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.”