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 experience?” 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?”