He moved across the room with a predatory gracefulness she’d once admired. Now Isabella buried all thoughts and feelings about his body, about the way he moved. It no longer mattered.
“Neither of us can allow this,” he said in a low voice that nonetheless carried across the small distance separating them.
“Allow what?” she inquired in a cool voice that belied the curiosity she held over his words.
“Allow our bond to be threatened by another,” he said, each word precise.
“Our bond?” she scoffed. “It was won at a card table,” she cruelly reminded him.
Each word meticulous, designed to inflict maximum damage. To both him and to her. Each word she spoke may have been meant to hurt him, but they gouged deeply through her soul as well.
He took another step closer but she held her ground, refusing to show any weakness.
“It was found at a card table,” he told her, still moving closer. “And has been made stronger since. Isabella, do not let that woman shake you. Don’t allow her to judge your worth.”
She deliberately raised an eyebrow and curled her lips in a cruel parody of a smile. Strathmore’s eyes narrowed, but he maintained a slight distance between them. “She’s already judged my worth. And she’s ruled me unfit. Ruined.”
He tilted his head back and looked at her for a long, silent moment. “Does she have that right? To pass that judgment? Or is that right exclusively yours?”
Isabella already planned her retort, but his words made her stumble. Her breath caught and her heart skipped erratically in her chest. She hadn’t expected those words from him; she expected him to declare that right as his.
Not hers. Never hers.
“The woman I met in Milan,” he continued in the wake of her stunned silence, “was spectacular. Not only in beauty but in confidence. When I saw you in that gold gown, it was as if I saw Cleopatra in all her splendor. When I spoke to you, my own reasons for denying you paled.”
He took a step closer, and Isabella felt as if he waited for her reaction. As if he expected her to lash out. She took in a deep breath and waited, bracing herself, for what she no longer knew.
“That’s why I returned,” Strathmore continued in a softer but no less sincere tone. Honest, she realized. “Why I sought you out. The woman I wagered with was worthy of all I had to give. But now she seems to be lost beneath a bitter mother’s recriminations. I know that recrimination all too well.”
“I remember,” Isabella whispered. She wanted her voice stronger, wanted to maintain a proud distance between them. It was no use.
Strathmore closed the final distance between them and grabbed her wrist. His touch was gentle, steady as he lifted her wrist and deftly unclasped the bracelet. It fell to the floor between them, and he kicked it out of the way.
Forgotten.
“I’ve seen that piece of metal bite into your skin since we met.” His fingers rubbed the indentations on her wrist. “I know what it is, I recognized it at once. A talisman. To remind you of your mistakes. Am I wrong?”
Words escaped her. Mouth dry, thoughts whirling at his astuteness, Isabella shook her head. “No.”
She licked her lips and wanted to tear her gaze from his, wanted to find her bracelet and reattach it around her wrist. Her fingers clenched around his, however, and she found herself unable to look anywhere but at Strathmore.
“I don’t care about mistakes made.” His lips twisted in self-mockery. “I have plenty of my own. Why should we let them rule our lives? We can bury our mistakes where they belong.”
“And what if it becomes known you married a whore?” she asked.
But again her words weren’t as strong or as shocking as she wanted. She wanted to make him understand what she was, who she was. No amount of making love or picnics by a lake or weddings had changed that.
Her words, however, were quiet in the space between them.
Strathmore sighed, but it held no frustration or resentment. “Isabella, one lover does not a whore make. Don’t let your mother’s venom distort your view.”
He took a breath and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone. Isabella wanted to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She wanted to pull back, stand defiant before him, and keep her head high and her heart protected.
“Don’t let her take away the woman I love.” He leaned closer. “Please.”
She met his gaze again and had no words. How could she speak and toss the love he’d just given her, laid out before her, back in his face? She opened her mouth, but caught her breath instead.
“I don’t know.” But the words faltered on her tongue, and she trembled when she spoke them.
Suddenly Strathmore squeezed her hands and stepped back. For a frantic moment, Isabella thought he realized his mistake and was going to leave her. But he only nodded, decisively. “Don’t move.”
Stunned, she didn’t. Not as he turned on his heel and strode from the room, not as she heard him in his own rooms, though she had no idea what he looked for there. She stayed still because she’d forgotten how to move. His words rooted her to the spot, and all she could do was repeat them over and over.
He loved her.
Isabella had no idea why. Oh, yes, they enjoyed each other’s company — and bodies. But how could he care for her to the point where he professed his love? What had she done to deserve that?
He returned quickly, far too quickly for her to have come to any conclusion. And he carried with him a deck of cards.
Strathmore gingerly set them on the dresser, all the while keeping his gaze on hers. He crossed the distance again and took her hands. “Wager with me,” he said, his eyes intent and hands steady on hers.
“Wager what?” she asked and licked her lips again. What else did she have to wager?
“Should I win,” Strathmore began with a slight lift to his lips, “you’ll let go of the past, of all recriminations. And you’ll be the free woman I married at Gretna Green.”
He pulled her closer, and she moved easily into his embrace. One hand slipped through her hair, cupping the back of her head. “Allow me to love you. And yourself to love me.”
“And if I should win?” Isabella asked, the memory of their first wager all too clear.
Since then, however, she learned what a shrewd player Strathmore was; they played often in Genoa, on the ship, even as they picnicked by the lake in Gretna Green. He simply had the poor misfortune to have lost the biggest game of either of their lives.
“Then you may do as you want. Take a lover. Take ten.” His voice hardened, but she knew he’d honor the terms of their agreement. “I’ll have no say. Live as you wish to live. Set what terms you want.”
Isabella hesitated then nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. Her heart felt as if it wanted to pound out of her chest, and it felt increasingly difficult to breathe. But she nodded again and Strathmore released her.
He crossed back to her dresser and retrieved the deck. “High card wins.”
With quick fingers he shuffled the cards, his eyes on hers as he did so. Isabella nodded and watched him shuffle, watched him watch her. He abruptly stopped and held the deck out for her. Her hands far steadier than her heart, she took the top card.
A queen.
Disappointment made her knees weak, tightened savagely over her throat.
Isabella wanted to look up at him, triumphant, but that disappointment clenched her heart and roiled through her stomach. She blinked hastily to clear her vision and slowly looked up at him. Strathmore watched her, his face unreadable, and took the next card.
He glanced at it, but she couldn’t tell anything from his expression.
“A queen,” she said calmly, surprised her voice didn’t shake.
He turned his card so she could see it. “A king. I win.”
She blinked, but the card remained the same. “Indeed you do win,” she said, her voice cracking.
Strathmore dropped the deck, the remaining car
ds scattered across the floor. Isabella barely noticed. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. His tongue swept along hers, his hands warm and strong on her shoulders, her back.
“Tell me...”
“Jonathon,” she breathed and licked her lips. Tears welled in her eyes and one slipped free of whatever control she had left. His name felt right on her tongue, perfect.
“I love you.”
His hands were gentle on her face and his thumb brushed away her tears. His mouth was warm and soft on hers as he kissed her, small gentle kisses that told her what she should’ve realized earlier. This wasn’t the kiss of a man who only wanted sex. This was the kiss of a man who cared.
Who loved.
That knowledge rushed through her, warm tempting and hers. All hers, now that she’d finally opened her eyes and held the hand Jonathon had always offered her. Isabella wrapped her fingers around his wrists. To keep him there, to touch him, secure in the knowledge that what lay between them wouldn’t crumble around her.
With excruciating gentleness, he tasted her mouth again and again, pressed kisses along her jaw and down her throat. When he finally stepped back, Isabella whimpered at the loss of his touch.
“Come to our bedroom,” he whispered and took her hand.
She didn’t know how to tell him she’d follow him, what to say to express the hot flush of love she’d only just admitted to. Instead, Isabella nodded and took his hand. They walked down the hall together, a slow and steady pace from the previous duchess’s bedroom toward theirs.
With slow touches and gentle caresses, they undressed. Clothes pooled on the floor, forgotten, fingertips brushed naked skin and built a slow burn of arousal.
It throbbed through her, a warm, steady beat in time to her heart. When Jonathon lifted her onto the bed, she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him, hands flattening on his back to draw him closer.
Isabella shook off her disbelief. Disbelief that this man, taking his time making love to her, had gone to such lengths not to win a mistress he coveted, but had fought for the woman — the wife — he loved. Her hands trembled as she cupped the back of his head and the swell of love eclipsed the warm burn of arousal spreading through her.
“Say it again.” His voice was rough but his lips were gentle as he sucked one hardened nipple into his mouth.
“I love you,” she breathed and swore his breath hitched as she admitted what she’d felt for him for so long now.
It sounded sure and easy in the space between them and tasted so perfect on her tongue. Then Isabella laughed and arched into his touch, hips rocking against his. She raked her nails down his back and felt his shudder in response.
Jonathon’s fingers brushed over her wetness and Isabella gasped. His fingers slipped easily along her, touch light and teasing but no less perfect. He kissed up on leg, along her hip and bit lightly along the sensitive skin. Isabella cried out and curled her hands into the bedding, breath shaking.
“Let go, Isabella,” he said, as he kissed up her body.
His words echoed in her mind. It had been so difficult to let go, to release the past and let it stay dead and buried. But now, all that mattered was Jonathon and the love they shared. His love and persistence saved her from a lonely, bitter life.
Or perhaps, Isabella realized as she opened her eyes and watched him, they’d saved each other. There was nothing she’d not do for Jonathon Wakefield. Her duke.
He leaned on one muscular forearm, green eyes dark and focused on her. His other hand teased her wetness, flicked over her swollen nub and built her pleasure steadily higher.
Suddenly her orgasm shattered over her, a warm crest of emotion and pleasure that left her fingers tingling and her heart tripping over itself.
“Jonathon,” she gasped, a part of her amazed at how easily his name fell from her lips.
“Yes,” he hissed and slipped into her.
Her breath caught and she tilted her hips just enough to bring him deeper. Sighed at the feel of him as he lazily moved; long slow thrusts, gaze locked with hers, mouth languid on hers. He stilled for a heartbeat and shuddered in her arms.
Long slow thrusts then harder, faster, deeper — madness clawed through her. Isabella cried out, begged for more. Madness, yes, but a sweet madness.
Isabella cupped the back of his head and deepened the kiss, wrapped her legs higher on his waist and opened further to him. She rolled her hips in a way she learned early on drove him mad, and grinned against his mouth when his steady pace faltered.
“Isabella,” he growled, thrusting harder into her.
One hand slid down her body and over the top of her thigh, lifting her higher.
“Say it again,” Isabella demanded and grinned even as her orgasm built and built, a steady wave of absolute pleasure.
“I love you,” he said.
She would never tire of hearing him say that. Just as, with the initial fear of admitting the same to him, Isabella doubted she’d ever tire of telling him in return. “I love you, too,” she whispered, gaze locked on his. Then, repeating his earlier words, said, “Let go, Jonathon.”
His mouth crashed harder on hers, his thrusts deeper and sure and her pleasure spiraled to a peak and rushed out in waves along her nerves. She shouted his name again, even as he continued to move, her name a chant on his lips.
Suddenly he stiffened, climaxed hard against her, mouth buried in her neck. Isabella wrapped arms that tingled with her orgasm around his shoulders and held him tight. She ran her fingers through his hair, still joined with him.
As content as she’d ever been, Isabella held him to her. She didn’t want to let him go. He shifted, slipped from her body, but didn’t move from her embrace. Jonathon gathered her to him, and she shifted one leg over his, head on the steadying beat of his heart.
Eyes closed, body heavy and sated, she pressed her lips to his chest. “I love you.”
With a moment of pure clarity, Isabella realized as she had when she ran away with Manning, she now left Alison Harrington behind. There was no reason to allow that woman purchase in her life now.
She erased Manning and now erased Alison. Only Jonathon remained.
“I truly love you,” she whispered again.
Epilogue
Isabella crossed her arms under her chest. She knew it pushed her breasts higher and hid a smile when her husband’s eyes lingered on her decolletage. A light breeze brought the late summer scent of flowers around them as they sat in the gardens, enjoying breakfast.
Octavia’s letter moved slightly in the wind and Isabella slipped it further beneath her plate so it didn’t blow away.
“Jonathon,” she said, exasperated, “it’s early yet. I can’t imagine the doctors will have any objection to a trip to London!”
Across the small table her husband frowned. She didn’t miss the pinch of worry around his eyes or the way his mouth flattened.
Isabella almost regretted saying anything, and reached across the table to take his hand. Beneath her touch, he relaxed marginally but the same stubborn look remained on his face.
“Have we not traveled by carriage, by boat, quite enough this year?” he asked and smiled. A little more of the tension eased from him.
Isabella took the letter from beneath the plate and purposefully waved it at her husband.
“I’m willing to take another ride so I may attend Octavia’s birthday ball,” she insisted and squeezed his hand. “She truly wishes us to attend. And I miss her,” Isabella admitted softly.
Octavia had stayed at the Hall for weeks after their third and final wedding and Isabella formed a bond with the other woman. Her first true friend since leaving for Milan. No, Isabella realized now as Jonathon’s lips tightened once more.
Her first true friend period. None of her previous friends had stood by her after her scandalous departure, though they certainly wrote the new duchess with flowery memories of times gone by.
Isabella hadn’t yet returned their notes. She doubt
ed she ever would.
But she made time to write Mrs. Primsby, both to formally thank her for her introduction to Jonathon and to thank her for her discretion with the tale. The woman did know her business, and Isabella realized she’d too hastily dismissed her.
“She left for London only last week!” He eyed her and tried a smile again. This one was a little more natural. “The two of you have been inseparable for months.”
He snatched the letter from her and folded it one-handed and slipped it between his plate and glass. “And stop using that letter like a weapon.”
Isabella smiled. She stood, still holding his hand and settled herself comfortable on his lap. His free hand rested on the slight swell of her belly, undetectable beneath her morning gown. She pressed her lips to his and laughed, watching a little more of the tension ease from his features.
“I barely saw her,” she protested good-naturedly, “because my husband demanded all my attentions.”
His lips were soft on hers and when he pulled back Isabella thought she saw a faint blush to his cheeks. It warmed her, spread from her heart outwards and she tightened her fingers around his.
“We had an heir to produce,” he protested. But his voice was gravelly and his arm tightened around her.
“That has been accomplished,” she whispered. Clearing her throat she sat back a little. “And we should go. I’ve yet to see the London townhouse,” she added as if that argument alone might sway him.
“I’m not taking my heir over those bumpy, unsafe, highwaymen filled roads,” Jonathon insisted. His lips brushed against her throat as he spoke, sending shocks of pleasure dancing along her skin.
Her laugh sounded breathless and she kissed him. Slow and deep, she drew the kiss out until both their breaths were uneven.
“Only if the doctor says yes,” Jonathon conceded.
Isabella smiled against his mouth. “Good. Then I shall write Octavia immediately.”
She moved to stand, but he held her firm. His lips brushed hers.
“Your correspondence can wait a while,” he said, nipping her lower lips.
Jonathon shifted her on his lap and kissed her again. She felt him harden and her breath caught at the flood of arousal rushing through her. Isabella whimpered against his mouth and tried to turn, to straddle his lap despite the fact they were in the gardens where anyone could see them.
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 20
