Jonathon set the broadsheet aside and sipped the rather smooth Scottish whiskey the innkeeper offered. Isabella was above stairs, overseeing the last of their packing, and he’d retreated to the small back parlor. The room was as tasteful as the rest of the inn, quaint but pleasantly furnished.
And private.
There were advantages to being the Duke of Strathmore, advantages to having the purse of the Duke of Strathmore.
Jonathon used every single one of those advantages. It didn’t bother him, and he knew Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were not bothered, either, considering the large retainer he’d given them when he and Isabella had first arrived.
He’d wanted privacy, and privacy was what he paid for. Now, three days after their second wedding, they prepared to leave. For Hamilton, he’d even managed to purchase a bottle of the local scotch and a blanket with purple heather stitched along the border.
Jonathon would never understand Hamilton’s life-long passion for all things Scottish. The man hadn’t even traveled to Scotland until he’d been one and twenty. Still, having been in Scotland, he couldn’t very well return and not bring Hamilton back a gift.
Quite frankly, Jonathon didn’t wish to return to Strathmore Hall just yet. He didn’t want to end these weeks with Isabella, the closeness they’d shared, not simply the tentative openness that developed between them and not only the passion that continued to burn despite their weeks together.
When they first married, Jonathon hadn’t been certain what sort of marriage he and Isabella might forge. That concern had been part of the reason behind his offer, made before their marriage, to vanquish the debt between them. Since then this woman, this wounded woman, grew more important to him than anything else.
Jonathon knew his estate needed him, despite the rather competent steward he employed. But Jonathon didn’t want to end his time, this quiet, private time, with Isabella. He wanted more of her, more of her laughter and her secrets, more of her smiles and kisses.
More of her heart.
Even the parts she held back from him.
He ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath. If he thought they’d share the same privacy at Strathmore as they had even on the ship from Genoa to Dublin, he’d return with all due haste. However, worry tainted Jonathon’s desire to return; he didn’t know what scandal awaited them in England.
And he didn’t want that scandal marring their time together, damaging the trust and the truce, the promise of more than a cordial marriage they’d begun on the weeks’ long voyage.
Not yet. Not before he had the opportunity to introduce Isabella to Strathmore Hall. Not before she met his true friends. And not before he had the chance to quash all hint of scandal.
Mrs. Primsby had mentioned it, of course, before she arranged their meeting at the Royal Opera House. The woman was notoriously honest about her clients. But it’d been Granville, who had heard the rumors from his sister, to truly inform him.
“It’s unbecoming a duke to have that sort of woman on your arm.”
Granville’s words, which had once swayed him, even now echoed in his memory.
At the time, Jonathon had thought of Isabella’s scandal in terms of only how it affected him. Granville had been correct in that, at least — Isabella’s past affected not only him on a personal level, but his estate and his people. The tenants who relied upon him, the village, even his outside business interests.
All that fell away once he’d met her. Once she’d proved to be more than any other woman he’d ever known. Isabella was unique in the way she held herself and the way she challenged him.
Her cool tone as they discussed her past clashed with the way her dark eyes burned with fire. She’d aroused him from the first; made him want her in every sense. Her passion drew him even as her gamble intrigued him.
In those first hours he’d known her, he’d listened to logic and backed away. If he’d listened to his instinct, Jonathon knew he wouldn’t have. Isabella was more than any girl he’d met — she was a woman who knew herself and her worth.
Who had risen above those wounds inflicted upon her. And that was a rarity.
He’d wanted her enough to agree to her wager. Now, months and two weddings later, he wanted her more than he had even in Milan. He didn’t merely enjoy her company; he enjoyed everything about her. She was witty and observant, and a hell of a piquet player, and it invigorated him to play with so worthy an opponent.
He relished simply playing cards with her in their rooms or discussing the latest happenings in Parliament as they walked the Scottish moors.
He loved her.
Jonathon supposed that revelation should be a surprise. It was not.
And all he wanted to do was protect her from every hint of scandal that tried to cling to her skirts. True, they needed to discuss what they’d tell others as to her absence from England these last years. They needed to come to an agreement — and inform Granville and Lady Octavia — as to what story they chose regarding Isabella’s whereabouts.
Damn.
They should’ve had this discussion weeks ago, before they boarded the ship in Genoa. It was his own fault for wanting to live in the present. For wanting to know the woman Isabella, not simply the gossip surrounding Miss Harrington.
But on board the ship, they could’ve planted the seeds of what rumor they wished to sow.
He cared naught for what the ton said of him. He cared everything for what they said of his wife.
The whisky slid smooth and potent down his throat. Jonathon wanted to keep her isolated and safe either on the Continent or here in Scotland. His obligations prevented that, and he refused to keep her holed up in Strathmore Hall.
She’d only grow to resent him.
Still, perhaps he could convince Isabella to stay in Gretna Green a while longer. A few more days, a week or so, with only the two of them.
Doing so would afford him enough time to correspond with Granville and Lady Octavia, and ascertain what reception he could expect for his Isabella. And who he needed to worry about with regard to the scandal. Or potential scandal.
There was a chance, a slim one at that, that they’d be able to avert all gossip on the matter. That he’d be able to protect her from malicious shrews bent on hurting Isabella with every vicious barb.
Jonathon looked down at Granville’s letter. He’d made sure Granville knew of their itinerary and their plan to stay at the Gretna Green Inn once in Scotland. Granville’s letter awaited him when they arrived, but Jonathon wanted to proceed with their marriage post haste.
Mostly so he could make love to Isabella that eve. But also to solidify their marriage on British soil.
Granville’s letter assured him their marriage license from the archbishop had been procured and the Strathmore Village priest was ready to perform the ceremony as soon as they returned to Strathmore Hall. Granville hadn’t elaborated as to any rumors on either Isabella or their marriage.
Annoyed with his lack of foresight and Granville’s lack of information, Jonathon crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. Frustrated, he rose to pour another glass of whisky.
Damn. Why hadn’t he thought to ask his friend to inform him of anything related to Isabella? Why had Granville not taken the initiative?
He swallowed the smooth whisky in one breath and set the tumbler on the sideboard with a hard click.
It wasn’t Granville’s fault, but his own. Jonathon wanted more time with her, wanted to shield her from whatever scandal may or may not await them in England. He wanted to prolong their honeymoon for as long as possible until he figured out how to crush every rumor associated with — or once associated with — her.
All honeymoons ended, of course, but these last weeks with her had been exceptional.
Now, ready to leave on their forthcoming trip, Jonathon found he wanted to live in these moments only, to look forward to the future they shared. Not his past or hers, not the scandal surrounding her or the changes that awaited them once they returned to Strathmore Hall.
So many demands awaited them there. Demands from the village and the tenants and estate in general. And social obligations. He shuddered to think what cards and letters awaited him, the invitations, once they returned.
Jonathon poured another glass of whisky and restlessly moved to the window, the one overlooking the grassy knoll by the small lake where he and Isabella frequently picnicked these last days.
Her gaze haunted him, dark and heavy with sleep as she stretched awake, naked, beside him. Or how the early light slanted over her cheeks, highlighting her hair. He’d never been with a woman he wanted so much. Yes, she was beautiful, but he’d been with other beautiful women.
Why did Isabella draw all his attention?
Jonathon might spend the rest of his life trying to figure that out. Trying to figure out why her laugh made him smile or why her observations on any subject made him listen far more intently than he had to anyone ever before.
Figure out where he’d fallen in love with her.
He’d never willingly looked for love, though he was not opposed to it, either. He cared for his mistresses, enjoying their affections and conversation. Once he even entertained the idea of a match with Octavia because he cared for her as more than his closest friend’s sister.
Isabella was so wholly different, however; whatever he felt for any past mistress, or even for so dear a friend as Octavia, paled significantly.
And he knew as surely as he knew exactly how to touch Isabella so she made a breathy moan of pleading, or how her eyes lightened whenever she challenged him to a new hand of cards. Or how her head fit exactly so in his shoulder as they lay together.
Jonathon knew he loved her.
It’d be quite the win, taken from the loss of their first game, to hear her reciprocate that love. That’s what he wanted now, more than anything else.
“Your Grace,” Raffella’s distinct voice carried across the parlor. “Her Grace is ready to leave.”
“Whenever you are,” Isabella said, directly behind Raffella.
Jonathon didn’t see Raffella bow out of the room, though he knew she did. He had eyes only for Isabella. His beautiful wife. The woman he loved.
In three long strides, he crossed the room. She looked startled but then smiled a warm, happy smile that did something to his insides. A rush of heat, a shock of lightning.
He cupped her face tenderly and lowered his lips to hers. With infinite care, with all the love and passion and want he felt, Jonathon kissed her. Gently at first, his lips pressed to hers. But he heard her breath catch and felt her hands slide along the inside of his wrists, dancing over his skin.
Deepening the kiss, Jonathon felt her open to him, the sigh she always gave, the little whimper of pleasure. It was soft and easy, more a kiss of affection — of love — than of passion. Oh, that burned immediately beneath the surface, a slow build of need. But Jonathon ignored it.
This kiss was far more than a quick tryst in the back parlor. It was about the entirety of what he felt for her. Of how he loved her.
Breaking the kiss, Jonathon pulled back and looked at her.
Cheeks flushed, Isabella glanced around the parlor. “We need to leave,” she said quietly, but he heard the catch in her voice. “We don’t have any more time for diversions.”
He grinned down at her and swallowed his words of love. Now wasn’t the time. He could wait. “Let’s go home.”
* * * *
His carriage awaited them at the Fox and Hound Inn, only a half-day’s journey from Strathmore Hall. Normally, he would have continued on to the Hall in the post chaise, as it was most expedient. Not this time.
He refused to insult his duchess by allowing Isabella to arrive at her new home in a battered hired chaise. Isabella would arrive in the Strathmore carriage and greet her new household as she should. They would start this new life of theirs off correctly.
Better than their less-than-auspicious beginning in Milan.
Now, nearing ten at night and a mere mile from the Hall, her hand lay in his, her head on his shoulder. She’d fallen asleep almost as soon as they’d changed carriages, and he’d watched the soft rise and fall of her breath as the carriage bumped its way along the road.
He hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t said, but Jonathon wondered if she was with child. His child. They’d spent weeks together, first on the ship then in Gretna Green. Her courses had arrived shortly after they’d boarded the ship, but nothing since then.
Excitement bloomed in his chest then quickly banked.
He’d wait. He could wait. It might be the travel and the changes to their lives. Or any number of other things he couldn’t quite think of at the moment. Jonathon gathered her to him and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Isabella stirred and blinked sleepily up at him. “Hmm,” she said and stretched slightly. “I don’t want to see the inside of a carriage or another ship for a long, long time.”
Jonathon huffed in agreement and resisted the urge to pull her back to him as she straightened, fixing her cloak and adjusting her hat.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
Strathmore Hall was ablaze with candles and activity. They’d been well informed of his arrival and if Jonathon knew Granville, he knew his friend had arranged everything exactly.
As the carriage rolled to a halt, Jonathon picked up Isabella’s hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Duchess,” he said with a cheeky wink.
Clearly amused, she grinned up at him. A footman opened the door and handed her out. Jonathon held his arm to her and she placed her hand lightly atop it, all very proper and regal. It was a pity, but he wanted no whispers amongst his staff as to her unsuitableness.
Isabella was the only suitable woman for him.
“There are no gargoyles,” she whispered and frowned up at him.
Jonathon laughed as they walked down the line the staff formed.
“But it’s breathtaking,” she added as they entered the grand foyer.
Introducing Isabella to Barrymore, the butler, and Mrs. Hardy, the housekeeper, Jonathon felt a flash of pride as she graciously returned their greeting. Granville and Octavia waited for them in the foyer as well.
“Isabella,” Jonathon said softly and with a touch to her elbow turned her in his friends’ direction.
“Duchess.” Granville bowed deeply before crossing the marble foyer and taking both her hands with a sly smile. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Octavia.”
Octavia curtseyed and Isabella nodded, offering a warm smile in return.
“Lady Octavia, it’s such a pleasure to see you. I’ve heard nothing but lovely things from Granville.”
“From my brother, Duchess?” She eyed Granville and slanted an equally knowing glance at him. “I find that hard to believe, but it’s kind of you to say.”
Isabella moved toward Octavia and the women wandered down the hall to the front parlor, hands wrapped around each other’s waists as if they’d been friends for years instead of new acquaintances.
He watched her go with a fond smile, listening with half an ear as she admired the décor and paintings.
“We received the missive Strathmore sent ahead with the post boy,” Octavia said as they gathered in the parlor. She smiled and there was a hint of happiness in her voice. “The priest is prepared for a morning wedding.”
Isabella nodded to the maid, who poured four cups of tea.
“I do hope you don’t mind,” Octavia continued as she accepted the tea, “but I’ve taken the liberty of having several gowns sent up from London. Granville said we were close in measurements.”
Jonathon refused to let the bolt of jealousy at his friend eyeing his wife’s figure take hold. He simply accepted the cup of tea and sent a glare at Granville, who shrugged and grinned.
“However, I pity the woman who relies on a man’s judgment for such things,” Octavia added. “I’ve a local seamstress in residence for any last-minute modifications.”
“Thank you, Lady Octavia, you’ve thought of everything.” Isabella’s words sounded genuine, and the slight tension in Jonathon’s shoulders eased.
Octavia was as dear a friend as Granville, and he wanted Isabella to get on with her.
“I wanted everything perfect for you,” Octavia added, a thread of honesty in her voice.
“For such things,” Granville said, “my sister is the one to rely upon.”
Jonathon looked at his friend with a slight smirk. “Yes, most assuredly. I hesitate to think what sort of frock Granville would’ve chosen.” He frowned. “Or Hamilton for that matter.”
His words were received with a round of laughter, as he intended. The relaxed atmosphere lulled him in, and Jonathon watched as Isabella and Octavia conversed with an ease between them that belied their incredibly short acquaintance.
“Everything is ready for the morning wedding,” Octavia assured them. “You have naught to worry about. I believe my brother and I should retire now and allow the duke and duchess their time.”
Jonathon saw the surprise on Granville’s face, even as his friend reached the decanters. But Granville had no time to speak; Octavia was already guiding him out the door, leaving him alone with Isabella.
He set his teacup on the low table and crossed to where his wife sat, just as the doors to the parlor closed soundly behind him.
“Strathmore,” she breathed. Isabella looked over his shoulder to the closed doors. “She is quite...” She trailed off and admitted, “Kind.”
“I knew you’d like her,” he said, gathering her in his arms.
“I wasn’t certain how I’d be received,” she softly admitted. “I was afraid. And admit I was ready to defend myself.”
“And now?” he asked just as quietly.
“I’m happy not to have had to,” Isabella said and smiled up at him.
She nodded against his chest, her arms around his waist. Jonathon pressed his lips to the top of her head and heard her release a long, slow breath. She leaned back just enough to look up at him and when she did, the atmosphere changed between them.
“Are you going to show me the gargoyles?” she asked cheekily.
“I’ll show you the entire Hall,” he promised, dipping his head to brush his lips over hers. “But particularly one room tonight.”
Isabella laughed, and he led her from the parlor to his rooms.