Once Isabella thought she’d run away to Gretna Green. However, she never envisioned this — a second wedding of three. Life was different with Strathmore, different than she expected. Different than with anyone else. Strathmore fulfilled his promises.
At least thus far.
Their wedding had been beautiful, though certainly not what Isabella thought Strathmore was accustomed to. Somehow, for reasons she didn’t understand, she held this ceremony in a far more special place than their first. More than a foreign Milanese Catholic ceremony.
This ceremony would be recognized in England.
She questioned him about the need for so many. But now, after their Gretna Green wedding and returning to the inn, she understood his obsession with it. The final ceremony at the estate would only add the last touch of credence to their love affair. And that was what Strathmore wished to show the world — they’d had a very passionate and legitimate love affair and marriage.
There was no secreting about or hiding; it was simply three whirlwind weddings.
Yes, thus far Strathmore kept his promises and shown a true man beneath his ducal exterior. The man who honored his words with deeds to back them up.
Manning charmed her, had shown her the polish and shine of his exterior only. But his actions proved his true character, showed him to be the liar and coward he truly was.
Strathmore’s actions in the bedroom, on board that ship, and as he held her while she’d been ill on the coaster from Dublin to Maryport were more solid and telling than Isabella had ever experienced.
Words were hollow. Actions were not.
And Strathmore’s actions showed her so much more than Manning’s words. The realization hit her hard — not only the thought of Manning, who even now faded further into the past, but of the stark difference. Isabella remembered all Strathmore’s touches, the glances, the way his eyes darkened when he wanted her. Saw the difference in him, the difference from Manning.
After this, the second of three weddings, Isabella wondered how much weight she needed to give to that contrast. Confusion warred with keeping things between her and Strathmore even. Should she dismiss the contrast? Mayhap she should — dismiss those differences and simply be grateful Strathmore was the better man.
Their bedroom was comfortably situated. The inn itself was gabled with elaborate furnishings, well maintained and clearly the most prestigious establishment in Gretna Green. The only out-of-place item in the room was the large rug with purple heather along the border and a beautiful rose bush in the center.
Though certainly not what Isabella believed Strathmore used to, it was beautiful and perfect for their second consummation.
This time there’d been no hesitation or awkwardness as there’d been their first night. With weeks of intimacy between them, and more room to undress than on the ship, they’d made love slowly. Tasting and touching with long, languid kisses and passion burning between them as he entered her and she flew over the edge of pleasure.
Now, momentarily sated, contentment warming through her, Isabella folded her hands beneath her chin and looked up at him. His skin was warm; the smattering of hair on his chest rough against her nipples, and they hardened with the touch.
Danvers insisted on shaving him that morn, and Isabella ran her fingertips along his smooth cheek. Though Danvers had insisted on seeing to His Grace’s needs even on board the ship, she’d grown used to the slightly rough feel of his cheek beneath her touch.
Or between her legs.
Suppressing a shiver, she watched his lips curl in a faint smile, eyes still closed.
She’d grown accustomed to a great many things where Strathmore was concerned, such as his touch as they walked about the deck or the way his body felt pressed against her as they slept. The little touches, certainly improper in polite society — his hand on her shoulder or the small of her back. His fingers caressing the inside of her elbow as they sat curled together.
Isabella slipped her leg over Strathmore’s, the rough hair on his leg a pleasant tingle of sensation along her inner thigh. She hummed contentedly and continued to watch him.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice low, fingers still gentle on her back.
Not in arousal, though his touch always aroused her. But in simple contact, a soft stroke of affection.
“That you are mad,” she said with a wide grin she didn’t bother to keep from her voice. “I had no notion that winning this wager with you would lead to such an abundance of nuptials.”
Strathmore laughed, his chest rumbling beneath her hands. Opening his eyes, bright with humor, he settled her more fully atop him.
“It’s the wager you struck. And now” — his hands slipped into her hair and brought her closer — “you must endure the consequences.”
Isabella traced his cheek, the strong bone of his jaw. “Such consequences. If I left all this up to you, you’d have me with one heir and two dozen spares.”
His eyes darkened, but his tone remained light. Something on his face shifted, though Isabella couldn’t tell what. His mouth was hard on hers, the kiss aggressive but all too short.
“I see nothing wrong with that,” he said, his voice a low promise against her lips.
Pushing up, she slid off him and sat next to him. She felt perfectly comfortable, though they were both completely naked. Isabella rested her hand on Strathmore’s chest and leaned over just a bit.
“I’m famished.” She pressed a kiss to his smooth cheek. “The least you could do is feed me after such rigorous exercise.”
His hand was gentle on her own cheek. “I cannot allow you to perish from lack of sustenance.”
“Shall we call up for a tray?”
But before she could move from their bed, he stopped her.
“No, let’s dress,” he said, and the look in his gaze almost made her toss the idea of food aside. “I’d like to walk with my wife in the sun.”
“I’d like that,” she said quietly. “We were too long cooped up in a small cabin.”
His smile changed, and his eyes darkened. “True, but that cabin was not without its benefits.”
Isabella smiled, completely unguarded. She long doubted anything — or anyone — could make her feel so happy. Strathmore, for all their unconventional beginning, had the ability to do so with a look. A touch. A smile.
“Come then, husband.”
He sent Raffella down to request a picnic basket then helped her dress; he was becoming quite good at that. Though once Raffella returned, Isabella had her maid do her hair. Strathmore excelled at a great many things, but fashioning women’s hair was not one of them.
The midsummer day was cool but pleasantly sunny, and Isabella raised her face to the sunlight, enjoying the warmth of its rays. With her hand on Strathmore’s arm, they walked along a barely perceptible path toward a lovely grassy knoll behind the inn just next to a decent-sized lake.
The Campbells had outdone themselves. A large patterned rug laid spread over the ground, with fresh sprigs of heather lying around the edges. Several pillows were spread across the rug, plush and beautifully covered.
A young maid, the same who served them tea earlier, now set out plates of cheese and meats and crystal goblets for their wine. When she saw them, she quickly curtseyed and hastily left.
The scene looked utterly romantic. A dream from a fairy story. A permanent half-tent sat erected over the rug to shade from the sunlight.
Isabella looked around, but could see no others. She sighed in pleasure and closed her parasol before she sat down, carefully arranging her skirts around her legs as Strathmore sat next to her. They ate in silence for several moments, sampling each plate of delicious food. A footman waited a good distance away, far enough to offer a semblance of privacy.
“Tell me about Strathmore Hall,” she said as she cut a slice of cheese and offered it to him.
“I think Strathmore Hall will suit you very well.” He accepted the cheese but didn’t take his gaze from hers. “We’ll have many obligations and will need to throw a marriage ball; it’ll be your first exposure to the rigors of being my duchess.”
His fingers took hers and he smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll rise exceptionally to the occasion.”
Isabella leaned down and pressed her lips to his. She didn’t care about the footman or whoever else might lurk about. “Thank you.”
Clearing her throat, she arranged the pillows around her and leaned on them. “What of the Hall? What’s your favorite hiding spot? Is the Hall tall and graceful? Or more the medieval castle? Or is it a wooden barn with a spire atop?”
Strathmore’s laughter rang out. “It’s the most grotesque medieval castle you can imagine. Gargoyles everywhere and a moat! A moat the likes of which the French would be proud.”
“A moat?” she asked then laughed. “Perhaps we might fill it with water lilies.”
His hand reached out and rested on her shoulder, his fingers playing with one of the curls that lay there. “I love how you can brighten even the most horrific of scenes.”
Isabella leaned into his touch for a moment. “If you won’t tell me of the Hall, then tell me of the people there.”
“Granville will be there, or shortly after our own arrival.” Strathmore sat up and poured more wine. “And I’m certain his sister, Lady Octavia, will join him. And,” he added with a sigh, “my cousin Hamilton will no doubt show his face sooner rather than later. If he’s not already there, pilfering my wine even as we speak.”
“I see,” Isabella said with a wide grin. Strathmore didn’t seem overly upset about his cousin, though she thought she detected a hint of fond exasperation. “One of those cousins.”
“He isn’t destitute by a long shot,” Strathmore admitted and sipped his wine. “He owns a decent-sized estate in the next county.” He scowled and looked into his goblet as if something floated there. “He simply likes my stables — and wine — better.”
“Oh, I see,” Isabella said and laughed. “I think I’ll enjoy getting to know them all better. And pry secrets from them of your youth.”
Strathmore looked pained and sighed dramatically. “And Hamilton would have the temerity to reveal those secrets.”
She paused and weighed her next words carefully. He’d never brought it up, but she felt closer to him, so much closer than she thought they were capable of.
“Do you have any other family?” she asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “My father passed some years ago.”
He didn’t elaborate, and she almost whispered her next words. “And your mother?”
Strathmore’s face hardened, closed off. “She died.”
His tone brooked no further discussion, though Isabella longed to hear more. Not for the gossip or the story behind his hard, short words. Because of the bitterness coating them. Or the way Strathmore swallowed the rest of his wine in one gulp. Because of the tightening of his hand into a fist.
“I have no siblings.”
Isabella reached for his hand, gently uncurling his fist until she could wrap her fingers around his. For the first time since they’d met, Isabella saw something deeper than the Strathmore she’d come to know. She’d thought him to generally be a content man, one who knew his place in this world and lived it; however, now she glimpsed a pain she’d not realized he carried.
She licked her lips and plunged ahead. “Did your mother die long ago?”
Strathmore’s face hardened, but Isabella had a feeling that hardness wasn’t directed at her but rather at the memory of his mother. She’d spoken her words softly but still felt as if they hung heavy between them.
“She died after my father,” he said as if each word had been ripped from his throat. “She was neither a pleasant nor affectionate woman.”
Isabella squeezed his fingers, still tight with tension. “I don’t mean to bring up a topic that causes you distress,” she insisted still in that soft voice. She paused and waited until his green eyes, now dark with past pain, met hers.
“But I do want to know about you.” She paused again.
The wind shifted and brought the scent of the lake, clean and fresh. Isabella breathed it in and wondered how to phrase her next words. How to draw this out of him. How to let him know she truly wanted to know about his past, not to poke at an open wound.
To understand him, this man she’d married.
“I’ve been, as you first put it, brutally honest with you.”
Strathmore looked sharply at her, a faint understanding in his gaze.
“You know of Manning,” she continued, somewhat surprised that the mention of the other man no longer sent a piercing pain through her. “And all I’ve done in the last two years.”
He released a breath, and with it the tension seemed to release from his fingers, too.
“It wasn’t easy to tell you those stories,” she said, threading her fingers through his. She wanted to push him further — both for herself and for him. Isabella doubted he’d ever spoken of this, not even to Granville. Mayhap especially not to Granville.
But he looked at her again, and she cut herself off and waited.
“My mother and I did not have the type of relationship mother and son should,” he said. His voice was low and dark, and his fingers tightened briefly around hers. “She resented me my entire life.”
Strathmore shifted and faced her fully. “I want you to know — that will never happen between us. Ever.”
“Why did she resent you?” Isabella wondered and reached out to take his other hand as well. “You’re her son.”
“She resented my father and the position she was placed in.” His lips tightened. “Her family pressured her to accept his proposal, but she loved another. Their marriage was a combining of business interests rather than even a cordial match. Once she provided the duke an heir, she saw that as the end of her business arrangement. Until the day she died, she never enjoyed her position as duchess.”
Strathmore took a deep breath then released it slowly. When he spoke again, his voice had quieted — not softened exactly, but it no longer contained the hardness he’d had. “She died a bitter woman.”
Her heart ached for this man, and Isabella leaned over to lightly press her lips to his. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
He closed up then, and Isabella knew he was going to dismiss his past hurts. Push them to the side as it seemed he’d done his entire life. Before he did so, his face softened and his fingers tangled in her hair, cradling the back of her head.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.
Isabella’s eyes fluttered closed, and she stayed where she was. Her heart broke for the boy her husband had been, ignored by his mother and molded into a proper duke by his father. Mrs. Primsby’s words came back to her, spoken so long ago.
“Strathmore is a particular sort. He enjoys bucking society. And it’d be just his humor to return to England with you as his duchess.”
Remembering those words now, she wasn’t filled with the same feelings of contempt as before. A particular sort, perhaps, but one who never treated others as he had been. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and hold him, but knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t appreciate that.
Instead she leaned back just enough to see his gaze, clear and open to her.
“So it’ll just be us in that big medieval castle with the gargoyles.” Her voice dropped and she very deliberately leaned closer to him, uncaring how she wrinkled her dress.
“You, me, and Horatio.” His hand cupped her cheek, and he offered a slight grin. “The gnarled gargoyle over the eastern wing.”
“I certainly hope Horatio is a decent conversationalist,” she whispered, lying next to him. “And he’ll tell me more secrets than my husband will.”
“Oh, no,” Strathmore said and flopped back on the pillows. “Horatio will never spill my confidences.”
“Not like Hamilton will?” she asked, barely keeping her laughter quiet.
Strathmore grimaced as her laughter broke free. Isabella rested her head on a pillow next to him. She felt very wanton, so obviously intimate with her husband on a grassy knoll in Scotland. But she found she didn’t care and closed her eyes against the glare of the sun.
Strathmore took her hand in his and rested their joined fingers over his chest. Content, Isabella sighed in the soft silence.