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.”