckle. “I shall endeavor to do my best,” she said to her maid’s back.
Raffella knew her all too well and knew just how to cheer her up. Or, in this case, make the room not so dark and uninviting.
Relieved she hadn’t slept here last night, Isabella took one last look around the room. She resolved never to be as alone, as bitter as the former duchess.
Yes, she needed to brighten the rooms she’d call hers. Then again, given how she and Strathmore made love, Isabella doubted she’d spend many nights in her own bed. Not that she had the opportunity last eve to look around Strathmore’s room. Oh no, the instant they retired, she’d kissed him and bedroom decor was the very last thing on Isabella’s mind.
Isabella crossed to the window seat and sat. She leaned into a patch of warm sunlight and closed her eyes, blocking out the room if not her thoughts.
Oh, how her life had changed in the last weeks.
Changed so much from the barely respectable townhouse she once shared with Manning. Her eyes blinked open. She hadn’t thought about him as much as she used to. Once in a while a stray thought, perhaps, but Strathmore occupied much of her thoughts and actions.
Manning grew more distant every day. As he should.
Once more her fingers brushed the bracelet. Yes. She should remove it.
She’d won more than simply the title of duchess when she won that game of piquet. She won someone who was more than a friend — a man who treated her well.
She could have a life here at Strathmore Hall. And Strathmore deserved a wife who didn’t bury herself in the past, in her mistakes.
Manning didn’t deserve her devotion. Strathmore proved he did.
After Manning’s abrupt departure, Isabella refused to consider ever falling in love again. It was passionate and messy, and it hurt. And the flame that burned bright in the beginning always, inevitably, burnt out.
No, what she felt for Strathmore was not love. But, she allowed, it could be more than friendship. It could last longer than a passionate love affair.
The soft scratch at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Isabella welcomed her maid’s interruption.
“Duchess,” Raffella called. “The bath is ready in the dressing room.” Then she stepped into the room and boldly looked around once again. Frowning, she looked back at Isabella. “Perhaps yellow?”
Isabella cocked her head slightly and smiled. “Perhaps I’ll move all this into your room.”
Raffella frowned and shook her head. Without another word, Isabella followed her into the dressing room and quickly shed her dressing gown and sank gratefully into the warm water. She’d had a quick wash at the Gretna Green Inn, but after weeks of travel, the hot water felt heavenly on her skin.
Raffella washed her hair, the maid’s fingers a soothing massage on her scalp, before combing the long locks with the wide-tooth comb she’d used with varying degrees of success on the ship.
Isabella sighed and wanted to stay in the bath all morning. “Thank you, Raffella,” she said even as she forced her limbs to stand.
Raffella held out the linen sheet and Isabella waited while she used another sheet to press the water from her hair. It’d never completely dry in time for the wedding, but Isabella didn’t care. It had felt far too good to bathe.
“Lady Octavia sent several gowns,” Raffella said as she hung them on various hooks in the dressing room.
All three of them were beautiful, but Isabella was immediately drawn to the first. It was a lovely embroidered ivory gown with gold threads woven through the bodice and raised ivory roses on the skirt. The gown was similar enough to remind her of the one she’d worn when she first met Strathmore, and Isabella quickly dismissed the others with barely a glance.
Raffella helped her to dress and did her hair before calling the seamstress in. The gown needed little alterations, but Isabella dutifully waited while the seamstress measured and pinned to her satisfaction.
The scratch at the door startled her, and Isabella quickly nodded to Raffella to answer it. One of the upstairs maids stood there and announced Lady Octavia was here to see the duchess.
Octavia entered with a smile, only to hesitate a moment. But her smile widened, and Isabella didn’t feel the sense the other woman found her lacking in any way.
“You look beautiful, Duchess,” she said sincerely.
“Thank you.” Isabella nodded as she stood on the raised stool while the seamstress continued to pin the hem. “Your choices were gorgeous.”
“And you did not know what to expect, did you?” Octavia asked, but it was light and smooth and she smiled again. “I could have offered the most hideous creations with overdone ribbons and enough beading to weigh down a small child.”
Isabella laughed and Octavia shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t do that to a new bride.”
She stopped and when Isabella met the other woman’s gaze there was a darkness deep in her eyes that stole Isabella’s breath. This was not a woman used to easy privileges but one who knew pain. Isabella knew the look well, too well.
“I know what it’s like to have someone fool you,” Octavia whispered, the words sincere and open. “I want you to know I’d never play such a game with you.”
Isabella swallowed at the honesty in Octavia’s words and found herself only able to nod. Then Octavia lightened the mood with a bright smile. “Strathmore would have my head.”
She paused, gathering her words but at a loss as to how to respond to Octavia’s other admission, to the sincerity there. “I would never let him admonish you,” Isabella said softly. She took a deep breath and added just as sincerely, “And it is a good thing to have a new friend.”
Octavia crossed the room, her smile widening. “I’m very happy you see me as such.” She reached out to squeeze Isabella’s hand. “And I hope we’re to be very dear friends.”
“I hope so as well,” Isabella said truthfully.
“Granville and I have been friends with Strathmore since my youth,” Octavia said, and Isabella braced for a warning of some sort. But the other woman grinned and laughed. “I never thought him equipped to be a proper husband.”
Isabella stilled and waited. She hadn’t thought about it before this moment but now wondered if Octavia had wanted Strathmore
for her own husband — proper or not.
“Granville once suggested that I might tame Strathmore,” Octavia said, but before Isabella had the chance to wonder how she felt about that, the other woman continued. “But I knew we were not well suited for each other. It would’ve been a miserable match.”
The seamstress stood just then and took her leave. Raffella offered her hand to her and Isabella gratefully took it, stepping off the stool and accepting a cup of tea. Octavia walked around Isabella and nodded.
“Beautiful,” she repeated with a pleased grin and accepted the cup of tea Raffella offered.
“In the short time I’ve seen him in your company,” Octavia continued as she sipped the tea, “I’ve noted a difference with him.”
Raffella curtseyed and left as well. Isabella barely noticed her maid’s exit as she gestured to the divan and sat, grateful to be off her feet. She tried not to stare at Octavia even as she wondered what the other woman meant.
“How so?” Isabella asked, pleased her voice was steady. “How is he different?”
Octavia leaned closer just slightly, not enough to overwhelm her. “I see a man in love.”
Isabella froze. In love? Surely Octavia read too much into the close friendship she and Strathmore shared.
“In love?” she heard herself saying as if from a very great distance.
Her blood roared in her ears and she fought for breath.
“Yes.” Octavia nodded as if she hadn’t heard the panic in Isabella’s voice or saw it in the stiffening of her body. But Octavia’s simple affirmation cleared the noise and somehow soothed her frozen fear.
“I think,” Octavia continued, “the two of you will have a very good marriage.”
Isabella nodded and set her teacup down with trembling fingers. Her heart pounded but she didn’t fear the fear she expected. Isabella licked her lips, took a deep breath, and focused on the other woman’s next words. She had to get through this conversation before anything.
“To ensure that,” Octavia began, “we must handle your absence from England these last two years.”
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 16
