 
# Improper Wager

### Scandalous Encounters

### by Kristabel Reed

Copyright © 2015 by Kristabel Reed

Smashwords Edition

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This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Formatted by: CyberWitch Press

# Chapter One

Milan, Italy

May 1817

"Merciless animals stalk and devour their prey," Isabella Harrington muttered. She watched a large, ragged dog slip down an alleyway across from her townhouse. He was surely hunting and some poor creature would soon meet its end.

Isabella now understood just how merciless Manning Bradford, like the wild dog, had truly been. He'd left her injured and beaten. If not in body then in spirit and heart.

His vicious words still taunted her, and when he left her, alone in a foreign city, only then had she seen that she'd never been his love. She was simply, always, his prey.

The lesson had been hard learned and hard lived.

But that lesson also taught her, prepared her, to relinquish the young girl Isabella had been for the woman who refused to allow the mistake of loving Manning Bradford to define her life.

The bracelet pinched her left wrist. She'd fastened it too tightly. Again. Isabella pushed and pulled the offending gold and peridot adornment but refused to loosen it. No, she wore it to serve as her reminder, a reminder of the man who gave the piece she once considered beautiful, but now saw as a testimonial to her own weakness.

Thirteen months since he'd left. Thirteen months living alone. The man she'd trusted with her future, her life, gone.

Loneliness and hurt clung to her like the stench of cheap tallow candles clung to her parlor walls. Isabella wanted nothing more than to be able to go back to her youthful self and choose differently.

She'd spent months wrenching herself free of the muck and mire. Months wallowing in self-pity, but needing to survive.

Survive was all she'd done.

The pungent scent of lemon oil permeated the front parlor, almost but not quite strong enough to hide the tallow used in their candles. The mixture of lemon and tallow made her stomach churn.

Turning from the window, she let the curtains fall and quickly crossed her small parlor to the nook beside the fireplace and retrieved the bottle of lemon oil. Isabella splashed some onto the rag and, with an energy born of nerves, wiped down the mantle.

She pressed hard into the wood, moving the rag over it again and again, trying to wipe her mind clear from her past as she did so. She rubbed the oil into the wood until only the scent of fresh polish filled the room. Until her stomach calmed and the sickening scent of tallow faded.

Just as she'd done the day she realized she hadn't enough money to live out the month, as she realized she'd nowhere to go, as she'd forced herself out of bed to wash away the tears she'd shed over Manning, now Isabella forced herself to take the next step forward.

She ignored the nerves dancing through her, squashing them until all that remained was her pride, her determination, and her will to not merely survive, but to thrive. This was her fresh start, and she'd not allow anyone to hold her back, not any longer.

The front door creaked open and she heard, her one manservant, Nicolo usher her guest into the foyer.

This was it, the first step in reclaiming her life and in putting the mistakes of her youth behind her. Isabella nearly laughed at that — she'd experienced more in the previous two years than most young women of her stature experienced in their entire lives.

And she would create a life where she held her head high with pride and dignity against all the gossips and vicious stories. End this cold and lonely existence.

Isabella smoothed a hand down her gown. With her chin high, as regal as her respectable upbringing taught her, she watched Mrs. Camilla Primsby enter the sparsely furnished parlor. Mrs. Primsby was the tool Isabella planned to use as her reintroduction to proper society. She was well known for her successful — and more importantly _discreet_ — matches.

So much so that at no small expense, won from many nights spent at the Milanese gaming tables, Isabella sent for Mrs. Primsby. If she were to polish her tarnished reputation, to salvage what was left of it, she needed someone of Mrs. Primsby's esteem.

Still, she found it difficult to trust her future to such an unknown quality. Isabella had heard much about the renowned matchmaker before she'd left London. However, Isabella had spent the last thirteen months and ten days trusting no one save herself.

"Signora Primsby," Nicolo announced with a bow.

" _Grazie_ , Nicolo." She smiled to the butler and asked in her now-flawless Italian, "Would you please see to tea?"

Nicolo nodded and retreated. Isabella gestured to the settee, worn but spotless, for Mrs. Primsby to take a seat.

She had expected judgment over the condition of her furniture; however, there was none in Mrs. Primsby's reserved gaze. The other woman was well dressed and, while slightly older, still possessed the flush of youth and beauty. Mrs. Primsby watched Isabella a moment, holding herself aloof.

Isabella understood that and waited, assessing the other woman as she did so as well. Mrs. Primsby's light brown eyes held hers, measuring her. Isabella wondered what the matchmaker saw but did nothing to reveal any emotion.

Mrs. Primsby smiled gently as she sat on the edge of the settee. She gave a quick nod, as if finding favor in her assessment. "For this to be successful," the other woman said without any opening pleasantries, "there must be trust between us."

Did she see Isabella as prey, as Manning had? Was she here simply for the money and to travel to Milan? Mrs. Primsby's words had been so precise — almost too precise. Were they sincere?

Sitting opposite the other woman in a lone chair by the banked fireplace, Isabella set her hands on her lap. She wanted to raise an eyebrow at the matchmaker's words, but kept her face impassive.

"Trust is a valuable and rare commodity."

Offering a small, somewhat knowing smile, Mrs. Primsby said, "Your parents have done a decent job of it. Of explaining your absence from their home."

Isabella didn't wince at her words. She'd carefully trained herself during the last year to show no emotion whatsoever. Not even when so blatantly faced with the truth of her situation.

"But rumors persist," she continued with a dark, pinpoint stare.

Her mother would, of course, lie. Not for Isabella's benefit, but for her own. Though she held no faith her parents wanted to help her now.

"I am aware," Isabella agreed, her voice cool and steady. "I've done my best to keep my departure from England uneventful. However, vicious gossip will do as it will."

"It's best if we speak plainly between us." Mrs. Primsby, gaze never flinching, waited while Rafella, Isabella's sole maid, served tea.

From the corner of her eye, Isabella saw the hard look her maid sent her way. The one that warned her not to give the matchmaker a difficult time.

"It'll make our work simpler," Mrs. Primsby finished once Raffella left the parlor.

Bristling at such implied intimacy, Isabella stiffened. At the other woman's knowing gaze, she narrowed her own. She'd spent the time since Manning's abrupt departure tamping down on every emotion she had. This woman's desire to speak bluntly scraped along her nerves.

"I can see you're a proud woman," Mrs. Primsby said easily. "And clearly a resourceful one."

She sipped her tea. "If you're determined to start afresh," Mrs. Primsby continued, "we must not play games with this matter but approach it directly."

Isabella allowed her lips to quirk just the slightest bit. She wanted to be reserved and run round this matchmaker with words and subtlety. However, she hired the woman knowing her profession — specifically _because_ of her profession.

She prepared herself for this conversation; however, the bluntness of Mrs. Primsby surprised Isabella. The matchmaker was correct, of course. She'd be as honest as necessary to acquire her goal.

Isabella needed to work with her in order to achieve what she desired.

"I can be very good at games," Isabella said coyly, leaning forward slightly. Straightening, she nodded. "But I understand your point."

Setting her teacup on the small table, Mrs. Primsby kept her gaze on Isabella. "When your name is mentioned, there've been a number of stories associated with it. I've heard you've been abducted by highwaymen."

Her eyebrow raised in amusement and humor Isabella shared but did not show. "Or have run off with a performance group." Mrs. Primsby leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "I've even heard you're helping estranged family cousins in the Americas."

But then she leaned back, her eyes serious now. She seemed softer, and Isabella hated that. The pity. "Some rumors have come perilously close to the truth."

Isabella's eyes widened. She'd been so careful not to tell anyone the truth. To leave London in the dead of night, with only a note to her parents. Knowing her mother, Alison Harrington, would never utter a word of such scandalous actions, if only to protect herself.

Of course, rumors that bore a resemblance to the truth were bound to circulate, even with her careful planning.

Not that Isabella had cared all that much about rumors and scandal. Not then.

"That you left England with a lover," Mrs. Primsby confirmed. She leaned forward, as if they truly were the closest of friends sharing confidences. "Were you wed to the boy?"

"Must we speak of this?" Isabella demanded stiffly. "It is of no import." She paused and shook her head. "No. There was no marriage." She confessed the truth to this woman, who she'd only just met, and in contrast to what she'd told the Milanese establishment for the last year.

As far as anyone in Milan knew, Manning died.

Mrs. Primsby nodded to herself as if she accepted the explanation, and picked up her teacup. "Explanations as to your absence need to be decided on. The rumor you went to the Americas with your cousins may be part of it."

She paused and gazed evenly at Isabella. "But the gossip mill had it wrong — it wasn't the America's but here on the Continent. For these last months, I have been your chaperone."

Isabella tilted her head, partly in confusion and partly at the lies themselves. She'd given very little thought to lying about her whereabouts — had planned to simply ignore any gossip, refuse to address it.

"Is that feasible?" she asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Primsby answered decisively. "I've been privately traveling these last months. No one will question my word."

Surprised, Isabella nodded. She didn't question the other woman; it truly was none of her business. But Isabella was pleased Mrs. Primsby thought of such details when she had not.

"Often, the devil truly is in the details, my dear," Mrs. Primsby added. She paused again and set her teacup down. "Now then. I've invited a prospect for you to Milan."

Blinking in surprise, Isabella felt her façade falter for a moment. She'd thought she might have to return to England for any prospects. Return and face the rumors and censure before beginning her new life.

Never that one traveled to Milan.

"It's my understanding you frequent the theatre here, specifically the opera?" Mrs. Primsby asked, but Isabella knew she'd already known.

Nodding, she agreed. "The gaming hall is adjacent."

"Yes, I'm aware." Mrs. Primsby offered a small smile. "And it was wise of you to limit your exposure to the more reputable establishments."

Wise of her? Anger flushed through her, and only through months of practice did Isabella not snap at the other woman. She'd done that, gambled and gamed with any who dared, because she had to. Needed to solely to survive.

Isabella nodded coolly to the other woman, though she had a feeling she wasn't as successful in keeping her emotions private as she liked.

"You'll meet him at the opera in two days," Mrs. Primsby announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Standing, more to release the coiled tension beating through her than any true desire to once more gaze out the window, Isabella nodded.

This meeting was part of her plan. She needn't become angry with a matchmaker she'd hired for doing her job because she knew painful parts of her past and asked uncomfortable questions.

"Who is this man?" she asked in that same cold voice, emotions once more tamped down. Out of sight.

"The Duke of Strathmore," Mrs. Primsby said, very primly and matter-of-factly.

Isabella whirled around, too stunned to keep her surprise in check. After the year she survived, she hadn't thought anything could astonish her.

She'd been wrong.

"A duke?" Isabella blinked at the now-smug Mrs. Primsby. She allowed the other woman her moment; it was well earned. "How is this meeting even possible?"

"Strathmore is a particular sort," she said, as if on intimate agreement with the man. Her smugness hadn't abated. "He enjoys bucking society. And it'd be just his humor to return to England with you as his duchess."

Isabella didn't like that he'd find her predicament humorous. She saw nothing _humorous_ in her quandary whatsoever. Did that matter? Did her feelings on his reasons for marrying her matter?

No.

What mattered was his amenability to such an arrangement. What mattered was his agreement to wed her. On her terms.

That was all that mattered, was it not?

Returning to England as a duchess would quell any and all rumors about her abrupt departure from her country nearly two years ago. Returning as a duchess would quell all gossip.

No wonder the woman held the reputation she did. She turned a considering gaze on Mrs. Primsby and gave a sharp nod of approval.

Elegant and considering, Mrs. Primsby rose from the settee. "I'm pleased you approve." She swept her gaze over the blue cotton day gown. Small white flowers embroidered the skirt. The gown was this season and impeccably kept.

"Now we must discuss your approach to the duke."

Tilting her chin, Isabella looked down her nose at the slightly taller woman. "I'm fully schooled on proper etiquette."

Mrs. Primsby sniffed. "You're not hoping to turn a man's head at a country ball." She waved a hand out the window, where the afternoon sun shone down on the busy street. "Or entice one of these Milanese merchants. To do that, you would not need my services."

She narrowed her eyes, clearly not intimidated by Isabella. "This man is a duke, and you want more from him than a backroom affair."

Taken aback by the forceful words of the other woman, Isabella slowly nodded. She needed Mrs. Primsby to get out of Milan and back to where she belonged.

Isabella gave a quick nod. "Agreed."

"Excellent," Mrs. Primsby said smoothly. She gathered her reticule and started for the door. "I'll return tomorrow and we'll begin in earnest."

The smile Mrs. Primsby gave was open and true, one Isabella expected from a close childhood friend. The smile made Mrs. Primsby look as if she truly wanted to help. For a moment, Isabella wondered how a woman like this matchmaker, and one not as old as Isabella imagined, came to be so very skilled at her work.

Nicolo saw Mrs. Primsby out. In the parlor of a house where she'd once been happy, Isabella stood still and listened to the door close with a decisive click.

If she were a fanciful woman, she'd believe this to be a joyous turning point in her life. However, her fancifulness had deserted her along with her passion and joy. They were too painful, too easily shattered.

Tears stung her eyes. Refusing to let them fall, Isabella blinked them away. She'd cried enough for Manning and all they'd once shared in this small house.

She should've listened to her mother — even if her mother's desires were ill placed. As strict and unforgiving as Alison Harrington had been, still was, she'd been right about Manning.

Isabella had given her heart to Manning, her entire being. She'd thought it'd last forever, what they shared. Even though he hadn't married her in London, that hadn't mattered. Their affair had been passionate and zealous, and she'd immersed herself in it with every ounce of her youthful naivety.

Then he'd broken all her dreams, destroying all they'd built together. He'd abandoned her in Milan, left her with naught more than a note. She'd fallen for a handsome face and a uniform; she'd wagered he'd never leave her. That he'd always love and want and protect her.

That'd been her fool's wager.

Once, she'd been inexperienced and didn't understand one could feel such deep pain and still continue to breathe. Then again, once she'd thought herself in love.

She wandered back to the chair and sat, picking up her now-cold tea. She could either dwell on the past — the pain and the anger, the hopelessness and the fear — or she could move onward.

Isabella had chosen to move forward. To put all this, Manning and Milan and the scandal her life had become, in the past.

She sipped the tea, uncaring it was cold. She'd chosen to move beyond her disgrace. But could she? Did she have that strength? The fortitude to do so?

"I'll need to," she said to the empty parlor. "There's no choice for it."

# Chapter Two

The late spring air chilled her as the cold wind whipped through the streets, lifting the discarded remnants of the day and tossing them to the city's dark corners.

Isabella stepped aside as a whirlwind of paper and rubbish spun past and vanished into the alley by the Royal Opera House. She pulled her black wrap close as she and Mrs. Primsby exited the hired carriage and rushed to the ornate opera house entrance. The pair of attendants standing rigidly at the doors opened them with a slight bow.

The warmth of the house greeted her as it had since the first.

The first time Isabella entered the Royal Opera House of Milan had been a wonder. She'd been a stranger in a new city with a new life. And on the arm of her soldier, who'd returned in one piece from the wars. It hadn't mattered he had no true prospects and came from no money.

Only the two of them mattered.

She'd have happily lived that life. They could've happily lived that life.

Time changed all that. Made her grow up in ways she hadn't realized were possible. Time, yes, but lack of money and petty jealousies between lovers destroyed the love Isabella had once thought would last forever.

What had she told herself only two days ago? She'd no longer dwell on the past. On her mistakes. And despite having been to the opera house, and the adjacent gaming rooms, untold times since Manning's departure, Isabella now found herself swamped in memories.

Holding her head high, Isabella breathed in deeply of the scented air, the perfumes of the rich and the beeswax of the candles. She'd be lovely and charming, everything a duchess was meant to be.

Beside her, Mrs. Primsby glanced around the large, opulent foyer, its glittering chandelier and fresco-painted walls, with the gaze of a hawk.

Mrs. Primsby schooled her these last days; not only in proper etiquette to attend a duke, but in handling a man who had a myriad of women throwing themselves at him. She'd educated Isabella on the ways of old, in the great ladies of the past — whether they be whores or queens — and how they'd used their charms to capture the man, or men, they desired.

It was only then Isabella realized she'd forgotten to ask the matchmaker what the Duke of Strathmore looked like. She moved her shoulders restlessly, settling her wrap more securely about her. The duke's looks were unimportant.

She'd fallen for a charming and handsome man once. Never again.

No, all that mattered tonight with this first meeting was convincing the Duke of Strathmore that she was interesting enough and schooled in all the ways of society. That she'd make the perfect match, the perfect wife.

Because the Duke of Strathmore was her way home.

Isabella drew in another deep breath and gathered her resolve more firmly around her. She'd taken Mrs. Primsby's advice and worn the gold gown rather than one of the darker colors she used since spreading the rumor that Manning had died.

It was better to act out the role of a widow than reveal the true nature of being scandalously abandoned.

She knew the pale gold gown accentuated her light hair, and if there was one asset she knew how to barter, it was her beauty. While Mrs. Primsby lectured her on how dukes were often met with beautiful faces and perfect bodies, how women conspired to entice them, Isabella needed to become more.

She knew she needed to become Cleopatra on her barge — enticing and elegant, witty and intelligent.

But most of all, mysterious.

She'd become all that, but Isabella also found herself slipping back into an old skin, one she'd willingly thrown away when she'd left London and everything else behind.

Isabella now knew why her mother conspired as she did, why her friends and female cousins had known every young man of means to come through the _ton_ during the Season. The role expected of all young women of society. One she'd carelessly believed to be unimportant.

Now that role was all _too_ important. And she needed to recall it to perfection in order to secure this match.

"His Grace will arrive sometime this evening," Mrs. Primsby said in a low voice, careful not to let her words carry. "I don't have an exact time."

She looked to Isabella, her mouth curved in a slight smile. "Until then, perhaps you'd care to show me this famous gaming room?"

"Of course," Isabella agreed. "Do follow me."

She led the other woman up the wide staircase and down one of the many hallways to an arched doorway. The open room was large and brightly lighted with dozens of candelabras reflecting off the mirrors lining each wall. Several anterooms sat off to the side, with refreshments and gossip, and glass doors opened to the night air, bringing a refreshing breeze to the crowded room.

Several small balconies offered the illusion of privacy.

Isabella felt most comfortable in the gaming rooms, the space had provided for her all this time. In there, one's circumstances mattered less than one's skill at the tables.

Signora de Luca sat across one chaise lounge with quite the overdone turban, while Signore Marino's hair looked as wild and tall as the turban. Count Gorizia watched her with a look in his eyes she never experienced.

He gestured in invitation for her to join him at his table. Isabella smiled but shook her head in clear regret, meeting his disappointed gaze. Gorizia's tables were always very high stakes, and she enjoyed playing with him, though he'd never looked at her quite like he did now.

Had it been the change in gown or the change in her demeanor that caught his eye?

Pushing the well-known count to the back of her mind, Isabella led Mrs. Primsby to one of the unoccupied chaise lounges, close enough to the door to see who came and went, yet far enough from the majority of the tables so none could overhear them.

It was early still, and the room was hardly full.

"You've made mention that His Grace is one to buck society." Isabella let a cool gaze wander the room, one that hid her emotions. Several familiar players caught her eye, and she offered a friendly tilt of her head in greeting.

"I understand that, but would like to know if he truly bucks society and is experienced in worldly matters." Isabella returned her gaze to Mrs. Primsby's. "Or if he merely plays at it."

Mrs. Primsby settled her hands neatly on her lap and nodded, her gaze still watching the room like a hawk. "An astute question, yet I have no answer for you. I've only met His Grace on a handful of occasions."

She looked directly at Isabella. "He was amiable and, if the stories are to be believed, a tad wicked."

Frankly Isabella didn't care if he was completely wicked. She was hardly one to judge.

For the first time since this mad scheme began, Isabella wondered as to the character of any future husband. How he'd treat her. She licked her lips, but no other movement betrayed her unexpected anxiety.

It didn't matter.

Just as suddenly as concern surged within her, she pushed it down. She didn't think any matchmaker with Mrs. Primsby's reputation would introduce her to a man who'd abuse a potential wife.

And honestly, did it matter? Isabella needed a husband and she was not in a position to sift through a list of potential candidates until one suited her.

"I certainly hope you haven't sought to entangle me with a brutal man," she said carefully.

After all, it was a concern.

"No." Mrs. Primsby gave a sharp shake of her head. Her eyes flashed, not in annoyance but in conviction. "I always look into the temperaments of those I solicit. By wickedness, I simply mean his humor."

Without taking her gaze from Isabella, Mrs. Primsby added, "And here he is."

Surprised, Isabella looked to the doors. Two men entered, both tall. She wanted to ask Mrs. Primsby which was the duke, but somehow knew. His brown hair was neatly combed, and he was impeccably dressed in an embroidered burgundy waistcoat and black trousers. He nodded cordially to a small handful of men who greeted him, yet stood apart from the group.

He moved with a lithe grace, one very few were born with. His eyes swept the room and settled on her for a long moment. Before Isabella had a chance to draw breath, he said something to his companion.

"The man with him is Edmund Pembroke, the Earl of Granville."

She'd never seen either man at the gaming tables before; she'd remember if she had. She looked at Mrs. Primsby and wondered if she now had two viable options before her.

Mrs. Primsby stood. Isabella's heart pounded in her chest, but she took a calming breath and held her head high. She straightened the skirt of her gown and her features into a polite smile. She put on her Cleopatra's mask, the elegant and seductive woman, the way Mrs. Primsby had taught her.

This was it, then — the next step in moving forward.

"Your Grace." Mrs. Primsby curtseyed low.

"Mrs. Primsby." He returned her greeting. "Always a pleasure to see you."

"My lord," she said to the other man. "An unexpected delight to see you here this evening."

Isabella wasn't certain, but she thought she detected the faintest hint of unease in Mrs. Primsby's tone.

"Yes, well." Granville shrugged and grinned, his gaze sliding from Isabella to the duke. "Strathmore and I decided to have a bit of a diversion before we returned to England. And I hope I am not an unpleasant surprise."

Mrs. Primsby mentioned Strathmore travelled the Continent, but she'd made no mention of the earl. It was then Isabella remembered where she heard the name.

While she'd never met the earl, Isabella knew of his sister, Lady Octavia, not well but as more of a passing acquaintance. Isabella had a sinking feeling the other woman had heard of her scandal.

"My lord, it's never an unpleasant surprise to see you." Mrs. Primsby's smile looked genuine to Isabella. "I simply await the day you allow me to find you a match."

Granville's mouth twisted, but his dark eyes still sparkled with humor. "My dear Mrs. Primsby, I still have a few years of life left in me."

Isabella had a feeling Granville's exuberance was often the center of attention. He was far more animated than Strathmore; however, Isabella found her gaze drawn to the taller man.

He simply demanded attention, though he silently stood there, hands braced behind his back. She met his gaze head-on; he gave her a coolly assessing look, as if she were an opponent at a gaming table.

She felt Granville's gaze on her and returned her attention to the conversation. Granville's eyes studied her, but his good humor hadn't abated. His voice, however, while lively, was pitched low and didn't carry in the semi-crowded room.

"This woman is a danger," Granville said with a rather wicked wink. "She has the most insidious way of achieving marriage for her charges."

Ah. So that's why he traveled with Strathmore this eve. To protect his friend. Which only confirmed her suspicions — they knew of her scandalous past.

With another smile and an impeccable way of diffusing the situation, Mrs. Primsby gracefully gestured to Isabella. "Forgive me. And allow me to introduce Miss Isabella Harrington. Miss Harrington, His Grace, the Duke of Strathmore, and the Earl of Granville."

Isabella curtseyed. As she did so, her gaze slowly raked over the duke.

"A pleasure, Miss Harrington," Granville said. "But I must say it's unusual to meet a young London debutante in Milan."

It had not escaped Isabella's notice that thus far Granville had done all the talking. Strathmore's gaze never left her, however. Even as she smiled at his friend, Isabella felt the weight of it.

"I've been travelling for some time," she said seductively. Confidently.

"I made a mad escape from London," she added with a slow grin. "On occasion, debutants do." Her grin widened when Strathmore's eyebrow rose in curiosity. "I wanted to see cousins I haven't seen in years. The wars kept us young debutantes in England for some time. Perhaps that is why you're unaccustomed to seeing us in foreign lands."

Granville offered a slight nod, but she couldn't read his expression. For all his openness, he held his emotions very close. While she watched Granville, her attention was firmly on Strathmore.

"The two of you have taken to traveling, I see," she added. "Are you also visiting lost relations? Or perhaps friends? Or simply indulging in the pleasures of the Continent?"

"This is my first time to this establishment," Strathmore finally spoke and when he did, his voice was smooth as silk. "Would you do me the honor of showing me about?"

He held out his arm, and Isabella took it with a gracious smile. "It would be my pleasure, Your Grace."

She nodded to Mrs. Primsby and Lord Granville as Strathmore led her away.

For several steps they walked in silence. Several men watched them — watched _her —_ with the same look she'd seen in Gorizia's gaze. Strathmore noticed as well, though Isabella couldn't read his expression. Which was unusual; she'd schooled herself to read even the smallest change in expression.

It'd become a useful skill at the gaming tables. Strathmore, Isabella realized, would be a formidable opponent. As they walked, she nodded at one or two of the gentlemen before returning her attention solely to Strathmore.

"The games here can be thrilling," she said in a low voice, just low enough so he needed to lean down to hear her. It was a ploy, but an effective one. "The real draw in this room is very often the caress of the music."

"Does that not distract you from the game at hand?" he asked. His voice was genuinely curious, but low enough not to draw attention to their conversation.

"No," Isabella admitted and looked up at him. "The cards excite me. The music whispers to me."

"Whispers?"

Nodding slightly, Isabella said, "Yes. It reminds me to study my opponent."

She considered him carefully, but he continued to watch her with the same inscrutable expression. Her stomach flipped with nerves she refused to let him see. "Do you enjoy the games?"

"I do admit," Strathmore said, with a slight curve of his lips, "I have a penchant for the games."

Unable to stop her quick, honest smile, Isabella agreed. "There's a certain thrill in the risk, is there not?"

"Yes." He looked down at her, but his dark brown eyes closed off all his secrets. "There is. I enjoy that thrill immensely." His grin was lightning quick, but didn't reach his eyes. "Particularly when I win."

She let loose a small laugh. It was calculated to be friendly. "Everyone likes the win. But it's recovering from a loss that truly marks a brilliant player." The words were almost a challenge, just enough to intrigue him.

He studied her for several long beats. His lips quirked up, having clearly caught the challenge in her tone. But the look in his eyes showed the intrigue she'd wanted. In fact, he couldn't seem to help how his gaze wandered over her face, down her body then back to hold her gaze again.

They stood beneath one of the alcoves near the balconies, alone. The music from tonight's opera was muffled by thick walls and distance. Isabella observed him; she wanted to gauge him, to find that tick, that tell, that allowed her to understand him.

"Is that what you're doing here, Miss Harrington?" he asked with more bluntness than she'd expected. "Recovering from a loss?"

"We all lose at one time or another," she admitted, her voice that cool friendly tone once again. "I wager even you have lost at something."

"I have." He nodded, his gaze engaged with hers. "And I understand it can be difficult at times to recoup a position. I'd wager you will return triumphantly. After all, you're a spectacularly beautiful woman."

His eyes swept over her body again, back to her face. His eyes darkened and he stepped back. Isabella knew what his next words would be.

"But I'm sorry. It will not be on my arm."

# Chapter Three

"I see." Isabella didn't nod, not in acknowledgement nor agreement. She simply appraised him carefully.

Strathmore didn't look away in embarrassment or consternation or even the faintest hint of awkwardness. No, his vivid green eyes continued to watch her with that same expression he'd given her since being introduced. But she saw the way his eyes darkened, how his reserved facade changed; now he looked at her with interest. As if intrigued.

"Why come here?" Isabella asked evenly, expertly masking the fierce disappointment at his blatant rejection. "Why accept Mrs. Primsby's invitation? Was it to satisfy a curiosity?"

She didn't flinch but continued to watch him closely. Raising an eyebrow she asked, "Or was it to feast your eyes on a woman who may" — she smiled coyly — "or may not be mired in scandal?"

"If I've given that impression—" Strathmore began cordially, casual but not apologetic.

Isabella cut him off with a quick shake of her head and a flick of her wrist. "Of course you have."

She stepped back and waited a beat. "I almost wonder why your curiosity was so piqued."

Brushing her gloved fingers over her lips in consideration, she kept her entire demeanor amused. She leaned closer, the move intimate in the small space of the alcove, and dropped her voice.

"You must've encountered a number of disgraced women. Why make such a journey to simply make my acquaintance?"

His lips twitched in amusement, and Isabella thought she saw a hint of that same humor in his gaze. Yes, he had wickedness about him, didn't he. "Mrs. Primsby is a rather convincing woman."

Isabella narrowed her eyes in question.

Strathmore nodded as if in affirmation. "I was curious. There are, as you say, a number of women whose reputations are tarnished." His gaze swept her body again. "But you're wholly something else. There's a question, where you're concerned. A mystery. You're part of society one moment — Granville's sister knew of you, as did many others."

He leaned closer, though there was no reason to think anyone listened in on their conversation. Those vivid eyes held hers. Isabella felt an unusual tension pass between them at his intense scrutiny.

"Then you vanished the next." He snapped his fingers as if performing a magician's show. "No explanation given, only gossip offered."

He nodded but didn't step back, didn't move to give her the space he so clearly thought required. Strathmore stayed close, looking down at her with interest. "There was indeed a curiosity behind my journey here tonight."

"Mrs. Primsby wouldn't have asked you here if you were not, in fact, ready for a wife." Isabella drew in a deep breath. "But I see that while you are ready for a wife, you're still playing boyish games."

She saw how his gaze once more darkened. The way all humor fled at her jibes. Isabella stepped back with that same coy smile, the one that tempted and beckoned. "A serious man wouldn't bother with such frivolity. Or fear any risk."

Isabella took another step back and curtseyed with as much mockery and as much disdain as fit in that move. "Your Grace."

She turned away, but his voice moved in the space between them, halting her in her step. "And you believe I fear what you are?"

Turning back to face him, Isabella raised her hand to her chest but made certain the wicked humor, the unflappable sneer, came clearly through. "What else? Unless you believe I'm a beast with sharpened claws."

"You're wrong about Mrs. Primsby," he said and closed the distance between them in one step. "She's merely the woman who has the ear of many mothers of note in England. She's no way to know whether or not I'm ready to be matched. Whether that is to a sharpened clawed beast or to a lamb in beast's clothing."

Strathmore walked around her with that same grace, the way he moved so smoothly, each movement a predator stalking his prey. Isabella stiffened and tilted her chin higher. She'd never be another's prey. Not tonight, not ever.

His entire look changed. No longer was he the vaguely interested duke who traded barbs with her. Now he was all power and hunger. Leashed — his control held tightly. The way his hands fisted behind his back and his jaw clenched, his gaze narrowed at her taunts.

Clearly he wanted her. Those green eyes of his told one story, a story of passion and want, deep-seated and intimate. A break in his facade. And just as clearly, he bowed to his own — or society's — propriety. His words told that story, the story of the Duke of Strathmore, who should not have a wife as mired in scandal such as she.

That knowledge flowed through her. The challenge of him — she hadn't met someone like the Duke of Strathmore in a long, long while. Her body responded against her will, his restrained desire awakening a part of her she'd forgotten.

Or buried.

Yes, she'd planned to sleep with him. Give him heirs. But this, the way his look heated her blood, Isabella had not expected. It was shocking and arousing, and she instinctually stepped away from it.

Self-preservation.

She didn't miss the way his gaze caressed her. His own interest and arousal. That made her feel desired again and powerful in her own right.

"I, however, don't fall prey to such feminine manipulations." His eyes had further darkened as they held hers.

"Then it's more masculine games that entice you." She nodded. Her body felt flush, but she ignored it. Tonight was a game of sex — of desire and arousal.

"Not the games of women in parlors," she continued. "But the games such as there are here. Of chance and high risk."

His grin was lightning quick and stole her breath. He was still the hungry predator, but she thought he now accepted her on equal footing. She'd make sure he did see her as an equal, no longer as his prey.

"I'm very good at these games." Strathmore's whispered words dripped innuendo, his breath a caress against the skin of her neck.

"Allow me to invite you to a game." Isabella turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes burned into hers, but she refused to give in, to step back. "Perhaps we can conceive of several interesting wagers."

"I wouldn't want to take unfair advantage of a woman in a far-off city," he said, his voice low and enticing. "But I could help you."

Curious, she watched him straighten and realized she'd stepped back just enough to see him clearly.

"Be my mistress. I can take care of you, see you're installed in proper quarters in London." He paused and added softly, "Bring you home."

One eyebrow shot up. "As the mistress of a duke?"

"There are worse ways to return home," he told her.

Anger flashed through Isabella. He was right, but that was not how she planned to return home. Not how she planned to return to society. It wasn't necessarily her place in society she craved, but the respect.

"No." She said it softer than she intended, with none of the anger that surged through her. Isabella shook her head. "I am not interested in being anyone's mistress."

His eyes glittered and, inexplicably, his posture relaxed. Clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels and studied her. Isabella didn't flinch as she waited.

Determination beat through her, like the steady sound of a drummer during a march. She'd known this particular game, this first meeting between them, might not work as she wanted. But she'd come too far to back away.

"What of the rumors?" He asked far too cordially for his question to be off the cuff.

"As far as London is concerned, just as you yourself confirmed, it could simply be vicious, untrue gossip." She shrugged negligently. "And these past two years I've simply been traveling."

"Are they vicious rumors?" Strathmore asked. Demanded.

She raised her chin and held his gaze. Her answer wasn't a lie, but she refused to outright say the truth. "Who need ever confirm such a thing?"

Isabella offered a small smile that told him all he needed to know. Strathmore nodded, as if he suspected and, strangely enough, accepted it. Whether his acceptance was in her favor or simply because he had no intention of marrying her was of no consequence.

She curtseyed to him once more, nodded farewell, and left. Mrs. Primsby still stood by Lord Granville, the pair of them chatting amiably.

Discouragement pounded through her to every beat of her heart, but Isabella forced a smile as she caught Granville's eye.

No. One loss did not break her. If that were the truth, she'd never have conceived of this plan, never had the courage to return to a place that gossiped and spread hearsay about her.

She nodded politely to Lord Granville, but dismissed him as a suitable suitor. He already knew of her scandal, and no friend of Strathmore's — especially one who traveled with him to this meeting — was suitable for her admittedly desperate plan.

"You'll pardon me, Mrs. Primsby," she said softly. Her voice didn't catch, though her stomach clenched nauseously. "I'm feeling unwell and would like to return home for the evening."

Isabella ignored the sharp look the matchmaker gave her — the analogy of a hawk seemed well suited — and curtseyed to Lord Granville. "My lord," she said and nodded in farewell.

She was silent as they waited for her hired carriage to arrive. Beside her, she felt the weight of Mrs. Primsby's study but ignored the other woman. Isabella had known disappointment, tasted the bitterness of it. She knew better than to pin all her hopes on one creature.

She knew better than to trust anyone save herself.

The cool May breeze chilled her to the bone, but Isabella ignored that, too. She stared straight ahead, unseeing of the carriages and horses, of those walking the sidewalks, the shouts of vendors and the laughter of street urchins.

Finally their carriage pulled up, and the hired footman helped them into the dim interior.

"I take it," Mrs. Primsby said as soon as the door closed, "your encounter with His Grace was unsuccessful. Or," she added with a hard, direct stare, "do you simply play coy?"

Watching her from the corner of her eye, Isabella took a deep breath to steady herself. She wondered, for a moment, if this was the correct play, but knew she'd have to trust herself in this from now on.

"I'm uncertain why you chose to introduce me to that man," she said, unable to keep the hostility from her tone. "If this is what you have to offer, if he is the type of prospect you for me, then I will no longer need your services."

She turned and looked at her. "I believe I'm in a better position on my own."

Mrs. Primsby nodded. Isabella wondered if she expected that, or if she always prepared herself for such a reaction. Isabella did not care about the money, about Mrs. Primsby's fee.

"If that is how you feel." Mrs. Primsby banged on the wall between the interior and the driver. "Driver!" She called in halting Italian, "You may let me off here."

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Mrs. Primsby watched Isabella for another moment. "I wish you all the best, Miss Harrington. And I hope you find what it is you seek. But I ask that you not discard a potential success so easily."

With a final nod, Mrs. Primsby exited the carriage and didn't look back. Isabella heard the door slam closed and released a long, slow breath. Dread and disappointment churned in her stomach, but she called out to the driver to continue on.

She couldn't recall the ride to her townhouse; her thoughts jumped from one idea to the next. Mrs. Primsby's words, Strathmore's heated gaze, the leashed power as he watched her. Her next effort at restoring her reputation and returning to London.

Isabella's head pounded by the time the door opened. The spring wind cooled her heated cheeks and eased her headache.

She'd exposed herself to those two Englishmen, opening herself wide to their scrutiny. Felt them throw her mistakes back in her face.

Abused.

Yes, that was how she felt. But if she couldn't survive this encounter with two men who had probably already forgotten her, how was she to survive all of London's intimate examination? How was she supposed to move on from her past, from her mistakes, if others refused to let her?

She needed to put this night behind her.

However, returning on a duke's arm would've been a triumph. Returning on Strathmore's arm would've made a practical marriage more desirable. Isabella couldn't ignore the way her body responded to all that leashed power in the man. It raced along her skin.

More than that, however, Strathmore wasn't a man to be denied. She'd thought that when he'd circled her, but now wondered. That power flowed off him, and one couldn't fabricate such a thing. It was either inherent or absent.

He simply played with thwarting society. The realization made Isabella pause with one foot on the steps of the foyer stairs. If he was a man unused to being denied, but simply played at thwarting society, then where did he put all his energies?

Where did that hunger come from, the power that sparked over her skin? He made for an interesting puzzle, and Isabella admitted she'd have enjoyed the games they could've played.

But that was all. He couldn't help her.

She tossed her head back and started up the staircase. Yes, it would've been a triumph returning on his arm. A simple way for her to erase the rumors and polish her reputation.

Strathmore merely pretended to frustrate the _ton_. She'd actually done so.

And she refused to so cowardly allow a man to stand in her way of returning home. Perhaps there was another suitable prospect in the gaming hall. She'd have to look, to ferret out those prospects, especially now that more men traveled due to the warmer weather.

Isabella refused to give up; she refused to allow this one setback to disrupt her plans. Refused to allow Strathmore to wreck her victorious return.

# Chapter Four

Jonathon Wakefield, 7th Duke of Strathmore, sipped a rather fine whiskey from a cut crystal glass and watched the room. It was still early for a gaming establishment, but each table was occupied. The noise vibrated along the walls and over his skin, making him itch in unpleasant ways.

He stepped onto one of the small balconies that overlooked the street below, and drained his drink. Curling his hands over the railing, he let the cold stone dig into his palms. It was a pleasant enough night for Milan in May; a slight spring breeze blew over the balcony and through the open glass doors. From this angle he couldn't see the sky, but no hint of rain scented the night air.

It wasn't the noise that bothered him, that beat restlessly though him with every breath. Two days ago, he met Miss Isabella Harrington, and in those two days, he'd yet to forget her.

She was beautiful, no doubt, with blonde hair that shimmered in the candlelight, pale skin, and brown eyes so dark they looked almost black. Though stunning, it wasn't her beauty that wormed its way beneath his skin.

It was the way she held herself, the way those intelligent eyes watched him. Mocked him.

Jonathon wasn't used to being mocked. Edmund, his oldest and closest friend, came close, but never the way Miss Harrington had.

No proper young lady ever spoke to him the way she had — with fire and passion and pride. With that knowing tilt of her head and the arrogant set to her shoulders. A brashness he never encountered before — not in anyone, man or woman.

Was that a result of having nothing to lose? Or in spite of it? Jonathon wasn't certain.

Even Jolene, his last mistress, hadn't ever been so forceful — except when she'd thrown porcelain statuary at his head when he tossed her out. Then again, Jolene had a childish temperament and often threw things at him whenever he displeased her.

Miss Harrington showed no childish temper. He clearly displeased her, and yet she held herself with confidence, holding her own against his harsh words in a manner that clearly bested him.

She refused his offer of becoming his mistress given her dire situation. At least he believed her situation to be dire. Still, her refusal surprised him; she could've enjoyed an easy life with him, been assured she'd be taken care of.

Jonathon respected that she wanted more.

Then again, Miss Harrington was no proper young lady.

He supposed he should be angry with her for the incredible disrespect she showed.

Instead, she intrigued him.

For the last six months, he and Edmund traveled across the Continent; they'd been in Milan for only a few days. Yesterday, Jonathon purposely avoided this gaming room, preferring, or pretending to prefer, other establishments in Milan. This evening, when he casually suggested it, Edmund had given a slow half-smile and blandly agreed.

Now his friend played whist at one of the tables near the wall of alcoves. Not a brilliant player, he'd flatly refused to play at Jonathon's table since their first week in Eton; tonight Edmund looked to be holding his own.

Jonathon didn't feel like gambling. He knew why he suggested the Royal Opera House; neither he nor Edmund were fooled as to his reasons.

He wanted to see Miss Harrington again.

Annoyed with himself, Jonathon pushed off the balcony and stalked inside. The woman fascinated him. From the moment they met, Jonathon saw something different form other women. Not simply how she held herself or dressed. However, that did draw him in.

No, she did not act a part. She was simply herself.

He'd no intention of marrying her. He didn't care if he needed an heir, and he didn't care that he agreed to meet Mrs. Primsby's prospect. But, Miss Harrington interested him, plain and simple.

Looking around the room, he spotted Germaine Beaumont; he'd last seen the Frenchman in Flanders nearly three months ago. A poor loser, Beaumont preferred recouping his losses behind an alleyway. Several others looked vaguely familiar, but none were the woman he sought.

Jonathon wondered if she'd even attend tonight.

It'd been Edmund who'd first mentioned it, mentioned that he needed to be careful about Mrs. Primsby. Mentioned Miss Harrington had entirely too many rumors associated with her to ever become a proper duchess.

Now, as he leaned against the alcove wall and surveyed the gaming room, Jonathon wondered why he'd let his friend's warning sway him. What did he care about rumor? Yes, Edmund was only being his friend, but when had Jonathon ever done what others told him to?

When had he ever listened to a warning? Normally he did the exact opposite of whatever warning he received — give the direct cut to the Earl of St. Claire? No. Jonathon made a private loan to the older gentleman so the earl avoided bankruptcy.

He cared very little for what others thought. His title was strong enough, and he was powerful enough in government and wealthy enough in society that any rumors associated with his duchess died on the vine.

Yet he'd stepped back from Miss Harrington. For the first time in his life, he'd listened to a warning and taken heed. And now, now he was prowling a gaming establishment she was known to frequent, for what?

One more glimpse of her?

He easily envisioned how she'd looked the other night — the way the gold of her gown highlighted her hair and the confident way she'd carried herself. The lift of her lips and the challenge in her voice. She meant to be captivating. She was there to capture a duke, after all, and with Mrs. Primsby's teachings.

The next time he saw her, would she be so captivating? Or would the bloom on the flower have faded?

Jonathon wanted to speak with her again. Perhaps find a better sense of the woman beneath the scandal. Then he'd truly make up his mind in regard to marriage, contrary to what he'd previously said to her.

Jonathon took another drink, partook in the buffet laid out for the guests, and waited. The night grew long. Perhaps Miss Harrington graced another establishment with her presence? Or perhaps she simply had no desire to gamble this eve.

The idea that Jonathon wouldn't see her tonight disappointed him more than he thought it would. More than it should, to be honest.

Resuming his stance against the alcove wall, he decided he simply needed to contact Mrs. Primsby; however, he'd neglected to inquire as to her residence while in Milan. Then again, as her chaperone, Mrs. Primsby would no doubt be staying with Miss Harrington. Was he to the point of cajoling one of the patrons here into arranging a meeting with her?

He was not so far gone as yet.

Just then, Miss Harrington walked in. She was flanked by two others — a woman with dark hair and dark eyes whose complexion declared her to be Italian. And Lord Dursey.

But Miss Harrington stood out. Dressed in a rich blue with silver embroidery, she was just as stunning, if not more so, than the other night when she dressed in gold. Silver combs held up her hair, and wisps of golden blonde ringlets framed her face.

Once again, she commanded his attention.

With some reluctance, Jonathon tore his gaze from Miss Harrington to her companions. The Earl of Dursey, prominent in Parliament and a talented diplomat, was also single and well respected. Jonathon was not surprised Miss Harrington discovered Dursey. Or perhaps Mrs. Primsby steered the woman in Dursey's direction?

A quick glance assured Jonathon he hadn't missed the matchmaker; she wasn't in attendance this eve.

Miss Harrington's gaze swept the room with the confident knowledge of someone who knew the area and those around her. She looked right past him, but Jonathon wasn't surprised at that.

It was simply one more trait about her that intrigued him.

Dursey looked surprised to see him but pleased, and called out to Jonathon. Crossing the large room in assured strides, he ignored Miss Harrington and greeted Dursey.

"Duke." He called. "An unexpected pleasure to see you here."

"Taking care of the king's diplomatic relations in Milan?" Jonathon asked with as much interest as the question needed.

"As always." Dursey nodded and turned to his female companions. "If you'll allow me, Duke, may I introduce my companions: Miss Isabella Harrington and Principessa Natalia Dolcini of Sardinia."

Jonathon nodded to the principessa, took Miss Harrington's hand, and bowed low over it. "Miss Harrington, good to see you this evening."

Her dark eyes shot hot fire at him, and he smothered a grin. Cool, perhaps, and collected — but not without passion.

"Your Grace," she said, each letter short and sharp.

"If you'll excuse us," Dursey said with an odd look between Jonathon and Miss Harrington. "We have a game waiting on us."

Jonathon nodded in acknowledgement and watched her walk away. He felt Principessa Natalia's gaze appraise him, but he didn't do more than glance in the other woman's direction. Isabella Harrington captured his entire attention.

She continued to ignore him, but when she sat, her gaze flicked up to meet his. Her face remained impassive, but that look still showed the fire beneath her control.

Jonathon wanted very much to break that control.

"You've seen her now," Edmund said, suddenly beside him.

Jonathon looked at his friend and raised an imperious eyebrow. Edmund stared right back, clearly unaffected by the glare.

"Shall we retire for the evening?" Edmund asked with a hint of amusement.

"Why don't you play a few more games," Jonathon suggested in a tone that was more order than suggestion.

Edmund's mouth quirked in a less-than-subtle grin. "You do love your mysteries. I think you're more intrigued by _her_ mystery than you let on. What would Hamilton say to all this?"

"Let's not discuss Hamilton's unique perspectives," Jonathon said.

Ignoring Edmund's laugh, Jonathon didn't want to think about his cousin, he sought Miss Harrington out again. A much more pleasant sight.

She smiled around the table and looked far more relaxed there than he'd seen her during their interactions. She didn't look up, but seemed to concentrate on her game of whist.

"Are you truly interested in her?" Edmund asked. Then, though Jonathon hadn't answered — or maybe because of that — added, "It would be just like you to choose the most unsuitable woman."

Jerking his head sharply to his friend Jonathon leveled a harsh glare at him. Edmund blinked in surprise, but held his ground.

"If I deem them suitable," Jonathon growled, "that's all that matters."

The other man nodded, his brown eyes assessing. "As you say. I think I will join another game," he said slowly, still studying Jonathon.

Jonathon didn't like that look and gathered all his ducal pride to him in another formidable glare. It had considerably less effect on a man who'd known him nearly his entire life than the Duke of Strathmore would've liked.

He moved across the room for a better advantage to watch her. His entire posture warned others away, but he didn't care. Jonathon wasn't in the mood to make conversation tonight. Each move she made held a grace he'd noticed the other night but had done his damnedest to dismiss.

It was that grace he watched now, as she played her hand and bet. She won the first game, and then lost the next two. There was a curious tilt to her head, not a tell exactly, but the way she held herself.

Jonathon wondered if she lost on purpose.

Her companions were good natured about it; Dursey looked as if he enjoyed her winning. The principessa slightly less so, though not in anger or jealousy, as far as Jonathon could tell. Until, that was, an American gentleman Edmund had spoken with earlier took a vacant seat during the next hand and began a very intense flirtation.

From Jonathon's vantage point, Dursey looked utterly taken with Miss Harrington. He grinned and laughed and, Jonathon realized, looked completely smitten.

The hot surge of jealousy at the intimacy surprised him. Narrowing his eyes, he watched Miss Harrington win another three games — a very hefty sum.

The table broke up, and she slipped her winnings in her reticule. She accepted Dursey's arm as they headed for the buffet table.

Pushing off the wall, Jonathon closed the distance between them, his long legs eating up the space in unhurried strides.

"Pardon me, Dursey." He nodded to the other man. "Miss Harrington, may I have a word? I'd like to revisit the discussion we had the other night."

Unable to hide her surprise, she jerked her head up; her eyes widened slightly, but she quickly regained her composure. Miss Harrington looked from him to Dursey and back before giving a small nod.

A flash of satisfaction rushed through him at that surprise. Not the surprise so much as the way his words took her off guard. He wanted to do that again.

Jonathon caught the look Dursey sent her, but Miss Harrington nodded with that same coolness she normally displayed.

"Of course, Your Grace." She turned to Dursey and offered a small curtsey. "If you'll excuse me, my lord."

She turned back to Jonathon and nodded regally to him. He didn't offer his arm, knowing she wouldn't accept it anyway, but turned for the balconies. She walked beside him as they kept to the wall, away from the tables and as private as a room like this offered.

"I've observed you this evening," he said as they stepped outside.

"I'm well aware," she said with the control that so fascinated him.

He raised his eyebrow and bit back a smile. Oh, that restrained passion captivated him. "I'd no idea you were so skilled at the games," he said instead, leading her carefully along.

Watching her, he had the feeling she knew his game and didn't rise to the bait. Jonathon bit back another smile.

"You didn't give me an opportunity to show you the other night," she said with a small grin that was more pride in her talents than interest.

But her gaze remained steady on his, darker in the shadowed balcony. Miss Harrington stood straight, with none of the deference normally given a duke. And none of the deference a woman in need of a suitable match to return to England ought to show.

She fascinated him all the more.

"And if I'm ready now?" His voice lowered, and Jonathon didn't fool himself when he saw her breath hitch.

Her smile turned predatory. "I wouldn't mind relieving you of the coin from your purse."

He leaned closer and lowered his voice again. He watched her, knowing she followed his every move and was not unaffected. "Money holds no interested as a wager."

She raised her own eyebrow in question. "You wish to make it a more interesting evening, then?"

"What terms would you suggest," he asked softly, his breath a caress along her cheek, "to make it more stimulating?"

# Chapter Five

She'd turned away when he spoke. But as his breath caressed her smooth, pale cheek as he wanted his lips to, Miss Harrington slowly turned back to face him.

Even in the dimness of the balcony, he saw her eyes alight with interest. The sounds of vendors shouting and carriages rumbling through the streets did nothing to intrude on their intimate moment.

Her smile pulled slowly along her lips, widening them until her look was more anticipatory than accepting.

"There are so very many things that make for interesting wagers," she said in a soft, inviting voice. "However, I do not believe you have the fortitude for such high stakes."

Jonathon didn't jerk back, certain that was her goal. Instead, he leaned just enough to look her directly in the eye. Allowing a slow, knowing smile to curl his lips, he studied her for a heartbeat.

"I have the fortitude for anything you can conceive of," he whispered in the breath between them.

One eyebrow raised, she stepped back — though not in retreat, he was pleased to note. In blatant perusal.

"You know what I desire."

Her words were low and soft, no less forceful for that. Jonathon studied her, the direct gaze, the stubborn tilt of her head.

Easily dismissing Edmund's warnings, and his own agreement to meet Mrs. Primsby's potential match, Jonathon nodded. Isabella Harrington suited him — she didn't hold back, didn't retreat when he upped the ante.

She held her ground.

That stirred something deep within him. He wasn't willing to acknowledge it, not just yet. Right now, he wanted to revel in this new game. One with a thoroughly worthy opponent.

"To be my duchess," he clearly stated in response.

She nodded. He held himself in check and studied her for one final moment. "Those stakes are very high, indeed."

Miss Harrington didn't deign his observation with a reply. When she spoke, it was with that same bluntness he admired. "And if you win? What do you desire for your part of the wager?"

" _You."_

She merely nodded. Jonathon felt a flush of arousal, though she hadn't yet accepted his offer. Not because he'd taste her no matter the outcome. Because she refused to back down.

"I see you do want to taste the tarnish on my reputation," she said in a low voice that moved like warm honey between them.

The shadows shifted and he couldn't see her face now. But he felt her gaze on his. Then she turned, leaned against the balcony, and looked out over the city.

He wouldn't have put his interest in her so crudely; the way she said it, however, it made him wonder just how far _she_ was willing to take this bet. Jonathon didn't move but studied her from his place behind and to the left of her.

It was just enough of an angle to see how she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She held it a moment, then another, before slowly releasing it.

Still he didn't move. He'd not rush her — he didn't believe in gambling higher than he could pay and had, upon occasion, refused a table with those he knew couldn't pay when they lost.

But this, this was what he could offer: a place as his mistress. She wanted to up the stakes, and he accepted. Even if he lost, the bet was well within the limits of what he was willing to pay.

Finally she turned. Out of the faint light from the street, he once more couldn't see her face clearly. Her posture remained the same, tall and confident. She didn't flinch or fidget or even breathe heavily.

She merely watched him.

"Very well." She nodded once. "I will spend an evening or two with you." Her smile was slow again, and though he couldn't see her eyes, he knew that smile didn't lighten them. "Should you be fortunate enough to win this game."

He had a feeling a night or two — hell, a week or two — wouldn't suffice.

"That's not enough." He closed the distance between them. "You would require marriage of me."

His hand slid over her bare shoulder, up her neck. She shivered beneath his touch, but once again remained still. Other than that one reaction, she didn't move or flinch or push him away.

It was incredibly arousing.

He dropped his hand and straightened to his full height. "I would need more of you than a mere two nights."

There was no mistaking the suspicion in her gaze. "What would you require?"

What did he want from her? As many nights in his bed as it took to purge himself of this sudden need. Of the way she haunted him. Of the way he needed to taste her, to touch her. As many nights in his bed as he wanted until he tired of her.

Jonathon refused to believe that wouldn't ever happen. He always tired of his mistresses.

Isabella was nothing like them, and he knew it. One meeting and she'd worked beneath his skin until she was all he thought of.

It was unbecoming of a duke.

"For you to return to England." He watched her carefully. "For you to become my mistress. I am not, however, an unreasonable man. I'll give you time — we can negotiate the length later — to find a match, if that is what you want. But married or not" — he moved closer again and dropped his voice — "you'll still be my mistress."

He read the surprise in the jerk of her shoulders, the gasp that escaped her. "I would not dishonor a husband in such a way. Unless he was the amenable sort—"

"I can promise all discretion. None would ever know, if that is how you want it."

Innuendo dripped from his words — Jonathon couldn't help that. She looked up at him, and despite the shadows, and her impeccable, alluring control, he swore he saw arousal in her, too.

She slowly nodded once. "This is, indeed, a serious wager."

Jonathon tilted his head back and acknowledged, "It is."

"I'll need to clarify my terms as well," she added.

"What would you like?" he asked, curious.

Jonathon merely waited. If she wanted to add to their terms, he wasn't going to stop her, though marriage to a duke was a considerable wager in and of itself.

"Should I win this wager of ours," she started carefully, "I want more than to simply become your duchess."

"Oh?" He nodded at her to continue.

"Should I do so, I want to be treated with respect by you." She took a deep breath. "You may have all the mistresses you desire, but I demand discretion. I don't want to be ignored should I require your attention."

Jonathon masterfully stopped the smirk that wanted to curl, and he nodded instead.

"Nor," she said, "would I wish to be treated in any fashion that does not befit the station you give me."

"I would add to this side of the wager." Jonathon waited for her nod and said plainly, "I require an heir."

"Of course," she agreed quickly. "I'll give you your heir, with the understanding that I can't promise a male heir. However, I shall endeavor to do my best."

He paused and considered her carefully. Her dark eyes looked at him with shrewd honesty, and she held herself with slightly less tension than when they'd first walked onto the balcony. However, the terms of their wager were too high to not ask.

"Why have you not become pregnant before now?" he asked in a quiet but no less insistent voice.

She paused, her face impassive, but she couldn't hide the emotion in her eyes. Her conflict and suspicion were clear, and Jonathon knew the reason for that: she feared a trap. He patiently waited as she watched him.

He could reiterate how serious he was about their wager, about the outcome of this game, but preferred silence. Another test of her fortitude and resolve.

Finally she nodded, a slight movement of her head as if giving herself permission to speak. "The only gentleman in my life could not father children. He was injured during the war."

For one mad moment, he thought the rumors mistaken. "Does that mean the two of you were never intimate?"

She titled her chin higher and her gaze cleared of all emotion. "He was a man. He simply could not be a father."

"That is acceptable." Jonathon watched her for another moment then shifted back slightly, still watching her intently. "Is there anything else?"

She paused for several minutes, and he watched her mull them over. He quickly went through them once more and was satisfied with the way they played out.

He'd give her whatever she needed to be the Duchess of Strathmore and maintain that station. She'd share his bed, provide him children, and...he wondered if he need mention her own affairs, but decided after the taint that still clung to her, Miss Harrington wouldn't do anything that might revisit such gossip.

Any affair she indulged in would be discreet.

The very thought of her with another man twisted inside him. Jonathon shoved it aside, positive he only felt that way because of the newness of the affair. All passion cooled eventually.

Shaking her head, she said clearly, "I believe we have a wager."

"Agreed."

He turned, then, and motioned for her to precede him off the balcony and back into the gaming room. She nodded and swept past him. Jonathon caught a whiff of perfume. No, not an artificial scent, but something deeper, something all her.

It aroused him, but he held himself in check.

Now certainly wasn't the time to indulge in the taste of her bare shoulder or that tempting spot just behind her ear. There'd be plenty of time for that later.

"Ah, there you are, Miss Harrington." Dursey stepped closer and offered Jonathon a friendly nod. "Are you ready to resume our game?"

"Please forgive me, Lord Dursey," she said as composed as ever. "I've promised His Grace a game of piquet."

The other man looked surprised. His light brown eyes swung to Jonathon with an understanding Jonathon didn't think Dursey actually had. "I see Strathmore has made a play for the most eligible lady in attendance."

Dursey returned his gaze to Isabella. "I certainly hope I can steal you back once your game has concluded."

Jonathon remained stoic and silent. Isabella offered a charming smile that, once again, didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I'll not abandon you completely this evening," she promised.

He caught the distinction. Jonathon wondered if Dursey did as well.

Dursey bowed to them. "I shall keep your chair waiting."

Isabella nodded and waited until Dursey had retreated before crossing to one of the two-person tables. At one of the occupied tables a pair of ladies played what looked like the final hand of piquet with much laughter and talk. They ignored them and settled at the next table.

Clearly their stakes weren't nearly as high as his this eve.

After securing the table once their hand completed, Isabella returned to his side.

He offered to escort her to the buffet, but she refused. Jonathon wondered if it was from nerves or disinterest. He looked forward to learning more about her, far better than what he understood now.

Before they started, she looked across at him as the steward brought a fresh deck of cards to the table.

"Shall we endeavor to cross the Rubicon?" he asked.

Rubicon Piquet was a more difficult version of piquet, but was worth it.

"Oh yes," she said in a low voice. "You are ready for a good and sound thrashing."

He offered a little chortle. They took the piquet deck of thirty-two cards and began. Jonathon gestured for her to cut the cards, and then he took another small stack. They showed each other their cards, for who was to be the younger hand and the dealer. He held a six, while she held a queen. As dealer, the younger hand put her at a disadvantage, but Jonathon didn't think that bothered her overmuch.

They exchanged cards once, and despite the odds, Isabella declared carte blanche and exchanged her cards.

Interesting. She didn't cheat; he had a sense about those things. The crowd that appeared around them buzzed in anticipation.

He won the first set and already planned how he'd enjoy her. He waited as she gathered the cards for the next set. Did he wish to begin tonight? Take her to his rented townhouse after this game and taste her then?

Or wait several nights, build anticipation?

Once back in England, he'd procure a cottage for them, near his estate. Dursey pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and Jonathon scowled.

If Isabella married Dursey, he could think of only one advantage: Dursey's estate was near to his own.

As he looked at his hand, Jonathon was shocked to realize he didn't want to share her. Despite his agreement on their wager, he wanted Isabella Harrington to himself.

He looked back up at her. There was much to learn from an opponent, and as he waited for her to play, Jonathon saw just how clever she truly was. At the end of Rubicon Piquet, there were twelve rounds of tricks.

He won one; she won another. Then he lost three tricks in a row.

Isabella truly was a worthy opponent, and he needed to remember that. She'd caught up in points, and there were still several tricks left. If he wasn't careful, Jonathon could easily lose.

Debating which card to play — highest or lowest — he ignored the crowd, the wagers going on as to who'd win the next trick. They each played a king on this round, which gave them equal points.

No, he decided, with two rounds remaining, she wouldn't play her highest card on the last round. She'd anticipate he'd hold his highest for the final round. Jonathon played a queen, believing she'd play a lower card.

Isabella played a king and bested him.

Down to the final trick, the score was equal, and he held a jack. Jonathon looked up at her, but once more she gave nothing away. He believed she'd already played her highest card.

No matter the ending of this game, he'd get what he wanted — her.

Jonathon set down his jack. Isabella trumped him with a queen.

He nodded. "Well played."

# Chapter Six

Isabella stood by the window as her lady's maid, Raffella, slowly buttoned the back of her gown. Properly covered, she wandered to look over the small courtyard and watch the sun shine brightly down on the spring flowers. Today she'd chosen a pale lavender gown with white embroidery along the neckline and hem.

She loved Milan in the spring. It was alive in ways Isabella didn't remember England being. Or maybe she was being overly harsh on her homeland, her memory clouded by her mother's rigidness, the unforgiving memories of her youth.

"It's a wonder, your skill at the gaming tables," Raffella said as she hooked each button of the gown. "But to hear such news!"

Isabella saw the other woman shake her head in the reflection from the window. She wanted to say something in return, but couldn't quite manage it.

"Now you shall have all you desire," Raffella added in English, her accent heavy. She wanted to practice for their move to England.

_All she desired._ Isabella had once thought she had everything she'd desired when she'd arrived in Milan. A simpler life, one with love and laughter — a life she'd thought they'd live until she and Manning were ready for the grave. It'd taken Isabella a long while to part with that notion.

Now that she'd risked what virtue she retained, to regain entry into London society, her life was about to become so very different from what she'd once imagined it. Now, she was with a man of incredible wealth and power. A man who could, as Raffella said, give her all she desired.

Unlike Manning, Isabella didn't know the first thing about the Duke of Strathmore. Except his naivety at the card table.

"You must forget the past." Raffella stepped beside her.

Her lady's maid and confidant, Raffella had stayed by her when Manning left. She'd not judged Isabella, nor had Raffella gossiped about her in the aftermath of Manning's desertion. Now, her maid watched her for a long, silent moment.

When Isabella didn't look away from the flowers below, Raffella sighed. "I'll see breakfast is ready."

Was she supposed to feel different today?

After the first night she spent with Manning, she had. The morning after they'd decided to flee England for Milan, she had. The morning she'd woken alone and abandoned, she had.

Today, Isabella did not feel different.

No, that wasn't strictly true. A thrill of anticipation raced through her, and she was honest enough with herself to admit it had just a little to do with the Duke of Strathmore. He was a handsome man, and the way his gaze followed her last night had sent a rush of long-forgotten pleasure through her.

Perhaps she'd been a bit hasty in releasing Mrs. Primsby, but Isabella doubted the duke would've married her if it hadn't been for last eve's bet.

He'd seemed fascinated, to be sure. The way his gaze followed her the entire night showed her that. Isabella wondered if he'd watched the gaming room the previous night as well, waiting for her. The thought made her stomach flip, and as she turned from the view, she did not know how she felt about that.

However, as the terms of their bet showed clearly enough, fascination didn't necessarily lead to the marriage she'd desperately needed. If she hadn't won last night, she'd have returned to England as the man's mistress.

She would be mistress to a powerful man, one who commanded authority and respect, but his mistress only.

Walking down the staircase, Isabella put all that aside. She had won last night. And while Mrs. Primsby had originally introduced them, she had not been the one to secure the betrothal.

Still, perhaps she'd send the matchmaker a note once she returned to England.

Isabella nodded to Nicolo, her manservant, as he held the chair out for her. She'd learned to live simply since coming to Milan and hadn't missed having dozens of servants. Her small staff — Raffella, Nicolo, and Signora Pagano the cook — had kept her small townhouse running more smoothly than her mother's staff ever had.

Perhaps, she thought as she ate a light breakfast of pastries and tea, that had more to do with her than the size of the staff.

Her servants, like she, were frugal. Each meal was simple, and while Isabella had secured enough coin to see her through the next year, she refused to ever again live with that fear of not knowing if tomorrow she'd end up on the streets.

It wouldn't take much to grow accustomed to the extravagance of the duke's estate. Isabella wouldn't forget the lessons she learned in Milan nor would she lose the appreciation for the work required to maintain even the simplest lifestyle.

Strathmore had been a gentleman during the negotiations; he hadn't treated her poorly and hadn't scoffed at her terms. Those terms set forth to see to her security.

He'd seemed confident enough while agreeing to the terms of their bet, confident even when congratulating her on her success. He hadn't flushed with anger over losing and now that Isabella remembered that, she wondered why.

Perhaps he was simply a very good actor.

Still, the terms of their agreement had been settled upon, and now all that was left was the actual wedding. Isabella had a feeling their marriage could be civil. Cordial. Mayhap, in time, affectionate even.

Nicolo rushed down the hallway, startling Isabella from her thoughts. Where was he in such a rush to? Then she heard the faint pounding on the front door.

She didn't need to see who it was. She rarely had visitors here, and never before noon. And never after the most successful gamble of her entire life.

Hastily wiping her mouth, Isabella slipped through the hidden door and into the front parlor to await His Grace. She listened for the conversation, but only heard the faintest of murmurs from the foyer.

Sitting in the sun-lighted room, with the curtains opened to the busy street outside, she breathed deeply to calm her suddenly racing heart and waited. She didn't have to wait long.

In the light of day, the duke was far more striking than she remembered. The green of his eyes were crystal clear as they immediately found her; Isabella couldn't read him. His face was impassively blank, his eyes sharp, as vivid as she remembered, but no emotion peeked through.

His black trousers moved gracefully around his legs as he walked into the parlor. His hands were clasped behind his back, making the gray tailcoat stretch rather enticingly across his broad shoulders.

Pulling her gaze back to his, Isabella nodded serenely as Nicolo introduced him.

"I did not expect you to be so anxious to see me again, Your Grace." She offered a small smile and tried to gain the measure of him. The fact she could not made her slightly uneasy — she was usually so good at reading people.

"I expected you to send round a note or a summons about our wedding," she added.

He stepped further into the room and closed the doors behind him. One eyebrow raised over her boldness, but she said nothing to it.

"It's our wedding I've come to speak to you about." He continued to watch her with that same penetrating look that saw everything but revealed nothing.

Isabella nodded and waited a very long moment for him to continue. She was quite unfamiliar with betrothals, having skipped that entire process with Manning; she was also a tad unclear as to what marrying a duke entailed.

She'd been properly groomed for a good match, but Strathmore was quite above her station; even if she hadn't run off with Manning, Isabella never would've caught the eye of a man like Strathmore.

Gesturing for him to sit, Isabella waited. Strathmore moved with that same coiled grace she observed since first meeting him. It was lithe and dangerous, and tempted her beyond what she was willing to give.

"I've come to offer a settlement for our debt," he said in a coolly even voice.

Curious, she tilted her head. "I don't see an Anglican priest over your shoulder," she said with a faint smile. He didn't return it. Clearing her throat she added, "I'm curious as to what you consider a settlement of our debt."

"I've placed myself in an awkward position," he said slowly. But his gaze never wavered, and his voice remained clear. "My duty to the Strathmore estate goes beyond my personal desires. Or my right to risk the estate in any manner."

If Isabella hadn't the feeling he was about to back out of their agreement, she'd admire his duty to his estate. So few people felt that way. However, ice formed in the pit of her stomach and spread through her veins.

"I hadn't the right to enter into the wager I did with you last eve." He took in a deep breath, but Isabella had a feeling it was not to keep his courage. "Therefore, I ask you to accept one hundred thousand pounds as settlement on the wager."

Isabella stifled a gasp. _A hundred thousand pounds?_ That was a king's ransom. But she narrowed her eyes. Furious he'd try to back out of paying his debt — which he seemed perfectly willing to accept last night — she snapped.

"No," she spat at him, fingers pressed hard into her thighs.

"Miss Harrington," he continued in that same cool voice, seemingly unaffected by her refusal, "this allows you to return to England a wealthy woman. I'll also secure you a townhouse in London." He watched her for several heavy beats of her heart. "And of course, my unwavering support for your return to society."

Jaw clenched, Isabella slowly rose to her feet. She needed to hide away her emotions, keep them in check for this conversation. Strathmore wasn't a man to be swayed by emotion; his words attested to that.

But she couldn't stop the anger in her gaze and when she spoke, it wasn't with the cool detachment with which he did. It was with the heat of fury.

"I do not accept your offer," she said slowly, careful to enunciate each word. Isabella wanted no misunderstanding. "I release you from your debt. I see you're not a man of good character or one who honors his wagers." She sniffed haughtily. "But a coward who hides behind a heavy purse. I require nothing from you, Your Grace."

Stiff with anger, she swallowed hard, the bitter taste of failure like ashes in her mouth. Pointing to the door, she raised her chin defiantly. "Except for you to see yourself out."

He stepped closer to her. When had he stood? But he retained that unflappable aloofness that only infuriated her further.

"Miss Harrington, I'm fully aware of your situation." His gaze swept over her, not in a crass way, but Isabella was too furious to decipher the nuances of the Duke of Strathmore today.

"This settlement would alter things immeasurably. Do not reject it so easily."

A hundred thousand pounds would alter anyone's life, anyone's future. But she didn't want his money.

"I've released you from your obligation," she snapped. "Good day."

She held his gaze for a long while. He didn't move and even through her anger, Isabella wondered why he wasn't retreating like the coward he was. But he watched her, jaw clenched, eyes hard on hers.

A stalemate? With a revelation such as his, he thought he could...what? Somehow force her to accept his money?

Annoyed and, yes, slightly tempted, Isabella stepped aside. If he refused to leave for reasons only he seemed to know, then she would. And for the first time in years, Isabella wished she had a strong footman to physically toss the arrogant duke onto the street.

"Have your legs grown roots in my parlor?" she demanded. "Should you not take your leave?"

Strathmore took a deep breath that suddenly broke the tension. It made her uneasy. "I think," he said slowly, "you meant _our_ parlor."

His lips twisted into a sardonic grin. "After all, you shall be my wife...Duchess."

Isabella's head swirled, but she slowly lowered her hand. The man was utterly maddening! But she kept her chin raised and narrowed her eyes at him.

"As I have now said, many times," she told him slowly in case he hadn't understood her the first several times she'd spoken, "I've released you from this debt. Please dispense with any attempt to rescind your dishonorable behavior and simply leave."

"I wasn't sure I saw it in you," he admitted in the strangest change of subject yet.

Isabella didn't know what to make of it. Or him. He made her head spin and her blood heat. His offer of a hundred thousand pounds tempted her more than Isabella wanted to admit, even to herself. To return with that kind of wealth would ensure society accepted whatever story she gave them.

But she hated when another tried to rescind on his debt, and the Duke of Strathmore had tried just that.

"Saw what?" she hissed, annoyed she felt the need to ask.

"I see you possess the temperament of a duchess," he said quite seriously, in an almost analytical tone. He nodded once. "That will help solidify your position."

The ice inside her melted. Just a bit. Isabella nodded and said honestly, "I don't want a husband who resents this match."

Isabella bit back further words. She feared that more than she'd realized, marrying a man who hated her and resented her place in his life. One who, in turn, had the power to make her own life miserable.

That was no way to live. Not for either of them.

# Chapter Seven

He took umbrage being called a coward.

Jonathon didn't necessarily blame Isabella for calling him one — in essence he dishonored their bet. But he did resent this unknown woman calling him such when she was clearly unaware of the accountability he carried to his title and lands.

He held himself very still as he raked his eyes over Isabella. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her eye him warily.

The lavender of her gown only served to highlight the fire in her eyes, the way she spit that fire at him. Her anger surprised him, the intensity of it; her defiance intrigued him and wounded his pride. He'd never been one to trifle with a woman in such a manner — to offer her hope, only to take it so cruelly away.

And he didn't want to be known as one who did.

He could easily walk out those doors and never look back, forget this unique woman before him, her fire and her audacity and her cleverness. He could easily walk away and no one need know what had truly transpired between him and Isabella Harrington.

Except him. And he'd not accept that. It'd have been easier if she accepted the money, of course, but she hadn't.

Contrary to her belief, Jonathon didn't resent her for it. Her refusal made him respect her all the more.

He understood the responsibilities of his dukedom all too well. And those responsibilities did not entail making a woman such as Isabella his duchess. Watching her carefully, he stepped closer to her; those gorgeous brown eyes of hers narrowed at his slightest movement.

These last years, he'd been reckless. He lived his life, doing as he pleased when he pleased, and with whom he pleased. Last night was the culmination of those reckless choices.

Put simply, Jonathon wanted her.

Yes, he was attracted to her looks, but he much preferred the way she tilted that pert chin as she stood against the world. It attracted him more than he believed such an attitude could. She truly did captivate him from the first.

Jonathon wanted her as his mistress. He'd willingly taken the risk to make her his wife simply to have her.

Jonathon stepped closer to her; she did not flinch back but kept that fierce gaze focused on him.

In these last years, there'd been many times he lived on the edge. And he'd always won — until last night. The loss should chafe. It didn't. Now Isabella was within his grasp, and he'd almost walked away from her. Seeing her like this, the fire that attracted him only a few nights ago, Jonathon knew this was no loss he'd regret.

The only part of this to give him pause was her standing in society. Yes, it'd have been simpler for her to accept his money, but at this moment he was glad she had not. Isabella Harrington was a formable woman, one he easily saw running his estate and who would never shrink from lofty duties.

Her fire, her passion drew him in as no woman ever had, sparked a hunger that clawed through his veins. Even with the brief time he knew her, Jonathon wanted her with a desire he'd never felt for anything or anyone else. Damn whatever the consequences.

He'd make her his duchess.

He'd been right before — one night with her wouldn't be enough. He cleared his throat and pushed that arousal deep inside, hiding it as best he could. Jonathon didn't know if he hid it from her or himself.

"I do not resent you," he said firmly and let his arms fall back to his sides. Then, because this hadn't been the easiest or clearest of conversations, he added, "Nor shall I."

"I find it difficult to take you at your word," she stated, shoulders still stiff, hands clasped tightly together. "As I said when we laid down our terms, I do _not_ want to exist as a wife who is loathed."

He didn't much care for society or for the good opinion of the _ton_ , so easily swayed. He did, however, care about the reputation of the Wakefield name and the Strathmore title and estate.

Despite believing he'd never bet more than he was willing to pay, after losing last eve, Jonathon wondered if bringing home a duchess with Isabella Harrington's reputation was more than the Strathmore estate could pay.

Jonathon nodded and stepped closer, relaxing his own stance to show his sincerity. "You shall not. I offered to settle this debt in an ultimate manner believing it was best for my estate. But now I see otherwise. "

Isabella released a breath and he watched some of the tension she held in her shoulders, her entire body, release. "How so?"

"I wouldn't have engaged in this wager if I didn't" — Jonathon leaned closer and lowered his voice — "want you."

He saw the surprise in her face before she hid it behind her mask of casual indifference.

"Propriety drove you to make this offer to settle your debt," she said. Her voice was still even, but not as angry as it had been. "A visceral reaction, one born of fear." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "How could I possibly trust your word?"

"We have our arrangement," he reminded her. "And I now see what you can bring to the estate. And therefore I intend to honor our wager." He waited, but her mask stayed firmly in place. "Are you no longer interested in your winnings?"

Her facade cracked then. A pained look crossed her face, but Isabella didn't avert her gaze. If anything, her back straightened and her chin tilted that little bit more.

This morning her blonde hair was in a simple coiffure, with small ringlets at the base of her neck. Her pale skin glowed against the lavender of her gown, but it was her eyes, dark and full of fire, that continued to capture him.

"Will you treat this as you would any gentleman's agreement?" she finally demanded.

"I will." He nodded.

"Very well," she agreed. "We will marry."

"Good." Jonathon nodded, gaze on hers. "We'll need to arrange something here in Milan. A local parish priest, perhaps..." He trailed off and frowned.

Isabella walked around the parlor, putting distance between them. He watched her movements, unable to look away. "Yes," she said with a small smile. "That should suffice. I believe Nicolo knows a priest who can marry us."

"It won't suffice," he said unyieldingly. Jonathon saw the surprise on her face and added, "It'll only do for the moment."

"What do you mean?" she asked. Her head tilted, but her gaze never left his.

"I'm unfamiliar with these Milanese marriage laws," he admitted slowly as he worked out how to make this marriage permanent. "It won't do for a duke of the British Empire to be married by a Catholic priest."

Rubbing the fingers of one hand along his trousers, Jonathon paced in front of the fireplace. Coming to a stop before her, he watched the realization lighten her eyes. "There are customs that must be followed for our marriage to be legally binding. A certificate of marriage from Milan could be challenged in the British courts."

Isabella's chin rose again and he watched her, fascinated and amused. His fingers itched to feel the soft skin of her throat, trace along her chin and watch her eyes blaze — not with the fire of anger, but with the fire of passion.

"We'll marry here for propriety's sake," he said firmly, hands once more clenched behind his back. He wouldn't touch her until their wedding night.

"Should anyone inquire as to your movements over the previous two years," he continued, though his gaze lingered on her chin, her throat and then back to her eyes which watched him steadily, "it can easily be explained by travel to your sick relatives and then travel with Mrs. Primsby until our marriage."

"Yes." Isabella nodded, still watching him carefully. "That will serve as a logical explanation for most."

Planning this out in his head, Jonathon paced again. He discarded ideas even as he followed the most logical steps toward their return to England, legally married to Isabella with no chance of being challenged.

"Once we depart from Milan to England, we'll need to take further precautions before returning to the estate," he decided.

"Further precautions?" she repeated.

He looked up at her, but her face was surprisingly open and her gaze even on his. Jonathon stopped and nodded, though he moved no closer to where she stood by the settee.

"Yes. It must appear as if once we decided to marry, we took every possible avenue of propriety."

"What further precautions do you refer to?" she asked.

But he could see the tension had disappeared from her shoulders. Even the hands clasped around each other in the front of her gown now curled easily at her sides.

"We shall make a stop at Gretna Green and marry over the anvil." He said it as if it made perfect sense, but the incredulous look Isabella gave him made it clear she didn't follow the same line of logical thinking.

"Is that truly necessary?" she asked, a slight laugh in her words. "We'd already have a certificate of marriage from Milan."

Very slowly and very seriously, Jonathon closed the distance between them. In a voice that brooked no argument and held no humor he said, "I believe it is a necessity. There are not many in England who'd recognize a Milanese _Catholic_ certificate of marriage, but they will recognize one conducted in Gretna Green."

If he was going to marry Isabella Harrington, he damn well was going to make sure it was recognized. He didn't want _anyone_ challenging their marriage.

"Those who marry in Gretna Green are known to be those who abscond from their homes for a wedding." Isabella shook her head, but her humor vanished as well. "I'm not certain that'll give you the propriety you seek."

Jonathon gave her a disbelieving look. "It will," he promised, his voice absolutely certain. "We're not absconding _from_ England but returning _to_ it. A stop at Gretna Green before returning to the estate for another wedding with a special license will ensure that when my son is born, none will question his legitimacy."

Then his voice hardened further, hands clenched at his sides. He saw Isabella's wary look and consciously unclenched his hands. "With so prestigious a title and quite a bit of money at stake, I don't trust the next in line not to use any means necessary to discredit our marriage and subsequent heirs."

She nodded slowly. "We'll marry here, then at Gretna Green, then at the estate again?"

"Yes." He was adamant about that. "I'll send a letter directly to the archbishop requesting a special license. It'll be waiting for us when we return to Strathmore Hall."

"That's quite a number of weddings," she admitted, and her lips twitched. "There'll be none who could deny we are married after all this."

Grinning with her in amusement, though Jonathon truly believed three marriages were necessary, he took her hand. "That, my dear, is the point."

Her smile widened, and her fingers were warm and relaxed in his. "This is quite a change from when you first entered my home today."

"I honor my debts," he said, still smiling. "One way or another."

Stepping back, he bowed in farewell. "I shall attend to the letters."

Isabella followed him out of the parlor. "When shall I expect you for the wedding? Next week?"

Jonathon turned to her even as the butler hurried with his hat, gloves, and walking stick. "Tomorrow."

She couldn't cover her surprise and did not have anything to say to his statement, either. He nodded to her. "I'll expect you at my townhouse by ten tomorrow morning."

# Chapter Eight

It'd been eight tumultuous days since meeting Mrs. Primsby. It'd been a mere four since meeting Strathmore at the gaming halls and barely two days since winning their wager.

When she wanted to change her life, to move forward from the scandal that held her here in Milan, Isabella hadn't quite expected to do so in this mad rush of things.

Now Isabella was on her third pot of tea; she was too tense for breakfast. The household moved in controlled chaos, but she believed most of her personal belongings had been seen to and packed. Not that she had much she called hers — all the furnishings in this rented townhouse belonged to the landlord.

She'd written the company to break her lease and to direct further inquiries to Strathmore Hall. Tempted though she'd been to sign the letter as _duchess_ , Isabella did not. She'd also told the staff of her plans and, with the exception of Raffella, who she intended to take with her to England, wrote them all glowing recommendations for their next employment.

Now, as the sun rose higher on what was to be her wedding day, Isabella walked through the empty house. Her trunks were stacked by the door, with the exception of several personal items she'd yet to go through.

She already selected her wedding gown, a fine cream muslin embroidered with primroses and satin flowers. Raffella now wove together flowers from the gardens to wear as a crown for the actual ceremony. Though Isabella didn't think a crown of flowers necessary for this wedding Raffella insisted.

Isabella walked slowly up the stairs, taking one last look, breathing in the scent of tallow and lemon oil. Was she sorry to leave this place? To move onto other things? She wanted to say no she wasn't, but hadn't a definitive answer. She had so many memories here, good and bad.

Still, it was her choice to move forward with her life. Her choice to engage first a matchmaker then in a risky bet with a duke. No, she was not sorry to see the last of this townhouse.

Sitting on the window seat, she looked through the small case that held her personal items. Earbobs, necklaces, several smaller brooches from Manning.

Holding the bracelet of peridot and gold, she examined it in the sunlight. He'd given it to her because he liked the color, and at one point Isabella had many green gowns because of this bracelet. She rid herself of them long ago, almost immediately after he left. But she wore this bracelet as the reminder of his abandonment.

Oh, it'd been so long since she'd pick the color of her gown simply because Manning favored it. How many tears had she shed for that man since his abandonment? How many sleepless nights had she spent wondering if he'd return, since the slightest noise in this house had been him come back to her? With flowers and regrets. Isabella knew she'd have taken him back and would have done so had he only returned.

Until the day came, months after he left her, when she realized he wasn't coming back and she did not want him to. She could've forgiven his leaving for a short while, forgiven his weakness. On that day, upon waking to a house entirely hers and Manning not the first thing she thought of, Isabella knew she'd never welcome him — into her arms or into her bed again.

He left her. Alone. Taken with him all the money they'd saved, and all the jewels from her box save those she'd carelessly left on her vanity.

She felt the fool. The fool her mother had called her. The young fool who put her trust in someone who did not deserve it. Yes, she'd be well rid of this house and these memories. Of Manning Bradford.

Manning did teach her a lesson she'd never forget — she'd never lose herself like the young fool she'd been. Never let anyone use her as Manning had. Never fall in love to that degree again. Ever. If Strathmore kept his promise and continued to honor the terms of their bet, they could have a future that was amicable.

Amicable? Amenable, mayhap.

A friendship based on honesty but not on love. Even a wild creature occasionally trusted enough to survive.

Isabella dumped the rest of her jewelry into the box. She should give these away, sell them; she should've sold them ages ago. These pieces were her past, and they no longer held any power over her.

She needed to look to the future. Even if she never forgot the lessons she learned.

Her gaze returned to the bracelet and she draped it on her wrist, purposely fastening it too tight.

* * * *

Strathmore sent a carriage round for her, a hired carriage to be sure, but one far nicer than those Isabella hired. She waited as Raffella settled across from her, and they were off. It wasn't a long trip from her townhouse — former townhouse — to Strathmore's, and Isabella used the time to gather her thoughts.

This was it then. Her wedding day.

She wondered if she was supposed to feel something; rather, she wondered what she should be feeling. Today was the culmination of careful planning and sheer luck at the card table. Should she feel more than that?

Isabella did, but couldn't quite place what that feeling was. Happiness? To put her past behind her, yes. Satisfaction? No, it wasn't that she wasn't pleased with how things between she and Strathmore played out; it was simply that she continued to carry her regrets.

Now she had a future with a man she thought she trusted — to a degree. One she thought she could enjoy a friendship with during their marriage.

Before that, however, she needed to marry the man and sleep with him.

Isabella enjoyed sex with Manning. Well, she enjoyed sex with him in the beginning. He'd been a generous lover; one who learned her body and taught her how to pleasure a man. But that had been in the beginning. When money became tight and then later when she'd won more than him at the tables, he'd become jealous, hard, selfish.

A lover out for his own pleasure and naught more.

The carriage jerked to a halt and she waited as the door opened, a footman there to hand her out. The midmorning sun shone warmly down on her as she crossed the sidewalk and headed up the walk. The trees were in bloom, and spring flowers brightened the front gardens of Strathmore's townhouse on the most prestigious street in Milan.

Isabella breathed deeply, the last of her past falling behind her as she stepped through the gate. No longer would she look to her past; no longer did she drown in bad decisions and unworthy men.

The butler opened the door and greeted her with a stiff bow. Ah. English, then. Italian butlers, she'd learned, held themselves far differently than their English counterparts. It was a difficult _something_ to pinpoint, but it was there to those who knew.

"Miss Harrington."

Isabella looked up to see Strathmore's friend, Lord Granville, standing in the marbled foyer. He bowed in greeting to her and gestured to the front parlor.

"The duke is currently engaged in the library with the priest," Granville added as he followed her into the well-appointed room.

The chairs were upholstered with finely embroidered tapestry, and heavy brocade curtains framed the windows, allowing the morning sunlight to brighten the room. Elegant vases with hydrangeas of all colors sat on various tables. Their scent filled the room beautifully, and Isabella breathed in deeply.

"Strathmore has informed me of the circumstances behind your wedding."

Isabella stiffened and raised her chin. She couldn't quite make out Granville's tone of voice; it was too smooth, too even.

"I take it," she said in an equally cool voice, "you do not approve?"

His face relaxed into an easy smile that had her at a complete loss. "To approve or disapprove, that is Strathmore's decision. However" — he looked at her with fathomless dark eyes — "I do wish you both well."

Isabella blinked up at him, stunned. "Truly?"

"Truly," he said with more sincerity than she expected. He cleared his throat and nodded to himself.

"Circumstances have changed since our first meeting," he continued. "As his friend, it was my duty to not allow him to be swayed by a beautiful woman. But the choice has been made."

Isabella noted his use of words — choice not bet. She couldn't help but feel a modicum of gratitude for Granville's discretion.

"I shall always support him and his wife," Granville added, again with that sincerity.

Isabella wondered what it was like to have a friend such as Strathmore had in Granville. Jealousy flushed her cheeks, but she simply nodded in thanks.

She walked away from all her friends, because of Manning. And she would not make such a mistake again. Nodding slowly, Isabella offered Granville a slight smile. He returned it, and the sincerity in his dark gaze did much to reassure.

"Shall I ring for tea?" Granville asked

Yes, tea sounded lovely. Isabella set her reticule on the occasional table by the settee and smiled wider. Before she could agree, Strathmore and the priest arrived.

She duly curtseyed to Strathmore and the priest, who inclined his head. When she met Strathmore's gaze, she noticed a change in the way he looked at her. He smiled at her, a genuine smile that looked at odds with how she expected him to look.

Quite frankly, Isabella expected him to look as if he were headed for the gallows.

Strathmore crossed the parlor and took her hand, kissing the back of it. "You look lovely," he said in a low voice meant for the two of them alone.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, keeping her voice even and ignoring the way his hand felt against hers.

"I trust all is settled with your former residence?" he asked, not releasing her hand.

"It is," she confirmed. "And thank you once again for sending additional household staff to be of assistance."

He nodded and threaded her hand through the crook of his arm. Strathmore guided her to the low table before the settee and the papers the priest laid out. Isabella sat and looked over the licenses.

"Father Dominic," Strathmore began with a nod toward the priest, who smiled genially at them, "has several papers for us to attend to before the ceremony. I take it here will suffice?" He gestured around the parlor.

"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, of course."

The marriage licenses and register and Isabella didn't know what all else littered the table top. Strathmore set an inkwell on the table and handed her a quill pen. She signed where indicated: _Isabella Rose Harrington._

Handing the quill to Strathmore, she moved to the opposite end of the settee. She supposed a woman ought to know her husband's full name and titles. Curious, she watched Strathmore sign his name: _Jonathon Philip George Xavier Wakefield, 7th Duke of Strathmore, Earl of Glenmoore, Viscount Dover._

Isabella blinked. Then stifled a laugh. She pressed her lips together and watched him sign his full name and titles on every single paper. And there were a lot of papers. When he looked up, she tried to smooth her expression and resume the facade she'd maintained until this moment.

It was no use, and laughter broke through her resolve. Strathmore grinned, the tension she hadn't realized tightened his shoulders eased.

"Perhaps you should you allow your wrist to rest a moment, Your Grace," Isabella said with as straight a face as she could manage. Laughter peeked through, and she pressed her lips together to keep it in.

"I shall press on," he said grandly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You'll learn the Strathmores are a rather persistent lot."

He returned to his signing, and Isabella returned to watching him. She found it oddly curious and was unable to tear her gaze away.

"Yes," she muttered. "You'd have to be persistent."

A momentary pang of trepidation twisted through her. Oh, dear. After today, she now had to write all that. On every official document presented to her. Isabella fervently hoped she'd never be presented with an official document again.

Finally he came to the last page and finished with a flourish. Strathmore set down the quill and massaged his wrist. Isabella wondered if it was for her benefit, as the humor still lighted his gaze.

Her instinct was to reach out and run her fingers over his wrist, easing the muscles there. She forcibly dug her fingers into the muslin of her dress to keep her hands to herself. Even if she still remembered the feel of his skin against hers. Isabella looked from where his elegant fingers pressed against his skin to his gaze.

And her breath caught. The humor was still there, bright and alive, but deeper she saw the same interest, the same arousal that had been present since their first meeting.

She pressed her fingers harder into her gown, against the tops of her thighs. Swallowing hard, Isabella tore her gaze away and grasped for the threads of their light amusement.

What was it about this moment, about his lightness, that made her uneasy? She swallowed and regained her composure.

"You wish to do this how many more times?" she asked, though her voice caught.

But Strathmore grinned at her and stood, extending his hand — his writing hand — for hers. She didn't hesitate as she placed her palm against his and did her best to present herself as his soon-to-be duchess.

He led her to the fireplace, and they turned to face the priest. Father Dominic watched them with the same genial gaze as before, and for the first time Isabella wondered what he'd been told about this marriage.

Raffella entered the parlor with the crown of flowers and curtseyed deeply to those assembled. "Father, Lord Granville." Then she turned to Isabella and Strathmore and curtseyed again, so deeply her head all but touched the floor. "Your Grace, it's such an honor to join your household."

When she stood from the extremely deep curtsey, she stumbled off balance. Strathmore offered his arm to steady her maid.

"I'm not as young as I thought," Raffella muttered in Italian.

Isabella swallowed a chuckle and nodded to the other woman. The suppressed smirk on Strathmore's face told her he understood Raffella perfectly.

"It's an honor to have you," he said.

Impressed, Isabella smiled warmly at her lady's maid and didn't feel quite so alone. Raffella placed the crown atop her head and took her place next to her by the fireplace.

"Just the right touch," Father Dominic said warmly as he stood before them.

"Miss Harrington," Strathmore said, "are you ready?"

His use of _Miss_ surprised her, and Isabella looked up at him. In a short time he'd no doubt take to calling her Isabella. Or would it always be formal between them? She cleared her throat and forced her stiff muscles to relax, then nodded.

"Yes, I am."

# Chapter Nine

Isabella wasn't certain, having never been to a Catholic wedding, but she had a feeling her ceremony to Strathmore was much shorter than normal. Father Dominic was very kind and seemed genuinely pleased for them.

During the ceremony she'd brushed her gloved fingers over the too-tight bracelet, her constant reminder. The reminder of her foolish decisions of how she'd never lose herself to anyone like Manning again.

And a reminder of her wager with Strathmore. She'd treat Strathmore decently if he treated her with decency; she'd honor their wager and show him what affection she was capable of. But never would it go further than that affection, that politeness between them.

After the ceremony, Raffella excused herself to rejoin the servants as they enjoyed their own celebratory feast. Strathmore escorted her into the breakfast room, a light blue room with wide windows that overlooked the townhouse's rear gardens.

She took a moment to look at the gardens, with bright spring flowers in all colors and green vines creeping slowly up several trellises. Isabella had always enjoyed her garden, though it paled in comparison to what she now witnessed. It suddenly occurred to her that the gardens on Strathmore's estate surely covered twice the footage of her own townhouse — or former townhouse.

That life now lay very firmly behind her.

With a smile and a lighter feeling than she expected, Isabella turned from the view to look up at her husband. He watched her carefully, and she wondered what he sought. What he searched for. She smiled cordially up at him, an odd mixture of relief and curiosity.

He guided her to the buffet, where a sumptuous feast had been laid out on the light wood sideboards and the round, intimate table set appropriately for both Strathmore's stature and the wedding feast.

He watched her oddly, or perhaps not oddly, but with an expression Isabella couldn't place. There was a strange tension to him as he held out her chair himself. She didn't know what she expected from this morning, from their wedding, but this surprised her. And in a very pleasant way.

Strathmore turned to one of the footman. "Be sure to serve the duchess the fig and grape jam." Strathmore smiled down at her. "It's rather delicious, my dear."

Isabella barely heard any word he spoke after _the duchess_. She knew, oh she knew, that marrying a duke made her his equal. But hearing him say it, hearing Strathmore call her _duchess_ made her appreciate he was the first to call her that. It wasn't so much the title as the way he said it, the fact he had said it — with no repudiation and no mAlison.

Clearing her throat she managed, "Thank you, I look forward to it."

She tried to tear her gaze from his as the footman held out his chair and Strathmore sat beside her. It was no use; she continued to observe him and wondered what he thought.

"I think old Strathmore here will show you quite a number of new things," Granville said. Then he stopped and looked horribly embarrassed.

Isabella turned to Granville and blinked. It took a moment for her to understand the full implication of that sentence. When she did, Isabella offered a slight grin at who she hoped would become a new friend.

"Such as foods!" Granville continued, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, though at that point, whatever he tried to say was of little use. "And new places! He can show you new places."

"Yes," she said with a wider smile now as she helped Granville out of the hole he continued to dig for himself. "And I'll help him improve his game of piquet."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Strathmore blanch. Amused, she turned to look at him, her husband. One of his eyebrows raised, but he was unable to contain his grin.

Another coil of long-held tension eased within her.

Mayhap this marriage could become affectionate and amiable. It looked to already be off to a great start.

Granville coughed. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to know I'll be off for England in the morning, leaving the two of you to enjoy a private, and pleasurable, honeymoon without guests underfoot."

"For new marriage," Father Dominic said, that twinkle still about him, "that is a blessing." He held up his slice of bread. "And you are quite right about this fig and grape preserve. In all my years, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure."

Isabella agreed. "It is delicious."

The pride and pleasure Strathmore took in her compliment was clear, and once again she had to suppress a laugh. Turning to Granville instead she said, "I did not expect you to rush off — please don't feel as if you must."

He looked taken aback by her words, and she wondered, despite their earlier conversation, what he expected of her once she became the Duchess of Strathmore. The fact Granville accepted his friend's choices, blindly or not, warmed Isabella anew.

"Thank you." Granville inclined his head. "But it's time for me to return. Though I hope to soon be a guest at Strathmore Hall to welcome its new duchess."

Then he lifted his glass. Stunned at Granville's words, Isabella reached for her glass.

"To the new Duchess of Strathmore," Granville toasted.

She stopped and didn't raise her glass. The toast warmed a part of her that had long been cold and she smiled as they raised their glasses to her.

Father Dominic repeated the tribute, and Isabella felt the sincerity at the gesture. She turned to Strathmore and saw a softness, a tenderness, in his gaze. She'd not fallen into an unwelcome situation; instead, she'd found herself with what appeared to be men of honor.

She'd see if her observation held true.

"To my duchess," he said.

* * * *

They'd seen Father Dominic off with more well wishes and blessings. Now, Granville and Strathmore conversed in the foyer, and she waited beside her new husband, her hand resting on the crook of his arm.

No blushing virgin, she felt no nerves at consummating their marriage — it was a part of their wager, after all. Being honest with herself, she realized she didn't mind sleeping with Strathmore in particular; mayhap she even looked forward to this afternoon.

He was tall and handsome, with a strong jaw and wide shoulders, and he was far more muscled than she expected from a man of leisure. And his eyes, a startling green, mesmerized her. No, she would not mind seeing his naked body, feeling those muscles beneath her fingers, against her own body.

That surprised her. The act of sex was pleasurable enough; the feel of a man sliding into her body was thrilling. At least it had been. Strathmore no doubt had the experience to make it far from unbearable and Isabella resolved to enjoy it. With all his experience from his years and travel, she wagered he was a skilled lover.

Unless, of course, he was an inadequate lover. In which case she'd simply have to bear it until she produced the appropriate heir.

The front door stood open to the late morning sun, and the sounds of an active city came clearly through. She'd miss Milan. But not enough to ever return. If she and Strathmore traveled, there were plenty of other places to explore.

Milan, though beautiful and vibrant, was as firmly in her past as her rented townhouse, the opera gaming hall, and her entire life here.

"Where are you off to?" Strathmore asked.

"Off to the galleries," Granville said with a dramatic sweep of his hand. "I can't return from Italy without gifts — Octavia would have my head."

Snickering, Strathmore agreed. "Yes." He nodded. "Yes, your sister would."

He bowed deeply to Isabella. "I'll be off midmorning." The glint in his dark eyes was unmistakable — it looked like Granville wanted to be nowhere near her and Strathmore for what counted as their honeymoon.

To Strathmore, Granville said, "If I don't see you, I wish you and your duchess safe travels. And look forward to a happy reunion at Strathmore Hall."

"I wish you safe travels as well." She released Strathmore's arm and extended her hand. Granville kissed the back of it and straightened with a smile. "Thank you for welcoming me so warmly."

"Of course, Duchess." Granville tipped his hat to Strathmore and offered him a wicked grin. Without another word, he left.

The butler closed the door, bowed to them, and disappeared as well. Suddenly only the two of them stood in the foyer. Isabella turned and looked up at her new husband. This was it, then, and she wanted it. Wanted him.

Her stomach fluttered in trepidation — the flutter of the new and uncharted. Isabella ignored it. This had to be done and she'd move forward with it.

His dark gaze shone with humor and arousal, the same combination she was coming to associate with Strathmore. A combination she was growing to value greatly.

"We survived the first ceremony," he said and offered his arm again. "It was rather pleasant, was it not?"

"More so than I had expected," she admitted as they slowly walked across the foyer and toward the stairs.

He peered down at her and asked, "And why is that?"

Isabella chuckled wryly. "The circumstances of our betrothal weren't exactly traditional. I wasn't certain," she admitted, "if I'd find this pleasant man" — she gestured at him — "or a man who resented the situation."

"Resentment, my dear duchess," he said very matter of fact, "was not a part of our terms."

She smiled up at him, one eyebrow raised at his droll sentence. Isabella hadn't expected to enjoy Strathmore's company quite so much; he had a wit about him and one she quite appreciated.

When she first sought marriage with him, she hadn't known what to expect. Then, after the wager, she still hadn't been certain. There hadn't been time to think that far ahead before he tried to break their terms.

But this, this ease between them, this humor and lightness, showed her a possible friendship she hadn't hoped to ever find in her match.

"No," she agreed softly. "It was not."

He gave her another disarming smile and for a brief moment, Isabella wondered why he accepted her so readily. Perhaps it was simply because he wished to bed her. Most men understood an amenable attitude solicited what they desired from a woman. Would he change his mind, his entire attitude, once he'd had her?

Or perhaps he'd remain amenable. She need to keep her senses sharp and wait and see what he changed into. Would he remain a lamb or not?

"May I escort you to our wedding bed?" Strathmore offered his arm again, and they ascended the wide staircase and walked slowly down the hallway.

The curtains were wide open, and sunlight streamed in across the carpet runner. Outside was a lovely day, but it meant nothing to Isabella.

Neither spoke, though the silence between them wasn't heavy or awkward. It simply was, and when they reached the bedroom, Strathmore led her inside. The bed was turned down, and the room smelled of roses.

Clearly the staff had spared no effort for their duke's marriage.

Isabella took a deep breath and turned to face him. Did he want to undress her? Or did it not matter to him, and he wished to wait until she was properly attired in the traditional bridal garments?

Looking around, she was startled to discover they were in his bedroom. The dark wood and ornately carved furnishing could be no place else. The wallpaper was a forest green edged with gold, and brocade curtains hung alongside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Strathmore crossed to the door again and locked it, but left the key in the lock. She understood the precaution, and anticipation fluttered through her. Isabella licked her lips and met Strathmore's gaze.

She backed up until she reached the bed, but paused before she sat on the edge. He followed her, not crowding her, but mirrored her moves and now stood before her.

"We must consummate this marriage to make our union legal." Strathmore's voice dropped and now flowed over her like a warm caress. "It is a necessity."

His hand cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping over the skin there. Isabella suppressed a shiver and met his gaze even as his fingers trailed over the sensitive side of her neck.

"A pleasurable necessity, I hope," he whispered.

His hand brushed over her shoulder, and Isabella stiffened. She hadn't meant to, but it'd been so long since a man had touched her in any way resembling passion. Or maybe she was simply more nervous than she admitted, even to herself.

"There's no need to fear me," Strathmore whispered, imperceptibly closer now. "We're now husband and wife, and by the time of our ceremony in England, we'll truly be united. There won't be much that could break this union."

She licked her lips again and watched the way his gaze followed the movement. Did he mean that? This wasn't a love match; far from it. Affectionate, yes, and a match she easily saw as becoming comfortable. Under the right circumstances.

But for him to vow — for there was no other way to describe his words, his tone — that their union be unbreakable sent a hot jolt through her.

"Whatever the results of our nights together," he continued his vow, his lips a breath from hers. "It will not be abandoned. Nor will you."

Isabella nodded. She didn't know what to say to that, how to react to his promises. But then he kissed her. His lips were cool and firm on hers, slow but not tentative. He tasted different — of their breakfast, yes, but in a deeper way Isabella didn't know how to describe. Muskier, perhaps, whereas Manning always had a tang of salty sweat.

Broader and more muscular, Strathmore was a larger man than Manning. Isabella felt small and delicate in his embrace.

He kissed down her neck and she shivered, arching her body against his. He took his time, tasting her exposed flesh, nipping at the sensitive juncture between shoulder and neck. His hands, large and warm through her gown, cupped her breasts, his fingertips brushing along the exposed décolletage.

Slowly Strathmore turned her around, his mouth now kissing along the back of her shoulders. His fingers, long and far more elegant than she first realized, slowly undid the laces and buttons on her dress. He never stopped touching her, never backed away and cursed her gown or called for Raffella.

Jonathon Wakefield, the Duke of Strathmore, undressed her. It was more arousing than Isabella imagined such a move could possibly be.

The dress pooled at her feel, and she carefully stepped out of it. Clad only in her chemise, she stood before her new husband as he stepped back and watched her. He quickly shed his jacket and vest and tugged at his cravat.

Isabella drew in a ragged breath and watched the layers disappear until he stood before her in only his trousers. Mouth dry, heart pounding, arousal warming her blood, she stared at him. She'd seen Manning undress before her; after all, they'd been lovers for over a year. But she'd never expected to see another man do so.

And never expected to enjoy it quite so much.

How was this different from watching Manning, other than the very real fact that Strathmore was the type of man they created statues to honor. His chest was hard and well defined; his arms were far more muscled than she'd guessed up until she watched him tug his shirt over his head.

Whatever she thought about this marriage being affectionate and amiable, Isabella hadn't expected to feel this hot arousal rushing through her. The way her fingers itched to touch Strathmore or the way her mouth watered to taste him. But Strathmore was still a stranger. She needed to remember that.

More, Isabella needed to remember to keep those walls around her heart. But for now, for today, she pushed those thoughts and reminders aside. And stepped forward. Her chemise rubbed against achingly hard nipples as she moved, and Isabella stifled a gasp.

Strathmore's eyes darkened to nearly black, and he watched her as he quickly divested himself of his trousers.

Isabella drank him in, letting her gaze roam over his now-naked body. A thin smattering of hair covered his chest and legs, but she was unable to look away from his cock. Did she lick her lips? Yes and, embarrassed, her gaze flew to his.

Pride, sheer masculine pride, lighted his gaze. He stepped closer, then another, until his hands settled on her hips. His mouth covered hers again, harder and deeper than before, his tongue sweeping over hers. Isabella opened to him, tasted him again.

Her fingers brushed down his chest, over lean hips and waist. She wanted to touch him, wanted to get to know him as intimately as his kiss promised. But then he tugged her chemise over her head and tossed it away.

He lifted her to the bed, scattering rose petals as they landed, awkwardly, beside each other. Despite the heat pooling low within her and the nerves dancing along her skin, Isabella laughed. His own laughter echoed alongside hers, and he took a moment to settle onto the bed.

Isabella scooted down the mattress, away from where she nearly hit the headboard, and lay next to him. She wanted to say something witty, a quip about this first time together, but the words caught in her throat when she saw the way he watched her.

She looked up at him as the laughter faded. Strathmore leaned over her, bracing on one hand his other trailed down her body. Beneath his touch, Isabella's skin jumped. When he reached her curls, she forgot how to breathe.

"It's—" She stopped, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to say, unwilling to make more a fool of herself than necessary.

It had been a long time since she'd made love to a man, and longer still since she enjoyed it. But Strathmore silenced her with another kiss, this one slower and softer than before. His fingers brushed over her wetness, a teasing touch.

Isabella gasped and widened her legs, opening herself to his touch. Unwilling to beg for more, she angled her hips in a silent plea instead.

His mouth left hers then and he trailed kisses down her chest, over each breast before taking one nipple into his mouth. His fingers never left her core, however, and Isabella felt all sense of embarrassment and awkwardness flee.

All she felt was need, the pleasurable burn coiling through her. With every arch of her hips, every flick of his fingers, she felt herself ride higher and higher.

Her hands tangled in his hair and she opened eyes she hadn't realized she'd closed. Strathmore watched her. Kneeling between her legs, his cock hard and proud against his stomach, he watched her with a gaze so black it sent a thrill of need through her sex.

Without a word he cupped her bum, angling her hips higher even as he held her still against the bedding and pressed his mouth to her. Isabella cried out. Pleasure shook through her, the hard wave of desire surprising her. Strathmore tasted her as thoroughly as he had her mouth.

Hands fisted in the bedding, hips arching against his mouth, Isabella let herself go. She wanted to feel this, wanted to remember what sex, good sex, felt like. The blind pleasure of climax, the joining of two bodies.

Just as she started to crest that glorious wave of pleasure, he pulled back. Isabella cried out in frustration, but before she could voice it, he positioned himself over her.

With her breath caught, Isabella shook her head to find her bearings. Strathmore slowly eased into her, though she was wet and ready for him. Suddenly he thrust hard into her, seating himself fully.

Isabella wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper into her. When she looked up at him, she saw his jaw clenched, face set. With a start, she realized how thin his control remained.

And suddenly she wanted to snap that control. Her nails scratched down his back, digging into his backside as he moved slow — far too slow — for her. Her orgasm tightened through her, right there. She needed him to move harder to send her over the edge.

Her mouth crashed against his, teeth scraping his lip, tongue sweeping his mouth. She felt it the instant his control snapped and he _moved_. Suddenly she was hurtling over the edge and flying with the pleasure of her orgasm.

Oh, it felt delicious, this remembered delight so much more decadent now. When she opened her eyes, she saw him watching her, a smug look about his face. Strathmore thrust, each one harder than the last, filling her totally. She wanted to refute what he'd done, but already she felt desire build again.

Oh, yes.

Isabella shifted her legs higher, meeting each movement of his hips with hers. She kissed down his neck and flicked her tongue over the hollow at the base of his throat. He moved harder, and she urged him on. Her teeth sank into his shoulder, and he shuddered beneath her touch.

Struggling to catch her breath, to make sense of this, all Isabella could do was drown in the feel of Strathmore filling her more deeply with every thrust and her orgasm building higher and higher with every touch.

She shattered again, sobbing out her pleasure even as she felt him stiffen in her arms as his own climax shuddered through him.

He collapsed atop her, and she welcomed this remembered but unfamiliar weight against her. Eventually her breathing evened out and Strathmore slipped out of her, rolling to his side.

Isabella didn't expect him to pull her close. They didn't know each other, and in the bright aftermath of what turned out to be incredible sex, she felt threads of their earlier awkwardness returning.

But he did slip a hand about her waist and help her readjust so her head lay on the pillows. With a deep sigh, Isabella closed her eyes, utterly sated. No, he didn't tug her against him, but he also didn't remove his hand from about her waist.

Slightly bemused, she fell asleep with his touch still against her bare skin.

# Chapter Ten

Jonathon looked at Isabella. Her golden hair now thoroughly mussed, her lips red and bruised from his, her dark eyes watched him sharply, but he could still make out remnants of sated pleasure.

Smug pride slammed through him, surprising Jonathon. Then Isabella smiled at him with a soft curve of her lips; not a sated smile nor a smug twist of those lush lips. One of the few moments of true, unguarded sincerity he'd witnessed in her.

It affected him and his reaction turned. That smile shifted something in his chest and spread through him.

Pushing it aside, Jonathon settled more comfortably against the pillows at his back and reached out to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Her eyes fluttered closed, but she didn't lean into his touch. He pulled away, though his fingertips ached to touch her again.

He hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected to want her again so soon. Oh, Jonathon knew he wanted her; that had been painfully obvious since their first meeting. But things had spiraled so far out of his control since that meeting.

And now, with her in his bed, his wife in the eyes of Milanese law and the Catholic Church, Jonathon found he wanted to explore Isabella.

Her body, yes — discover what made her shudder and what made her cry out his name. More, he wanted to know about her. What made a woman such as Isabella Harrington, a proper young woman with a well-received family, run away with a man who clearly had no appreciation of her?

On any level.

Jonathon didn't understand it — was it because she was exceptional at cards? Could that man not appreciate how unique it was to have a woman so talented and so unassuming when it came to winning? Then again, that very reason might be it — her previous lover had not been able to cope with a woman besting him.

He, on the other hand, was aroused by it.

He almost snorted, but refrained. Her previous lover's loss was most assuredly Jonathon's gain.

He'd known exactly what he bet when he made the wager with Isabella. And while he had had some doubts as to her suitability as his duchess, she'd quickly put those to rest.

"He was a fool," Jonathon said, watching her reaction. Waiting for it.

Her eyes flew to his and she frowned, confused. Almost immediately her gaze cleared and she nodded. "Ah. Yes." She cleared her throat, but her gaze didn't falter. "Yes, he was."

"What made such a bright, perceptive woman fall for such a blaggard?"

Isabel shrugged, and her eyes slid from his. She shifted on the bed, sitting up as well and rearranged the blankets to cover her body. Pity.

But he understood why she did it and didn't blame her. Part of him wondered if he pushed too hard too soon, but the larger part of him brushed that worry aside. If they were to truly have a marriage based on friendship and understanding, they needed to trot out her former lover and banish him from their marriage bed.

Jonathon refused to let even the memory of that bastard follow them around like a tethered ghost.

"He was not always a blaggard," Isabella said. "Must we talk of him?" When she looked back at Jonathon, her chin had tilted and her voice cooled.

But he saw it, there in the dark depths of her eyes, the old hurt she carried. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Jonathon wanted nothing more than to wipe that hurt away.

"Yes," he insisted. His voice held a brusque quality he tried to swallow, soften. "I want to know what kind of man could leave you."

"Or what kind of reckless decisions a young woman could make?" she countered evenly.

"I'm curious about that too," Jonathon admitted. He didn't admit he was curious about all her life. "Did your parents not try and stop you?"

"They did," she answered, still in that angrily cold voice. Then Isabella cleared her throat and sighed. Her shoulders moved in a restless motion, and one hand absently brushed her hair from her face. "But a bright, perceptive woman always finds a way to break free of other's hold."

Ah, yes. Leaning over, Jonathon tilted her chin so she understood the sincerity in his questions. "Did you feel a prisoner in your childhood home?"

"To a degree yes. I felt both prisoner and neglected — it was a strange combination." Isabella sighed and shook her head, but didn't pull back or look away. The coldness in her tone had eased as well. "Until...until I met... _him_." She shrugged. "It was simply a girlish infatuation that should never have happened."

"Do not push it aside," he said sharper than he meant to. Isabella jerked, but he offered a smile and rested his hand on hers. "I want to know your story, Isabella. You are my wife now. Should I not know everything?"

Isabella offered a slight laugh, it rang genuinely across the distance between them. "Aren't good marriages based on mutual pretense?"

"Some," he admitted with his own smile. "And some are based on brutal honesty. I would rather have the latter."

He waited until she nodded her agreement, felt her fingers relax marginally beneath his touch. "Tell me, how did you meet that man?"

It took her a long moment to answer. She turned from him, looked into the distance as if remembering. Jonathon knew, without her saying a word, Isabella wanted to brush the questions away — refuse to answer him.

But she swallowed hard and her expression softened. He squeezed her hand, tried to silently convey his support.

Isabella looked up at him again and nodded, breath releasing in a rush. When she finally spoke her voice sounded very far away. "He was a returning soldier, a lieutenant, dressed in the crimson jacket that attracted so many young women. We met in a shop in London; his red coat a beacon in a sea of gray. Then again at Lady Craven's ball."

She looked from him to the bedding and when she continued, he still heard the reluctance to do so in her voice. "That night at the ball, the attraction strengthened. In the next weeks, we met often; at a shop or party or another ball. And then he formally called on me."

The fingers of her other hand picked at the coverlet, and she sighed. "My father received him at first, but after my mother inquired as to his family, we were forbidden to see each other again." She looked up at him and said with no inflection whatsoever, "He had no family to speak of."

Ah. "A disastrous alliance for a well-bred young woman of some means," he offered. "Forbidden fruit is all too tempting. Is it not?" He waited for her to look at him again and saw the agreement in her gaze.

Isabella released a long breath. "We met in secret after my parents' refusal to accept him. At times," she admitted with a wry twist to her lips, "at highly inappropriate places. Then he came to me one day and told me he'd secured passage on a ship bound for Genoa. Manning knew a man in Milan who could introduce him to the more reputable gambling establishments."

"You ran away with him?" Jonathon asked, though he already knew the answer. Still, he waited for her reluctant nod. "How long did he give you to decide?"

He'd bet on hours, a day at most. A man who wanted to run from England as far as Milan wasn't the sort to offer a lady long to think through a proposal such as his. Jonathon also knew, without a doubt, Manning had left behind debt in England.

Jonathon made a mental reminder to see to them, on the off chance they tried to collect through Isabella. The merchants would be easy enough, but he had a strong suspicion Manning's debtors included the less than savory.

"We left two days later," she acknowledged with a small nod. "From the moment we boarded the ship, I was introduced as his wife, though we never married."

He wondered if that was as much for his benefit as it was to share this part of her past. Now that they were properly married, neither needed a bigamy charge leveled against her.

"You were stolen from your home and your family." Jonathon tightened his fingers around hers, still beneath his touch.

He felt the faintest of movements then her fingers threaded through his. "I did not go unwillingly," she reminded him pointedly.

"Nevertheless," he insisted, "he didn't treat you honorably."

"No," she whispered. "He did not. But," she said stronger, "those first few months were happy."

Jealousy slammed through him now, but Jonathon roughly pushed the unwanted, unwarranted, emotion aside.

"It wasn't until later that things altered between us," Isabella continued.

He watched her in silence and then felt her relax further. When she next spoke, it was with a touch of humor.

"I was better at cards than he."

Jonathon laughed, unable to help himself. He watched a real, happy smile bloom across her face in response. "Then he was _completely_ unworthy of you."

Isabella smiled at him, her eyes sparkling, her shoulders relaxed; the fingers against his squeezed his hand.

"I bared my soul" — she tilted her head — "and my body to you today. What of your exploits? There must be many a maiden you've left behind on your travels."

But her smile was still very real and her question, though curious, held no censure. Jonathon easily brushed that aside. It was clear she wished to change the subject, to deflect further questions about her past. He didn't mind; he'd no desire to push any more than he already had.

He wanted Isabella to trust him; they were to be partners for the rest of their lives. At the very least, they needed trust between them. And that meant allowing her the time she needed.

"There've been other women," he told her honestly. "But I've never been dishonest with them. And they've never expected more from me than the trinkets I've left them as gifts."

But he nodded as if in answer to her unspoken question about his life, his loves, his affairs. "I've never had the type of feeling that caused me to abandon all I knew for another. However, I do admire that in you. The ability to feel so deeply."

"Don't," she said sharply, cutting him off. "Do not admire that."

But Jonathon suddenly realized he wanted that. He wanted to feel for a woman so deeply he did reckless, mad things. Simply to be with her. He gazed evenly at Isabella and wondered if it were possible with her.

When she smiled at him in understanding, fingers again squeezing his, eyes alight despite her previous words, he thought maybe he truly could have that with her.

"I think my mother had that ability," he said and shifted against the pillows. "Once. But I never did see it. My father certainly did not."

Isabella moved and leaned against the pillows, her legs drawn up until they nearly touched his. She didn't release his hand, but rested her head against the headboard. "Was he unyielding, your father?"

"Quite." He swallowed the harshness of that terse word. "He wanted a proper young son who dispensed with frivolity and did his duty as heir to the dukedom."

Isabella frowned and her other hand came up to brush, just once, along his jaw. As quickly as her fingers touched him, her hand fell back to the bed. "I take it," she said with an apologetic twist to her lips, "he wouldn't have approved of our match."

Jonathon laughed, not the startled amusement of earlier, but one that still held some humor in it. With a wickedness his father hadn't managed to destroy one iota, he said, "The old man is pounding on his grave, ready to have my hide."

Isabella returned his smile and then frowned. Her free hand clasped around his, until his fingers were held loosely, if warmly, between hers. "Does that trouble you?"

Jonathon reached over the slight space between them and cupped her cheek. "Not in the least. Tell me," he said swiftly, "what's the first letter you wish to write as duchess? Or shall I guess?"

She blinked at the sudden change in topic. But he could see her thinking about it, the knowledge she truly was the Duchess of Strathmore. How the reality of her situation spread through her, written over her beautifully delicate features for all to see. For him to see.

"Come." He climbed out of bed, uncaring of his nudity, and held his hand for her. "You'll write your mother on my stationery."

Isabella laughed and allowed him to tug her from their bed. She reached for her dressing robe, and though he didn't want her to cover her body from his gaze, he waited as she did do.

"Yes." She grinned widely up at him. "It's perfect."

# Chapter Eleven

After leaving Milan, they'd stayed in Genoa for nearly two weeks.

Genoa was a wondrous little city tucked between the water and the mountains. Stone buildings stood proudly along charming piazzas flushed with merchants of all cultures. Isabella felt as if she'd traveled back in time several hundred years, with the colorful villas built into the hills and mountains of the coast.

Vibrant silks from the Far East and exotic spices from the Arab world lined nearly every stall. In addition to Italian, Isabella heard French and pieces of Austrian. She'd spent so much time speaking only Italian, she'd nearly forgotten the French she'd learned from her tutors. As she bartered with the street merchants, much of her French returned to her.

Isabella did wonder how the city had changed since the wars and the redrawing of power, but as with most people she'd met, the Genoese simply lived their lives.

Lived their lives as she and Strathmore were learning to do.

Strathmore had rented a villa in the main section of the city and given his title — _their_ titles. It hadn't been long before they'd been invited to all the best parties and balls. From there it'd been a simple matter to gain entrance to the famed Grimaldi Gaming Hall.

But it was after, as he escorted her home from a ball or a night of gaming or the opera where Isabella found it most difficult to reconcile her life. Her new life.

They made love every night, oftentimes in the early morning as well. It was passionate and connected them, she thought, but afterward, Isabella rarely knew how to act. She didn't want to let the closeness growing between them influence her.

However, the intimacy between them had only escalated since their first night together, when they'd spoken openly and honestly as they'd shared parts of their past.

She'd thought often of pushing him away, finding another room whenever he wanted to share his stories. Strathmore never left her. Never forceful or demanding, he was merely there — inquisitive as a young boy who wished to know all the secrets of the world.

He wanted to know all her secrets.

Now, weeks after their marriage and several days into the ocean portion of their long trip back to England, Isabella still didn't quite know what to make of her husband. She felt unbalanced — not by a turn in his temperament as she expected, but by a deepening of his affection. Odd how this man who had not known her two months ago and had been cornered into this marriage exhibited such a level of affection for a stranger who shared his bed. Isabella did not know how to interpret his actions, his kindness.

She and Strathmore took a turn about the deck, careful to keep out of the sailors' way. His hand smoothed down her back to settle for a brief moment on her waist. Arousal pooled low in her belly at his touch. It had become instinctual and warmed her in the cool breeze, a warmth that spread through her until even her fingers tingled with remembered want.

With renewed want.

Isabella recalled what this was like, this desire, these feelings. And she remembered how dangerous they were. How dangerous they'd been with Manning. She wanted to change her nature, wanted to be different from the young girl she'd been. That fool.

A fool who had followed her baser desires. A girl who wanted to run from her parents.

Her fingers brushed the peridot and gold bracelet on her wrist, worn to serve as her reminder of what uncontrolled emotions could do.

She swallowed hard and took several deep breaths of the salty Mediterranean air. Her fingers curled around Strathmore's arm, and she studiously kept her gaze on the horizon. Away from her husband's handsome profile.

If she asked a question of his life prior to knowing her, Strathmore answered with an honesty that took her aback every time. While she always hesitated with her own answers, she eventually answered truthfully.

Isabella licked her lips and tried not to let memories of their time together distract her. The way Strathmore looked as he climaxed within her, head thrown back, muscles straining, her name on his lips, it was impossible not to want him again.

How could it be that in such a short time the dance between them had become so instinctual? Become more than what it should be. And that, often, confused her.

And while she was hardly one for propriety, enticing even one's husband back to their cabin for midmorning sex seemed very un-duchess-like.

Even if Isabella knew for a fact he'd be easily enticed.

They approached the Strait of Gibraltar now, and the steep cliffs looked as if they towered over the waterway like majestic castle walls as the ship slowly made its way between them. Suddenly Isabella felt small against the green beauty of the strait.

She leaned her head against Strathmore's arm, just a moment of weakness. His hand came up and rested atop hers, squeezing gently. Shocked at her own behavior, Isabella straightened. Had she ever shown such affection in public? Even with Manning?

No, and she couldn't believe she'd done so here, with Strathmore. She cleared her throat as they continued their turn about the deck. What was it about Strathmore that tested her resolve to keep an amenable distance? That had her showing him such affection after so short an acquaintance?

Strathmore was so different from Manning, and Isabella didn't think he'd sour on her simply because she proved better at a sport than him. She'd bested him in cards once, had she not?

With a rather significant wager, at that.

Manning, Isabella realized now, had never touched her like Strathmore did. He made love to her, and he brought her to orgasm, but afterward he never held her. Never stroked her back. Never cupped her cheek and kissed her as if the only thing in the world he wanted was to memorize her taste.

She wondered if Strathmore had done so with other lovers. Had been so affectionate. With her, he was all that and so much more, and Isabella didn't know what to make of it.

Had she made such a poor choice in Manning. Yes, she had.

To be fair, it'd only been a few weeks, and Isabella didn't know Strathmore as well as she might. But from what she gleaned, he was an admirable man. Despite their shaky start, Strathmore clearly sought to make this marriage as legitimate and reasonable as possible.

He'd said quite plainly that he wanted no question as to the validity of their marriage and any heirs they had.

More, Isabella knew he meant it.

"Are you chilled?" Strathmore asked, his voice low and close.

"Isabella looked up, only then realizing she shivered against his touch. "No, I'm moved."

She shook her head, not wishing to break the moment, the stunning beauty of Gibraltar, the softness and familiarity, between them.

"And what moves you?" she asked, still in the same soft voice. "What has taken your breath?"

Strathmore smiled, looking very smug indeed. "Aside from the sight of my wife in all her bare glory?"

He kept his voice low so the words did not carry.

"And before that particular sight?" she asked, unable to keep the humor from her voice. "Was it always a woman in her bare beauty?"

His green eyes danced with wicked delight. She knew he enjoyed verbal sparring with her, enjoyed the mischievous conversations they shared. She did as well and met his smile with her own.

"The first time most certainly," he agreed. "But then it changed. I was always _moved_ —" he emphasized the word and leaned closer —"by the new and exotic. But the most affecting sights are home and the faces of those I care for."

"Tell me about them?" she asked, curious. Strathmore often talked of his past, but very little of those close to him. "Who is it that warms you? Granville?"

Strathmore nodded. "Yes. He and I have been friends since we were young. His country estate isn't far from my own. His sister, Octavia, is very much my younger sister as well."

"Being so close to Granville and his sister," Isabella said carefully, unsure if she wanted the answer to her question or not. "Did she not expect to become duchess one day? Was that part of your hesitation in honoring our wager?"

He leaned closer, caught and held her gaze. "It was not."

A breath Isabella didn't know she held released and she nodded.

"Lady Octavia is beautiful and vibrant and more of a sibling to me." Strathmore shook his head and offered a slight smile. "We simply don't view each other in that manner."

He paused and when he spoke again it was slower, each word drawn out. His hand clenched on the railing once, then purposely released.

"Granville and I are like brothers," he continued. "We have caused our share of mischief and protected each other when necessary."

"Protected from what?" she asked. The wind blew unyieldingly at her hair and she impatiently pushed a loose lock behind her ear.

"Uncomfortable situations," he said. Then Strathmore straightened and looked down at her. Not in close of the conversation — but in sharing a confidence. "Similar to what you endured with your parents."

He paused again and her heart ached for him. She knew all too well what growing up in an intolerable household was like.

"I don't want our child to experience what we have during our childhoods," he said quietly and sincerely.

"No," Isabella whispered and swallowed against the sudden lump of emotion lodged in her throat. "I don't want that either."

His gaze did not leave hers as he spoke and another shiver raced up Isabella's spine. Strathmore leaned down, his lips gentle against hers.

"We'll make certain of that," Strathmore promised. "We _will_ do better for them."

Again that lump of emotion clogged her throat and all Isabella could do was nod.

They needed to move; the sailors needed to work, and their presence on deck only hindered them. The controlled chaos around them moved with fluidity as sailors hauled ropes and shifted sails to catch the wind. Three chairs had been bolted to the deck at the stern of the ship for the passengers, just out of the way of the anchor and the large coiled rope that held the anchor in place.

The privileged passengers danced around the sailors; they tried to escape the stale air inside the ship and didn't care if they were in the path of the men or not.

Strathmore, on the other hand, set them to the port side, near the stern. He kept them separate, where they weren't nuisances to those working.

She licked her lips as Strathmore turned them from the railing, and they made their way along the port side, dodging ropes and lines. She watched him, watched as his gaze flick to her lips and his eyes darken.

That small move had aroused him. How was it that she and Strathmore enjoyed a more intimate relationship within a few weeks when she and Manning had been together for months — a year — and she'd never felt so with him?

Perhaps it was simply the newness of this marriage that engendered such feelings.

"Isabella."

She peered up at him, curious, but he only continued to watch her, his attention solely on her. This odd sexual friendship growing between them puzzled her. Was it not better to make love to a man she considered her friend than a complete stranger?

Yes, Strathmore had been right in wanting brutal honesty between them.

She only hoped that didn't change once they returned to England. Isabella frowned and wondered what it'd feel like — what she'd feel like — when they did finally make it to Strathmore Hall. She was duchess now, and while that was listed on the manifest, neither she nor Strathmore announced it.

Both preferred to travel simply; neither wanted any gossip to follow them nor for their families to realize where they traveled before the appropriate weddings took place.

Their marriage — could it possibly be enough to care for their children better than their parents cared for them? When she looked into Strathmore's eyes, Isabella almost believed it. They were so close now and everything she'd felt before boarding this ship was now confused and jumbled.

There was no place here Isabella could be without Strathmore; nowhere she had a moment to herself to collect her thoughts or move away from the tumult he caused.

Isabella looked up at Strathmore then purposely looked away, though the beauty and majesty of their view no longer appealed to her. She needed something else to focus on.

The letter she'd written her mother before leaving Milan came to mind and she latched onto it.

She'd dutifully written her mother with the information that she'd married the Duke of Strathmore, and had never been so glad for the slowness of mail across the Continent. Alison Harrington wouldn't receive the letter until Isabella and Strathmore were at least in Ireland.

As they continued round the deck, the wind whipping her dress scandalously about her ankles, Isabella wondered what it'd be like seeing her mother after over two years of no communication.

She stopped again to look at the crystal sky and the vastness of water around them. The strait rose high on either side of the ship, and Isabella wanted to soak it all in.

Strathmore's arms came around her, a sharp diversion from the formal walk they'd taken. Startled, she looked over her shoulder, a smile, unbidden, playing around her lips.

His arms were warm around her middle, comfortable. When he drew her back, against him, Isabella felt his hardness settle enticingly against her derrière. She shuddered, her earlier thoughts of their passionate nights once more flooding her mind.

"What brought this on?" she asked, uncaring there was a distinctive breathless quality to her voice. Isabella ran her fingers down his arm.

"My beautiful wife." His mouth brushed the side of her neck, his breath a caress against the shell of her ear. "I find I can't resist you. Your body tempts me even on a simple walk."

"Strathmore," she breathed.

Isabella thought she should be scandalized, with such open affection where anyone — crew, passengers, everyone — could see them. Instead, she wanted to turn in his arms and kiss him — and whoever watched, be damned.

The strength of her desire shocked her. Purposely looking at her bracelet, still too tight on her wrist, Isabella forced herself to remember her reasons for marrying Strathmore. Passions cooled all too quickly and she'd not be caught up in them again.

She leaned against the railing, not quite moving from his arms but trying to put distance between them. Emotional if not physical distance, she warred with herself — her passion for Strathmore on one side and the powerful need to keep herself safe on the other.

She couldn't afford to give into her passions blindly, to confuse emotions — _love_ — with sex. Not again.

With a reluctance she felt in every touch of his body against hers, Strathmore pulled back. He didn't look around guiltily or bow stiffly or formally or any of the other awkward gestures he might've done.

No, he offered his arm and a very naughty wink.

"Oh." Isabella didn't know if she said that aloud or if it caught in her throat.

Strathmore led her to their cabin, a cramped space without much in the way of luxury and one that required a greater intimacy between them. The instant the door closed, Isabella allowed herself to give into him. It was for the best for their good relations, but she needed to control the desire that burned through her, even as she wanted to simply give into it.

As with every time Strathmore touched her, Isabella was forcibly reminded how different sex felt with him.

The way his touch so easily aroused her and how she craved that touch. How his naked body moved against her, skin to skin, with an eroticism she'd never experienced before. Or the taste of his kiss she'd already memorized and enjoyed far more outside of the bedroom than she ought to. The way his tongue swept along hers even as his hands brushed down her body.

He made her forget herself.

Even now, inside the privacy of their cabin, Isabella struggled to remember all her very valid reasons for maintaining emotional distance between them. They screamed at her, those reasons, and Isabella tried to keep them close, at the forefront of her mind.

But then she kissed him back, shoving his jacket off his shoulders. Fingers craving to touch his bare skin. Her sex throbbed for his touch, for his thickness filling her.

All those reasons suddenly went silent, gone with the feel of Strathmore against her, the taste of him, the burning pleasure that rushed through her. Isabella deepened the kiss and slipped her fingers beneath the band of his trousers to feel the heat of his skin.

As she unbuttoned the flap of his trousers, she heard the distinct rend of material.

"Damn," Strathmore cursed, his mouth nipping along her throat, the juncture of her shoulder. His hands on her breasts, fingers rolling already aching nipples.

"Sorry," he murmured. But he didn't sound sorry. He sounded about as far from sorry as possible.

Her gown fell to the floor in a forgotten pool of material. It was the fourth dress he'd torn since they left Genoa. Isabella had lost track of how many gowns he'd ruined in Milan as they finished packing up both townhouses.

"I don't care," she admitted.

With her mouth back on his, she gave into the moment and for the first time gave voice to the words. He could rend every gown she had and she wouldn't care.

His growl vibrated along her skin, shooting directly to her core. Isabella gasped at the sound, the feel. The masculinity of it as her blood burned through her. Yes, she wanted him.

Her need for him had only grown since that first night. It wasn't a sentiment she dwelled on. Apart from her rational need to keep her walls secure around her heart, the need between them simply was. She'd not allow it more purchase than what it already had.

"Strathmore," she breathed, finally unbuttoning his trousers.

She slipped her hand around his hardness, stroking the thick length with long, sweeping teases of her fingers. She'd learned a lot about her lover — her husband — in the weeks since their marriage.

She had learned what pleased him, what drove him over the edge. What brought her own arousal to such a precipice she sobbed and begged him.

Isabella swept her thumb over the tip of his cock, back down to the base. He growled again and lifted her chemise over her head and then her onto the bed. In one hard thrust, he entered her.

Her need of him surged and she cried out his name, her orgasm there, right there. Shuddering, clenching around him, Isabella wrapped her legs high on his waist and pulled him even closer. They could make love slowly later, with long touches and gentle kisses. Right now she needed. Oh, she needed.

"Harder," she sobbed, her mouth on his, nails digging into his muscled back. She pulled him closer, deeper into her. "Harder. Now. _Please_."

He pulled back and thrust into her, his pace hard and fast and her orgasm tightening through her. Yes, just like that. Did she say that aloud?

But then the wave broke, crashed over her and she cried out, pulsing around him as her orgasm pushed her over the edge.

Still he moved, his pace brutal. When she opened her eyes, she saw his locked with hers, dark, so impossibly dark, and focused entirely on her. Isabella shuddered, and before she had the chance to recover, felt her body tighten around him, pleasure ruthlessly pushed higher.

"Yes," she breathed, her teeth sinking into his shoulder.

He moved faster, more erratic now, and she knew he was close. Combing her fingers through his hair, she brought his mouth back to hers. The kiss was sloppy and desperate, but Isabella didn't care. She raked her nails down his back, hips meeting his.

One hand moved from his skin, the broad expanse of it, to her nub. With a few short strokes she cried out again, slamming her hips hard to his and tightening around him. Sparks flickered behind her eyelids, but Isabella didn't care. She rode out her orgasm, wave after wave of it.

With a strangled cry of her name, Strathmore climaxed, head thrown back, eyes closed, body frozen in utter beauty.

Exhausted, breathing heavily, Isabella forced her eyes to remain open and watch. Suddenly she wished for the strength to move, to lick his neck, taste the salty tang of pleasure on his skin.

Next time.

When he collapsed on her, she tightened her hold on him and sighed. His weight felt so right, so good against her. Her eyes drifted close and she moved just enough to kiss the side of his head, the only spot she could reach.

Eventually he moved, slipping out of her and pulling her tight against him. Isabella didn't bother to open her eyes but curled into him. She rested her head against his chest, just over his pounding heart, and once more sighed. Utterly content.

Isabella didn't know how long they lay there, but when Strathmore moved, she decided she didn't want to. Possibly ever.

"As duchess," she said coyly as she watched him dress, "I shouldn't need to leave our bed." Isabella reached out and ran her fingertips across his cock. He sucked in a breath and she grinned. "And neither should you."

He leaned over her, his mouth gentle on hers. Softly at first, then deeper, a brand, she thought fuzzily as she wrapped one hand around the nape of his neck and opened totally to his kiss.

"I can arrange that," he promised, his voice a dark caress over her body.

Isabella hummed and pulled him back for another kiss. No, she did not care what any of the other passengers thought. This was their honeymoon and they were married.

"Maybe we should've stayed in Milan another week," Strathmore said as Isabella reluctantly climbed from their bed. "Or in Genoa." He kissed her shoulder. "For another month."

"Too late now." She sighed then laughed, watching his eyes lighten and his deep, rich laugh fill the cabin. And fill her with an emotion she couldn't name. Didn't want to.

"Help me dress," she said, grinning widely. "I don't want to call Raffella in."

"No," he agreed, tugging her chemise, miraculously still in one piece, over her head. "She already has to mend your gown."

Isabella looked at the lovely light blue day dress longingly but shrugged. Raffella was a miracle worker when it came to Strathmore's treatment of her clothing. She'd need to give her lady's maid a bonus as soon as they made it to Strathmore Hall.

It was the least she could do for the other woman.

Strathmore helped her dress — if helping her dress included his hands on her thighs as he tugged her stockings into place. Or his mouth on her sex as he made certain the stockings were properly secured. Or his kisses along her back and shoulders as he did up her stays. Then she'd allow him to _help_ her every day.

By the time he finished _helping_ , all Isabella wanted was to undress for him and take him deep inside her until neither could move.

She needed to tamp down on these thoughts — these feelings that wanted to overwhelm her. She needed to remember her reasons for maintaining distance. Then again, what would it matter? Strathmore was not only her husband but her lover; as her lover, his touches should excite her as much as they did.

But they were expected on deck. And as much as she didn't care to leave this bed, they had promised the Keyes they'd see them there.

"Strathmore," she whispered, the word caught in her throat as his fingers finished doing up the buttons on her gown.

He placed a final kiss on her shoulder, turned her round, and looked at her with an air of intense scrutiny. She took a moment to re-pin her hair into a simple chignon and hoped it looked as presentable as she'd ever managed these last days on ship.

Isabella knew what she looked like — flushed and aroused and no doubt looking exactly as she felt — like she'd just made love to her husband and wanted to do so again. She hadn't felt this uninhibited with a lover in — she couldn't remember if she ever had felt this way.

But all he did was place a kiss on her lips and offer his arm with a wink.

On unsteady legs, she hastily straightened her longcoat and followed him out of their cabin and into the passenger hallway. Isabella took a moment to take deep breaths of the cooler air in the vain hope of cooling her skin.

Back on deck, they walked arm in arm in the open air, ignoring the knowing snickers of the crew. Isabella leaned closer to her husband but refrained from too intimate a display. They no doubt caused quite enough scandal for one day.

"It's a pity one cannot travel without finding these snakes everywhere," one of the men on deck, a Mr. Russell, she recalled, said with a sneer as he looked condescendingly over the crew. A short man, Russell was wiry with absurdly long fingers and a cane he constantly carried though never seemed to use.

Strathmore turned in that direction, clearly as curious as she. Before either of them said a word, the second man, Mr. Collins, bowed. Taller than even Strathmore, Collins was gaunt, with a hooked nose that twitched whenever he moved.

Isabella tried not to stare.

"Your Grace," Collins said to both of them with a bow. "Do be careful. There's a cutpurse, a thief, amongst us!"

Beside her, Isabella felt Strathmore stiffen, pulling her to him just a little tighter. Startled both by the men's words and Strathmore's actions, she looked up at her husband. Strathmore didn't look at Russell or Collins or scan the deck for this so-called thief, but looked down at her.

His dark gaze focused directly on her, hard and intense in the setting sun. His look sent a shiver through her of awareness and arousal but also deeper, of protection.

Isabella blinked, but Strathmore's gaze did not soften. His stance had not yielded. With a warmth that spread through her, easing a tension she hadn't realized she carried, Isabella knew Strathmore would protect her.

A feeling she'd not experienced in a very long time.

# Chapter Twelve

Isabella looked between Collins and Russell, her fingers flexing on Strathmore's arm. A cloud obscured the setting sun, casting a sudden chill on deck. But Strathmore wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her just a little closer.

Their intimate moments continued to grow, expand beyond their time in the bedroom. She needed to put distance between them. Instead, she marginally relaxed against him, strangely secure in his protective embrace. Her limbs still felt heavy and languid and her body continued to hum with Strathmore's remembered touch.

Frankly, Isabella didn't want to examine the closeness between them.

They were lovers, new lovers at that. Their intimacy in the bedroom was one thing — Isabella knew what aroused Strathmore better than she ever had Manning. But outside the bedroom, this affection carried over.

She didn't know why. Didn't understand it. And certainly didn't want to scrutinize too closely. Or at all.

"What do you mean a thief?" she demanded, pushing all thoughts of Strathmore, and what they did or did not share, away. "What's been taken?"

"Your Grace." Collins bowed again. "I set down my snuffbox for a few moments, only to turn around to find it missing! And Mrs. Russell removed her silk shawl; it was as if it sprung legs and walked off!"

Intrigued, Isabella looked to Strathmore, who watched the men with a hard gaze. He offered no platitudes but simply watched.

"We have a horrible snake thief amongst us," Collins reiterated. "So take care, Your Graces. Who knows where he might roam around this vessel."

"We shall," Strathmore said evenly, with a small nod of acknowledgement. "And keep an eye out."

"Yes," Collins said. "It'll be a great thrill to see this thief apprehended. If you'll pardon me, Your Graces, I must check on my wife."

Russell bowed and followed his friend, apparently to check on his wife as well.

Isabella watched them go. "It seems this will not be a dull voyage." She smiled up at him and watched his features somewhat relax. "By the time we arrive in Dublin, the thief will have grown ten feet tall, with claws for hands and the devil's eyes."

"You forget." He leaned closer, his eyes bright with amusement now. "He'll have the ability to vanish before our very own eyes."

She laughed, and they moved toward Mr. and Mrs. Keyes, just emerged from below deck. The earlier cloud moved on and with it that strange sense of cold foreboding. While Isabella enjoyed the scent of the sea, the way the wind blew across her skin, poor Mrs. Keyes looked terrible.

"Oh, Mrs. Keyes," Isabella said as they drew even with her. "How are you feeling?"

The other woman looked a darker shade of green than she had even earlier. This voyage had not been kind to her.

"Oh, Your Grace," Mrs. Keyes began and waved as if her illness was nothing. The reality was that she'd spent nearly the entire trip sick. "I'm so sorry, but we've come to beg off our drinks for this eve. I don't believe I can tolerate anything but bed, what with the waves so violent."

The ship sailed on smooth, calm waters. Still, Isabella nodded in sympathy.

"Of course," she assured Mrs. Keyes. "Don't give it another thought."

"Thank you, Your Graces," Mrs. Keyes said and looked even worse for the conversation. "I hope to hold a full conversation with you before the voyage is over."

Isabella nodded and watched her newly formed acquaintance turn back over the railing. "Or at least once on dry land," she said kindly.

"Come my dear," Mr. Keyes said and rubbed his wife's back as she took deep breaths in a vain attempt no to be ill.

Isabella watched the couple and didn't miss the look that passed between Mr. Keyes and Strathmore — that protective look that had so surprised her earlier. Mr. Keyes was very protective of his wife and that warmed a part of Isabella — the part she chose not to examine too closely.

Shaking it off, Isabella rested her head on Strathmore's arm as they moved further along the railing and glanced back at the land, far behind them now.

"At least we can be certain the Keyes' aren't involved with the thief," she said quietly.

She didn't want to stay with the emotions swirling around her and did her best to steer the conversation back to solid, unemotional, ground. Safer ground. Sounder topics.

"No," Strathmore said with a sympathetic wince. "I can't imagine either one of them would be such a talented actor as to use the illness to mask their crimes."

He turned around and leaned back against the railing. Isabella looked up at him and watched his gaze flicker over the people behind her — the crew, the captain, the other passengers.

"But there is someone who masks their true intent, their crimes," he added.

"You're right. Most people don't see what's right before them." She turned into him and chose not to think about the intimacy of the move. "I wonder if we can pick him out of the crowd."

The humor lighting his gaze turned to full-blown interest. Laughter, she'd have said. Over the last weeks, she learned a lot about her new husband, learned many of the various ticks and movements that made him up.

Yes, the look he gave her now was amused interest. "That might be an entertaining pastime. Would you care to try it?"

"Would you?" she returned, raising her eyebrow. In challenge maybe, but the familiarity would not be ignored. More and more they teased each other, tested the limits of their relationship.

Thus far, Isabella had not discovered the boundaries.

His gaze turned curious now, and he looked around. She had the sense he hid what he thought from her, something just beneath the surface, and Isabella suddenly wondered how well she did know him.

"Do we dare?" he leaned closer, the words a gentle puff of breath along her jaw.

"Why not?" Isabella smiled but lowered her voice as well. "We know how to conduct ourselves discreetly."

"There aren't many opportunities for games of chance on this voyage," he said, though she had a feeling he meant more than a game of piquet between them. Isabella didn't understand his tone and tried to brush it off. "This will be a unique diversion," Strathmore added.

A diversion. Yes, that was _exactly_ what she needed. A way to deflect Strathmore's interest from solely her onto other things. Yes, that was relief she felt at the knowledge they'd have this occupation to engage in, to direct their — _his_ — attention onto another pastime.

It wasn't that she minded his attentions; no Isabella relished them these past weeks. And therein lay the problem. She needed to find a way to enjoy his attentions without losing herself in them. Perhaps this diversion was what she wanted — give her the time she needed to find that balance.

That elusive balance between wanting him and wanting _more_.

Strathmore nodded, and they continued their walk round the deck. After days aboard ship, they were quite good at deftly avoiding both rigging and the sailors. It'd become a dance around the deck, and they waltzed rather well. The first mate walked by them and gave a cordial nod, his attention on his crew.

They proceeded in silence for a bit, and Isabella mentally reviewed those she traveled with. "I'll ask Raffella if she's seen anything amiss," she said quietly to Strathmore.

He nodded. "Good, yes. She'll be privy to information from the other servants."

Servants, yes. They passed Mrs. Keyes feebly gripping the starboard railing, her solicitous husband by her side. Apparently they had not been fortunate enough to return below deck before the illness gripped Mrs. Keyes again. Isabella nodded to the couple, in commiseration; their search was not limited simply to servants and crew.

The thief could, quite literally, be anyone.

Grimacing in sympathy, Isabella once more thanked her constitution. Neither she nor Strathmore had been ill. Raffella had done poorly their first two days; however, she soon recovered.

Many of the passengers currently milled on deck, some doing their best to stay out of the sailors' way. Others, well, Isabella didn't see that they cared. There were several she didn't see, no doubt below in their cabins.

She felt like Wellington as he gathered information on Napoleon's next troop movement. But her task wasn't quite as lofty. She and Strathmore simply searched for the fellow who had, thus far, snatched a shawl and snuffbox.

"Do we seek crew? Or mayhap one of those unfortunate souls trapped below decks?"

His voice caused her to shiver, despite the nature of their conversation. Clearing her throat, and doing her best to push this near-constant arousal for the man away, Isabella looked around the deck.

"I'd suspect the crew over those below decks," she admitted. "The crew rarely releases those lower-deck passengers for fresh air."

"It's possible," he said, "that one or two of those passengers mix among us."

"It's possible," she agreed and looked more sharply at those she passed. "But unlikely," she added. Strathmore already nodded in agreement. "We've all become quite well acquainted up here. A new face would easily stand out."

Strathmore's hungry look shot straight through her. Isabella shivered and swallowed hard, fingers bunching the fabric of her skirts.

"True," he said, voice low and gravely. His fingers brushed along her temple, down her jaw. "And very perceptive."

Mouth dry, she struggled to think of what to say. Anything other than enticing him back to their cabin. Isabella struggled with the hot need pulsing through her and the way Strathmore's hungry gaze sparked her own hunger.

She licked her lips and tore her gaze from his. It was so easy to fall into him, into the passion between them. Too easy.

"We need to ask a few passengers some questions," she managed. "Gauge their reactions, see if they have a weakness."

She stopped and looked up at him with a coy glance, her lips curving in the beginnings of a wicked smile she seemed wholly unable to stop. "A reaction such as one would glean when playing cards."

Strathmore laughed, a bold agreement that had others looking at them. Isabella didn't care, and when they resumed walking, his hand came up to cover hers. She leaned closer into him, his body warm and hard against her.

She and Strathmore spent the rest of the day observing the other passengers far more closely than Isabella had bothered to since boarding. She tried to direct his attention to them and away from her. However, Strathmore had clearly been more interested in returning to the cabin than in their task.

Then again, she'd been rather indulgent since leaving port. Indulgent and decidedly wanton with Strathmore. She enjoyed him and could not deny that. But he unsettled her, had done so since they first met.

Isabella had expected one thing — a predator. Yes, she'd caged him since besting him at cards, but she still expected Strathmore to be the predator. Not the man who currently accompanied her on this new quest. Not this man, who, she believed, had been honest with her in all things.

She scrambled for the right footing. The one she needed to maintain her own balance between want of her husband and need to protect herself. When it came to Strathmore, however, she just wanted him. And decided not to deny herself that pleasure.

It was a rather unusual feeling for her to want another man. But what harm could there be in wanting one's husband?

What harm indeed.

"The day has grown long," Strathmore said as the last fingers of sunlight danced along the deck. "I don't think we'll ferret out the criminal tonight." He gazed down at her, that hunger barely banked, and offered his arm. "Shall we retire?"

"Not yet," she said, the words slipping out. But she smiled up at him and titled her head. "I want a little more time to observe."

What she wanted was a little more time to gather her jangling nerves and cool her passion. Isabella breathed in of the cool night air, the ocean a crisp sent of salt and openness. Forcing her focus onto the crime, she tugged Strathmore's arm and they took a last turn about deck.

The crew was polite enough, or as polite as could be with so many wandering the decks and getting in the way of their work. It was constant motion there, with various shifts of sails according to the wind and shouts about rigging and other nautical terms Isabella didn't understand.

Some were a bit friendlier than Isabella expected, but then she didn't exactly know what to expect. She tried to think back to her first trip by ship, but it was a blur of movement and Manning. And she did not wish to think on him any longer.

Their quick trip below decks showed them only sickness. They were sickly pale and lethargic; their clothing would quite obviously stand out amongst the more well-heeled passengers.

Still, Raffella had agreed to ask around below decks to see if anyone had possessions missing or knew any gossip.

Now, with the sun setting in a brilliant display of reds and pinks and the breeze colder, she and Strathmore had discovered little. Oh, they'd found out that the majority of their fellow travelers had experienced seasickness at least once since leaving Genoa and that everyone roundly detested the food, but little more.

She and Strathmore stood along the port side of the ship, away from where the rest of the passengers congregated at the stern. They looked behind them, back to where they'd come from. The past, Isabella thought with a surprising lack of nostalgia. Turning so her back leaned against the railing, she ignored the view in favor of looking at Strathmore, and hugged her wrap closer around her.

In the fading light, Strathmore stood in front of her, his body blocking the worst of the wind. Sighing contentedly, she went to lean into him but stopped herself. Suddenly she felt the bite of the bracelet on her wrist and all that bracelet represented. Swallowing hard, Isabella pulled back just enough to keep a polite space between them.

But then he shifted, his hand coming to rest on her shoulders, and the wind caught her hair. The brisk sea breeze tugged the already-loose style free of her combs. Before she had a chance to move, Strathmore's hand snapped out and caught them, rescuing the mother-of-pearl combs from the waters below.

Isabella blinked up at him, not only for his lightning-quick reflexes, but because he'd noticed. He watched her on a deeper level than she had previously realized. Watched her movements so particularly.

She'd never had anyone do so like he did, not with such...attention to detail, she supposed. As if he didn't just see her, but remembered all he saw. _Noticed_ her in ways Isabella didn't know how to take.

"Thank you," she managed, but wondered if the wind caught her words. She heard naught over the roar of her blood pounding in her ears.

Strathmore carefully threaded the combs back through her hair, keeping the wind-blown strands out of her face as best he could. She licked her lips and looked up at him, caught in his dark, shadowed gaze.

She cleared her throat and deftly moved the conversation back to their quest. "This is proving more difficult than I anticipated," she said, but the words sounded softer than she meant them.

"Each of them," she continued in a somewhat stronger voice, "seemed appropriately outraged. "

"They do," he agreed, his own voice soft as he leaned in. "Especially now since the crew has swept through the cabins."

Isabella fell back on the easy humor between them and pushed the strange heaviness of moments before to the back of her mind. "It was good of you to give them permission to allow them to go through our cabin in the morning," she told him, her voice holding just a hint of laughter.

"As always," he said in that heavy ducal voice, "we must be above their suspicions."

She stifled a laugh. The wind picked up again, and before she truly lost her combs, Isabella reached for them. Strathmore moved faster, plucking them from her hair and slipping them into the pockets of his dark tan leather coat.

With a simple move, a thoughtful gesture, he had the ability to take her breath away.

Before she recovered, a crewman jostled by them, knocking into Strathmore, who caught himself just before he crushed her against the railing.

"Pardon, Yer Graces," the man mumbled before rushing off.

Straightening, Strathmore offered his arm and they left the modicum of privacy they shared for the rest of the passengers. They came up behind them, silent and careful not to disturb the conversation. Strathmore held her back in the shadows for a bit, and they listened.

The crew had placed lanterns around the deck and the lights swayed with every movement of the ship.

"They shall turn it upside down, I say," one of the ladies, Mrs. Greenwood, said hotly. "I'm sure I'll have to have my maid setting it to rights all day. I'm afraid something else will go missing."

Several of the ladies around her nodded sagely.

Isabella was curious as to what would turn up in the morning. It was distinctly possible the thief even now searched for the most discreet place to hide his stolen plunder. But it wasn't about the thief, not really, her desire to remain on deck a bit longer.

She hoped Strathmore would simply drift to sleep once they reached their cabin. But no. looking at him Isabella knew that was an impossibility.

This delay had only added to his anticipation.

"We should retire," one of the older ladies, Mrs. Chapman, added. "'Tis late now."

With Mrs. Chapman's words, Strathmore nudged her forward, into the swinging lantern light. From the others' sudden bows and curtseys, Isabella knew they had noticed her and Strathmore.

Opposite her, Russell shrugged his coat off and set it round his wife's shoulders. He whispered into her ear, but Isabella couldn't catch what the man said. Mrs. Russell smiled up at him, however, and nodded.

Was Mrs. Russell the woman missing her shawl? Yes, Isabella remembered. And the gesture was sweet, gallant even.

Looking up at Strathmore, Isabella nearly missed as the other couple turned back to the group, their faces oddly devoid of emotion. Jerking her gaze back to the Russells, Isabella narrowed her eyes slightly, scrutinizing the couple.

Did they not wish for others to witness a tender moment? Or was it more than that?

Behind her, Strathmore's hard body tempted her. Without looking at him or him saying the words, Isabella knew he wished to dispense with these pleasantries and retire below to their cabin. His hand settled on her shoulder, fingers brushing the bare skin at the nape of her neck.

Barely suppressing a shiver, she kept her attention on the group before her. Her body leaned back just enough to contradict her wishes and Isabella jerked upright.

She scanned the group again, simply to center her attention away from Strathmore and the passion that never banked between them.

Mrs. Greenwood set her reticule on one of the chairs. Isabella idly wondered why the woman felt the need to carry a reticule with her on board the ship when there was no need for it. Were the missing items in there? Not the shawl, of course, but the snuffbox perhaps. Then she saw Mrs. Russell move closer to the chair.

If Isabella hadn't watched the group interact with such scrutiny, she'd have thought naught of it. However, they'd come to suspect all on board.

She pressed her fingers into Strathmore's arm, hoping he'd understand her signal. An agreement rumbled in his chest, and his other hand came to once more rest on Isabella's fingers. He'd seen it as well; the odd change over the Russell's faces, the way Mrs. Russell stared hard at the reticule.

There was such intent there, such focus, Isabella couldn't believe the other woman had such a telling giveaway. If she were playing cards with Mrs. Russell, Isabella knew she'd best her each and every time. Even now Mrs. Russell sat casually next to the chair where Mrs. Greenwood's purse lay.

Suddenly Russell's eyes met hers. It was too dark to truly see his expression, but the corners of his mouth twisted in a grimace.

Though the Russells remained quietly conversing, several others quickly followed Mrs. Chapman and the Collins'. Though Strathmore was considerably taller than her, he leaned against the railing as if relaxed, giving her a better opportunity to speak to him privately.

"Is it possible we found the culprits?" she asked, her face turned toward his. "They look to me as if they hide their cards beneath the table."

"Yes," Strathmore said, a rumble of agreement, and his hand stroked down her arm to her fingers. They were hard and warm against her gloved ones, reminding Isabella of the chilled night air. She stepped closer to him, his warmth, and shivered. "Let's see what tomorrow's search brings." He turned her to him and offered his arm.

"For now, let's retire."

"Yes," she murmured. "Let's."

They started for the stairs, but Strathmore stopped her before they reached them. She looked up at him, curious, mind racing with what the Russell's might be up to. He looked expectantly down at her and Isabella finally realized how highly he prized her mind — her observation skills and her intuition.

That knowledge sent a rush of warmth through her. She licked her lips and watched him in the swaying lantern light, but the look on his face was inscrutable.

"They won't expect us to linger," Strathmore said and she nodded.

"Perhaps you'll catch them by surprise," she said softly, "and see something untoward."

Strathmore nodded in agreement and squeezed her hand. In the swaying shadows, Isabella watched him circle round the deck, slowly and steadily making his way back to where several passengers still lingered.

Isabella took a deep breath of the cold night air — salt and sea and unwashed bodies. She turned for the railing and looked out at the expanse of shimmering, undulating blackness, the half-moon casting just enough light on the ocean to make it sparkle.

The creak of the deck startled her and she turned, expecting Strathmore and eager to hear what he learned. It wasn't him.

It was Mr. Russell moving across the deck. Not simply walking, but stalking the deck. For an instant Isabella froze. Not because Russell stalked her with a menacing intent, with a look of pure hatred and anger evident even in the lantern's dim light.

Lifting her chin, she met Russell's gaze directly and dared him, with a glare, her shoulders squared and back straight, with the knowledge that this wasn't the first time she'd been threatened in a dark, shadowed area because others thought her weak.

Russell hesitated, a slight falter in his step. Isabella narrowed her gaze at him. Behind her she heard footsteps, but still startled when Strathmore's hand rested on the small of her back. It amazed her how she'd grown so accustomed to his touch in so short a time, recognizing his touch from any others.

"Isabella?" Strathmore's voice sounded sharply in the wind. Like the snap of a whip.

"Is Her Grace all right?" Russell asked from where he'd stopped several feet from her.

"Perfectly," she said coldly.

"I'm pleased to hear it," Russell continued.

Isabella thought she heard a frustrated thread in his words, overlapped with the slightest hint of discovery, mayhap fear. She dearly hoped so.

"When I saw you alone here on deck with this unsavory crew, I knew I needed to check on you," Russell added and bowed. "Your Graces."

No further words were spoken between Strathmore and Russell as Russell retreated into the shadows.

# Chapter Thirteen

"Isabella." Jonathon gathered her to him. He brushed his fingertips over the back of her cheek.

"Are you all right?"

Isabella sucked in a breath but shook her head. "I'm fine."

Her hand cupped his cheek and he saw her release a full breath. Her body relaxed in his embrace, and in the dimness her lips curved upward.

"I am fine," she repeated. "Simply aware of that man's intent," she added in a harder tone. Her gaze returned to the now-empty space where Russell had stood.

Jonathon glared round the deck. Just as well Russell disappeared into the shadows, presumably below to his quarters. He wasn't certain what he'd do to the man if he'd still been there. With his hand firmly around Isabella's, he gently pulled her away from the railing and more firmly into his embrace.

She meant more to him than he realized, more to him than he'd thought possible in so short a period of time. When he saw, as clearly as Isabella had seen, the intent in that man's gaze, Jonathon instinctually knew she'd been in danger. An instinct he'd honed during the war and a murderous gaze he'd recognized.

Anger flashed hot and bright inside him, and mixed with fear. For his wife. Jonathon knew he needed to control it, and tried. Tried to clamp down on the impulse to find Russell, to protect Isabella.

Russell's look alone had Jonathon wanting to snap the man's neck.

"I'm aware of it as well," he said, that anger in no way tempered. His, fingers flexed on her waist, small and delicate beneath his touch. "I'm of a mind to find him and toss him overboard for daring to look at you that way."

She looked up at him, surprised. It'd only been a short time since their marriage, one not held under ideal circumstances. So no, her wonder at his words and tone didn't surprise him. But Isabella had to know he'd protect her.

Forget the terms of their bet, he cared for her. More than cared, if he was honest with himself. He'd protect her from any who wished her harm. Jonathon bit back his emotions; bit back the comment on the tip of his tongue. He purposely eased his hold on her wrists, the furious protective tension that beat through him.

It gripped him tight, held him in its grasp this, visceral need to see her safe. Not necessarily to protect what was his, but specifically to protect Isabella, the woman —

To protect Isabella, his wife.

"Come," he said, voice low and moved his hand to brush a stray hair off her cheek. "Let's return to our cabin."

Once below decks and back to their cabin, he ushered Isabella in to their surprisingly empty room. He didn't know where Raffella had gone off to, but was glad she wasn't there.

"You should have called out," he said, the bite of anger clear. "Backed away from that man instead of holding your ground."

He knew she wouldn't, but the idea of Russell — of anyone — hurting Isabella sent an almost blinding rage through him.

"I've learned through experience that if you show weakness, they will take advantage." Her voice was steady but no longer held the coolness of their initial meeting.

"You are not alone any longer," he said, trying to temper his anger.

The very real fear for her life continued to beat through him. How close she'd stood to the railing and how easy it'd have been for Russell to push her overboard. Isabella was small, light — she could've vanished into the murky ocean, her screams lost on the winds.

"You now have someone to rely upon." He stepped closer, intent on making his point. "You are no longer alone in a foreign land." Jonathon watched the realization cross her face. "You are with _me_. My duchess."

Isabella's eyes widened as she watched him. He watched as the words sank in, as she truly accepted them, even if it was still with the same surprise as earlier. He needed her to understand his fear for her safety.

He closed the short distance between them as he spoke and now curled his hands around her upper arms. His words didn't seem to penetrate her shell, but Jonathon wanted something to.

In the lamplight of the cabin, he saw her dark eyes soften.

"Strathmore—"

"We should forget all this — the theft, the investigation, all of it." His control teetered on the edge. He grabbed at it with both hands, but it slipped through his hold. "I don't want anyone to have the opportunity to approach you in that manner again." His fingers tightened on her arms, her hands instinctually coming up to rest on his wrists.

"Not while we're trapped here on this ship." Though he meant ever — he wanted no harm to come to her _ever_. Not on this ship, not in Dublin, not in Scotland, and certainly not on his — their — estate.

He'd do everything in his power to keep her safe.

Isabella shook her head, but the normal flare of hardheaded temper remained absent. "Is it not best we expose them now?" she asked, even as she shifted with the rocking of the ship. "The crew would then be forced to sequester them."

Cursing, he stepped back to better look at her but didn't release his hold on her arms. Didn't let her move from his embrace. One of her hands lifted to cup his jaw, and she offered a small smile.

"We don't know if they have accomplices aboard. Accomplices who can then target you." His voice was rough and hard, and he made no attempt to smooth his emotion. "And on this ship, I have no manner by which to acquire additional protections."

Isabella's face softened further, the slight pinch round her mouth eased, and her shoulders relaxed marginally.

"I shall be fine," she insisted. But not in a ruthless manner, simply as a way to reassure him. "I've managed to take care of myself for quite some time. And," she added with a faint grin, "against more loathsome individuals than those on this ship."

Jaw clenched, he resisted arguing with her. She never should've been in such a position and he hated she had been. If he'd met her first, met her in London, she'd never have had to suffer at the hands of Manning, a man completely unworthy of her.

For the first time since meeting her, Jonathon knew jealousy. A hot, sharp pain through his heart that anyone else had had her. But he was also grateful, so grateful Manning was fool enough to let her go.

She deserved so much better.

"That is no longer a necessity," he told her, the words softer than the clamor of emotion raging inside him. His hands slipped from her arms to her shoulders, thumbs absently circling the bare skin at her throat. "You are my duchess and I am responsible for you."

He saw the surprise in her gaze, the tiny jolt of disbelief at his words. His confession.

Jonathon leaned closer, intent. Holding her closer, he tangled his hands in her hair, his thumbs brushing along her temples. "I am responsible for you, and I shall not allow anyone to harm you."

Her smile was coy, with a little more he couldn't quite describe. "And I appreciate that. However, it wasn't one of the terms of our wager."

Her words lacked real heat, and he didn't feel the sting in them. "It is now."

Isabella closed the distance between them and kissed him.

With a growl, Jonathon deepened the kiss. His hands slid down her body and over her waist to pull her even closer. He backed her to the writing desk and lifted her atop it. Her fingers raked through his hair, down his back.

Impatient to feel her skin beneath his fingers, to feel her warm and alive beneath his touch, Jonathon bunched her dress out of his way. Her hands tugged his coat off, his shirt over his head; her nails scraped down his back, along the band of his trousers.

There was something about this woman, _his_ woman, that had wormed its way beneath his skin. He'd never experienced such insatiable need before and doubted he'd ever do so with another woman. He wanted her.

No — he didn't just want her physically, he needed her. Jonathon couldn't explain why or how it'd happened, but he felt it, just there beneath the surface. There and undeniable. More than the challenge she presented. More than needing to break the cordial distance she kept between them.

It was Isabella. Isabella's wit, her fire, and even those moments she held herself so reserved he wanted to break through those walls. All of that attracted him. In his eyes, that made her unique and made him want her all the more.

Now, as he kissed her, as she arched into his touch, he pushed it aside.

However, he did realize that his loss during their game of piquet had been far luckier than he'd originally thought.

She moaned at his touch, his fingers feather light over her wet heat. Her hips jerked against his touch, a move he knew was a silent plea for _more_. In the weeks they'd been together, he'd begun to know her body, what made her whimper his name and what made her cry wordlessly.

He kissed her harder, even as his fingers slipped inside her. She arched against his touch and clenched around him. Slipping from her wet heat, Jonathon picked her up, skirts hiked to her waist, legs wrapping around him as the fingers of one hand caressed his cock through his trousers.

This was the second, the third time they'd been together today. He'd lose not one ounce of his want of her. He craved the taste of her skin, the sound of her cries. The feel of her beneath him, open and just as hungry for his touch.

Carrying her the few steps to the bed, Jonathon spread her on it, open and shameless to his gaze. His touch.

Arousal pumped through him, hot and vicious with every beat of his heart. He wanted her in a way he wanted no other woman. His woman — his wife. Yes, he did understand now how he wanted her as he wanted no other.

Isabella struggled with her dress, twisting the fine material out of the way. He heard fabric rend and watched her shimmy the gown over her hips. Tugging the chemise over her head, she tossed it aside.

Naked save for her stocking-clad legs, Isabella leaned up on her elbows, mouth swollen from his, hair wild down her shoulders and back. Her nipples were tight buds, flushed a lovely pink. One hand came up to cup her breast, tease her nipple even as her movements teased him.

When he met her gaze, it was dark with the same wild passion that took hold of him.

Wanton. Oh, he'd seen other women, beautiful and bold and passionate in the bedroom, but they'd been skilled in their performances. Experts at presenting their bodies in the perfect manner to entice and arouse. Isabella, spread out before him, did not act.

The fire between them, the heat in their every touch, every kiss, was simply her. Need tightened through him, hot and desperate and very, very honest. This was her in all her beautiful glory — when she looked up at him with dark eyes, body begging for his touch.

When she held nothing of herself back.

Jonathon struggled for control, for the control he'd had his entire life, and found it lacking. No, not lacking, he realized as he quickly shucked his shoes and trousers. Utterly gone.

Isabella reached out for him, her fingers teasing his hard cock as he stretched over her on the cramped bed.

"I'll be glad to make love to you in a real bed," he said, his teeth grazing the nipple she toyed with.

"More room?" Isabella gasped and arched into his touch.

He hummed his agreement around her nipple, feeling a shudder of pleasure go through her. Kissing down her body, Jonathon tried to gather the threads of control to him, but it was no use. His cock was hard and aching, and he needed to bury himself in her warmth.

"Strathmore!" she cried as his tongue teased her wet folds.

Her hips bucked against him, uncontrollable as she cried out again. "Yes," she moaned. "Oh, yes!"

Not enough. It wasn't enough. Jonathon redoubled his efforts. He wanted her orgasm to sweep all thought from her mind. He wanted her to cry out until she grew hoarse.

Easily slipping two fingers into her, he thrust shallow even as he continued to tease her nub. Her body tightened beneath his touch, her hips jerking against the hand holding her still. Her heat clenched his fingers.

With a wordless scream, she shattered beneath him, back arched from the bed, wetness coating his fingers. He withdrew before she calmed and in one hard thrust buried himself in her.

Isabella's thighs cradled his hips; her ankles dug into the backs of his thighs. She met his even thrust, nails digging into his shoulders. Her mouth found his, and she kissed him hard and desperately.

"Yes," she repeated. "Yes."

He moved harder, with one leg over his arm to angle deeper into her. She clenched at him, and he knew her second orgasm was near. Torn between wanting to tease it out, wanting to feel her climax around him, Jonathon lost control.

He slammed hard into her. She screamed in completion, her nails in his bum pulling him deeper, harder against her. Again. Again. And again. His thrusts erratic, he felt his orgasm gather low through him and with one final thrust into her, he climaxed deep within his wife.

When he opened his eyes, he lay atop her. Below him, Isabella whimpered, body lax, breathing heavy. On unsteady limbs, he rolled off her and gathered her close.

It was a long time before either of them spoke, but when Isabella did, her words were soft. Her hand rested in the center of his chest, and she curled into his side, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.

"I didn't know winning this wager came with so many pleasurable moments."

Jonathon chuckled, one hand gentle on her back. With his other hand, he brushed her blonde hair off her face, fingers lingering on her pulse still pounding at the base of her neck. "This is only the beginning."

Isabella hummed happily then lapsed back into silence. Eventually she said, "We need to expose Russell and his wife."

A short laugh escaped him, and he lifted his head just enough to look at her.

Before he had a chance to respond, she continued. "It'd be for the best. They're more of a danger running amuck than they would be jailed in a cabin."

"We still have no definitive evidence again them," he reminded her. Then he grinned knowingly at her, a shared interest. "Only our vast experience at the tables has shown us they are most likely our guilty party."

Isabella rose on one arm, the fingers of her other hand combing through his hair. "Then let's find some."

# Chapter Fourteen

Jonathon watched Raffella nervously clean their small cabin. No, he amended as he watched her move. She wasn't nervous. But her energy was high, anticipatory even; clearly she needed to do something.

The ship rocked gently as they sailed up the Atlantic, and Raffella moved to the swaying as if she'd spent her entire life on board.

Isabella had gone to speak with Mrs. Keyes, who had finally found her sea legs and had managed to keep breakfast down just this morn. Jonathon had no doubts, and Isabella agreed, that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Keyes were involved with stealing items from on board. He couldn't be certain whether Collins was involved, given the seeming closeness between he and Russell.

He'd wanted to accompany Isabella when she spoke with Mrs. Keyes, but she insisted she'd get further woman to woman. He had agreed, albeit reluctantly.

All right — very reluctantly.

The truth of the matter was that he didn't want Isabella out of his sight. The memory of Russell's look haunted him every moment Isabella was gone. He'd held her throughout the night, barely sleeping though Jonathon knew it was impossible for Russell to enter their cabin.

Isabella had grown to mean so much to him in such a short time. So now, as he grasped at the threads of his control, he strained for normalcy. For calm.

He feared it was a losing battle.

"Are you certain you are clear on what we hope to achieve this afternoon?" he asked the maid, struggling to keep his voice even. After all, it wasn't Raffella's fault her mistress was stubborn. "You have no reservations? No hesitation?"

Raffella shook her head and offered a small smile, deferential still. "I understand Your Grace," she said, her accent thick but not enough to obscure her words. "I am to keep watch on the treacherous snakes and alert you when they have robbed from Mrs. Keyes."

She paused and shook her head. "Or anyone, if I notice. All sorts of things, you'd be surprised what people leave all over. I tell Isabella — Her Grace," she hastily corrected, "all the time. She must be careful what she leaves lying about."

Jonathon smiled at her, charmed by Raffella. She wasn't cowed by him or his position and genuinely cared for Isabella. "Isabella does not strike me as a careless woman."

"She is not," Raffella agreed. "She simply trusted those she should not have."

"Do you believe she's placed too much trust in me?" he asked the maid.

"Oh, Your Grace." She curtseyed low. "Please forgive me. I did not mean to overstep."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jonathon rocked back on his heels. "You have not. Please tell me," he said, voice low. He didn't need anyone overhearing this conversation. "I won't hold it against you; please elaborate, Raffella."

The maid took a deep breath, calming the sudden nerves he saw clearly in the way her hands twisted and her eyes dropped to the floor. Then she looked up at him. "I haven't seen her this content," Raffella said slowly then shook her head. "Happy. I haven't seen her this happy in a long while. I pray it will continue between the two of you."

Raffella swallowed and eyed Jonathon. The way she pressed her lips together told him she was nervous, even if the sharp tilt of her head said otherwise. "Signore Bradford was the wrong sort," she said shortly.

"I've seen his like before," Raffella continued, "believing their beauty was enough to get them all they desired. Isabella, Her Grace," she hastily corrected again, "is so much more beautiful than that bastard ever was. He was a small man, a petty man and he made her suffer and then abandoned her when he was no longer enchanted by her beauty."

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.

"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 experi _ence_?" 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."

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, this 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 together.

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.

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."

Isabella did not stiffen; she merely nodded. She'd expected Octavia to broach the subject last night, so this morning's conversation did not surprise her. "Yes. We should discuss that. Strathmore and I spoke of it on the final leg of our journey."

Frankly they should've discussed it earlier, in Genoa or even while still in Milan. However, it had only been after Gretna Green when Strathmore had mentioned it. She'd cursed herself for not bringing it up sooner, but hadn't wished to dwell on what her past scandal meant for her now that she'd married the Duke of Strathmore.

"There've been rumors and speculation." Octavia shrugged. "But gossip does as it does. With the right explanations, that gossip shall fade away into nothing."

She nodded in return. "I left abruptly." Isabella began the story she and Strathmore had decided upon. "A cousin of mine who I'd been close to as a child was in ill health. She recovered quickly, and I spent quite some time with her in France. We eventually traveled across the Continent for an extended stay in Milan. When she decided to return to her family, my parents sent Mrs. Primsby for me, as a chaperone back to England."

Isabella maintained eye contact with Octavia the entire time; neither woman flinched despite both knowing the fabrication of this story.

"However," she added, "I met Strathmore while still in Milan, and we married there before returning home."

"A perfectly reasonable explanation that should suffice," Octavia agreed. She took a deep breath and said reluctantly, "However, the rumors around you were lent a semblance of credence by your mother. Her refusal to discuss your whereabouts only fueled the gossip."

Octavia paused again then asked gently, "Have you written her?"

Isabella had no wish to discuss her mother, the words they'd had over Manning, or Alison Harrington's part in these rumors. But she took a slow, deep breath and nodded. "I have. And I'm hopeful that as a duchess now, she will not betray me."

Octavia squeezed her hand, and the look in the other woman's gaze showed Isabella that she hoped the same. No, Octavia's offer of friendship had not solely been for Strathmore's sake. It'd been honestly given.

Isabella wondered about Octavia's story, the past she barely hinted at. Perhaps one day the other woman might share her secrets.

Something eased within Isabella, a tension she hadn't realized she carried. She couldn't remember the last time she had a friend to confide in — Raffella notwithstanding. She spent the last years on her own. But it was nice, this genuine offer of friendship.

It made her feel welcomed.

"I cannot imagine she would. Now," Octavia said and stood, "I don't think we should keep the men waiting."

"I'll be down in a moment," Isabella said.

She wandered to the window and looked out over the vast estate. Was Strathmore in love with her? How did she feel about that? It changed things, to be sure, but he'd never pressured her or declared his feelings for her, either.

However, for her household to be free of scandal, Isabella needed to rely upon her mother. She wasn't certain she could. Isabella hoped Alison Harrington's desire to be mother to a duchess preceded her desire to hurt her daughter.

Like Strathmore, Isabella had never had a truly affectionate relationship with her mother. But it had been challenging. All the more so when Manning entered her life. Putting her mother out of her mind, Isabella thought only of Strathmore.

Should she pull back? Instill distance between them? Mayhap not — she had no wish to ruin what they already shared.

Octavia had to be mistaken.

Isabella knew Strathmore held some affection for her, and she for him, but love? No, what Octavia saw was merely her wish to see Strathmore happy. What Octavia saw was Strathmore's lust.

Isabella had to believe that. Love rarely entered into these sorts of marriages.

Turning from the window, Isabella dismissed the thought and moved forward. Silly though it may be, and she and Strathmore had laughed about it, today was the third of their three weddings, and she had no wish to be late.

* * * *

Strathmore left the coach for her and Octavia while he and Granville had taken the curricle. Smoothing her hand over the fine silk of her wedding dress, Isabella looked out the window. It was a beautifully bright day, with more than a hint of warmth in the air. She closed her eyes and tilted her head just enough to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin.

She thought their wedding in Milan had been the start of a new life, but now anticipation bubbled along her skin and she smiled.

Her life may have drastically changed in the last weeks, but Isabella knew it was all for the better.

The road to the parish church was lined with people. More people than she expected waved to them and tossed flowers at the passing carriages. It looked as if the entire county came out to greet the Duke of Strathmore and his bride.

Isabella was unable to help the flutter of happiness that settled in her stomach. She made no attempt to hide her joy. She wanted to villagers to see her happy; to see the young bride marry their duke.

This was truly the start of her new life, of _their_ new life. And Isabella wanted everyone to have the correct impression of her. Of the duke's new wife.

Octavia led her in as the crowd murmured and whispered as they jostled to see her. Another flutter of nerves gripped her, and Isabella scanned the crowd. They seemed happy to see her; no scowls or hints of malicious gossip reached her ears.

Nonetheless, her feet stumbled just inside the church doors.

"What's wrong?" Octavia asked, alarmed.

"What do they think of me?" Isabella whispered, just barely stopping herself from looking over her shoulder at the crowds. "I wonder what they think of me with Strathmore."

Octavia squeezed her arm. "You're a duchess now," she assured her. "They admire you."

Isabella nodded and breathed deeply, trying to push her nerves away with each breath. She wanted them to think well of her for Strathmore's sake.

The ceremony itself was a blur. Isabella couldn't remember how she made it to the altar next to Strathmore or what the priest said, but knew it was different from the first two ceremonies they shared. She didn't listen all that intently, but looked at Strathmore.

And memorized how he looked at her.

Had Octavia been right? Had Strathmore fallen in love with her? Perhaps. The thought made her skin tingle and her stomach flip. Or perhaps she fooled herself by thinking she had no deep feelings for Strathmore herself. Feelings she wanted to squash. Feelings she couldn't seem to keep at bay.

How strange was this, to feel as if she were in love with her husband. Oh, she was a fool. But at this moment, a happy fool.

"This is the ring you'll wear," he whispered as he slipped it onto her finger. "This is it. The last time I'm going to marry you."

Isabella stifled a chuckle as she looked into his gaze, the private, happy grin he offered her. With the ring on her finger, and Strathmore looking at her like she was all that mattered in the entire world, Isabella leaned closer and raised her hand. She briefly caressed his cheek, completely uncaring as to what anyone thought about the intimate gesture.

They walked, arm in arm, outside to cheers as the people called out for their good fortune. Strathmore tossed coins into the crowd, and the townsfolk scrambled to catch them. Isabella knew the village would celebrate well into the week and couldn't help the happy laugh that bubbled out.

Once more settled into the carriage next to Strathmore, she rested her head on his arm as they returned to the Hall. Octavia and Granville traveled in the curricle behind them but this moment was private, between her and her husband.

His hand tilted her chin up, his mouth warm on hers. Isabella hummed in the back of her throat and kissed him back. She leaned into him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his cheek.

She wanted to feel his skin beneath her fingertips, but settled for this kiss. Happiness and warmth and affection bloomed through her, making her shiver from it all.

"Now you are truly the Duchess of Strathmore," he said against her lips. Strathmore pulled back and cupped her cheeks. "No one in the world could deny you that."

"No." She laughed. "Not with three weddings. Not anymore." Isabella pressed her lips to his again and leaned back. "Your heir will most assuredly be legitimate."

His hand brushed down her cheek and along the line of her neck. "And no one will ever deny you are my duchess."

She leaned into his touch, her gaze on his as she weighed his words. "You've protected me with all this, have you not?" she asked, her hand on his cheek. Isabella already knew the answer but needed to hear him say the words.

He took her hand and kissed the back of her gloved fingers. "There is no scandal with you any longer. As far as anyone is aware, you were on the Continent with family when we met. And we took every possible precaution once betrothed and married."

"I've said as much to Lady Octavia," she told him.

Strathmore nodded and settled her beside him, holding her tight. The move was familiar and comfortable, and Isabella sighed as he held her against his warm, hard body. "Octavia tells me the village is awed by the care we took."

With his simple words, with the actions he made sure they went through from Milan to here, and despite the laughter they had over the three weddings, Strathmore had made sure the shame and scandal she'd been through the last two years vanished.

He created the story of three weddings that everyone was certain to remember: a most romantic gesture made from a duke to his duchess. No other story could ever tarnish that.

Isabella felt lighter than she had even after winning their bet or after their first wedding. She felt lighter and more carefree than she had in a long, long time. Mayhap ever.

It was, without a doubt, the biggest romantic gesture she'd ever witnessed, let alone had the pleasure of being the object of.

# Chapter Nineteen

The staff once again awaited their return. As she looked out from the carriage window, Isabella was pleased they seemed quite happy for them. From what Octavia said, the entire county viewed their three weddings with awe; on how romantic the duke was and how lucky they considered Isabella.

With her hand securely through the crook of Strathmore's elbow, Isabella acknowledged the staff as they slowly walked along the line. A small part of her wondered if they heard the rumors of her past, but if they had she saw no sign of it on their faces. Each and every one looked happy.

Their acceptance warmed her, and she smiled wider. Their happiness reflected hers.

However, it took Isabella a moment to realize the warmth spreading through her was less about their acceptance than it was about Strathmore. Yes, she'd won the wager between them and yes they married first in Milan then in Gretna Green. But this — all this here at his home, with his people and tenants and friends, all this made Isabella realize one thing.

She was not as resistant to love as she thought.

She looked up at Strathmore, felt the heat from his body and the steady, constant pressure on her arm and wondered if she let her guard slip too much; if he'd already found his way into her heart. Not because he was handsome, a duke, and wealthy. Or because he treated her well and made her laugh and was a better card player than she suspected.

Because he trusted her, and made her trust him simply by being himself.

When she smiled, wide and happy, it was less about how the townspeople surrounding Strathmore Hall accepted her and more about how Strathmore did. He looked down at her and that warmth heated.

Not with the heat of desire, though that simmered beneath the surface, always there, always for him. When had that happened? When did those feelings turn from enjoying the physical contact between them, enjoying the sex she hadn't had in such a long time, to enjoying him?

With a warmth that crumbled the walls surrounding her heart. Those same walls she painstakingly built to protect herself now didn't seem necessary. Not with Strathmore by her side.

She should be frightened. Somehow, Isabella was not. Not anymore.

Barrymore, the butler, stood at the head of the line, his back straight, chin high, the very epitome of an English butler. He bowed slightly and stood to the side with the rest of the staff.

"Congratulations, Your Graces," Barrymore said. "We'd all like to wish you many wonderful years here at Strathmore Hall."

"Thank you, Barrymore," Strathmore stated.

"We've taken the liberty of having a breakfast set out in Your Grace's private breakfast room."

"Thank you very much," Isabella said with a nod and smile. "And please express my sincere gratitude to the staff for their care and congratulations."

Barrymore once more bowed, and Strathmore led her into the Hall. She hadn't the opportunity to study the interior last night or this morning before they left for the church.

As elegant as she imagined it to be, the foyer was marble with sage green wallpaper and the wide staircase curved to either side of the house. No portraits lined the staircase, and Isabella assumed those hung in the portrait hall. Instead, detailed landscapes of fields and woods decorated her walk.

Their private breakfast room lay several doors down from her rooms. The pocket doors opened to a perfectly situated place where the morning sunlight brightened the interior. To the right was her morning room, she realized, and she wondered what the room to the left of this lovely little spot held.

French doors opened to a small balcony which overlooked the rear gardens. Isabella stepped outside and looked at the grounds. She saw the gardeners below, then farther out the tenant farms that were such a part of Strathmore Estate. Breathing deeply of the fresh summer air, of trees and flowers she hadn't smelled in years, she studied the layout of the estate.

Several outbuildings lay farther across the fields, and a copse of trees enticed her to walk through them. Her entire time in Milan had been spent in the city; never once — with Manning or after his departure — had she ventured to the outlying countryside.

Now, looking at the trees, at the open fields and, to her left, the stables, Isabella wondered if there was a stream or lake there where she and Strathmore could picnic by. Though it'd been years, she wanted to ride across the grounds or simply walk for miles of open air and woods.

She wanted to talk with Strathmore, learn more of him and his estates, of the people here.

Isabella wanted to embrace this new life. Wanted it more than anything; the feeling overwhelmed her. It was stronger than in Milan when she'd wanted to change her life; stronger than it'd been in Scotland when Strathmore shared the story of his mother with her.

Today, after this wedding, Isabella wanted to finally release her fears and embrace all he gave her.

Isabella hoped they might turn this Hall into a home.

Perhaps erase memories they both had of pasts that were imperfect.

With one final breath of fresh air, Isabella turned for the sideboard. The servants had provided what looked like a wedding feast, each item more scrumptious than the last. It seemed as if she barely had time to breathe since meeting Mrs. Primsby two months ago.

Now with her final wedding to Strathmore official and about to settle into their new home, Isabella took the time to slow down. To select from the delicious food laid out before them and take her time to simply enjoy.

Though she did miss the fig and grape jam.

She sat next to him at the round breakfast table. The midmorning sunlight slanted just across his back, highlighting his dark hair. She studied him for a moment and sipped her tea. Strathmore watched her intently, the green of his gaze alight with interest and the fire that continually burned between them.

Her heart jumped and that warmth she felt, had felt since Ireland, since the ship, spread. Isabella tried to pull back, but she shifted in her seat to more fully see him. She lifted one of his hands and held it in hers, brushing her lips along his palm.

"I was not certain that the outcome of our wager was something I truly wanted."

She picked up a sausage and nibbled on it, only to set it down almost immediately. She'd honestly not expected any of this when she'd made her end of the wager in the Royal Opera House. Not the warmth between them or the sincere reception his staff, and his dearest friends, offered her. Not even, she realized now, the passion that never cooled.

Strathmore stood and silently rounded the table.

His hands were warm on her bare shoulders, and his fingers caressed the back of her neck. "Neither was I, at first," he admitted quietly.

Twisting slightly to see him, Isabella watched him. Before she could say anything, though what she was uncertain, he continued.

"All this time with you." He stopped and shook his head. "No. From the moment you challenged me and rejected my generous offer to be released from this wager, I knew we were well matched."

"Yes," she said, her voice heavy with innuendo. "We are well matched in many ways."

Isabella paused and took a deep breath before looking directly into his eyes. "I have one fear well," she stopped and added, "one at the moment. I fear I may have cheated you."

His eyebrow raised. "At the card table? Then it was an expert cheat."

She shook her head and breathed out in amusement. "I won that game with all fairness," she said primly. "But I fear I may have cheated you from finding a woman who was truly _your_ choice."

Before she could continue, he kissed the palm of her hand. Her breath caught and whatever else she wanted to say disappeared.

"If you were not my choice," he said softly and with utter sincerity, "I wouldn't have played the game."

Mouth dry, she tried to speak but no words came out.

His eyes darkened and his hands reached up to cup her cheeks. He urged her to stand, his body close to hers, lips a breath away. "Shall we save the cake for after we've fulfilled our duty?"

Despite their closeness and the way her blood heated with his touch, Isabella laughed. She closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his. Before he could deepen the kiss, she stepped back and walked toward the door. She backed through the pocket doors and down the hall, watching him as he followed.

At his bedroom door, she held out her hand. "We must see to our duty, first."

Amused, Strathmore laughed and the happy sound went straight through her. She stretched up on her toes to kiss him, but found herself simply touching him instead. Isabella loved his eyes, the fathomless emerald of them. She traced the side of his face with a touch all too light, over his cleanly shaven jaw.

Would she have loved him had they met before? If they married before her scandal? Before Manning? Isabella knew the answer was yes. She'd have fallen in love with the handsome duke; he amused her, challenged her in ways no other had before. And he made her body sing.

A small part of her heart passionately wished she'd met him first.

But they hadn't met before. She dropped her hands and tried to collect herself. Tried to stop her heart from making foolish wishes. They hadn't met before her scandal, and Isabella didn't wish to feel the clawing pain of love turned to dust.

She took a deep breath and slid her hands over Strathmore's shoulders, pressed her fingers into his back, and pulled him to her.

Isabella couldn't read the expression in his gaze and the dark intensity of his look as he watched her. But then his mouth was on hers, a softly demanding kiss that stole her breath and made her blood burn with want.

She joked about doing their duty, but every time they kissed and touched, with every brush of his fingers along her bare skin, Isabella felt less like duty and more like a cherished woman. Like Strathmore's cherished woman.

Trying to shake it off, to push away these feelings of...of...Isabella couldn't name them. Or mayhap didn't wish to name them.

But then Strathmore's hands were on her hips, and he pulled her closer. She whimpered and deepened the kiss, her hands pushing his jacket off his broad shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons to his waistcoat. She wanted to feel him against her, his hard body pressed to hers, filling her.

She'd grown used to his touch, more she craved it.

Isabella tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it away with the rest of his clothes. Strathmore broke the kiss and spun her around, kissing along the back of her neck and across her shoulders as he tried to unbutton her wedding gown.

"Damn it," he cursed, and Isabella heard the rending of fabric.

She laughed as the gown pooled at her feet. Stepping out of it she grinned at him over her shoulder. "Half your fortune shall go to replace my wardrobe."

She turned in his arms, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, down his hips. He still wore his trousers, and she hurried to unfasten them even as he tugged her chemise over her head.

Shoving the trousers over his hips, Isabella turned and pushed him onto the bed as she quickly finished stripping him. She climbed onto the bed and knelt before him. She traced her fingers over his hard cock, watching his face as she did so.

His green eyes darkened further but watched her with a complete focus that sent shivers of awareness through her. Isabella leaned over and pressed her lips to his hip, kissing up his belly even as her fingers continued to stroke him.

Strathmore's breathing changed; his hands fisted in the sheets, but he said nothing. Isabella smiled. Wetness pooled in her belly, that same piercing need to feel him inside her. But she held back.

Isabella moved down the bed and, not breaking eye contact, kissed the tip of his cock. Strathmore growled her name and the thrill of power, of arousal, of sheer _want_ that bolted through her made Isabella whimper.

She'd tasted him before, but the cabin on the ship had been cramped and hadn't made it easy for her to explore her husband as much as she'd wished. Now, married in England with everything as official as it could possibly be, Isabella wanted to know him as thoroughly as he knew her.

"Isabella," Strathmore growled again as she slipped the head of his cock between her lips.

He shuddered beneath her touch, and that power she'd felt earlier once more throbbed through her. She whimpered around his cock, still watching him. Releasing him, Isabella crawled up his body until she hovered over him.

Strathmore watched her; his jaw clenched, eyes nearly black, and he hadn't moved. Isabella pressed her fingers into his chest and slowly sank onto him. She released a sigh at the feel of him within her and rotated her hips. She saw the instant he snapped.

His hands released the grip he had on the bedding and settled onto her hips, pressing hard enough to bruise. Isabella didn't care. In fact, she reveled in the possessive touch. The feel of him beneath her as she raised herself up and slowly sank back down only made her want him more.

He filled her perfectly, and she paused and simply watched him for long, long moments. The warmth from earlier hadn't abated, had only increased, spreading through her in seamless complement to the fire burning through her blood. Her heart filled with emotion and her breath caught.

Isabella slowly, slowly lifted her hips up, hands braced on Strathmore's chest, utterly unable to tear her gaze from his.

His look burned through her, hot and piercing and weighted with things he never said.

Something in her snapped. The pace wasn't slow or soft or leisurely. She rocked hard against him, nails scratching down his chest hard enough to leave marks. One of his hands slid up her back, fingers teasing her already aching nipples then down, finding her nub and circling it until she screamed out his name.

Her orgasm shuddered through her; sparks of light flashed behind her eyes and still she moved, taking him deeper and deeper. His fingers continued to work her nub, and Isabella cried out again, head thrown back, nails digging into his chest.

Strathmore moved, rolling them over and lifting her legs over his shoulders. He pounded into her, harder and harder still, his mouth on hers, possessive. On her throat, teeth nipping the sensitive skin. Isabella held him close, feeling her pleasure build again, and knew he was close.

She felt it; he wanted to possess her. He was possessive and had only become more so since they'd left Genoa. Isabella felt it, relished it — and felt herself possessive as well.

Right then she knew — he wanted to erase Manning. Erase her previous lover from her body, her mind, her soul. And Isabella knew she'd let him. Wanted him to.

"Isabella," he chanted, and she forced her eyes to open and watch him.

"Yes," she said, and even as the word left her lips, his climax rushed through him.

He held himself still, so still above her, and she shuddered as points of pleasure spread through her. With a whimper, her legs fell from his shoulders and he slipped out of her. Strathmore groaned and rolled to the side, breathing heavily even as he gathered her against him.

Isabella curled against his chest and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply of his scent, heart still racing, body pleasantly liquid, and sighed contentedly, letting herself drift off to sleep. When she woke, much later, it was to her husband watching her. One hand propped up his head while the other traced random lines across her belly, along the underside of her breast, and down.

"Should we rejoin the world?" he asked and dipped his head to press his lips to hers. "Or," he continued, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "should we leave England again and have a proper honeymoon? It's tradition for us to take a month or two abroad."

Isabella chuckled and rolled atop him, resting her head on her folded hands. "We haven't been traditional since we met." She brushed a hand through his hair and laughed again. "I suggest we forgo that particular practice and stay home."

The instant that final word left her mouth, Isabella realized that was exactly what she meant. Strathmore Hall, for all she'd been here less than a full day, was her home. She saw it in Strathmore's gaze, the softening there, the gentle smile, the tenderness with which his hands stroked her bare back.

"Come," she said and sat up. Isabella took his hand and kissed the palm even as she climbed from the bed. "I wish to explore the Hall."

* * * *

Dressed in a simple day gown, Isabella sat before her vanity and waited for Raffella to finish pinning her hair. Just as her maid completed the task, Strathmore entered. He traded the heavily embroidered blue jacket and waistcoat for a simpler style, his cravat not as elaborate as the one he'd worn for their wedding just hours before.

She turned on the stool and grinned up at him. He crossed to where she sat and kissed her. "I need to speak with the gardener." He pulled back and caressed her cheek. "I'll be back shortly and we can explore."

"All right," she said and stood. "Come find me when you've finished."

Isabella squeezed his hand and watched him walk out her dressing room doors. She could begin to get to know her new household, speak with Mrs. Hardy, the head housekeeper, and the cook.

Instead, she wandered through the portrait hall and library. Only her rooms, the duchess's rooms, were so somberly furnished. Every other room she'd entered was well appointed and elegant.

She found herself in one of the smaller rear parlors, the doors open to the beautiful summer day, when Barrymore interrupted her. "Your Grace. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington request an audience."

Isabella felt her heart stumble. Her parents? Here? She'd written them weeks before leaving Milan, but hadn't expected to hear from them. Or, worse, to have them arrive here at Strathmore Hall.

Tilting her chin, Isabella straightened her shoulders. She should've known better. Should've known they'd never let her brief, simple letter be enough. With a quick look around the small room, she stepped forward.

"Thank you, Barrymore," she said. "I'll see them in the front parlor."

The butler bowed and walked out, but Isabella waited another minute. The knot in her stomach made her nauseous. She thought she'd eventually see them, travel there with Strathmore — many, many months from now. Perhaps after their first child was born.

Isabella had no idea they'd travel _here_. But no, she should've realized her mother would've made the trip. Despite marrying Strathmore, despite now being the Duchess of Strathmore, it wouldn't have mattered to Alison Harrington.

She hoped so prestigious a title as the Duchess of Strathmore had won her mother over. Her hope was in direct contrast with the knots tightening in her stomach.

But perhaps she did not give her mother enough credit; perhaps her mother was proud of her. Happy, at least, for what the title duchess afforded the family.

With slow steps, measured and even, Isabella walked down the hall. She fleetingly wished Strathmore was here, but instantly dismissed that. No, she had no desire for him to witness what transpired between her and her mother. At least not until she knew what her mother's sentiments were going to be.

They'd never had a pleasant relationship, though after hearing of Strathmore's relationship with his mother, Isabella was glad it was a different sort of relationship. Still, Alison Harrington had been a hard woman, always pushing for better connections, better prospects, much improve marriage proposals for Isabella.

Steps from the parlor door, she took one last deep breath, which did very little to help, and pushed the past aside. Isabella held her head high, hoped her mother understood what this marriage meant, and entered the grand front parlor.

They looked the same.

After two years, Isabella didn't know what she expected, but her parents did look the same. Perhaps her father was a little grayer around the temples or the lines around her mother's mouth a little harsher, but otherwise they looked exactly as they had when she'd snuck out of their townhouse and raced away from them.

Her mother sat in the settee, posture perfectly straight, her eyes, the same color as Isabella's, piercing as they pinned Isabella to the floor the instant she stepped through the doors.

"Isabella," her father said and crossed from where he stood by the banked fireplace. "It's good to see you."

He didn't embrace her — of course not. Not with Alison Harrington sitting there as still and cold as a judge at the Old Baily. But he did take her hand and smile warmly at her. Isabella allowed a small smile in return and squeezed his hand.

"It's good to see you as well, Father."

Then her mother cleared her throat. Every barrier, each and every wall she built around herself from the moment Manning left her until leaving Milan with Strathmore, suddenly reinforced themselves. She'd allowed herself to grow soft, to let the friendship and passion she and Strathmore shared help her forget the hard lessons her mother taught her.

"Mother." She raised an eyebrow but didn't move further into the parlor or offer to ring for tea. "I didn't expect you to make the long journey so quickly."

"You sent us that letter months ago, Isabella," her mother said with all the haughtiness she possessed. "Did you not believe we wouldn't travel to see our only child?"

"No," she admitted ruefully. Then she subtly cleared her throat and tried for an even tone. "It's simply unexpected. If you arrived earlier, you would've been able to attend the wedding this morning."

Did she truly want her mother at her wedding? It didn't matter; today's ceremony was neither here nor there as far as she was concerned. This morning? Was it only this morning? Suddenly their wedding seemed very, very far away.

Alison shifted on the settee. "We were here," she said shortly. "We're staying in the village. However," she continued and Isabella braced herself.

She knew that look in Alison's eyes, and it twisted painfully in her stomach.

"I chose not to attend." Alison stood but didn't step closer. Sitting in her daughter's parlor — especially her _duchess_ daughter's parlor — had to be demeaning to Alison. Demeaning and in a position of less power, and if there was one thing her mother wielded, it was power.

"I had no interest in witnessing a duke lower himself to marry _you_."

"I see." Isabella gave nothing more away but stood there, rooted by anger and nausea. She wanted to move, pretend this conversation with her mother meant nothing to her, but found her limbs were locked in place.

"I cannot understand how you managed to fool the man," Alison continued. "What trickery you used. You should not have returned to England, Isabella. You should not have disgraced a duke."

Isabella briefly wondered if this was more about her shame or Strathmore's supposedly inevitable disgrace for marrying her.

"You are nothing but a common whore," her mother continued, stepping angrily closer. "You gave yourself away to no one for nothing."

Isabella looked to her father, but Robert Harrington remained silent, as always. He studied his shoes as if they were the answer to all his problems. Her father had never been anything more than the decoration Alison Harrington used for her arm.

Clasping her hands before her, waiting for the numbness to recede and the pain to take hold, Isabella waited. Her mother was far from finished.

"And now, what is this?" Alison demanded, her hand a sharp gesture around the room. "Do you expect to flaunt yourself as a duchess?"

Swallowing her anger, Isabella stepped forward. Angry with her mother, and with herself for listening to Alison's words, she snapped.

"I am a duchess," Isabella bit out.

"You are not fit to wear the mantle of a duchess," her mother said, ignoring Robert and focusing with unerring precision on Isabella's words. "You are a fraud."

Her mother's words echoed in her head. And her heart. When Isabella had first proposed this wager with Strathmore, she hadn't cared about _his_ reputation — only about repairing hers.

Now, so many months later, she cared more for Strathmore than herself.

"Where is the duke?" her mother continued. She scented blood now, and Isabella knew she'd not give up. "He should know what sort of woman lives in his household."

Alison pushed past her, and Isabella let her go. What did her mother hope to achieve? She and Strathmore were already married — did she hope to force Strathmore's hand in some manner and secure an annulment?

That would scandalize not just Isabella's repaired reputation but hers as well; surely Alison saw that.

"Isabella."

She looked up to see her father, looking wan and pale. He said nothing more, but she knew he hadn't seen her mother this vitriol, either.

Without a word to her father, Isabella whirled on her heel and went in search of her mother. And her husband.

# Chapter Twenty

"It'll have to be done again," Jonathon agreed with the head gardener.

The entire foundation of the fountain was cracked; he saw no way a simple patch could fix the leak.

Plus, it was the most expedient answer he could give. He didn't care about the fountain today. Right now all he wanted was to return to Isabella and spend the day exploring with her. Or continuing his exploration of her body — her sensitive spot, those places that aroused her and those that amused her.

But he'd been gone months, now, and even though Strathmore had great faith in his steward, apparently the gardeners did not. With a final nod to the man, Jonathon turned on his heel and left, walking quickly lest anyone else have questions for him.

He just crossed the back terrace when a well-dressed woman he'd never seen before stormed across the lawn. Jonathon blinked. Had Isabella expected callers? No, surely everyone knew the proper etiquette for a newly married couple. Was this a friend of Octavia's?

The woman barreled toward him, clearly on a mission, and all thoughts of callers vanished. This was no social visit.

This was Isabella's mother.

The resemblance was clear, even if Jonathon doubted the other woman smiled a day in her life. But her hair was the same hue as Isabella's; he'd spent hours combing his fingers through her hair, enjoying the silken feel on his fingertips. Her features, despite the harsh set to her mouth and the pinched look she wore, had clearly been passed along to her daughter, too.

The woman looked up at him and offered a small curtsey. "Your Grace, pardon the intrusion."

Bringing to bear every ounce of generations of Strathmore arrogance, he folded his arms across his chest. "And you are?"

"Forgive me, I am Alison Harrington, Isabella's mother," she said, though when she said her daughter's name, it wasn't with the affection of a long-lost child. It was with a hiss, as if she spat the word.

Jonathon knew that tone all too well from his own mother's tongue.

"Welcome to Strathmore Hall," he said, giving the woman the benefit of the doubt despite her poor manners. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sure Isabella is pleased to see you. Let's go inside and find her."

She stepped to the side as he made to pass her, but her words stopped him. "I've come to have a private word with you."

He slowly turned. "All right," he allowed. "What is this regarding?"

He very much doubted it related to a surprise or a gift, but Jonathon waited.

"Isabella is not a proper duchess for you, I'm sorry to say," the woman said.

"Pardon?" he demanded, harsher than the polite word implied.

She drew herself up as if her full height mattered. "I'm uncertain what Isabella has said to you or what lies she has spun, but she is not a proper young woman. She's a defiant girl who has ruined herself. Isabella left England with an unsuitable man and without the benefit of marriage. Has she informed you of that?"

His eyes narrowed, and Jonathon looked around but they were alone, him and Isabella's mother. Furious, jaw clenched, he grabbed her arm and dragged the woman farther from any eavesdroppers. His rough treatment and obvious anger didn't stop the woman's vicious tongue.

"Did she tell you how she sullied herself?" she demanded. "How she left her parents' home?" She sniffed and didn't seem to notice either his move to pull her away from the house or the anger beating through him.

"She was not traveling with relatives." The woman shook off Jonathon's arm and tossed her head in a way he admired in Isabella. On her mother, the move simply annoyed him. "She was living with a lover."

"I see," he managed through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "But it had to be said. You need to annul your marriage to my daughter, Your Grace. I will be willing to sign a testimony against her so you may leave this marriage without need to arrange for her support."

He saw red. Pure red anger that momentarily blocked his vision. No one threatened his wife. Not even her mother. Especially not her mother.

Feelings he thought long buried about his own mother now reared up with a malicious bite. His mother would've dismissed him just as Alison dismissed her daughter — however, at the very least, his mother had never tried to cut his throat as Alison tried now with Isabella. To leave her mired in scandal she had no hope of escaping.

Jonathon attempted to clear his anger, to think rationally, but all he heard was Alison's threat to Isabella. All he saw was that vindictive, proud smile on her face. He took a moment before he physically tossed this woman out of his house, then another.

For Alison Harrington to have been at the manor this early in the morning, she had to have stayed in the village. She could have stopped their wedding before it began, embarrassed Isabella in front of the entire county.

Instead, Alison had waited. Perhaps it was partly not to embarrass him, but Jonathon doubted that. No, her entire reason for confronting him here, after the wedding itself, had been to hurt Isabella in the worst possible manner.

To have the entire village see Isabella tossed out of her new husband's home.

"No." He spat the word and stepped closer.

"I refuse to allow you to continue to speak in such a manner about _my wife_. I don't know what your petty troubles are with your daughter, but I suggest you never repeat what you have said here to another soul."

He stepped closer, his hand curled into fists at his side. "If it comes to my attention that _anyone_ speaks to damage my wife's reputation," he added in a low voice that visibly frightened the woman, "there will be consequences."

Alison sniffed even through the fear he so clearly saw. "You do not understand—"

"I understand full well," he assured her in that same cold, calm voice, "when an old, bitter woman intends on ruining someone. It's a tragedy you unleased your venom against your own daughter."

With Alison Harrington now standing before him, poisonous words about Isabella spewing rapidly from her tongue, Jonathon realized Isabella understood far more than she said about difficult parental relationships.

What had been her reaction in Milan when he'd guessed she'd write her parents first? He thought it'd been cool acceptance, perhaps even with a hint of glee. But he hadn't known her as well as he did now.

Now he realized her coolness hid the same memories he carried.

Jonathon leaned over Mrs. Harrington with all the threatening composure he felt toward a woman who spoke of her own child as this one did. She stepped back, her facade cracked but not broken. "Isabella did not listen to me—"

"I have heard enough," Jonathon snapped. "Your attempts at harming my wife will cease now. Unless you'd like your own reputation and finances ruined."

He took a half step closer, temper carefully reigned in. "How difficult would it be for a lover to tell his tale to the gossip papers? Over an illicit affair with you?" he asked quietly, deadly intent. "There are so many ways to destroy a woman's reputation. You will live as a pariah in society if you utter one word against my wife."

Jonathon waited a heartbeat and added, just as softly, just as lethal. "My wife, the Duchess of Strathmore. People will watch you, and I expect you to never darken our doorway again."

Turning sharply on his heel, Jonathon stalked into the house, uncaring what Isabella's mother did. Once inside the house, he shouted for Barrymore as he made his way with long, hard strides toward the front door.

"Your Grace?"

"See Mrs. Harrington is returned to her situation." Jonathon looked behind him, but of course the woman hadn't followed him. "Immediately."

Isabella suddenly stepped before him, an older gentleman, no doubt her father, beside her. Jonathon glared at the other man and wordlessly dismissed him. Any father who did not stand up for his daughter was not welcomed in his house, either.

Jonathon turned to Isabella and stepped forward, softening when he saw the tightness around her mouth and the stiffening in her spine and shoulders with an unnatural tautness.

"Forgive us, Your Grace," her father said quietly. Behind him, Jonathon heard Mrs. Harrington's footsteps. "We'll see ourselves out."

He didn't watch them leave, but waited until Barrymore closed the door behind them. He stepped toward Isabella then, reaching for her hand. It was cold and stiff in his own. She immediately pulled away.

"I don't want to discuss this," she said and turned sharply on her heel.

"Stop." Jonathon snapped the word and moved in front of her.

She looked up at him, her face impassive, but her fingers curled into the skirts of her gown, the only sign betraying her.

He curled his hand around her upper arm and gestured to the parlor she and her father recently vacated. He wouldn't drag her in there — damn it, yes he would. The woman who faced him now was not the same who'd left their bed only this morning.

Jonathon knew this woman — saw it in her eyes as she once again became the closed-off gambler he'd originally met in Milan. Fear clutched a cold hand at his insides. He wanted the smiling, laughing wife he'd come to know since then.

Even if he didn't accept an hour with her mother had changed her, Jonathon feared he'd lost the woman he wanted. The woman he loved.

"We need to discuss this," he said, closing the pocket doors, "and now."

Jonathon took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. Isabella watched him, her eyes blank, posture stiff and immobile. That fear moved along his spine, icy and panicked. Jonathon desperately looked for a way to tear down the walls she erected around her heart.

To find the woman he'd fallen in love with, the woman he needed in his life more than he'd realized.

"What that woman said to me was absolutely deplorable."

"She has her opinions of me," Isabella said, her voice hard and thin. "And you know she isn't mistaken."

She didn't flinch at those words but merely raised her chin higher as if waiting for a blow. Jonathon had a feeling she was used to that, used to waiting for the verbal swipe.

"She is disgraceful in my eyes," he told her, making sure Isabella understood him. He closed the distance and cupped her shoulders. In a quieter voice but no less firm and sure he said, "And I promise, she won't repeat it."

"Thank you," Isabella said in a very polite and cordial tone. "However, this entire situation with my family has reminded me that our association is based on a wager."

Jonathon didn't flinch at that statement but merely waited. She withdrew further from him with each word, though she stayed perfectly still, motionless before him.

"I appreciate the kindness you've shown me these past weeks." She nodded, her chin still tilted in defense. "But I also must remind you that our marriage is one that comes with understandings between us. If you choose to take a mistress to your bed tonight, it would not bother me. Once I have your heir, expect I shall take a lover to mine."

Jaw clenched, Jonathon purposely loosened his fingers from her shoulders. Her dark eyes were cool as she watched him steadily, and he saw the walls his wife carried build back up right before his eyes.

Cursed Alison Harrington and her husband, and wished they'd never made the journey to his home.

Breathing heavily, he took a half step back. He wanted to stomp out and find Isabella's mother and drag her back inside. Tell her in very specific detail how ignorant and selfish she was. Jonathon wanted Alison Harrington to feel as small as she made her daughter feel. Let her know how reprehensible she was for her attack on her daughter.

For the lack of loyalty and support from her own mother.

Drag her father back here as well and demand he stand up for his daughter instead of being the weak-willed coward who stood behind his wife and allowed her ignorance to reign over their daughter.

More than that, he wanted to shake Isabella. Shake her until she saw reason.

He'd murder any man she took to her bed.

Slowly crossing his arms over his chest, he watched her, but Isabella didn't flinch beneath his gaze. Shouting at her would do no good, though he still wanted to shake her until she forgot her mother's words.

Instead he took a deep breath. It did naught to help the fury pounding through him with every beat of his heart.

"And if I do not want that?" he spat.

"Then you should've considered more carefully before you wagered yourself."

Jonathon moved before he realized it, gripping her arm tightly and hauling her against him. Isabella flinched, the only emotion she'd shown since he found her with her father.

"It's become more than a wager between us."

"We've become friends, true," she said in a slightly softer tone. "And that will make our lives all the more pleasant. But that does not mean we shall be anything more."

His hand tightened briefly on her arm before he dropped it. Furious — at Isabella, at Alison Harrington, at this entire morning — Jonathon stepped back again. He didn't trust himself.

"Did that woman affect you so profoundly with one visit?"

"She simply reminded me that emotions don't belong in our marriage," Isabella said as if conversing about the weather. Her fingers wrapped around the bracelet she continued to wear, brushed along the stones like a talisman.

"I think you should rest," he said, the words barely making it past his clenched jaw. "And consider what you've said."

Without another word, Jonathon turned sharply on his heel and stormed out. He didn't trust himself not to do something stupid. Or say something even rasher. He stalked through the house and toward the stables, calling for his horse as he did so.

He needed time. Though Jonathon suspected it was already far too late.

At the stables he turned back and looked at the house. Didn't she know? Didn't she understand? Isabella had captured him with more than simply a wager.

She was a part of him now.

Jonathon thought she believed he was a part of her, too. It hurt, a knife twisting through him, to know she didn't. To think she could so easily brush away all that grew between them these last weeks.

Months of learning to trust and falling in love. With a few callous words, everything he wanted, had held onto, vanished like a cheap market day trick.

"She can't brush it all away," he vowed.

# Chapter Twenty-One

Isabella waited until Strathmore's footsteps disappeared. Then she waited still, waited until the band constricting her chest eased and her fingers unclenched from her gown. But she didn't shake. She remained standing, perfectly still, head held high.

Strathmore Hall suddenly felt unbearably silent. It echoed around her as if the sounds she'd so quickly come to associate with it vanished as surely as her mother.

She drew in a deep breath, and though it hurt, she drew in another one. Slowly, with her eyes straight ahead, Isabella made her way up the staircase and toward her bedroom. The duchess's bedroom.

With fingers that barely worked, she opened the door to the dark, somber room. Mayhap it wasn't as melancholy as she first thought. Isabella looked around the room again, with eyes no longer blinded by the blush of infatuation.

She'd keep this room, keep it with its dark blues and darker wood. It reflected a life of duty and obligation. Naught more. A life that now awaited Isabella. As soon as she knew for certain she was with child, she'd spend not a moment more in Strathmore's chambers.

No. Not Strathmore. _The duke's_ chambers.

Isabella needed to remember that. Their marriage was in name only — a wager won and consummated but never more than that. Certainly not the friendship they developed. The warmth they shared. The laughter.

Isabella stood at the window and looked out at the vast grounds. She could lose herself there; spend her days wandering the fields and wood. The stream Strathmore told her about, the one she'd earlier wanted to picnic beside with him.

Shaking her head sharply, Isabella blinked, bringing the room — and her situation — back into focus.

What a fool she was.

What Manning had done was far worse than the money he stole or how he'd left her unprotected in a foreign country. She left everything for him — friends and family and future — and had given him everything, her life and her heart. And he abandoned her without a backward glance.

In those weeks after Manning left her, Isabella vowed never to fall in love with another. It hurt too deeply, cutting her to the quick until she hadn't been certain she'd ever recover.

She had — oh, she had — but the scars had never faded.

Her time with Strathmore had made her forget. Made her forget the hurt and anger and those scars. Made her see a future she once envisioned with Manning.

No, she thought and sat heavily on the divan.

She never envisioned such a future with Manning. They always lived in the moment. With Strathmore, Isabella all too easily saw their future. One filled with laughter and warmth and a family. The family she hadn't realized she wanted until it'd been offered her.

What if Strathmore did the same? What if he took all she was, all she offered, and simply...left? It'd break her.

He was a duke; they weren't known for their faithfulness. Whether it be tomorrow or in two years, he'd find a mistress. Why should she allow herself to invest in him as she had? The simple answer was that she shouldn't.

That realization hurt far more than Isabella thought it would. Far more than she wanted it to, than she was prepared for it to hurt.

It was dangerous, these visions of her future. They could be snatched away in a breath. Strathmore had threatened her mother, but that certainly did not mean Alison Harrington would not still release her venom and embarrass her, embarrass Strathmore.

Simply because she felt it her right to do so.

Could Isabella give him a chance to walk away? Distance himself from the scandal she'd surely bring down upon him? He'd gone to so much trouble with all these weddings.

A tear splashed on her hand, and Isabella sniffed, hastily wiping her cheeks. She couldn't break down, not now. But her fingers shook, and it hurt to breathe. Those walls she'd taken such care to erect after Manning, the ones that had crumbled the longer she spent with Strathmore only to be hastily built once more, crashed around her.

He'd gone to such lengths to protect her and any potential child. Had she been a fool to think even a title as lofty as _duke_ was enough to protect her from her own sins?

The door slammed open. Isabella jumped and whirled, but was unsurprised to see Strathmore in the doorway. He looked furious, his eyes hard as they found her. He stalked into the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

"Perhaps it's best we sleep separately this evening," she said.

But her heart pounded. She didn't fear he'd physically hurt her, but the intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. So be it. Isabella lifted her chin higher. If he wished to have things out between them now, so much the better.

No need to prolong the inevitable.

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 cards 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 doubted 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.

"Jonathon," she breathed and leaned back. "You're insatiable. Perhaps you need time with your friends."

Isabella ran her hand through his hair and cupped the back of his head. "Granville and Hamilton will also be in London," she pointed out.

"Just one more reason to stay away," he insisted, but she felt his lips curve into a smile against her throat.

She snorted and pulled back just enough to give him a mockingly disapproving look.

"I simply wish to stay here with my wife," he whispered. "I don't think I'll ever tire of the two of us alone."

Affection and love closed her throat and Isabella leaned into him. She breathed him in and held him close. The easy affection should've surprised her — scared her at least. But Isabella knew her husband and, finally, knew her own heart.

He kissed her again, lips lingering on hers. "Though I suppose," he said slowly, "we should venture out among others, from time to time."

Isabella smiled, soft and loving, and brushed her fingers over his cheek. "Well," she whispered, her previous desire to travel to London rapidly diminishing, "when you put it like that..."

She pressed her lips to his, a soft kiss full of all the love she felt for this man. Never had she felt so safe, so protect, and so loved as she did with Jonathon.

Her duke.

# A Note to my Incredible Readers

I hope you enjoyed this first of my new Regency series: Scandalous Encounters. They've been so fun to write. Coming in early autumn of 2015 will be _Improper Match_ followed by two Christmas short stories in the Scandalous Encounters series: _Improper Christmas_ and _Improper Duke_.

If you have enjoyed my stories, I'd greatly appreciate you sharing your views on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Goodreads. I'm always available through email if you have any comments, questions, or requests.

If you'd like to sign up for my newsletter, I post news about my stories, excerpts, and historical recipes exclusive to the newsletter. You can also find me on Twitter, on my Blog, on  Facebook, and pinning like mad on Pinterest.

As always, thank you so much for reading!

# About Kristabel Reed

Kristabel Reed lives on the East Coast and loves to explore the steamier side of historical romance. She loves all romances, but historical ménages particularly which add an element of danger and discovery not seen in contemporaries.

She loves reading, watching old movies, random quotes, and anything Cary Grant.

# Excerpt from Improper Match

The daughter of a successful merchant, Selina Lyndell never expected to marry an earl. But that's exactly what's about to happen. But then it all falls apart—her father is convicted of murder and hanged, vicious scandal follows her like a second shadow, and Selina herself is hunted.

Edmund, Earl of Granville, isn't letting Selina go without a fight, be that on the streets of London, at the Old Baily, or against the _ton_ 's vicious gossip. Nothing will stop him from clearing the family name of the woman he loves.

# Chapter One

London

September 1817

"Strathmore has an excuse for turning into a house-bound bore," James Hamilton complained as he lounged indolently in the carriage seat across from Edmund.

The words were spoken in Hamilton's voice, but as far as Edmund Pembroke, the Earl of Granville could tell, his friend hadn't moved at all. The only oddity this afternoon, with Hamilton at least, was that today his friend clutched a single ladies' glove. Usually it was a comb in his hair or something equally absurd.

An hour ago Hamilton's footman had come to him, inquiring as to Mr. Hamilton's whereabouts. Edmund didn't know why the man had not gone directly to the club, the most likely place for Hamilton, nor why Hamilton tasked the man with reminding him of a supposedly very important meeting.

However, Edmund agreed to assist the footman and here they were. In the carriage, making their slow way across town.

The glove in Hamilton's hand clearly told Edmund he'd been with his mistress. Perhaps a new one. It was always hard to tell with Hamilton.

Edmund and his friend, Strathmore, had been rather indiscreet with their dalliances while traveling the Continent. If they added both their indiscretions together, it wouldn't come close to the number of James Hamilton's conquests. Edmund was positive there wasn't a woman out there capable of taming that bachelor.

"But you." Hamilton raised his gaze and glared at Edmund. "You should've joined me at the club last night. What pressing matters could've possibly kept you from such entertaining company?"

Hamilton waved the glove at him, as if it was all the temptation Edmund needed. Rolling his shoulders in a dismissive shrug, Edmund ignored Hamilton. His own tastes had never run to such loose women, even if he had enjoyed his fair share.

"I was with my footman. We were finishing the final details for Octavia's birthday," Edmund said, exasperated.

# Also by Kristabel Reed

### Countess Curvy: A Curvy Girl's Earl

Audrey Mills is in London to organize a charity fashion event, where she meets Duncan Collins, the Earl of Thronhill. Confident in her curves, Audrey doesn't expect Duncan to want more than a holiday fling. But when things begin to heat up, will she panic and run? Countess Curvy is a 36,000 word m/f story with explicit sex scenes and a curvy leading lady that's curvy-licious!

### Boss Likes Curves: A Curvy Girl's Billionaire

VP of Development, Sabrina McKenna, has worked hard to get where she is with Gideon Hotels. When Gideon Marquez asks her to attend several important business functions, Sabrina agrees. It's only after 2 months of these functions that she realizes they've been dating. And she's fallen hard for her boss. Can Gideon convince her what he feels for her is forever? Or will Sabrina's insecurities make her flee? Boss Likes Curves is a 39,000 word m/f story with explicit sex and a company-wide, international, high odds office betting pool run by an evil genius and her equally evil cohort.

### Curvy's Cad: A Curvy Girl's Mistake?

Eliza Lyons knows she has a bit more plump on her frame than Craig Gran's normal tall, ultra-skinny type and decides to school Mr. Grant on the pleasures of a full figure. She is in it for the fun, the sex, the bragging rights. But when she discovers he wants more, will she take that final leap? Or will Eliza bolt right back to the comfort of the uncomplicated fling? Curvy's Cad is a 36,000 word m/f story with a sassy curvy woman and the debonair cad who wants her.

### Christmas Curvy: A Curvy Girl's Holiday Fling

Laura Dixon doesn't leap. She planned her life and career the way she wanted them to go. And does her best to ignore her family's advice on how to lose weight and catch a man. Maybe it was the ice skating or the Christmas music, or possibly the hot chocolate, that finally made her say yes when smart, handsome, and totally out of her league Tyler Kamari asked her out. Whatever it was, it was the right recipe for the holidays! This is a 38,000 word m/f story with explicit sex scenes, copious amounts of holiday cheer, and a curvy girl's Christmas to remember.

### Princess Curvy: A Curvy Girl's Italian Affair

Natalia Dolcini hadn't expected Adam Clayworth to bring her into a banking intrigue he investigated. Or for Adam to become her lover. But then Adam's investigation turned dangerous. Natalia finds it difficult to keep her own heart safe as they race from Milan to Portofino and back again. Will their Italian affair end after the danger does? Or will it be an affair to remember? Princess Curvy is a 36,600 word story with a fashion designer curvy woman and the banker who wants her.

To Purchase: Curvy Girl's Guide to Love.

### Cursed Love: A Wicked Demon Tale

Despite the sizzling attraction and the hot sex, from their first meeting something stood between them. A secret with origins in the mystical and one that had burrowed itself deep within Nikki Kent. She needed to protect Cooper Marquez from her secret, but Cooper would risk everything to keep her safe.

To Purchase:  Wicked Demon Tales.

