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.”