Isabella spent the night in Strathmore’s bed and only now, with several hours before their third and final wedding, went to hers. Adjacent to Strathmore’s, the rooms were large enough to encompass her entire townhouse in Milan.
Last night, she’d sent Raffella off to settle in — the unpacking could wait. Now, standing in the duchess’s chambers, she watched Raffella tentatively enter the rooms.
Dressed in a blue gown with a white apron, Raffella eschewed the cap. Isabella didn’t mind, but wondered what the rest of the household thought. Then realized she didn’t care about that, either.
“Is very dark,” Raffella said even as she turned in a circle, no doubt trying to look at everything at once. “What kind of woman wants such a...sad room?”
Isabella turned to her maid and said simply, “A sad woman.”
The bedroom was all dark woods and dark blue fabrics; heavy brocade curtains covered the windows and the bed. Tasteful, yes, decorated in the style of the previous century, but not as ornate as that decor had been.
In this room, Isabella saw the woman Strathmore described.
He called his mother bitter. Isabella looked around the bedroom and thought the previous duchess had been lonely. Angry, yes. She saw cracks in a sideboard where she easily envisioned his mother venting her frustrations.
Shouting and kicking her anger and isolation.
“It is awful,” Raffella pronounced. “Just awful. These curtains must come down.” She tugged on them in distaste.
Though the room boasted wide windows overlooking the back gardens, the heavy dark blue curtains hung in silent testament to a woman who rarely left her rooms. They were dark and utterly depressing.
“The duke will let you change them, yes?” Raffella asked, wiping her hand on her skirts. Her accent sounded thicker than usual and Isabella wondered if she was as nervous as Isabella. “No one should be left with such depressing things. Why would a duchess be so sad?”
Isabella looked around the room, from the dark curtains to the scratches and dents in the walls. While every curtain was opened to let as much early summer sunlight in as possible, Isabella couldn’t shake the feeling of a closed-in space, one that pressed in on her.
“The former duchess,” Isabella said quietly, “did not wish to marry Jonathon’s father. I suppose this was the result of her feeling trapped.”
“This will not be your result.” Raffella said it with such certainty Isabella blinked. “Mr. Manning trapped you. Remember that.”
Isabella looked at her bracelet, still there and still tightly bound around her wrist. For the first time since she began the habit of wearing the reminder of her poor choices, Isabella considered removing it.
“And this time,” Raffella said, “you have a true friend. Not a lying, cheating bastardo like Mr. Manning. That man was nothing but a devil.” She nodded decisively. “The duke is not him and of course he will let you change this room. And it should be done quickly.”
Raffella, stood before her, determined in many ways. She brushed her hand along Isabella’s arm and nodded again. “Now, I shall prepare your bath.” She turned but stopped at the door. “Try to think of cheery colors.”
Isabella stifled a chuckle. “I shall endeavor to do my best,” she said to her maid’s back.
Raffella knew her all too well and knew just how to cheer her up. Or, in this case, make the room not so dark and uninviting.
Relieved she hadn’t slept here last night, Isabella took one last look around the room. She resolved never to be as alone, as bitter as the former duchess.
Yes, she needed to brighten the rooms she’d call hers. Then again, given how she and Strathmore made love, Isabella doubted she’d spend many nights in her own bed. Not that she had the opportunity last eve to look around Strathmore’s room. Oh no, the instant they retired, she’d kissed him and bedroom decor was the very last thing on Isabella’s mind.
Isabella crossed to the window seat and sat. She leaned into a patch of warm sunlight and closed her eyes, blocking out the room if not her thoughts.
Oh, how her life had changed in the last weeks.
Changed so much from the barely respectable townhouse she once shared with Manning. Her eyes blinked open. She hadn’t thought about him as much as she used to. Once in a while a stray thought, perhaps, but Strathmore occupied much of her thoughts and actions.
Manning grew more distant every day. As he should.
Once more her fingers brushed the bracelet. Yes. She should remove it.
She’d won more than simply the title of duchess when she won that game of piquet. She won someone who was more than a friend — a man who treated her well.
She could have a life here at Strathmore Hall. And Strathmore deserved a wife who didn’t bury herself in the past, in her mistakes.
Manning didn’t deserve her devotion. Strathmore proved he did.
After Manning’s abrupt departure, Isabella refused to consider ever falling in love again. It was passionate and messy, and it hurt. And the flame that burned bright in the beginning always, inevitably, burnt out.
No, what she felt for Strathmore was not love. But, she allowed, it could be more than friendship. It could last longer than a passionate love affair.
The soft scratch at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Isabella welcomed her maid’s interruption.
“Duchess,” Raffella called. “The bath is ready in the dressing room.” Then she stepped into the room and boldly looked around once again. Frowning, she looked back at Isabella. “Perhaps yellow?”
Isabella cocked her head slightly and smiled. “Perhaps I’ll move all this into your room.”
Raffella frowned and shook her head. Without another word, Isabella followed her into the dressing room and quickly shed her dressing gown and sank gratefully into the warm water. She’d had a quick wash at the Gretna Green Inn, but after weeks of travel, the hot water felt heavenly on her skin.
Raffella washed her hair, the maid’s fingers a soothing massage on her scalp, before combing the long locks with the wide-tooth comb she’d used with varying degrees of success on the ship.
Isabella sighed and wanted to stay in the bath all morning. “Thank you, Raffella,” she said even as she forced her limbs to stand.
Raffella held out the linen sheet and Isabella waited while she used another sheet to press the water from her hair. It’d never completely dry in time for the wedding, but Isabella didn’t care. It had felt far too good to bathe.
“Lady Octavia sent several gowns,” Raffella said as she hung them on various hooks in the dressing room.
All three of them were beautiful, but Isabella was immediately drawn to the first. It was a lovely embroidered ivory gown with gold threads woven through the bodice and raised ivory roses on the skirt. The gown was similar enough to remind her of the one she’d worn when she first met Strathmore, and Isabella quickly dismissed the others with barely a glance.
Raffella helped her to dress and did her hair before calling the seamstress in. The gown needed little alterations, but Isabella dutifully waited while the seamstress measured and pinned to her satisfaction.
The scratch at the door startled her, and Isabella quickly nodded to Raffella to answer it. One of the upstairs maids stood there and announced Lady Octavia was here to see the duchess.
Octavia entered with a smile, only to hesitate a moment. But her smile widened, and Isabella didn’t feel the sense the other woman found her lacking in any way.
“You look beautiful, Duchess,” she said sincerely.
“Thank you.” Isabella nodded as she stood on the raised stool while the seamstress continued to pin the hem. “Your choices were gorgeous.”
“And you did not know what to expect, did you?” Octavia asked, but it was light and smooth and she smiled again. “I could have offered the most hideous creations with overdone ribbons and enough beading to weigh down a small child.”
Isabella laughed and Octavia shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t do that to a new bride.”
She stopped and when Isabella met the other woman’s gaze there was a darkness deep in her eyes that stole Isabella’s breath. This was not a woman used to easy privileges but one who knew pain. Isabella knew the look well, too well.
“I know what it’s like to have someone fool you,” Octavia whispered, the words sincere and open. “I want you to know I’d never play such a game with you.”
Isabella swallowed at the honesty in Octavia’s words and found herself only able to nod. Then Octavia lightened the mood with a bright smile. “Strathmore would have my head.”
She paused, gathering her words but at a loss as to how to respond to Octavia’s other admission, to the sincerity there. “I would never let him admonish you,” Isabella said softly. She took a deep breath and added just as sincerely, “And it is a good thing to have a new friend.”
Octavia crossed the room, her smile widening. “I’m very happy you see me as such.” She reached out to squeeze Isabella’s hand. “And I hope we’re to be very dear friends.”
“I hope so as well,” Isabella said truthfully.
“Granville and I have been friends with Strathmore since my youth,” Octavia said, and Isabella braced for a warning of some sort. But the other woman grinned and laughed. “I never thought him equipped to be a proper husband.”
Isabella stilled and waited. She hadn’t thought about it before this moment but now wondered if Octavia had wanted Strathmore for her own husband — proper or not.
“Granville once suggested that I might tame Strathmore,” Octavia said, but before Isabella had the chance to wonder how she felt about that, the other woman continued. “But I knew we were not well suited for each other. It would’ve been a miserable match.”
The seamstress stood just then and took her leave. Raffella offered her hand to her and Isabella gratefully took it, stepping off the stool and accepting a cup of tea. Octavia walked around Isabella and nodded.
“Beautiful,” she repeated with a pleased grin and accepted the cup of tea Raffella offered.
“In the short time I’ve seen him in your company,” Octavia continued as she sipped the tea, “I’ve noted a difference with him.”
Raffella curtseyed and left as well. Isabella barely noticed her maid’s exit as she gestured to the divan and sat, grateful to be off her feet. She tried not to stare at Octavia even as she wondered what the other woman meant.
“How so?” Isabella asked, pleased her voice was steady. “How is he different?”
Octavia leaned closer just slightly, not enough to overwhelm her. “I see a man in love.”
Isabella froze. In love? Surely Octavia read too much into the close friendship she and Strathmore shared.
“In love?” she heard herself saying as if from a very great distance.
Her blood roared in her ears and she fought for breath.
“Yes.” Octavia nodded as if she hadn’t heard the panic in Isabella’s voice or saw it in the stiffening of her body. But Octavia’s simple affirmation cleared the noise and somehow soothed her frozen fear.
“I think,” Octavia continued, “the two of you will have a very good marriage.”
Isabella nodded and set her teacup down with trembling fingers. Her heart pounded but she didn’t fear the fear she expected. Isabella licked her lips, took a deep breath, and focused on the other woman’s next words. She had to get through this conversation before anything.
“To ensure that,” Octavia began, “we must handle your absence from England these last two years.”
Isabella did not stiffen; she merely nodded. She’d expected Octavia to broach the subject last night, so this morning’s conversation did not surprise her. “Yes. We should discuss that. Strathmore and I spoke of it on the final leg of our journey.”
Frankly they should’ve discussed it earlier, in Genoa or even while still in Milan. However, it had only been after Gretna Green when Strathmore had mentioned it. She’d cursed herself for not bringing it up sooner, but hadn’t wished to dwell on what her past scandal meant for her now that she’d married the Duke of Strathmore.
“There’ve been rumors and speculation.” Octavia shrugged. “But gossip does as it does. With the right explanations, that gossip shall fade away into nothing.”
She nodded in return. “I left abruptly.” Isabella began the story she and Strathmore had decided upon. “A cousin of mine who I’d been close to as a child was in ill health. She recovered quickly, and I spent quite some time with her in France. We eventually traveled across the Continent for an extended stay in Milan. When she decided to return to her family, my parents sent Mrs. Primsby for me, as a chaperone back to England.”
Isabella maintained eye contact with Octavia the entire time; neither woman flinched despite both knowing the fabrication of this story.
“However,” she added, “I met Strathmore while still in Milan, and we married there before returning home.”
“A perfectly reasonable explanation that should suffice,” Octavia agreed. She took a deep breath and said reluctantly, “However, the rumors around you were lent a semblance of credence by your mother. Her refusal to discuss your whereabouts only fueled the gossip.”
Octavia paused again then asked gently, “Have you written her?”
Isabella had no wish to discuss her mother, the words they’d had over Manning, or Alison Harrington’s part in these rumors. But she took a slow, deep breath and nodded. “I have. And I’m hopeful that as a duchess now, she will not betray me.”
Octavia squeezed her hand, and the look in the other woman’s gaze showed Isabella that she hoped the same. No, Octavia’s offer of friendship had not solely been for Strathmore’s sake. It’d been honestly given.
Isabella wondered about Octavia’s story, the past she barely hinted at. Perhaps one day the other woman might share her secrets.
Something eased within Isabella, a tension she hadn’t realized she carried. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a friend to confide in — Raffella notwithstanding. She spent the last years on her own. But it was nice, this genuine offer of friendship.
It made her feel welcomed.
“I cannot imagine she would. Now,” Octavia said and stood, “I don’t think we should keep the men waiting.”
“I’ll be down in a moment,” Isabella said.
She wandered to the window and looked out over the vast estate. Was Strathmore in love with her? How did she feel about that? It changed things, to be sure, but he’d never pressured her or declared his feelings for her, either.
However, for her household to be free of scandal, Isabella needed to rely upon her mother. She wasn’t certain she could. Isabella hoped Alison Harrington’s desire to be mother to a duchess preceded her desire to hurt her daughter.
Like Strathmore, Isabella had never had a truly affectionate relationship with her mother. But it had been challenging. All the more so when Manning entered her life. Putting her mother out of her mind, Isabella thought only of Strathmore.
Should she pull back? Instill distance between them? Mayhap not — she had no wish to ruin what they already shared.
Octavia had to be mistaken.
Isabella knew Strathmore held some affection for her, and she for him, but love? No, what Octavia saw was merely her wish to see Strathmore happy. What Octavia saw was Strathmore’s lust.
Isabella had to believe that. Love rarely entered into these sorts of marriages.
Turning from the window, Isabella dismissed the thought and moved forward. Silly though it may be, and she and Strathmore had laughed about it, today was the third of their three weddings, and she had no wish to be late.
* * * *
Strathmore left the coach for her and Octavia while he and Granville had taken the curricle. Smoothing her hand over the fine silk of her wedding dress, Isabella looked out the window. It was a beautifully bright day, with more than a hint of warmth in the air. She closed her eyes and tilted her head just enough to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin.
She thought their wedding in Milan had been the start of a new life, but now anticipation bubbled along her skin and she smiled.
Her life may have drastically changed in the last weeks, but Isabella knew it was all for the better.
The road to the parish church was lined with people. More people than she expected waved to them and tossed flowers at the passing carriages. It looked as if the entire county came out to greet the Duke of Strathmore and his bride.
Isabella was unable to help the flutter of happiness that settled in her stomach. She made no attempt to hide her joy. She wanted to villagers to see her happy; to see the young bride marry their duke.
This was truly the start of her new life, of their new life. And Isabella wanted everyone to have the correct impression of her. Of the duke’s new wife.
Octavia led her in as the crowd murmured and whispered as they jostled to see her. Another flutter of nerves gripped her, and Isabella scanned the crowd. They seemed happy to see her; no scowls or hints of malicious gossip reached her ears.
Nonetheless, her feet stumbled just inside the church doors.
“What’s wrong?” Octavia asked, alarmed.
“What do they think of me?” Isabella whispered, just barely stopping herself from looking over her shoulder at the crowds. “I wonder what they think of me with Strathmore.”
Octavia squeezed her arm. “You’re a duchess now,” she assured her. “They admire you.”
Isabella nodded and breathed deeply, trying to push her nerves away with each breath. She wanted them to think well of her for Strathmore’s sake.
The ceremony itself was a blur. Isabella couldn’t remember how she made it to the altar next to Strathmore or what the priest said, but knew it was different from the first two ceremonies they shared. She didn’t listen all that intently, but looked at Strathmore.
And memorized how he looked at her.
Had Octavia been right? Had Strathmore fallen in love with her? Perhaps. The thought made her skin tingle and her stomach flip. Or perhaps she fooled herself by thinking she had no deep feelings for Strathmore herself. Feelings she wanted to squash. Feelings she couldn’t seem to keep at bay.
How strange was this, to feel as if she were in love with her husband. Oh, she was a fool. But at this moment, a happy fool.
“This is the ring you’ll wear,” he whispered as he slipped it onto her finger. “This is it. The last time I’m going to marry you.”
Isabella stifled a chuckle as she looked into his gaze, the private, happy grin he offered her. With the ring on her finger, and Strathmore looking at her like she was all that mattered in the entire world, Isabella leaned closer and raised her hand. She briefly caressed his cheek, completely uncaring as to what anyone thought about the intimate gesture.
They walked, arm in arm, outside to cheers as the people called out for their good fortune. Strathmore tossed coins into the crowd, and the townsfolk scrambled to catch them. Isabella knew the village would celebrate well into the week and couldn’t help the happy laugh that bubbled out.
Once more settled into the carriage next to Strathmore, she rested her head on his arm as they returned to the Hall. Octavia and Granville traveled in the curricle behind them but this moment was private, between her and her husband.
His hand tilted her chin up, his mouth warm on hers. Isabella hummed in the back of her throat and kissed him back. She leaned into him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his cheek.
She wanted to feel his skin beneath her fingertips, but settled for this kiss. Happiness and warmth and affection bloomed through her, making her shiver from it all.
“Now you are truly the Duchess of Strathmore,” he said against her lips. Strathmore pulled back and cupped her cheeks. “No one in the world could deny you that.”
“No.” She laughed. “Not with three weddings. Not anymore.” Isabella pressed her lips to his again and leaned back. “Your heir will most assuredly be legitimate.”
His hand brushed down her cheek and along the line of her neck. “And no one will ever deny you are my duchess.”
She leaned into his touch, her gaze on his as she weighed his words. “You’ve protected me with all this, have you not?” she asked, her hand on his cheek. Isabella already knew the answer but needed to hear him say the words.
He took her hand and kissed the back of her gloved fingers. “There is no scandal with you any longer. As far as anyone is aware, you were on the Continent with family when we met. And we took every possible precaution once betrothed and married.”
“I’ve said as much to Lady Octavia,” she told him.
Strathmore nodded and settled her beside him, holding her tight. The move was familiar and comfortable, and Isabella sighed as he held her against his warm, hard body. “Octavia tells me the village is awed by the care we took.”
With his simple words, with the actions he made sure they went through from Milan to here, and despite the laughter they had over the three weddings, Strathmore had made sure the shame and scandal she’d been through the last two years vanished.
He created the story of three weddings that everyone was certain to remember: a most romantic gesture made from a duke to his duchess. No other story could ever tarnish that.
Isabella felt lighter than she had even after winning their bet or after their first wedding. She felt lighter and more carefree than she had in a long, long time. Mayhap ever.
It was, without a doubt, the biggest romantic gesture she’d ever witnessed, let alone had the pleasure of being the object of.