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.”