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Seduction & Scandal
Charlotte Featherstone


HE COULD SAVE HER…With the scandalous nature of her birth to live down, Isabella Fairmont dreams of a proper marriage – even if it is passionless. She saves her deepest desires for her novel, wherein a handsome lord with dark powers seduces her.But then her courtship with an appropriate suitor is threatened by the attentions of the reclusive Earl of Black… whose blue eyes and brooding sensuality are exactly as described in her book. Isabella tries to resist the mysterious Earl of Black.Yet he pursues her, with inexplicable knowledge of her past and kisses that consume her. If only the earl could tell Isabella the truth. With very real, and treacherous, thieves endangering her life, Black needs to protect Isabella from the people she trusts the most…










Praise for the work ofCharlotte Featherstone

ADDICTED “A wonderful old-fashioned love story is at the very heart of this novel. Agreeably outside of the norm with its damaged hero, it also has plenty of sizzle and emotional clout.” —RT Book Reviews

“Ms Featherstone, will you be writing about any of the other characters in future novels? I hope so; the characters you’ve built in Addicted have very likeable, very human personalities … Your novel was an easy and an especially enjoyable read.” —Night Owl Reviews Top Pick!

SINFUL “Pairing a tortured hero and a strong-minded heroine creates a dynamic conflict and off-the-charts sexual tension. Throw in lots of witty dialogue and a non-traditional happy ending, and you’ve got a keeper.” —RT Book Reviews Top Pick!

“[Featherstone] manages to weave an interesting tale, combining sizzling sex scenes with characters deeply rooted within their sexual identities … I’m impressed with what [Featherstone] has to offer in the romance world.”

—Dear Author

LUST “Featherstone knows how to write sexy in this unusual tale of the fey. Thane’s seduction of Chastity is titillating and is complemented by the other well-written characters and their relationships.” —RT Book Reviews

“This was the first time I have read a Charlotte Featherstone book; I can safely say that it will not be the last … Now I just have to be patient and wait for the next Sin to find his Virtue …”

—Forbidden Reviews


Don’t missThe Brethren Guardiansseries!

Seduction & Scandal August 2012

Pride & PassionSeptember 2012

Temptation & Twilight October 2012




Seduction & Scandal

Charlotte Featherstone





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to my granny MacAlpine, and all the ancient Scots who weaved their stories and shared them, passing them down for the next generation to enjoy and share.

Had it not been for Janet and Death’s story, told to me when I was a child, this book would never have been written! I made it my own, Gran, and hope you won’t mind that Janet is Isabella, and that instead of moving Death to tears with her song, she does so with her words.

Till we meet again….

And to Beth, from the Pussycat Parlor, for that oh so inspiring picture of Lord Black! You’re the best!


I am the fog, mist and rain, the shadows that creep across your windowpane.

I am darkness and disease, the entity whom all fear to see.

I am hate, dread, rage, all humans pray to keep me at bay.

I am sorrow and loneliness. Emptiness and despair.

I am, and will be, your last breath of air.

In the end it is you and me, and our walk of darkness where I will set you free.

Side by side we will go, we’ll touch hands, mine will be cold.

You will look at me, and say, “Please, Lord Death, don’t take me away.” And I will reply, as I always do, “Nothing can sway me, pray do not try, for I have seen millions cry. Their tears, while soft, cannot break through this iron heart.”

I am Lord Death, bound by command, to steal life from those souls who have reached their end. I am Lord Death, a shadow of fear, a man say some, a demon cry most.

I am Lord Death, and this I will say, one day you and I shall walk the path of eternal darkness.




CHAPTER ONE


London, 1875

The first time I met death, it was at a ball and we danced a waltz. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, and amidst the swirls of ball gowns, their silk trains decorated with pearls and lace, Death guided me in sweeping circles until I was dizzy and breathless and all the other dancers had seemed to melt away, leaving only Death and myself whirling on the dance floor.

I should have feared him and his steely embrace, but I did not. Death had been by my side for so many years that I felt a kindred spirit in him. I have seen Death. He is beautiful in his severity, heartrending in his coldness. A dark, shadowy specter whose web draped like an ethereal veil over the mortals he would one day lay claim to.

A man in every appearance, whose isolation and loneliness he could not hide. It shone in his eyes, which were a mesmerizing dichotomy of coldness and warmth. His irises were a light shade of blue with the faintest chips of pale green, reminding me of the turbulent, chilly waters of the North Sea. But his lashes, thick and luxurious, and black as a raven’s feathers, put me in mind of a sable wrap, warm andcomforting and soft—so supple and inviting. His hair was just as dark, inky and shining as it hung to his shoulders, like a pelt of fur. I yearned to run my fingers through the long strands, burying them in the thick suppleness and warmth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked me, his voice deep and velvety. It slithered along my pores, awakening a deep feeling inside me—not fear, but something else. Something that made me warm and languorous, and as though my will were no longer my own.

“Lord Death,” I replied in a breathless whisper.

“And do you not fear me?”

I looked up, held his icy blue gaze steady. “No. I do not.”

He pulled me closer, till our chests meshed and our bodies danced, pressing and moving as if as one. It was indecent. Hedonistic. Exhilarating. My pulse raced, heating my skin. He found the frantic beating in my throat, his gaze lingered there and I knew then that he could snuff the warmth that was climbing steadily inside me.

“Have you come to claim me, Lord Death?”

His gaze slowly lifted to mine, and the thick, onyx lashes lowered, casting a hood over his eyes. “I have. Will you come with me now?”

We finished the turn and he took me by the hand, threading his fingers through mine, guiding me toward the French doors and the velvet blackness beyond.

I followed him willingly, his beauty beckoning me, and like a sleepwalker, I trailed beside him, compelled by something I could not name.

“Am I to die?” I asked, and he stopped, raisedour joined hands to his mouth and gently kissed my knuckles.

“You are, my love, and in your sleep, you will become Death’s bride.”

“And that is it?” cried Lucy as she threw a pillow at Isabella. “You fiend!”

Lucy rushed to the dressing table where Isabella sat and pulled the black leather journal from her hand. Flipping through the pages, Lucy searched frantically for more.

“I told you, Luce, that I had only just begun the story.”

Lucy looked up from the book, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I was just about to swoon when you ended it. I vow I am in love with Death!”

A tremor of pride curled within Isabella as she accepted the volume back from her cousin. “Do you think it’s that good?” she asked, feeling nervous as she gazed down at the words she had written. “I will admit it is a rather strange concept.”

“Good? Gracious, Issy, you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not even Mr. Rochester is as gloriously brooding as your Lord Death.”

Smiling, Isabella tucked her journal and pencil into the seed-pearl reticule she was using for the night. “I could never outdo Mr. Rochester, Lucy. Charlotte Brontë has penned an unsurpassable hero with him.”

“Death, with his black hair and pale blue eyes …” Lucy murmured, closing her eyelids as she began to dance around the room, as though she was waltzing. “He is every maiden’s dream. To be swept up into the arms of a man focused solely on you … Issy,” she said, stopping before her. “It’s perfection.”

“I must confess, I do rather like the opening.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Lucy ordered as she glanced in the mirror and replaced a few wayward auburn ringlets, “it’s only me. You can say you think it’s a smashing opening, and I will wholeheartedly agree.”

Hiding her grin, Isabella turned on the little stool and straightened the amethyst-and-diamond necklace that adorned her throat. It had been a gift from her uncle, and she wore it whenever possible. Never could she have imagined wearing something so beautiful—and expensive.

Her hair could use a fixing, she noticed, but there wasn’t much that could be done with the riotous flaxen curls that enjoyed springing from their pins. She had been able to cover up most of her past, to bury her common roots and essentially make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but her hair, it seemed, had other plans. It would not obey and she hid her smile, realizing that bit of tough Yorkshire stubbornness would not be stretched, ironed or pulled out of her. At least not yet.

“Tell me about your heroine, Issy, the woman who is to capture Death’s heart.”

Isabella frowned. That was the strange part. She hadn’t really put much thought into the woman who was to be Death’s bride. The opening had come from someplace deep inside her, the words spilling out from her soul. She did not want to look too deeply there, afraid of what she might see of her past—or perhaps it was the future she feared?

Lucy caught her scowl, and lowered her head, so their temples were touching as they looked at their reflections. “Or are you Death’s heroine, Issy?”

Isabella’s mouth fell open and Lucy laughed as Isabella flushed furiously. “Don’t be silly, Lucy.”

Her cousin gave her a dubious look. “You naughty little girl, penning such a thing.”

Had it been her in that opening? Had it been herself she’d envisioned, had written about dancing indecently with Death?

She was no stranger to him, that was for certain. But to write him as a hero? As someone who could lure and seduce … someone to be desired, and not reviled …

“You know I’m only teasing,” Lucy said. “For heaven’s sake, Issy, do not be so temperamental. I can’t abide that in artists. That’s why I broke off my flirtation with Eduardo. He was too moody for my tastes.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Isabella mumbled, finally recovering from her shock that she might possibly be the heroine in her story. “You met him at a séance.”

Lucy’s emerald-colored eyes flashed with excitement. “And there’s going to be another one in a few days. Say you’ll come, Issy.”

It wasn’t as though she didn’t have loved ones she’d dearly love to connect with in the spirit realm. Her mother, grandmother and now her aunt. They had all been taken from her, and each time she had felt Death’s shadow, standing quietly in the corner, waiting to take them.

Perhaps it was just her overactive imagination, but each time she had fancied that she had seen Death with her own eyes. Of course, she had never dared to admit such a thing. For who would believe her? Still, a part of her feared she really could see Death, and that part absolutely refused to attend a séance with Lucy, for fear the Grim Reaper would present himself.

“Well?” Lucy prodded. “If nothing else, it’s a good night away from balls and soirées. You might even think of it as research for your book. Bring Mr. Knighton if you wish.”

“I don’t think the curator of medieval studies at the British Museum would be very interested in a séance, or chair tipping, or communicating with spirits while using a talking board.”

Lucy huffed as she pulled on her long leather gloves.

“What you see in that stuffed shirt, I’ll never understand.”

“He’s very kind. And … and I think him handsome.”

“I’ll give you those two, but I would like to remind you that he’s rather boring in his conversation, and that he’s probably not going to look upon your dream of being a lady novelist with a kind eye. The academic sort never do,” she reminded her. “Knighton is a scholarly fellow in a scientific, hard-facts sort of way. Novels are made up stories, after all. I doubt Knighton could wrap his rather well-formed brain around that fact to grasp the delight to be found in them.”

“What is it you are trying to say, exactly, cousin?”

Lucy’s gaze softened. “That he is likely not going to be able to understand your brilliant mind, Isabella. He deals in facts, and you delight in fantasy. You’re opposite in every respect.”

Isabella dropped her gaze to her hands, where they folded primly in her lap. The jet bracelet that held the key to her journal caught her eye, and she brushed her thumb over the shining black stones. “It would do me well to give up this fantasy I so enjoy. Perhaps that is what I need, Lucy, a man who keeps me planted on earth, not in the ethers of some magical realm.” Shrugging, she glanced up to see her cousin watching her with what Isabella imagined was sympathy. “It hardly matters. The chance I will be published is very slim, Lucy. It’s really only a hobby.”

Lucy lifted Isabella’s chin with her slim fingers and gazed down upon her with her brilliant green eyes. “Repeat after me. I, Isabella Fairmont, will finish this book and submit it to every publisher in London—”

“And New York,” Isabella reminded her.

“And New York,” Lucy added. “And I will not rest until I see it published. I will not give up on my dreams.”

Isabella stood and hugged Lucy who, although she was her cousin, was more like her best friend. They were sisters of a sort, now that Isabella had come to live with Lucy and her father. “I promise you, Luce. I will finish it, and it will find a home. And I will make Mr. Knighton a devotee of the fictional world if it’s the last thing I do.”

“And you must promise to read to me, every night when you’ve written something new.”

Isabella flushed. “You only want the parts that speak of breathlessness and heaving bosoms.”

“Well, of course,” Lucy drawled. “Why else does one read a novel? Now then.” Lucy sighed. “Let us go downstairs. We’re already late and Papa will be snorting with indignation. We must not keep the Marquis of Stonebrook waiting.” Lucy shook her head, although she was grinning. “Papa is such a pompous aristocrat.”

Yes, the old marquis was rather self-important, but he was a good man. He had taken Isabella in, his niece by marriage, despite the scandal of her parents’ nuptials. He had clothed her, protected her and Isabella loved him like the father she never knew. He had saved her from an uncertain future and from herself. She owed her uncle more than she could ever repay. Still, she missed the comfort of her mother’s stories, and her grandmother’s arms. She missed Whitby with its dark and forbidding abbey, and the mist that rolled in from the sea. She missed the heather-covered moors, and the rocky cliffs that stood tall and proud against the foamy, turbulent waves of the North Sea. She missed home, and everything about it.

She missed them.

How dearly she longed to see her mother and grandmother again, and Isabella felt her eyes begin to well with tears. Thankfully Lucy’s voice drew Isabella out of her thoughts. “My feet ache already just thinking of the night ahead of us. Dear me, Issy, I’m tired of the social whirl.”

Whitby forgotten for now, Isabella strived for composure. “I am as well, Luce. I would pay a very high price for a chance to stay in my room and sit at my desk and write until my fingers are blackened with ink.”

“As much as I’d like more of Death, Issy, it’s pertinent we make an appearance at my father’s ball.”

“You know, when I was a young girl, I envied you your life, the gowns, the balls, the suitors … Now, I’m not so certain you had it better than I.”

Lucy tossed her a cheeky smile over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “I always envied you your cozy cottage and the meadow and woods where you and the other children from the village ran and played without any concern for deportment. You had a childhood, Issy. Something I never did.” Lucy tipped her head and smiled. “I’ve always been envious of that. And here we were all this time, feeling resentful of the other. It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“It is, indeed, for I’m sitting here loath to go to a ball, something I’ve always dreamed about.”

“Chin up,” Lucy ordered. “There could still be light at the end of the tunnel for this night. Perhaps you can write more of your book. Our ballroom has many private corners, you know.”

“And of course that will have the suitors flocking to my side,” Isabella muttered ungraciously. “Men adore lady novelists.”

“I bet Lord Black does.”

Isabella sent her cousin a glare before she reached for the ivory gloves that sat atop her dressing table. “How could you suppose such a thing, Luce? Lord Black never comes out of that mausoleum he calls a town house.”

Lucy stopped at the threshold, and slowly turned, the salmon-pink silk of her gown’s elaborate train wrapping around her legs. “I saw him last night.”

“Fibber! You did not!” Isabella challenged.

“I did, I swear it. I couldn’t sleep after the Anstruther soirée. I was sitting on my window box, gazing out at the stars when I saw those massive iron gates swing open. A carriage, black and shining and led by four black horses, came clattering out of the drive. The conveyance lingered for a moment, and then I saw it, a shadow that was illuminated by the lanterns. It engulfed the interior, like spilt ink, and then I saw him, his pale face appeared in the window, and he was looking up, and I swear his gaze lingered on the window beside mine—your bedroom window, Issy.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed.

“It’s the truth.”

“I think, Luce that you should take up novel writing with me. You’ve the imagination for it.”

“Think what you like, Isabella, but I know what I saw. And you mark my words, our neighbor will be here tonight. The Marquis of Stonebrook will have it no other way, I assure you.”

THERE WAS ONE THING that had surprised Isabella after coming to live with her uncle, the Marquis of Stonebrook, and that was the strange fact that she rather despised balls.

For most of her girlhood, she had sat on the weathered window bench of the small cottage her mother rented, thinking of her beautiful cousin, laughing and flirting and dancing around the Stonebrook’s glorious ballroom, wearing an outrageously expensive gown. Her young heart had ached with longing. She had wanted to attend a ball. To wear a stunning gown. To have a handsome suitor.

It was rather satirical that now, after she possessed all three, she had no taste for it. She would have much preferred curling up before the large hearth in her room, wearing her old flannel nightrail, writing her stories—just as she had before Stonebrook and Lucy had come to Whitby to bring her back to London.

The wonder and novelty of town life had soon worn thin. There had been so many balls this past week, despite it being October. It seemed that the aristocracy no longer found it necessary to depart for their country estates at the end of the season as they did in the past. Perhaps it was because the nouveau riche rarely ever left London. An aristocrat could hardly marry off his titled daughter to a wealthy businessman if he was up in Yorkshire with sheep and trees.

No, the marriage mart had extended well beyond the traditional season. And this season, it was no secret that the Marquis not only wanted to marry off his daughter, but his niece, as well.

Isabella had been taken with the idea at first. The romance of a courtship, rides in the park, the soirées, the balls, the musicales. It had not taken long before she realized that the thought of going out yet another night provoked her to distemper. Not even Lucy who had been born and raised in this way of life enjoyed the endless parties.

They were a fine pair, Isabella thought, as she slipped the delicate silver strap of her reticule higher onto her wrist. Lucy was content to pursue her interest in the occult, and Isabella was happy writing the stories that constantly filled her head. Both of them were originals, and nothing like a young lady of good breeding should be. Perhaps both of them had inherited Isabella’s mother’s taste for shunning the ideals of what made a woman a proper lady. Lord knew her mother had been nothing like her sister. Aunt Mildred had always been frightfully proper—haughty, even. So unlike Isabella’s mother who shunned society’s rules. Lucy, Isabella thought, very much reminded Isabella of her own mother—both in looks and temperament. She wasn’t the only who had thought so, either. Aunt Mildred had despaired of Lucy becoming just like her “fallen unfortunate sister.” That fear had been so great that upon Lucy’s tenth birthday, Aunt Mildred had refused to come to Yorkshire to visit them. They had been kept separate after that, lest Lucy catch the wanton, wild streak Isabella’s mother had never outgrown.

There hadn’t ever been any fear that Isabella would end up like her mother. She had learned a hard lesson, from a very young age. She would not follow her mother’s footsteps.

“My toes are already pinched,” Lucy hissed into her ear as they stood and watched the swell of dancers waltzing around the overly hot room. “And I fear my forehead is glistening.”

Isabella studied Lucy. “Only a titch. Can you discreetly wipe it?”

“Not likely. I feel like all eyes are on us.”

“Not us, you, sweetie,” Isabella murmured. “I think they’re waiting to see if the Duke of Sussex will come up to scratch tonight.”

“Good Lord, let us hope not,” Lucy moaned as she furiously beat the air with her fan. “I cannot for the life of me imagine His Grace at a séance.”

Hiding her laugh behind her hand, Isabella stood on tiptoes, searching for the duke who had become increasingly more ardent in his pursuit of her cousin. He glanced their way, and immediately his expression changed from feigned politeness to brooding. Sussex certainly could brood, and he looked immensely handsome while doing so. Why her cousin could not see this, Isabella had no idea. The way he stared at Lucy was positively worthy of a dramatic swoon.

“Do you like him, Luce?”

“He’s handsome. Rich. Titled. He has at least four estates spread throughout the kingdom and I hear he’s a bit of philanthropist to boot—belongs to all sorts of charities and committees to better the ordinary man and those less fortunate. A virtual paragon,” Lucy muttered as she glanced away from Sussex’s prolonged stare. “Of course I should like him, but I confess that I do not feel much more than friendliness toward him. He’s too shiny,” she said, her tone turning thoughtful. “Rather like an immaculate archangel. I admit—but only to you—that I have a taste for more of the fallen angel. With those black curls and his beautiful face, you would think him one of the fallen, but no, he’s not the least bit dangerous, but one hundred percent glowing and pure.”

“Dangerous men prove only useful in selling books,” Isabella muttered as she watched Sussex conversing with his friends. “In real life they serve to be more of a handful than what they’re worth. Trust me, I am the product of a dangerous rakehell and a naive, overly passionate woman.”

Lucy let out a most unrefined snort. “Issy, there is no woman on earth who can pen a more compelling, delicious rakehell than you. Pray do not pretend that you do not also covet a bit of danger in your life. Your writing is an extension of your soul. A glimpse deep inside. No,” she said, slapping the tip of her fan over Isabella’s hand. “Do not deny it. Admit it,” Lucy whispered, “there is someplace inside that wishes for a dangerous man to come and sweep you off your careful, proper feet.”

“No. I do not. Of that I can safely say you’re wrong, Lucy. If I were ever to encounter a dangerous man I would run screaming in the opposite direction.”

Lucy laughed, and Isabella scanned the dark-haired man from across the room. Sussex was tall, well formed, extremely well dressed and possessed a light, jovial personality. He enjoyed a laugh, as did her cousin. Isabella had thought it a perfect match when the duke had sought an introduction to her cousin, by way of Isabella’s suitor, Wendell Knighton. Unfortunately, her cousin remained utterly obtuse to the duke’s merits.

At the thought of her suitor, Mr. Knighton suddenly appeared beside the duke. She felt the slight lurch of her heart at the sight of him. Her pulse definitely leaped when his dark brown gaze found hers from across the room. He smiled, and Isabella returned it, along with the delicate beginnings of a flush. “Your Mr. Knighton is obviously smitten, Issy.”

Her flush grew to a full-out blush. “I like him very much.”

Lucy tipped her head and studied her. “And yet I still feel, as I always did, that he’s not the right man for you. You need someone different. Deeper. More complex. Someone who understands who you really are, Issy.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed as she watched the dancers. “You make me out to be a mystery when I am nothing but a simple Yorkshire country girl.”

But that wasn’t true. After the unfortunate event of last spring, everyone knew she was different. Neither she nor her family talked of it, but it was there, always lurking, threatening to come out.

“Oh, look,” Lucy murmured. “He’s come.”

“Who’s come?” Isabella tried to peer over two ornate feathered headdresses, but could see nothing.

“To the left, on the balcony.”

The crowd quieted, sensing something was about to happen. All heads turned in the direction of the balcony where the butler stood and pronounced, “The Earl of Black.”

The cacophony of music and laughter faded as the guests pressed forward, waiting for a glimpse of the man whose name had just been announced. The room went perfectly quiet as all interest was now focused on the crab-shaped staircase. Like a magus arising from a cloud of smoke he appeared, looking down upon the faces that peered curiously up at him.

Hair as black as night fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Skin, pale and smooth, glinted beneath the blazing chandeliers. Eyes, a haunting shade of turquoise, scanned the crowd with unconcealed interest. Black brows, perfectly arched, enhanced his eyes, which had a slight upward slant.

His fingers, long and elegant, ever so slightly rapped against the balustrade as he surveyed the scene below him. He was very tall and immensely broad in the chest and shoulders. His black dress clothes and white cravat were impeccably tailored. Bow ties were the fashion now, but the elegance of the old-fashioned cravat suited him, giving him an aristocratic allure. So, too, did his black velvet jacket, which was styled in the Eastern fashion—mandarin collar with two rows of gold buttons in the military style.

He looked liked an ancient Romany prince—a warrior boyar—as his head moved slowly from right to left, his gaze spanning the entire room and its occupants.

Here was a man of the world, Isabella thought as she perused him from head to toe. A man who was mysterious and experienced, and utterly captivating. There was an air of danger about the man, a thought that was supported by the fact that a few matrons to her right were quietly but rapidly whispering behind their fans. More than one gentleman stiffened, their eyes wary as they watched the commanding earl. Everyone seemed to move in the smallest of increments—as if they were in slow motion. Was it out of fear that their movements might catch the infamous earl’s attention?

Warmth spread through Isabella’s body as she watched the Earl of Black stroll with negligent ease down the stairs. He was all arrogance and predatorlike grace. Tall and sleek, he resembled the Bengal tiger Wendell had shown her on display in the British Museum. He had the same rapacious look in his eye as she had seen in the tiger’s green eyes. He was on the hunt, that was for certain, but for what, or whom, she feared to guess.

Lord Black never emerged from his town house, which was across the street from her uncle’s town house. She had only ever caught the odd glimpse of him. His reclusiveness just fueled her imagination, and Isabella felt her breathing grow rapid and shallow, her writer’s mind taking over. Her skin had grown taut, itchy beneath the lilac satin of her tight-fitting bodice as she watched him cut a swath through the guests who parted for him as though he were as powerful as Moses, parting the sea. Suddenly he stopped, turned his head and found her amidst the crowd. Isabella felt strangely light-headed as their gazes collided from across the ballroom.

He was all mystery and exoticness and more than a touch hazardous to a lady’s well-being as he held her gaze. Needing to break the hypnotizing spell of Lord Black’s aqua eyes that were holding her captive, she blinked and forced her body, which now felt overheated and lethargic, to move.

“It’s grown rather warm, don’t you think?” she asked her cousin in what sounded like a strangled voice. “I do believe I could use some air.”

Before Lucy could protest, Isabella backed away and turned in the direction of the French doors that led to the terrace. Reaching for the handle, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw that Black was still in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by hordes of London’s elite. He paid his admirers no heed, but instead stared at her with his piercing eyes. There was a promise in those eyes—a very dark, forbidden promise.

“My dear,” her uncle said behind her. She felt his hand lift hers from the door handle, then the feel of his arm threading with hers. “Someone wishes an introduction with you.”

She tried to refuse as her uncle steered her to where Lord Black held court. His gaze was still focused solely on her, and she shivered.

“Here now, there’s nothing true about what you’ve heard about Black. It’s only rumors.”

She hadn’t heard anything about the earl, other than his appearance at tonnish events was much sought after, and that he was generally considered a recluse. What rumors could her uncle be referring to?

When she stood before him, when their eyes met, she gasped, unable to disguise the sound. Black did not possess turquoise eyes, but pale blue, with flecks of light green. Tempest-tossed eyes, she thought, like the churning seas in Whitby.

“Your servant, Miss Fairmont,” he murmured in a dark, husky voice that was as velvety as a starless night.

“Shall we?” he asked, accepting her hand from her uncle. “I believe a Viennese waltz is next on the program.”

As he pulled her to him, she was shocked by the tingle she felt beneath her glove. When the music started and he pulled her close, his hand resting low on her back, the words she had written whispered to her.

The first time I met Death, it was at a ball, and we danced a waltz.

Black looked down at her, his gaze lingering over her in a far too familiar way. “And you were not afraid,” he murmured, then swept her up into a graceful turn that stole her breath.




CHAPTER TWO


“I BEG YOUR PARDON, my lord, but what did you say?” Isabella demanded. But the earl ignored her imprudence, and softly turned her once again. Her hand trembled in his, and he squeezed, ever so softly in an attempt to ease her.

“You are nervous, Miss Fairmont.”

“I … yes. My apologies.”

“I believe you were asking me something.”

“Oh, yes. Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you were saying about being afraid when we began our dance?”

Black’s pale gaze lowered, and Isabella was positive she saw it linger at the base of her throat where her pulse beat wildly. She swallowed, hard, and her hand began to tremble again.

“Ah, yes, now I recall. Although I do not make it a habit to be out in society, I am able to dance with some degree of efficiency, Miss Fairmont. There’s no need to be afraid that I may step on your toes.”

All her nervousness was vanquished with the sight of his charming grin. Her writer’s imagination had run away with her when she thought he had said something altogether different.

What nonsense, she chastised. She was being silly, believing that his looks, and in fact, this dance, was reminiscent of her own book opening. Good heavens, she had to get a hold of herself and her impetuous imagination.

Lord Black was a distinguished earl from a titled family that went back to the earliest of times. While a recluse, he was only just a man. Not … death.

Besides, death by all accounts smelled sickly sweet, and Lord Black’s pleasing scent was a mysterious and exotic blend of spice. Eastern spice if she was correct.

“You dance very well, Miss Fairmont.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She could not hide her smile at his compliment. She’d had a devil of a time learning the waltz. She was quite proficient at country dances, having grown up dancing them, but the waltz was entirely another matter. Appearing as though she knew what she was doing while remaining elegant and light on her feet wasn’t easy.

“I believe you grew up in Whitby, on the coast?” Lord Black asked as he deftly maneuvered them away from the throng of couples. They were dancing on the peripheries now, where it was quieter and much more conducive to conversation, which the earl seemed inclined to encourage.

“I did,” she replied, not giving any further particulars than what he had asked. Her uncle had cautioned her not to give out too many details of her life. The marquis had paid a great deal of money to bury her mother’s scandal.

“You came to London only last year to live with your uncle and cousin, is that not right?”

“It is, my lord.”

“And this is your first season out in society.”

“Again, you are correct.” For a recluse he was remarkably well informed.

“And how have you found the season, Miss Fairmont?”

Insufferably long and trying. “Glorious,” she lied.

He chuckled and the sound wrapped around her. “As a person who detests society most of the time, you would not injure my sensibilities if you were to tell me the truth. You’ve found your first season to be tedious at best.”

Isabella felt her eyes flare wide with shock. How was it Black could read her so well?

“Your mother was your uncle’s wife’s sister, I believe.”

She swallowed hard at this new line of questioning. “Yes, my lord.”

“You look very much like your mother, Miss Fairmont.”

She caught her breath in surprise. “You knew my mother?”

“I was a young boy when your mother left London for Whitby.”

A very polite and discreet way of informing her that he knew of her mother’s scandalous past, and the wicked rogue who was her father.

“Your aunt and mother lived just down the street from here, I believe.”

“Yes, they did,” she answered, feeling much too unsettled. Just how much did he know about her?

“I used to see them go out for walks. My schoolroom window faced the street, you see, and I found myself staring out of that window more often than I should have.”

“Ah.” She glanced away from his gaze, which was focused deeply upon her.

“You have your mother’s curls and pale hair.”

Yes, she did. She also possessed her mother’s inclination toward romantic adventures. But unlike her mother, she would only write about them, not indulge in them.

“You were all alone when your uncle came to Whitby to bring you back to London.”

Yes. But how had he known that? That fact, and the unfortunate event surrounding it was a secret no one save Lucy and Stonebrook knew about. It was impossible that Black would know. Unless, of course, he’d been there that night …

Impossible. She was allowing her fertile imagination to ride roughshod over her sensibilities.

“We are playing quid pro quo, Miss Fairmont. It is your turn to ask me anything you’d like.”

“All right,” she murmured, her mind racing for something to say. “What brings you to London?”

He pulled her closer to avoid another couple who had decided to quit the dance. She felt her breath leave her body as her bodice brushed up against his jacket. “I’m here on business,” he answered.

It was on the tip of her tongue to inquire about what sort of business, but she held her curiosity in check. She did not wish to have others prying into her life, so she extended the same courtesy to Lord Black, whom she assumed guarded his privacy fiercely. Perhaps now he would indulge her with the same civility, and refrain from asking further questions about her past and her family.

“I hope you will visit the museum while you are here, my lord. Mr. Knighton is opening a new exhibit. It’s bound to be a smashing success.”

“Knighton,” he murmured, and Isabella saw Black’s gaze find Mr. Knighton through the dancing couples.

“Yes, he’s a very good friend of mine, and while on a dig in—”

“He’s your suitor, Miss Fairmont.”

She missed a step, and slammed up against Black’s broad chest. He steadied her, pretending she had not made a faux pas.

“You said he was your friend, but I have been told he’s courting you.”

She blinked rapidly as she met his gaze. “Yes, well …” She flushed, off balance and not knowing what she should say. Suddenly, the scent of spice was all around her. It toyed with her mind, making her dizzy. He smelled so good …

“You said he was on a dig?”

Isabella tried to rein in her reeling senses. How had Black known about Wendell Knighton? It had been only a month since Wendell had starting courting her.

“Yes, a dig,” she murmured, finding her footing at last, “in the holy city. He’s bringing back medieval treasures, and amongst them are some belonging to the Templars. It’s going to be an extraordinary exhibit. Do you enjoy antiquities, my lord?”

His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “You could say that, Miss Fairmont. I have been to many places and have had many opportunities to collect antiques. Even your lovely frock will one day be found on display in a museum.”

She laughed and brushed aside his comment. “Nonsense. It is only lilac silk.”

“It is a Worth gown, is it not?” Heat infused her cheeks as well as her décolletage when his seemingly expert gaze lingered on the tight bodice and the flesh that was displayed above the deep lace flounce. “Worth will be famous well into the next century for his ability to dress the female form as it should be.”

“A gown can hardly compare to a medieval artifact, my lord.”

“It can when worn by you, Miss Fairmont.”

Butterflies circled like mad in her belly. Wendell had never said anything that caused this mad fluttering. Fighting the urge to fan herself with her hand, Isabella said, “Well, I do hope you will stop by the museum, it is a must-see for anyone who visits London, as I’m certain you are already aware, my lord.”

“And will you be there, Miss Fairmont?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Knighton has promised that when the boat docks, which he believes will be tomorrow, I shall have an exclusive peek into the crates.”

“It is not my place to tell you what you should do, but I feel very strongly that you should allow Mr. Knighton to carry on about his business—without you. The docks are no place for a lady.” She felt his hand squeeze tightly around hers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I would be most angry if anything happened to you, Miss Fairmont.”

“What could possibly—”

“Not all treasure is glowing and pure. Remember that.”

Black pulled her to a stop, and she saw that his gaze followed that of a young lord whose name escaped her. She had seen him before, recalled that he was an acquaintance of the Duke of Sussex. Black’s gaze seemed to darken, and his pupils dilated to large, black spheres.

“You will forgive me, Miss Fairmont, but I see someone I am expected to meet.”

He pulled away, and Isabella’s hand caught in his. As well, her purse tangled with the button of his jacket, opening the reticule. Before she could right it, her journal fell to the floor, opened to her writing. Blast! She always kept her journal locked—it contained her secrets and dreams, not to mention the outline for her book. She never wanted anyone to glimpse inside, but tonight she’d been distracted by Lucy’s glowing compliments for her story, not to mention their discussion of Black.

Had she had her wits about her, she would have locked the journal, or better yet not put it in her reticule and carried it down to the ball in the first place.

Both of them bent to retrieve the book. Black was quicker, and reached for it. She knew without a doubt that he was reading what was there, despite how rude it was for him to be reading her private words.

A gentleman would have closed the cover immediately and handed it to her. But Black continued to gaze at it as he reached for her hand and raised her up. The book snapped closed, and Isabella jumped at the sound, and the queer intensity she saw in Black’s gaze.

“Thank you for the waltz, Miss Fairmont.”

And then he left, leaving her with the distinct impression that she had offended him.

“GRACIOUS,” LUCY EXCLAIMED as she hauled Isabella off to the ladies’ retreating room. “Tell me all about it. Was it divine, dancing with the earl?”

Isabella could hardly think as she dashed off with Lucy to the privacy of the room that had been set up for the ladies to see to their personal needs. Instead of going inside, Lucy hauled her into another room that was lit with only one gas lamp. They were alone, but still, Isabella felt a presence. Her gaze danced to every corner, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized they were devoid of any disturbing shadows. But then, she felt a familiar tremor snake its way down her spine, and she rubbed her arms with her palms in an attempt to stave off the sudden chill. She hated the dark—and the shadows.

“Well?” Lucy demanded.

Isabella nodded. “It was indeed divine.”

“I knew it,” Lucy gushed. “From the very second he found you, he kept his eyes on you. Oh, it was so romantic the way he looked at you. And the picture the two of you made, dancing around the ballroom—”

“You make too much of it, Luce.”

“I certainly do not,” Lucy grunted. “An earl! Issy, this is a coup for you!”

“I know nothing about him.”

“That’s what a courtship is for.”

“I am already being courted by Mr. Knighton.”

Lucy’s pretty face puckered into a frown. “Issy, be reasonable. I saw the way Lord Black looked at you, and furthermore, I saw the way you looked at him.”

“I did no such thing,” she shrieked, mortified by the thought her emotions had been so transparent. She had been taken by him, but to discover that everyone knew it as well was beyond humiliating.

“Admit it, Issy, there’s something about the earl that intrigues you.”

Of course there was. What woman wouldn’t be intrigued by his mysteriousness, or lured to his handsome face? There was an air of danger about Black that was impossible to ignore—or not be drawn to. It was only natural, wasn’t it, for a woman to be fascinated by a man as commanding as Lord Black? He was older than her. Experienced. A man of the world. It was expected that his worldly aura called to her. For heaven’s sake, until last year she had been nothing but a rag-taggle country girl in Yorkshire.

This … attraction to Black. It was nothing but innocent female curiosity, that was all. And nothing more would come of it. She had experienced her moment of exhilaration and danger, and that would be all. She would not allow her overly imaginative, impulsive nature to be her ruination.

“Issy,” Lucy warned, “you aren’t going to deny that you find the earl charming?”

“If I did, we would both know it for a lie. The truth is, I find him very charismatic.”

“And handsome.”

“Yes.”

“And rich.” Isabella inclined her head in acknowledgment. “And clearly besotted with you.”

“I do not believe the earl capable of being besotted, that is for young men. The earl is a man, Lucy.”

“And that scares you, doesn’t it?”

Heavens, when had Lucy become so bold? Isabella refused to answer that question despite the truth of it. The earl did frighten her. She had never felt her body respond in such a way. It was terrifying yet exciting. Every cell tingled with awareness, and it made her want to run and hide. Her father had been a charmer. Her mother had told her the stories. She did not want to wind up like her mother, she reminded herself, ruined and alone, barely able to scrape out a living. Passion had its place, and for Isabella, that place was one of control and moderation. Imprudent recklessness was the kiss of death.

“Do you know what I think? You’ve realized that it is rather easy to keep Mr. Knighton at bay. But in one dance, you’ve discovered that it would be quite impossible to sway Lord Black. Black would take what he wanted, not by force, of course, but just the same, he would find a way to obtain what he desired. He wouldn’t be deterred like Knighton.”

“I do not keep Mr. Knighton at bay, Lucy.”

“No, you do not have to. Knighton does that for himself, and you find relief in that because it makes it easier for you to keep your vow of not making the same mistakes your mother did.”

Isabella didn’t know what to say. Lucy was right. Knighton was not an ardent suitor. He was kind and his affection was all very proper. But Black … Isabella shivered. Black would not be chaste or proper in his pursuit of anything if he wanted it enough. Of that she was certain.

“Mr. Knighton is the sort of life companion I desire, Lucy. I do not require a town house in Mayfair, or a title, or heaps of money. What I wish for is constancy, security and perhaps a little affection.”

Squeezing her hands, Lucy smiled. “Dearest Isabella, when will you see that Mr. Knighton’s first love is work?”

“I will see it when you finally decide that the Duke of Sussex is worthy of your time.”

Lucy arched her brows. “You aim your arrows well, Issy.”

“I know you mean well, but I know what I’m doing, and pining after the unreachable Lord Black is not something I’m going to do. He isn’t the sort I’d want as a husband. Besides, it was one dance, not a vow of marriage, or anything of the sort. You make too much of it.”

Lucy gazed at her knowingly. “I wonder if I do. Time, of course, shall tell us.”

“Really, Lucy,” she admonished. “You’ve become far too bold.”

“Have I? I do apologize. Well, then, I hear another waltz beginning, and I believe you promised the third waltz to your Mr. Knighton. But I am not done with you yet,” Lucy said with a smile, before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Tonight, I want every little detail of your dance with the handsome Lord Black.”

With a reluctant nod, Isabella looped her arm through Lucy’s as they left the room and reentered the ballroom, which felt warm and stuffy. Instantly she wished for a reprieve. She was not in the mood for idle chitchat. What she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts, and her memories of that wonderful dance in Lord Black’s arms.

“Good evening, Isabella.”

She stopped and smiled at Wendell, who looked very handsome in his black dress clothes, except for the bit of dust marring the cuff of his jacket. He followed her gaze and stiffened.

“Damnation!” he cried, wiping it off. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t help myself, I had to stop by the museum on my way here this evening.”

Lucy shot her a pointed look that Isabella chose to ignore. “There is nothing to worry about. I assume you were checking on the preparations for the unveiling of the new exhibit?”

“I was. And …” Wendell flushed as he met her gaze. “I was wondering if you might consider letting me out of this dance. I know it’s bad form, but one of the patrons of the museum is here tonight, and I wished to speak with him. Funds, of course. If I don’t see to the donations …” He trailed off expectantly, his brown eyes full of hope that she understood his plight.

“Of course. You must go and meet him.”

“Thank you. I will endeavor to make it up to you.”

“Don’t even say it,” Isabella ordered her cousin when Wendell had taken his leave. “You of all people should know that I’m not the least bit crestfallen to have to sit out a dance.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“But you wanted to.”

“Sorely,” Lucy said around a grin. “But I love you too much. And I’m too much the lady to say I told you so!”

“Ha! This from the lady who keeps pestering me to write naughty scenes in my novels.”

“I’m merely living vicariously through you.”

“Ah, Lucy, there you are. I do believe you promised me this dance.”

Lucy pressed her eyes shut at the sound of the duke’s voice. “First names are far too personal, Your Grace,” she admonished as Sussex came to them. “It isn’t at all proper.”

“Neither is standing up a gentleman to whom you promised a dance.” Sussex’s smile could only be described as mischievous as he held out his hand to Lucy. “You will excuse us, Miss Fairmont?” he asked, but he didn’t take his gaze off Lucy. “I’m afraid I’ve been waiting all night for this dance.”

Isabella laughed as the duke steered her cousin to the floor. After watching Lucy step into the proper dance frame with the duke, Isabella realized that this might very well be her one and only opportunity to escape. It was hot and stuffy, and she would give anything for a chance to go out onto the terrace and smell the crisp fall leaves.

Careful not to garner any notice, she made her way to the terrace and the French doors. Opening the glass door, she stepped outside, breathing deep of the damp night air. The fog was rolling in from the Thames, blanketing the earth with gray mist. Moroccan lanterns hung from the branches of the trees, the candlelight shining with a muted, hazy glow through the mist. Beyond the terrace and the trees lay a rose arbor whose leaves had begun to turn brown. Beyond the arbor was a maze. There she would find privacy and quiet.

Lifting her skirts, she ran down the steps, thankful that the chilly night had deterred guests from going outside. No one would see her slip into the maze.

Growing up in Whitby, on the sea, had inured her to the dampness. There was nothing like the crisp air to clear one’s head. And her head most certainly needed to be cleared. All she seemed capable of thinking about was the enigmatic Earl of Black.

Rounding the corner, she walked deeper into the maze, where the stone bench would lay waiting for her. It was her favorite place, and tonight she needed its familiar comfort.

“Oh,” she cried as she saw someone sitting there. That someone looked up and Isabella stopped, her breath frozen in her throat. “Lord Black.”

He uncurled his tall frame from the bench and slowly rose. “Miss Fairmont.”

“I … I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy. I had no idea—”

“Do not concern yourself. I only needed a moment’s reprieve from the stuffiness in the ballroom. And you?”

“The same, I’m afraid.”

“Will you join me?”

Inanely she looked to either side of her. There was no one outside. It was black as pitch. It could ruin her reputation if they were to be discovered alone and in the dark. And the orchestra was loud. Even out here she could hear the violins. Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

“I realize it’s all rather untoward to be out here alone—with a man you’ve just met, but I am loath to give up this spot. Rather ungentlemanly of me, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is, my lord.”

He smiled at her honesty, and she saw that he had dimples. For some reason she could not stop staring at them—at him. “I’m willing to share this spot. Will that suffice?”

She was sure she could not hide the wariness in her eyes, or the watchful stiffness in her body. She should say no. But her lips could not seem to form the word.

“I will not hurt you, Isabella.”

The intimacy of her name, said in his deep voice, made her shiver. How had he known it? But then again, it seemed that Lord Black knew a good deal about her.

“Will you not join me?”

She was being silly. Besides, she could not seem to deny him when he looked at her like that. Like what? she asked herself as she walked to the bench. Like a fox after a hare, was the answer.

“Are you cold?” he asked as she sat down next to him. Her train bunched up, the lilac silk spilling onto his thigh. She went to move it, but he stilled her hand, and instead smoothed the silk over his knee. “Shall I lend you my jacket?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shivering. Curious, she wasn’t at all cold.

He moved away from her and began shrugging out of his velvet jacket. “No, I insist,” he said, covering her naked shoulders. “You might catch your death out here.”

She stilled, their gazes collided and he moved, inched closer to her.

“That was not in the best of taste, was it?”

“That depends, were you making a jest of what you read in my journal?”

His gaze flickered over her face, coming to rest on her mouth. “No. I was not referring to your writing. Forgive me, Isabella?”

She looked away, unable to think as once again the butterflies began to circle. The way he said her name was so soft, so lulling. There was something about him that pulled at her, made her will no longer her own.

He captured her chin with his fingers and forced her to look back at him. “I should not have read your journal, but I confess I could not stop.”

“Was it so engrossing then?” she asked, trying to make light. But there was nothing light and frivolous about Black. He was purposeful, intense and the way he was gazing down upon her made her shiver.

“I … want to know you. Everything about you.”

Her lips parted, yet nothing came out. She was shocked. Mesmerized.

“Would you let me, Isabella?” His voice dropped as he pressed closer, the moment intimate and wildly exciting. “Would you let me learn everything about you? Discover you as I want?”

His gaze, blistering with intensity, burned through her skin, warming her to the very core of her being. Inside, her body seemed to bloom, to open like the petals of a rose in the sunlight. She knew what he wanted, the innuendo of his words. And she admitted that somewhere deep inside her, she wanted to know him, too.

There was a strange, almost magnetic pull between them. They were strangers, yet he spoke to her familiarly—not at all gentlemanly. She should be shocked, outraged. They had just been introduced, yet Isabella felt as though she had known him forever. As if her soul recognized him from another time and place.

Gathering the edges of his jacket around her shoulders, she luxuriated in his scent, which wafted up from the fabric, mingling with her perfume. It made her think very dangerous thoughts—thoughts that did not entail running from him.

This was much too dangerous. She should put an end to it, and opened her mouth, but the words still would not come. Instead, she said, “Quid pro quo, then?”

His smile was slow and sensual, and she saw the glint of victory shining in his eyes. “Very well, you go first.”

“What is the real reason you are out here?”

His gaze flickered to hers. “As I said earlier, I needed to clear my head.”

“You don’t seem the sort to run away from something, which I think was what you were trying to accomplish by coming out here.”

His eyes lit with something like admiration. “How in tune we are. Indeed, I was running. I detest society, and much prefer my life as an enigmatic recluse. Is that the answer you desire?”

“I believe it more to the truth than your original answer.”

“And what of you, Miss Fairmont, what is your true motive for being here?”

To escape you, and the effect you have upon me. “The same, I’m afraid. I am new to society and have not yet learned to give up the craving for solitude. I am used to being on my own and sometimes the crush of the ballroom is just too much.”

He nodded and she saw that he was running his fingertips lightly over the grain of satin. He was watching as his fingers traversed her skirts, and she found the gesture the most romantic thing she could ever imagine.

“My turn.” He tipped his head and looked down at her. “How do you do it, suffer through it, the monotony of balls and all the insipid, shallow conversation that reveals nothing of a person’s soul but the fact they are vacuous, spiritless followers?”

She smiled and lifted her gaze to a sky that was filled with stars. “I write.” Closing her eyes, Isabella inhaled deeply of the damp grass, listening to the sway of the crisp leaves as they rustled in the trees and smelling the acrid odor of coal burning in the chimney. “I pretend I’m elsewhere—anywhere else.”

She felt him move, his thigh brushing against hers. “Where do you go?” he whispered, and she felt it as a caress along her body. She savored it, that haunting, alluring voice, and the queer sensation it gave her.

“A place where I can be myself. Where no one cares who my parents were, or the circumstances of my past. Where even I can forget.”

Her eyes opened as she felt the thrilling shiver of his fingers trace the contour of her cheek. He was looking at her so deeply that she felt the need to put space between them, but she couldn’t move, she was immobile, lost in his lovely pale eyes. “You never have to be anyone else than who you are, Isabella. Especially with me.”

She swallowed and he rubbed his thumb along her chin, tilting her head, studying her in the moonlight. “If someone doesn’t want you as you are, then they aren’t worth the time.”

He was far too perceptive, and familiar, and she was falling much too eagerly to his experienced, silky tongue.

“I think you are perfect, Isabella.”

“My lord—” she warned as he angled his head, lowering his mouth to hers.

“Black,” he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek. “Just call me Black.”

His breath caressed the shell of her ear; her body went languid and hot all over. She felt his nose against her temple, followed by the satiny smoothness of his lips. Oh, this was temptation!

“Black,” she whispered, but didn’t know if was a plea to continue or stop.

“Tell me, what do you write about, Isabella?”

Her lashes fluttered closed as she swayed closer to him. “I … I do not care to share my writing with others, my lord.”

“You can trust me. I would never betray your confidence.”

She sensed that she could, indeed, trust him. “I am a lady novelist.”

“Fiction,” he murmured, his voice deepening. “For women?”

“Yes,” she answered, her cheeks heating with warmth. What must he think of her? First her writing, and now this, sitting here in the dark, allowing him to brush his mouth against her cheek. He would think her fast and immoral. A harlot to enjoy in a dark garden. And why not? She was acting as such.

“An escape from the world so full of rules and restrictions,” he whispered, “to a world where you are free to think and feel as you will, regardless of your sex and the convention put upon you.”

“Black,” she murmured, but this time it sounded like a plea. But a plea for what, she could not tell.

“Tales of love,” he drawled as his lips moved along her jaw. Her head tipped back of its own accord, and his fingertips smoothed down the column of her throat, to her necklace, which he traced with the tips of his cool fingers. “Stories of passion, desire …”

She exhaled through her parted lips, her heart hammering heavy in her breast. She could not answer that. To do so would be too damning. She could not admit it, even though it was the truth.

“Will you tell me a story, Isabella?” He pulled her closer, till her bodice was against his chest, and his breath rasped against her ear. “A story of burning passion and forbidden desire.”

“Please. I …”

“I know.” His fingers toyed with the curls that had begun to cling to her neck. “You mustn’t tarry here—with me.”

“N-no,” she stuttered, reaching for the starched pleats of his crisp white shirt. “I shouldn’t.”

“I’ve never been very good at resisting things I know I should,” he murmured as he inched his mouth to hers. “What of you, Isabella?”

She had always been good. Always fearful of ending up like her mother.

“Bella?” He brushed his lips, featherlight, against hers. “Can you resist?”

Her lashes fluttered closed. “I must,” she said, and moved away. His jacket slipped from her shoulders and puddled onto the bench. “Good night, Lord Black.”

He watched her rise from the bench, tracking her progression. The wind rose, weaving through the branches. An owl hooted, and she chanced a glance back over her shoulder only to find him standing where they had seconds ago sat.

Their gazes locked, and a voice, beckoning and seductive, whispered to her. The first time I met Death, it was at a ball and we danced a waltz, and I feared him, feared the things he made me feel, made me want. That night I ran from him, but Death was right behind me, chasing me and I wanted him to catch me.




CHAPTER THREE


Even in death she was beautiful. Her porcelain skin, drained of color, rendered her angelic. Her hair, which was fanned out over black velvet, shone silver beneath the moonlight, reminding him of shimmering silk threads as it dangled over his arm. He lowered his head, inhaling the scent of all that luxurious hair, imagining it gliding along his body, his hands cupping handfuls of curls.

So still she lay that he could not bear it, and slowly he raised his face from her hair to touch the cold alabaster cheeks that were plump, the becoming flush he had seen no longer there. He bent to kiss the lips that were no longer pink. A goodbye. A parting. Their mouths touched, hers cold, his colder. Death’s eternal kiss …

Black awoke in a rush. He was sitting up in bed, the darkness shadowing his walls, a scream burning his throat.

He had dreamed of her. She had been lying dead in his arms, her delicately flushed skin devoid of color and warmth. The pliant body he had felt in his arms was stiff, unyielding. The sparkle in her green eyes gone, replaced with an opaque veil that clouded her eyes.

Dead. He couldn’t bear it.

Breathing heavily, he threw the bedcovers off and stood, reaching for the black velvet dressing gown that lay draped over a chair. Shrugging into it, he belted the sash around his waist, covering his nakedness as he went to the window, resting his forearm on the frame. Flickering light illuminated the window in the mansion across the street and his fingers, which had been lax, curled into a fist. It was her window—Isabella’s.

He still had the scent of her lingering on his fingers. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her as she had been only a few hours before, sitting with him in the maze, her lashes lowering, her lips parting in invitation. She had been a vision there in the dark, in his arms, her softly rounded body melting into his. He had seen desire in her haunting green eyes, had felt it heat the skin he had not been able to resist touching.

The scent of her aroused him, clouded his mind. He’d wanted her. Fiercely.

Damning as the admission was, he could not lie to himself. He would have taken things further tonight if Isabella had not pulled away from him. And what business had he, a man of experience, to pursue an innocent virgin?

For the hundredth time that night, he cursed himself for a fool. Asking her to dance had been a mistake. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. For so long he had hungered for her, keeping his distance. For too long he had stood at this very window, blending in with the shadows, wishing night after long, interminable night that he might see her beyond the glass.

It was strange, this feeling. His body actually warmed at the thought of her. It had been years since he had felt anything but coldness—emptiness. His life had become one of isolation, rumor and speculation. He was cursed. He knew it, had accepted it and used that comprehension to erect the ice that now surrounded his heart. Yet one glimpse of Isabella was enough to begin thawing the thick, frigid layers.

He’d only ever had a job to do, duties to see carried out. It was those obligations that had brought him back to London. It was those duties he should have been seeing to this evening when he was dancing with Miss Isabella Fairmont.

But she had looked too damn lovely and irresistible to avoid. In her lilac gown, which was sparsely adorned, she stood out to him from amongst all the fluffy, overly embellished women who had flocked to his side. She had been elegant standing there, her hair pulled up in a loose cascade of curls. He had liked her hair like that, enjoyed the way it allowed him to see the long column of her throat, which had been adorned with a diamond and amethyst choker. He had wanted to kiss the bounding pulse that beat a furious tattoo beneath the skin she had perfumed. He wanted to feel the delicate beat of her heart against his lips. Her body against his—her flesh, flushed with passion, warming him. But that was madness.

So was standing here in the dark, hidden away in his home, waiting for a glimpse of her. He smiled, thinking of her sitting on a settee, her legs folded beneath her as she wrote feverishly in her journal.

He had seen her that way before, scribbling away while the wind blew her hair and mist hovered around her. But that had been another place—another time. He could not allow her to know of that—how he had watched her.

Hers was a fertile imagination. And a considerable threat. There was no telling what might happen if Isabella discovered anything about him. In truth, she was too perceptive, and he had spoken too freely tonight.

Still, he could not regret those moments in the maze, or the hunger for her that suddenly felt insatiable. She was young—an innocent. He was older, experienced, a connoisseur of all things forbidden. He had no right to even gaze at her, let alone kiss her in a maze. Even as he realized the dangers of doing such a thing, he knew he would go to her again—soon.

“My lord, you’ve been summoned.”

He had not heard the door to his chamber open, a fact that should have disturbed him, but he could not work up the remorse. He’d been too busy reliving his dance with the delectable and highly desirable Isabella Fairmont.

Billings, one of only a handful of servants he employed, padded wraithlike across the Turkish carpet. “I’ve sent round for the carriage. Shall I lay out a fresh suit and cravat, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Billings.” He gazed to the corner where his brindle-colored English mastiff, Lamb, lay snoring by the hearth. “Take him outside, will you, Billings?” A shadow flickered in Isabella’s window, and his gaze was drawn to the spot of movement like a moth to a flame. “No, on second thought, I’ll do it.”

“As you wish, my lord,” his faithful retainer murmured as he backed out of the room.

“I’ve been summoned by the Brethren, then?”

“You have, milord. Sussex’s seal was on the carriage door.”

He snorted, hating to leave his spot by the window and a chance he might see Isabella wearing a transparent nightrail with her hair unbound, spilling about her shoulders. “I suppose the carriage is waiting in the street.”

“It is, my lord.”

“Well then, they shall have to wait, for I have something to see to before I go.”

With a snap of his fingers, he awoke his pet and signaled for him to follow. Dressing quickly in a shirt and trousers, Black moved through the darkness, descending the steps of the winding staircase, and headed for the kitchen, and the door that led to the garden. He knew where he was going and what he wanted.

So did Lamb.

Off into the darkness the mastiff loped, chasing a rabbit that had ventured into the garden. Himself, he made his way down the path to a rosebush. One lone rose bloom wavered on a tall stem that waved back and forth in the chill October breeze.

Carefully he snapped it off and brought the delicate bloom to his nose. It was a heady scent, and he stood there for long minutes with his eyes closed, bringing the sweet aroma into his lungs. Isabella had smelled of roses. The scent had been in his head all night, ever since the moment he had captured her hand during their introduction.

There were few things he was certain of, but of two things he was one hundred percent convinced. He wanted her. And he’d find a way to have her.

“Our greatest fear has come to fruition,” a voice announced behind him.

“We have feared many things since the Brethren Guardians came to rest in our hands,” he replied, savoring the last images of Isabella as they floated away.

“I think you know I’m here on business that cannot be delayed.”

Out of long habit, Black flicked his gaze to each of the darkened corners of his back garden. No place was truly safe. “I will meet you at the lodge and we can discuss it there.”

“I’ve already ensured the garden is secure,” Sussex snapped. “You will meet with me now.”

Irritated by the anger he heard in Sussex’s normally controlled voice, Black slowly turned and allowed his guest to see the savagery in his eyes. “What do you want, Sussex? I thought we decided that it’s not prudent to be seen in each other’s company. Do you not remember the rules of the Brethren?”

“Damn you! I know them every bit as well as you do!”

“Then why are you here? I thought we settled our business upon leaving Yorkshire.”

“They’re gone.”

Twirling the stem of the rose between his fingers, he inhaled the delicate scent as it whirled around him. “What is gone?”

“The chalice and pendant.”

Black’s gaze narrowed, even as the hairs on his neck rose in alarm. “When we took them from Yorkshire, we hid them away where they could never be found—only the three of us know of the catacombs beneath the lodge. How can they be gone?”

“How the hell should I know?” Sussex snapped. “When I learned that Wendell Knighton had unearthed some artifacts from Solomon’s Temple when he was in Jerusalem, I feared he might have come across some information of the existence of the artifacts. Naturally, I went to ensure the chalice and pendant were still hidden beneath the Templar church. They were not there.”

“And what am I to do about it?” Black grumbled. He had never wanted anything to do with protecting the whereabouts of the legendary chalice and pendant. But both Sussex and himself had been charged with their protection, a behest from both their fathers. Sussex’s father had hidden the chalice, and Black’s had kept the pendant. Both artifacts had brought nothing but death and grief to both families since the time their Templar ancestors had returned from the Holy Land, carrying them—charged with the task of keeping them hidden from the world.

Never tell what you know. Never say what you are. Never lose faith in your purpose, for the kingdom to come will have need of you and your sons.

It had been the mantra—and curse of his family, and that of Sussex’s. Those words had literally been written on his flesh, branded into his soul. He could never forget, because it was who he was. Who he would always be. What his sons would one day become.

“You forget, we vowed allegiance to hide them from the world. And if someone has found them—if they know of what their true purpose is—”

“I’m fully aware of what could happen, Sussex. I just don’t happen to believe it.” His faith had died years ago—along with any desire to carry on the family legacy.

“Your beliefs are irrelevant. We must find them and make sure that no one discovers their powers. I’ve already summoned Alynwick. He’s coming with the scroll.”

“I know, I saw the marquis at Stonebrook’s soirée tonight. He’s a Highland brute and people were staring. He’ll cause a bloody scene and people will begin to talk. If it’s known he’s associated with either one of us, there could be speculation—especially if Knighton uncovered anything about our forebears in Jerusalem.”

Sussex shrugged. “He is part of this, isn’t he? It’s his knowledge of the old order that we need. He has a right to be here, to help us find the chalice and pendant.”

Indeed he was. Alynwick and his forebears had been in charge of keeping the ancient religious text safe, and well away from the chalice and the pendant. The text, which was in the form of an ancient scroll, was the third artifact that had been carried out of Solomon’s Temple by their Templar ancestors. The scroll was said to have the power of prophecy and alchemy, and contained the secrets of how to bring the powers of the chalice, pendant and scroll together. It was said that to possess all three, and their knowledge and power, was to rule supreme. Black had never believed, but there was that time, once, when he had held the black onyx pendant with its strange symbols marked in gold in his hand, and began to wonder if what his ancestors had passed down from generation to generation, son to son, was not true. He had felt something … heard something … a voice calling, whispering to him, tempting him with all he might have.

He’d been grieving at the time, Death had surrounded him, come in threes to take those closest to him. He’d assumed what he’d heard had been nothing but grief and despair. But now, ten years later, he began to wonder whether the pendant really had magical properties.

“Those are Templar treasures coming,” Sussex reminded him, “and we need Alynwick’s help if we are going to be able to keep London safe in the event that whoever has stolen the chalice and pendant discovers their powers.”

“Safe,” he murmured, gazing at the sky, thinking of Isabella. “Death follows me like a cloud, Sussex. No one is safe from my family’s curse.”

“We’re all cursed,” Sussex grumbled. “But that hardly matters now, does it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Sussex raked an unsteady hand through his dark hair. “Tomorrow the ship from Jerusalem arrives. Be there to find out what Knighton has unearthed. Report back as soon as you discover anything. We must be very careful, Black.”

“Aren’t I always cautious?”

“Tonight you weren’t.”

He glared at Sussex. “Some could accuse you of the same.”

“Just keeping tabs on what could be a very inconvenient discovery of our involvement.”

Black laughed, a deep sound of jaded weariness. “Is that what you’re calling Lucy Ashton, an inconvenience?”

Resentment flashed in Sussex’s eyes. “You needn’t concern yourself with her, I’ll manage her,” he snapped, and Black felt the duke’s possession in every word.

“You’ve fallen for Lucy.”

“Of course I haven’t.”

“Your tone says otherwise.”

“My tone is exasperation, Black. The young lady is far too intelligent and nosy for her own good,” he grumbled. “I can’t allow her to discover anything about the artifacts—or me.”

“What makes you think she knows anything about the artifacts?”

“She’s been plaguing me with questions about the Brotherhood and the Grand Lodge. She’s enamored of its secrets and I’m afraid she might just uncover that our family has been using Freemasonry as a way to keep the secrets they found in Solomon’s Temple buried. Miss Ashton has a hunger for knowledge, and it scares the devil out of me. She’s started attending séances and spirit meetings, for God’s sake. There’s no telling what lengths that single-minded miss will go to in order to indulge her quest for answers.”

“I’m sure you have charmed her out of seeking any further answers.”

“She doesn’t care for me.”

Sussex sounded hurt—and defeated. Oddly, Black found he relished the knowledge. Misery did love company, for his desire for Isabella was just as hopeless as Sussex’s for Lucy.

“She is only playing at the supernatural, Sussex. It’s in vogue, after all, and Lucy Ashton is a forerunner in society. It is innocent curiosity and a cure for interminable boredom. Trust me, the girl hasn’t stumbled upon anything.”

“Oh?” Sussex reached into his jacket pocket, then tossed something into the air, which Black caught. Uncurling his fingers, he studied the gold coin that sat in the palm of his hand.

Facing up was the image of laurel leaves and a lyre. On the other side was a six-pointed star with the words The House of Orpheus imprinted around the coin. Frowning, he stared at the image, wondering where he had seen it before. There was something very familiar about it.

“Still think we have nothing to worry about?” Sussex snapped. “I told you back in Yorkshire that someone was after the chalice and pendant. I could feel it.”

Black looked up sharply. “What is this?”

“I found it in Lucy Ashton’s reticule. So, you tell me, is it nothing to be concerned about?”

Black had no desire to question why the blazes Sussex was snooping in Lucy’s purse, but he was curious about the coin, and its ominous nature.

“I’ve seen this before—not in the past, but recently,” he murmured. “The image has been modified, but only slightly.”

“So you remember the House of Orpheus, and its rogue leader?”

How could he not? Sussex’s and Alynwick’s fathers, not to mention his own father, had been the ones to shut down the club that had been created to mirror the old Hellfire Club of the last century. The leader had been a rogue Mason, but more importantly, he had been one of them. He had been the fourth Templar—the one whose ancestor had ambushed the other three while they lay sleeping before they left the holy city after stealing the artifacts. He’d been killed, or so they thought. All three Templars had believed their secret safe, buried with the body of the fourth. But then, after discovering the House of Orpheus, their fathers had been confronted with the fact that there was someone else out there, someone who knew of them and what they protected—and the prophesized powers they contained. Someone had wanted the artifacts twenty years ago—and someone wanted them now. Perhaps they even had them in their possession.

“Our fathers put an end to the infamous cult years ago. It cannot be the same one.”

“Damn you, Black, because you wish it to be so doesn’t mean it is. Whether you want to believe it or not, the club has been resurrected. Along with the coin, I found a piece of paper. On it was written, ‘Now you have died and now you have come into being. O thrice happy one, on this same day. Tell Persephone that Orpheus has released you.’”

Black froze. “That was the initiation rite.”

“Indeed. Someone knows of us—there are too many similarities to be a coincidence.”

“Who?” Black growled. “Who could have learned of the club and resurrected it? Who could know of the relics besides us—or the fact that the catacombs beneath the Masonic lodge lead to the crypts of the Templar church? Our fathers made certain its existence was kept secret. Perhaps this new House of Orpheus has no connection to the relics.”

“That is the answer we must discover.” Sussex’s eyes grew unreadable. “We must take every precaution, Black. No one can learn of us, or what our families are responsible for.”

Black tossed the coin back to Sussex. “You think Lucy is involved, don’t you?” And dear God, if Lucy was involved, there was every possibility that Isabella was, too.

Pocketing the coin, Sussex glanced up at the sky, to the moon that was being overtaken by a thick, black cloud. “I do not know what to believe. But if this club is returned, and the artifacts are missing, then we have much larger problems than I first thought.”

“I’ll go to the docks in the morning and search the ship.”

“Alynwick will meet you there. I’ll continue to research this coin. The next Masonic meeting we’ll talk. We’ll meet in private after it and discuss what we’ve learned.”

He inclined his head and made to move past Sussex. Lamb was standing on the path, his huge tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. The dog was as ugly as a demon, and his name a bit of folly, but the canine gave him some amusement. He found himself wondering what Isabella would think of his pet beast. She was a kind and loving person; he was certain she would smother Lamb with a shocking amount of affection. It was strange how ordinary things suddenly made him think of Isabella. And after only one dance.

Sussex reached for the sleeve of Black’s shirt as he went to pet the dog’s head. “Find a way to keep Knighton close to you. I don’t trust him.”

The image of Wendell Knighton flashed before him. He was courting Isabella, a fact that made him see red. Black wanted to tear the young archaeologist from limb to limb, not take tea with him. One thing was certain, he would not attend Knighton while the fool was wooing Isabella. There were limits to what he could stomach, and Isabella falling for Knighton was not one of them.

“Your word. Keep him with you—alive.”

“Of course,” he drawled. “But you will remember that I’m cursed. Death has a way of following me.”

Sussex’s dark gaze met his. “He follows us all. Let us hope that this time, we have a head start.”

“Sussex,” Black said, “I’ve seen that very image on the coin, in the last few days. I can’t for the life of me remember where, but I’ll trace my steps and see where it leads me. I’ll let you know.”

Nodding, the duke raked a hand through his hair, then leveled his gray gaze upon him. “I have your word that if you discover any connection with Miss Ashton and this club, you will keep it to yourself. Lucy’s—er—Miss Ashton’s reputation must be protected at all costs.”

Sussex disappeared amongst the shadow and the faint glow of the gas lamps that lined the street. Glancing down at his hand, Black lifted the bloom to his nose, and began to think of the coin and the familiar image. Where had he seen it? The scent of rose almost immediately made him forget about Sussex and the Templar artifacts that were missing, and instead, brought him back to the dance he’d shard with Isabella.

“The last rose of summer,” he murmured idly as his finger stroked the velvety petals, and he knew just what to do with it.

“MISS FAIRMONT,” Isabella’s maid, Annie, announced from the door. “There’s a gentleman here to see you. I’ve put him in the back parlor, for he smells like the Thames.”

Isabella’s brows raised in curiosity as she glanced at the clock on her rosewood writing desk. “It’s only eleven.”

“A trifle early for calls,” Lucy moaned as she flung herself back onto the heap of pillows that lay on the bed. “Doesn’t Mr. Knighton realize that there is a proper way to call, and it is not before a lady is breakfasted, or dressed?”

“Should I send him away, miss?”

“No,” Isabella announced, rising from her chair in a froth of white sateen and lace. “Help me out of these bedclothes, Annie. It won’t take me long to dress and be ready to receive him.”

“I will return right shortly, miss. Just let me go and tell the gentleman that you are at home.”

The door shut behind Annie, and Lucy groaned. “Men! They do know how to put a pall on a perfectly good morning, do they not? I was utterly enchanted by your story, Issy. Now I must wait to hear what happened when your heroine sat on the bench, suffering beneath Death’s lascivious stare.”

Isabella glanced at her open journal. There was much more there than her story of Death and his mysterious lady on those pages. There were her penned memories of last night, in the maze with Lord Black—which somehow had found their way into the newest writing of her novel.

Closing the cover, she shut the tiny lock with a click and wrapped the key around her wrist, which she held on a delicate bracelet of black jet. She trusted Lucy not to go prying into her personal writing while she was below, taking tea with Wendell. Still, though, she could not allow the events of last night to get out. While she knew that she was not yet in love with Wendell, she cared for him, would not want to jeopardize what might possibly turn out to be a marriage proposal. She also didn’t want Wendell to discover that she had been out with Lord Black, allowing him unmentionable intimacies—and enjoying them. More than enjoying them, she finally admitted, but dreaming of another evening with him and perhaps allowing even more scandalous intimacies than a lady of good breeding and sound sense would ever dare think of allowing a gentleman.

But dream she had. All night, in fact. Her sleep had been fitful, the dream at times sensual, but then turning darker, dangerous. Black had featured in her dreams, and this morning she was paying for the hours of restlessness. She had the beginnings of a headache, the type that were brought on by her dreams. She didn’t believe it to be one of those dreams—the sort that had plagued her since she was twelve.

“I’ll come down with you,” Lucy announced as she rolled onto her side and slipped from the bed. “I’ll fetch Sibylla and meet you downstairs.”

At the mention of Lucy’s maid, Isabella felt compelled to ask, “Has Sibylla arranged for you to attend any more séances?”

Lucy’s green eyes shone as brilliant as emeralds. “Sibylla has the same deep interest in mysticism and spiritualism as I do. I do not care a fig that she can’t dress my hair for anything, for she can find the most diverting amusements. Where she hears of these things I’ll never know—but I won’t be the one to ask her, for she has kept me amused for a month.”

“Lucy …” Isabella warned. “You’re evading the question.”

“Oh, all right then, yes. There’s to be a séance tonight, and guess where? Oh, it’s going to be so brilliant,” Lucy cried as she ran to her and reached for her hands, squeezing them hard in her exuberance. “Imagine this, Issy, a séance in Highgate Cemetery! First we will do our séance, and then at midnight, and beneath the full moon we will walk amongst the headstones and see if we might not conjure up an apparition! The medium is to be Alice Fox, directly descended from the Fox sisters. So you know it’s not going to be a sham. Oooh, I can hardly wait.”

“Uncle will forbid it.” And thank heaven for that, because Isabella had no desire to spend the night at Highgate Cemetery, with anyone directly or indirectly related to the three sisters who were considered responsible for making England crazed with spiritualism.

“Father is at his Masonic lodge meeting tonight. So he won’t even know.”

“Lucy—” Isabella began as her headache began to thump in her head.

“There’s to be an initiation tonight, I heard father telling his valet this morning. You know he’s out at the lodge all night whenever there is an initiation. He won’t even know about me going out, and we’ll be home well before father returns in the morning.”

Dread suddenly consumed her, while her head pounded mercilessly. At first Lucy’s interest in spiritualism had been amusing, and nothing concerning. Mysticism was fashionable, and Isabella had assumed that Lucy was following suit. But lately, Isabella had noticed a change in her cousin. She wasn’t quite as jovial and laughing. Her conversation seemed focused solely on séances, and spirit meetings, and all other kinds of things that Isabella had no desire to dabble in. Who, or what, was Lucy searching for when she went to these things? It was a bad omen to court the dead—and Death, she added.

Isabella could no longer put aside her intuitive feelings. She could not help but notice that Lucy’s increasing hunger for séances had seemed to begin with the arrival of Sibylla a month ago, which also coincided with Mr. Knighton’s courtship.

“Lucy,” Isabella said softly, trying to find the right words. “Are … are you by any chance … lonely?”

“Of course not!” her cousin gasped, but Isabella saw the widening of her eyes. “I have far too much to do to allow loneliness to get in the way.”

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if … if …”

“Goodness, Isabella, I’m just fine. Now, allow me to dress and take tea with your Mr. Knighton. A rousing rendering of the contents in those dirty old crates from Jerusalem will be just what I need to liven up my morning.”

“Lucy, please do not make a jest of Mr. Knighton. It is only that he is very proud to be the one to have discovered the secret tomb beneath the temple. His treatise has been published in all the history papers, you know.”

“I know,” Lucy drawled, “and really, I am rather excited to discover what he’s brought back. Honestly,” she said with a laugh. But Isabella stuck her tongue out, and Lucy let out a very unladylike snort. “All right, I’m wondering how I’m going to stay awake and not snore or drool while he’s enlightening us yet again with stories of his Holy Land escapades. Really, Issy, how many times have you heard them?”

“A few,” she admitted, “but I take comfort in the fact that Mr. Knighton can undoubtedly carry on a conversation. I’m quite certain that we will not be sitting across the supper table staring at each other in stony silence.”

“Issy,” Lucy whispered. “I think I’d prefer Mr. Knighton’s silence to another story of the Holy Land.”

“Lucy!”

Her cousin stuck out her tongue and ducked before the pillow Isabella threw could hit her. Lucy, drat her, did have a point. It was rather difficult to keep smiling and laughing when she had heard the same story for well over a month now. Certainly something of import, or excitement, would soon come along to make Mr. Knighton’s conversation not quite so … singular.

ISABELLA SENSED something was wrong. Wendell was pacing the length of the parlor with long, agitated strides. He’d removed his hat, and carried it in his hands, which were clasped behind his back. His dark chestnut hair was rumpled, as well as his suit jacket and trousers.

The air in the parlor smelled strongly of fish, seaweed and the musty hull of a ship. Three things that were not conducive to the temperament of a hungry morning belly and aching head.

“Wendell,” Isabella murmured as she closed the door to the parlor. He stopped pacing and whirled around to look at her. With a laugh, he threw his hat onto the rose-colored settee and in three strides reached her, wrapped his arms around her waist and twirled her around in a rather uncharacteristic show of mirth and impetuousness.

“My goodness,” Isabella gasped, then laughed. “It must have been quite a haul in those crates.”

His brown eyes flashed as he set her back onto her feet. “You are looking at the newest recruit to the Masonic Grand Lodge, London.”

Isabella’s mouth dropped open. “Did my uncle—”

“Black,” Wendell announced as he sat on the settee and crossed one long leg over the other. “I encountered Lord Black on the docks this morning. We chatted for a bit and he invited me to the lodge. He’s sponsoring me, Isabella. I can hardly believe it. A Mason. A member of the Brethren.”

He clapped his hands and whooped in delight and Isabella couldn’t help but notice how young and handsome he appeared, with the sunlight filtering through the windows, casting him in a brilliant glow. “My first meeting will be tonight. I can hardly wait. You know of my interest in the Templars, and it’s no secret that the Freemasonry, or at the very least, Black’s lodge, practices the Templar ways. Rumor has it, that this particular lodge was opened by members who could actually lay claim to being descended directly from Templar knights!”

“Something must be very exciting,” Lucy announced as she breezed into the parlor, wearing a celadon-colored morning gown. “I could hear the enthusiasm from the hallway.”

Wendell stood and bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Forgive the early hour of my call, but I could not contain myself.”

“Well, I can understand why. Isabella does look astonishingly lovely in pale pink. Ethereal, wouldn’t you say?”

Wendell’s smile faded as he cast a glance in the direction of the chair where she was seated, pouring the tea. Her outfit was a lovely pink bodice made of pleated silk, adorned with an ecru high lace collar that was at once extravagant but beautiful. The bodice fit snuggly, emphasizing her full bust, and the overskirt of pink silk damask was edged in thick velvet. It was something a grand lady would wear, not a poor Yorkshire girl. She felt like a sham wearing such beautiful things, but Lucy had made it for her, another one of her particular designs. Her cousin certainly had an eye for fashion, and the sewing skills to match. Lucy was a forerunner of fashion, and every debutante and fashionable lady strove to uncover the modiste who outfitted Lucy in such wonderful clothes. Little did they know, the modiste was Lucy herself. A fact that would shock society. No society lady would ever deign to make their own clothes—that was for the middling classes. Herself, she didn’t see what all the fuss was about, especially since her cousin’s sense of fashion and ingenious designs outshone anything she had seen done up by the seamstresses that outfitted the cream of the ton. But then, she had never been able to afford to contemplate such things. She’d counted herself lucky if she possessed a cloak without holes in it. Which very rarely happened.

A masculine cough ended her rumination. “Oh, yes, yes,” Wendell said hurriedly. “In my excitement, I forgot myself. You look lovely today, Miss Fairmont. Pink is a very fetching color on you.”

She handed him a cup and saucer, made out of Wedgwood china, which was so fine and delicate she could see through it as the sun’s rays sparkled through the salon windows. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Knighton. Really, my vanity can survive a morning without it being complimented.”

She sent Lucy a warning glance, which her cousin, of course, ignored. Sinking onto the chair beside hers, Lucy reached for a cup of tea and brought it to her mouth for a delicate sip before replacing the cup in the saucer with a slight chink. “You must tell us what is so exciting, Mr. Knighton.”

“I am to be initiated into the Brotherhood, my lady. The Masons,” Wendell said with a mix of pride and awe.

“Are you?” Lucy asked. “Did my father offer to sponsor you?”

“In fact, no. Lord Black did.”

“Black?” Lucy asked, her auburn brow furled as she glanced at her.

Wendell took a sip of his tea, then nodded. “Indeed, Black. Very amiable fellow. There is to be a special meeting tonight, an initiation which I will not be privy to. But before that, Black will offer to sponsor me.”

Lucy slid her gaze to Isabella. “Well, then, I do believe you are free tonight, cousin.”

Isabella hid a groan. Not that séance business again. Her head was paining her, and she felt queasy, and the thought of attending Lucy’s morbid curiosity only made her feel worse.

“Oh, yes, please,” Wendell said as he rose from the settee. “Please, Miss Fairmont, go out and enjoy the evening. There will be few nice ones left before the winter comes. Do not let my plans interfere with yours.”

Isabella accepted Wendell’s hand and allowed him to help her from her chair. With a chaste kiss, he kissed her hand, then reached for his hat. “Good day, Miss Fairmont. Please do enjoy it.”

They watched him leave the parlor, and when the door closed behind him, Isabella sunk into an ungraceful heap onto the chair. She felt … let down for some reason, but why, she could not fathom. Wendell’s visit had been like all his other ones, and she had never felt anything less then satisfied when he had left.

Lucy must have known her thoughts, for she kept her lips pressed firmly together as she toyed with an imaginary speck of lint on her skirts.

“I wonder what Lord Black is playing at, sponsoring Mr. Knighton?”

Isabella took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps he is just being kind, Luce. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

Lucy’s gaze met hers. “Think back to our conversation last night, Issy. Did I not tell you that Black would not be deterred?”

“Deterred from what?”

Like a sly kitten, Lucy smiled. “You know very well from what.”

“In fact, I don’t. What is it you’re trying to say?” Isabella asked, irritability making her voice sharper than she intended. The mild headache she had been suffering under all morning became a loud and painful throbbing. Now she knew for certain, it was one of those headaches, she thought. Rubbing her temple, she tried focusing on her cousin.

“What I am trying to make you see, dear Issy, is that Black has just removed an obstacle.”

Isabella dropped her hand from her temple. “I beg your pardon? I’m not following your line of thinking.”

“He has removed Knighton from your side, and quite effectively, in fact, for Mr. Knighton will be studying for weeks to make it through the first degrees, thereby leaving you alone, and available for the evenings.”

The door opened, thankfully relieving Isabella of the task of rebutting Lucy’s wild suggestion. Stonebrook’s butler, Jennings, appeared, his face austere and wrinkled. He was ancient and frightfully proper. Isabella had been terrified of him when she had first come to live with Lucy and her father. But since that time, she had softened to crusty old Jennings.

“For you, miss.”

Jennings presented a silver salver with one perfect bloodred bloom, with an ivory card attached to the stem by a black satin ribbon.

“For me?” she asked, even though she could read quite clearly that the card had her name written on it, in bold, black lettering.

“Indeed,” Jennings murmured.

“Thank you,” she returned as she lifted the delicate flower from its resting place. Oh, it was perfect. And the sender had removed the leaves and thorns as well.

Jennings departed, and with a quick glance at her cousin, who was pressing forward in her chair, Isabella turned the card over and noted that there was no seal imprinted on the wax. The only thing keeping the edges together was a large blob of black wax.

“Well?” Lucy asked. “I can hardly bear the suspense, Issy. Open the blasted thing.”

“Your language,” Isabella reprimanded her, feeling every bit as anxious as Lucy.

“Oh, get on with it,” Lucy commanded. “It’s only you and I, for mercy’s sake.”

The wax seal broke, and she opened the card to more of the elegant black script.

‘Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh

To reflect back her blushes

To give sigh for sigh.

I dreamed of your sighs last night, Isabella—a most haunting, beautiful sound that I hope, most fervently, I might hear again very soon.

Your servant, Black

Isabella tried to hastily fold the card before Lucy could read it. But her cousin was too quick, and managed to read Lord Black’s missive before she could hide the card.

“Well,” Lucy drawled with amusement, “how could Lord Black know that you have a fondness for Thomas Moore’s poetry?”

Puzzled, Isabella looked up at her cousin. “I don’t know.”

With a smile Lucy breezed past her then stopped at the door. With a glance over her shoulder, she said, “You know, Issy, I would bet my dowry that Lord Black would not command you to see to your own amusement in the evenings—not like Mr. Knighton. Something tells me that Black would keep you exceedingly busy, and delightfully amused, all night long.”




CHAPTER FOUR


PALL MALL AND COCKSPUR STREETS were bustling with trade. Elegant carriages transported the rich and fashionable down the cobbles for an afternoon of shopping, while wooden carts carrying fresh vegetables and apples wound their way to Covent Garden where the goods would go up for sale in the market.

On the sidewalks, people walked shoulder to shoulder, some in a hurry to carry out their business, others at a more leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to peer into a shop window or to purchase a newspaper from one of the many young boys selling them on the street corners.

“Wolf escaped from London Zoo! Still at large!” called one such boy as Isabella passed him.

“Mystery in Spitalfields!” cried another. “Bodies found murdered! Read all about it in the Standard!”

Pressing on, Isabella ignored the chilling headlines of the day and continued down Cockspur Street to Jacobson’s, the preeminent apothecary in London. Her headache would not give up, not even after a pot of tea and a nap. When she’d left the house, Lucy was still napping, so Isabella had taken a footman with her. The footman, Isabella noted, was lingering behind, talking to a buxom shopgirl who was trying to sell the young man a haunch of pork—and other wares, Isabella was certain. It didn’t matter that she was getting farther and farther away from him, for her head was throbbing, and the smells of the city were beginning to nauseate her. She needed that medicine, the only tonic that had been able to cure the headaches and stem the dreams.

Oh, how she hated to think of them coming back. They’d been gone for months now. She’d thought herself cured. How very distressing to know she wasn’t. She’d had one of those disturbing dreams that very afternoon, during her nap. It was upon awakening that she realized the dreams had only been on hiatus—not banished. She knew then that she must come to Jacobson for more of the tonic.

“Women gone missing from the Adelphi Theatre,” a boy called as he rang his bell. A group of gentlemen stopped and clustered around the lad for a look at the day’s headlines. The boy held out an issue of the Times to her when he saw her standing on the sidewalk, attempting to move around the group of men. “Read all about the Adelphi mystery in the Times, miss.”

Reaching into her reticule, Isabella removed a shilling and gave it to the lad.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, his eyes growing round. “‘Ave a good day.”

Nodding, she accepted the paper from the boy and unfolded it. Scanning the headlines, she read the blurb of the actresses who had gone missing from the Adelphi, the notorious music and dance hall.

The ladies were last seen in the company of a tall gentleman, his features concealed by the brim of his top hat. An eyewitness observed the ladies being ushered into a black town carriage driven by four black horses …

The Earl of Black had such a carriage, which was drawn by four magnificent warmbloods the color of midnight. The thought stopped her cold. Lucy had mentioned seeing Black leave his town house late at night … the very night, in fact, that the women were seen getting into the carriage.

Nonsense. Black was a refined gentleman. What in the world would he be doing with three women whose reputations were dubious at best? Women were always missing from the Adelphi, and more often than not showed up months later after a sojourn in the country and with a child on their hip.

Silly, overactive imagination, she admonished. At times it could be such a nuisance. And yet, an image of her and Black dancing whisked through her mind, paralleling the opening of her book. They shared the same eyes, Black and her image of Death. As well, they both embodied the blood-heating characteristics of mystery, danger and a luring sensuality. And that, she thought with a little shake of her head, was the most preposterous thought of all.

Folding the paper in half, Isabella tucked it under her arm and continued walking. The three actresses, if they could be called such, were probably listing away as mistresses to some rich man. Everyone knew that the music hall was as infamous for its debauches as it was its musical performances. Still, the streets of London were getting more dangerous …

She rounded the corner of Cockspur and crossed onto Haymarket where stood a short, round man on a box, soliciting interest in an illusionist. She glanced to where a crush of people were gathered around a man standing beside a coach that reminded her of a gypsy’s caravan.

“Step inside and witness for yourself the mystery of Herr Von Schraeder. Come, come,” he said, waving them closer. “For a crown you can witness all the magic.”

Her gaze drifted over the crowd, then down the street that led to the Strand. The Strand was packed with tourists and young men vying for tickets to the numerous theaters and music halls that lined the street. The crowd was turning rowdy—this wasn’t the fashionable part of Mayfair where everything was polite and orderly. This was the gray area of London where the posh West End melted into the slums of the East End.

With the days turning shorter and the nights longer, Isabella reminded herself that it would not do to stand idle and woolgather. She needed to retrieve her medicine and return to Mayfair before dusk. And by the look of the cloud-covered sky, dusk would be arriving far sooner than usual.

Turning away, she stepped onto Haymarket Street, stopping abruptly when she saw a tall man, dressed in black, leaning leisurely against an ebony-and-silver-in-laid walking stick, obstructing her path. He was watching her over the rims of his blue sunshades. She could not help but shudder at the intensity of that unblinking gaze. Or wonder why he was wearing them when there was no longer any sunshine.

“Good day, Miss Fairmont.”

Lord Black.

“Oh, good day, my lord. I did not recognize you with your sun spectacles.”

He smiled as he took her hand, his gaze catching hers over the silver rims of the lenses. “I will forgive you this time,” he teased, bringing his lips to brush against her gloved hand.

“Are you enjoying the autumnal weather?” she asked. “Or are you by chance hanging about for a chance to witness Herr Von Schraeder’s magic show?”

His pupils grew large, engulfing the pale blue of his iris. He blinked, then hid his eyes from her behind the dark lenses of his spectacles. His body appeared stiff now, and he seemed to be watching her curiously.

She was about to speak, when she was jostled by a pack of young men running past her as the Adelphi opened its doors for business. She was pushed into Black’s chest, and he caught her, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist to keep her from falling.

When the ruffians had passed, he slowly released her, and she looked up into his face, which showed none of the lightness that had been there when she first saw him. He was back to being a mystery—a beautiful one.

Pulling back, she put distance between them. Discretion, she reminded herself. It would be so easy to find herself failing against him, and the seductive lure he cast—Isabella couldn’t lie—she was already weakening. Her mother had been weak, and her father had taken advantage of the fact.

“My lord, you were saying?”

“Unless Herr Von Schraeder’s magic is exceptionally potent, I believe the citizens of London have seen the last of him,” he muttered, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back, to the safety of the apothecary’s storefront.

“What do you mean, sir?” she asked. As she looked over her shoulder at the cart, she saw Herr Von Schraeder’s assistant come flying out, bellowing something.

“I believe it was the apothecary you were seeking,” Black replied as he pulled open the door and ushered her through. The bells tinkled, drowning out the rest of the assistant’s words as he ran from Von Schraeder’s cart.

“How did you know I was coming here?” she demanded, her gaze narrowing, just as a fresh flush of gooseflesh erupted on her skin.

“Jacobson’s apothecary is most famous. I guessed that perhaps it was him that brought you to this side of the city.”

“Oh.” She flushed and looked down at her gloved fingers, which were wrapping around the braided cording of her reticule. “Forgive me, my lord, if I seemed short just now. I have a terrible headache, I’m afraid.”

Pulling his spectacles from his face, he caught her chin in his gloved hand and angled her face to the waning afternoon light that filtered in through the large window of the apothecary.

“You’re pale, Miss Fairmont. I don’t like it.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” she snapped, not knowing whether to be touched or embarrassed by his frankness.

“It worries me to see you suffering,” he murmured, his thumb grazing against the apple of her cheek. “Is there anything I might do to relieve you of it?”

She was touched. Not only by his words, which seemed to be spoken without artifice, but also by the concern she saw in his eyes. “No, my lord. I’ve tried everything, and nothing seems to relieve it, except for Mr. Jacobson’s wonderful bergamot tonic.”

Two elderly matrons waiting at the counter were watching them with unconcealed interest. Black dropped his hand at the same moment Isabella took a discreet step back.

“I will drive you home,” he announced.

“Oh, no, I’ve brought a footman with me. He’s …” Isabella peered through the gold-foil lettering on the window, grateful to see that the young man was still flirting with the shopgirl. “He’s right over there.”

Black followed the direction of her hand. “He seems rather inept in his duty of watching out for you, Miss Fairmont. No, I will see you returned safely home.”

“Ah, good day, Miss Fairmont,” Mr. Jacobson’s son, George, called from behind the counter. “What brings you here today?”

“Good day to you, Mr. Jacobson,” she returned, even as she stole a glance at Lord Black. Who, she was startled to discover, was watching her intently from behind the rims of his spectacles, which he’d put back on.

She really rather liked him in those, she mused, despite the fact it was no longer sunny.

Wiping his hands on his apron, George asked, “Another sleeping tonic, by chance?”

“Yes. Please.”

“A tincture of laudanum and bergamot, alongside a dose of the valerian herb?”

“That’s right.”

Black’s expression was as dark as his name and he was watching her with unrelenting curiosity.

“That is a very dangerous concoction, Isabella,” he whispered into her ear. “Very dangerous.”

“I’m aware of that, but I’m very careful to measure it out exactly as Mr. Jacobson prescribes.”

He turned her face to his, his fingers resting beneath her chin. “Do you know how many lives Death has claimed after taking tonics like this? Thousands, Isabella.”

She shivered. “I know what I am doing. I suffered almost daily for nearly a year with these headaches, and … dreams,” she whispered before hurrying on. “I’m quite able to follow a prescription, my lord. I’m not a child. And furthermore it is the only thing that has helped.”

“Here ye are, Miss Fairmont. Two spoonfuls at bedtime ought to do the trick. And if you find you’re not resting well, take one during the daytime.”

Reaching into her reticule, Isabella pulled out some coins and set them on the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Jacobson.”

He nodded and came around the counter, holding open the door to her. “Good day, Miss Fairmont.”

Sweeping out onto the sidewalk, Black moved in to stand beside her. The sidewalk was bustling, and she was bumped from behind by a steely body. The bottle of medicine fell from her grasp, only to be caught in the palm of a black-gloved hand.

Black.

Straightening, he held out his hand where the bottle of medicine was cradled in his palm. “I should have let the bottle smash onto the street, but then you would only have gone back inside and ordered another one. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I am afraid I would. I am desperate after all. I’ve had this headache since last night, ever since I returned from the maze—” She stopped, embarrassed to have mentioned what happened between them. She didn’t finish her thought, and instead shoved the bottle into her reticule.

He watched from behind his spectacles, and Isabella felt his eyes burning through her clothes and skin until they pierced the very soul of her. Was he also recalling what had transpired between them? Had he been as affected as she?

Ridiculous, she chided. She mustn’t let her thoughts stray into that dangerous territory. Passion was for novels. Not her life. What was it about this man that made her forget her own mantra?

Taking a step back, she prepared to part from him, but he reached for her elbow and held her. “My carriage is just around the corner. Allow me to see you safely home. You, there, boy,” Black called as the newspaper boy who had sold her a copy of the Times ran past them. The lad stopped, his cheeks bright red, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Did ye hear, me lord, that Herr Von Schraeder is dead! Dead!” the boy cried. “I’ve got to be the first to make it back to the offices. A whole pound if I’s the first to break a news story, and it’s no secret that the sham magician was not liked. What if it were murder?” the lad crowed with enthusiasm. “I bet they’d pay me more than a pound if he were done in.”

Black pulled him back by his collar. “I’ll give you a fiver if you would be so kind as to cross the street and give this to that man in the blue-and-white livery.”

“The man talking with Sally?” the boy inquired.

“That’s the man.” Black handed the boy his calling card. “Tell him that I have Miss Fairmont and I will be bringing her home. She’s not well. Be quick about it,” Black demanded as he slipped the boy a five-pound note. “And see that the task is done before you go screaming in the streets of Von Schraeder’s murder.”

“Right away, my lord.” The boy grinned, then ran as fast as his thin little legs would carry him.

“This way, Miss Fairmont,” Black commanded, as he took her arm and walked with her around the corner of the apothecary to his waiting carriage.

“What did that lad mean that Von Schraeder was dead?” she asked. When he stopped beside her, Isabella was forced to glance over her shoulder. Black was staring at something, but what?

“My lord?” It appeared to her that he was staring at the Adelphi Theatre and his complexion had grown quite ashen. “Black, is something amiss?”

Shaking his head, she saw his gaze rove over the theater before he tore it away and looked down upon her. “Nothing at all, Miss Fairmont. Shall we?”

Reaching for the carriage door, he opened it, then motioned her forward. Inside, it was dark, the upholstery a luxurious black velvet that lent the carriage a rich, relaxing air.

“Lord Black,” she insisted, but he put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“Shh,” he murmured. “You mustn’t tax yourself.”

“I’m neither a child nor an invalid,” she chastised. “I merely have a headache.”

“A devil of one if you’ve resorted to valerian and opium.”

There was nothing to do but accept his hand as he helped her up the iron steps. His hand felt large and warm in hers—strong—and Isabella closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of sensation to absorb his touch and the feel of his hand engulfing hers. She’d never felt her hand pressed strongly in another’s. The experience was at once comforting and arousing, making her wonder where else on her person his hands would feel as wonderful.

“Isabella? Are you unwell?”

“No,” she gasped, realizing she was standing on the steps holding Black’s hand. “No, I … my hem was caught, that is all.”

Ninny, she scolded herself as she sat upon the empty bench. What must he think of her? Did he think her a silly child? She was certainly acting like one.

Black shouldered his way into the carriage and took the opposite bench. His long legs stretched out, his thighs outlined in his trousers, his shoulders taking up most of the space on his bench. Dropping her gaze to her lap, she flatly refused to look at him, sprawled out in masculine lassitude.

With a rap of his walking stick on the ceiling of the carriage, the coach lurched forward, and soon they were making slow but steady progress back up the Strand and toward Grosvenor Square.

She felt nervous and fidgety. The silence was almost unbearable, yet she did not know how to begin the conversation. She could hardly remark upon the weather, for it was gray and dreary, the autumnal sky heavy with the promise of a storm. Nor could she mention anything about last evening, when she had been most unladylike to sit in the dark, all alone, with him.

However the silence affected her, it had the opposite effect on his lordship. He was a man who was at ease with silence—and solitude. Black did not feel the need to fill the quiet with useless chatter. She did not have to be well acquainted with the earl to know this about him.

He wore the quiet like a shroud—unmoving, soundless, becoming one with it as it blanketed the luxurious interior of the coach. It unnerved her the quiet that hovered between them. Not because she feared it, but because it felt too intimate. She could hear his slow, steady breaths, could hear her own. There was a sensuality to it, the resonance of air whispering past their lips. Without words, they were alone with their thoughts, the images in their minds. The picture in Isabella’s mind was that of her hand in Black’s, and how it would feel to experience the brush of his thumb inside her palm. The pleasure of awaiting his kiss as he lowered his mouth to hers.

No, the quiet was far too intimate, and her thoughts much too reckless.

His leg moved, his booted foot brushed against the hem of her day gown, and she swallowed—averting her gaze, allowing it to roam the carriage—anywhere, as long as it was not lingering on him, or the imagery her mind wished her to acknowledge.

She was a sinful creature to be thinking such thoughts! She had been given the opportunity that many of her sort never had. She’d been gifted with the chance to live as a lady, and here she was, thinking base, depraved thoughts and succumbing to the lure of pleasure just like her reckless parents.

She must put an end to this. Unable to withstand the silence—and her own wayward thoughts—Isabella said the first thing that came to mind.

“I received your note this morning.” He glanced at her sharply, but said nothing. It was a dim-witted thing to have said. She should never have opened up this conversation, but it was done, and she was committed now. “Thomas Moore’s poem is one of my favorites. I can recite it from memory.”

“Can you?”

“The last verse of Moore’s poem is, in my opinion, the best. ‘So soon may I follow when friendships decay, from love’s shining circle the gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, Oh! Who would inhabit this bleak world alone?’”

Slowly he turned to look at her. “You’re a romantic.”

Isabella felt her cheeks flame scarlet. “Yes. But what woman is not, my lord? I think you’re a romantic as well.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“You removed the thorns from the rose you picked for me.”

He inclined his head, then averted his gaze on the window, fixing on the scenery that was passing slowly by. He declined further comment, and it made Isabella wonder if he had grown uncomfortable with the familiarity of their conversation. For certain, his quiet contemplation unnerved her. They were back to silence, and the intimacy was a living breathing thing—a pulsation—that throbbed with each of their breaths, their heartbeats.

Isabella could hardly stand it. But Black appeared to be unaware of the rippling current that simmered between them.

Hands trembling, Isabella could stand the torture no longer. She would keep up a one-sided conversation because talking was the only thing that kept her thoughts away from the image of Black holding her hand … kissing her.

“Mr. Knighton came by this morning.”

“Did he? Did you not inform him that etiquette states that calls are not made till the afternoon?”

“He couldn’t wait to tell me that you had offered to sponsor him as a Mason. It has been his fondest wish for some time. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Again he inclined his head, but refused to answer. Damn the man. She was unsettled, at a disadvantage, and she didn’t like it. She felt herself growing reckless, the calm she had striven for having long abandoned her.

“You seem to know a great deal about me—a rather disconcerting amount, some would say.”

His gaze continued to stay focused on the window. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, but his voice in the silence was like a velvet caress that Isabella felt along her spine. “I would not have you disconcerted, Isabella.”

That was it? All he would say? Indeed, she was very disturbed by the fact he knew so much about her—and the man who was courting her. But Black … his inexplicable knowledge of her past made her nervous. Nerves were not a healthy thing for those who possessed an active imagination. All sorts of notions could run rampant through one’s head. Isabella couldn’t allow herself to even think of the possible ways Black had discovered so much about her.

It really was rather unfair. His lordship seemed to know her rather well, and yet she, and everyone else in London, knew basically nothing of him. He shielded his privacy well, and no one got beyond the cool indifference, or the iron gates that protected his realm.

What was he hiding? she wondered. Who was he really? Was he playing some sort of dark game with her? He seemed the type of man—worldly and intelligent—who could easily become jaded and bored by his life of privilege. Maybe it was a case of ennui, and he was amusing himself by toying with her?

These thoughts again made her quite agitated. How in the world had the earl learned so much about her—she, a penniless, fatherless urchin from the crumbling Yorkshire coast? How was forefront, but why quietly whispered in the back of her mind. Why would a man like Black, powerful, wealthy, sophisticated, wish to know about someone like her?

The only way to ease her questing thoughts was to have answers. Although she doubted the earl would grant them. He seemed content to sit quietly, staring out the window, keeping his own counsel while blanketing himself in his cloak of mystery.

“How is it you knew where to find me today?” she demanded. “And about Herr Von Schraeder? And why did you go to the docks to find Mr. Knighton this morning? Why could you not wait to see him at the museum or at a ball to offer your sponsorship of him? What was so urgent that it needed to be done then, at the crack of dawn?”

“So many questions,” he murmured, trying to make light, but Isabella saw the intense scrutiny in his eyes as he slowly slid his gaze to her face. “And for one not feeling well.”

“My head pounds even more, my lord, wondering about the answers.”

“Quid pro quo, Isabella?” he asked, his eyes flashing beneath long onyx lashes. “Do you wish to play? It is not a game for one, but two. It is hardly fair that you get to ask all the questions, and I am not allowed the same luxury.”

She met his stare, willing, for now, to play by his rules. “How did you know about Von Schraeder?”

“He was an old man, and reported to be ill. Minutes before you arrived at the apothecary I witnessed him in his traveling cart. He appeared weak and frail, and not long for the mortal realm. He was clutching his chest, as one does when suffering a heart seizure.” He looked her over—slowly, methodically, and she did not doubt that one thing escaped his notice. She could never hide anything from him—she knew that, deep in her belly. Black was a man that let nothing slip by him. “Tell me about your headaches, Isabella.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I started having them when I was twelve. They grew worse last year. Mr. Knighton.” She asked, her fingers curling in agitation, “Why did you look for him on the docks?”

“It’s no secret Knighton’s been anxiously awaiting the boat’s arrival. I knew he wouldn’t wait patiently at the museum for it to be delivered.”

“So you waited for him on the docks?”

“I did.”

“But why?”

He smiled and pressed forward, capturing her cheek in his palm. “It’s not your turn.” His grin turned wolfish, and she trembled. Good Lord, he was mesmerizing in his masculinity. There was something about him that made her feel very safe and protected, and … womanly. For so long she had relied on her own wits to get her through, it was rather novel to feel like a damsel in distress being saved by a knight in shining armor.

“I wonder,” he asked, “do you dream of things with your headaches?”

Gasping, Isabella pulled away, but he followed her to her bench, and forced her to look at him. He stared at her—deeply—and Isabella was shocked by the sensation of having him so close, his full attention upon her. It went straight to her belly, to the tips of her breasts.

His gloved finger brushed the apple of her cheeks and he moved closer, holding her gaze. “Tell me.”

“That, sir, is none of your concern.” Struggling, she was able to put a small amount of distance between them. It was not enough to restore her composure. “How did you know where to find me?” she demanded.

“I followed you. Now, tell me, do you dream of things, see things when you have the headaches?”

“Yes,” she whispered, hating to admit it. But something in his gaze compelled her to the truth. It drew her in, wrapped her securely in its hold. Whatever passed between them, Isabella knew—bone deep—soul deep—that Black would never tell another person. Her secrets would be safe with him. But was she?

“And that’s the reason for the medicine, so that you’ll sleep so deeply you won’t dream?”

She nodded, held his stare, and braved the question that was burning in her mind. The one she could not suppress. The one question she needed to hear—yet feared—to have answered. “Why did you follow me?”

He traced her cheeks with his fingertips; the soft kidskin leather gliding along her flesh felt decadent and wicked. When his leather-covered thumb brushed her bottom lip, parting her lips with a gentle but seductive sweep she inhaled sharply, let her lashes flicker and absorbed the erotic swipe of his finger against her mouth. “Can you not guess why?”

She shook her head, intoxicated by the scent of leather and man, and the pressure of his thumb as he pressed on her lip, parting them farther until the pad of his thumb swept across the damp tissue inside her lip.

“I wanted you to myself. Even if only for a few minutes.”

She swallowed hard, and shivered as his free hand came up, only to wrap gently around her throat, while his thumb brushed over her bounding pulse. Did he know how dangerous and seductive the leather felt against her? Did he know that behind her closed lashes she imagined how the black leather must look against her pale skin—darkness and light—sin and purity. Could he tell that she was even now imagining him pulling his gloves from his hands and putting his skin against hers—his mouth to her throat?

“And Mr. Knighton?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

His thumb swept over her rapidly bounding pulse, brushing, lulling as his voice dropped to a sinful huskiness. “I would be lying if I said it was out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Then what would be the truth?”

“To part you from him for the next few weeks while he studies for his first degree.”

Her lashes fluttered and she gazed up at him through a haze of sensation that felt the way it did when the effects of her tonic began to take hold—but only better. It was sensual. Euphoric. And utterly improper. “I must remind you that I am being courted, my lord.”

“He has made you no offer of marriage, has he?” She flushed and looked away, but he bent his head to catch her gaze, and lowered his mouth close to hers. His thumb was now brushing the contour of her bottom lip. “Has he given you any indication of his desire?”

Her heart was beating hard, and her hand, good Lord, her hand had come up and her fingers were brushing through Black’s long hair. His eyes closed, and then they slowly opened, the green flecks more brilliant than before, making his pale blue eyes more turquoise.

“Has he given you a taste of pleasure? A glimpse of what you might find in his arms?”

“No,” she breathed, the word nothing but a husky pant.

He brushed her lips once more with his thumb, the leather sliding smoothly along her dampened mouth, parting her lips until she could feel the edge of his leather-encased finger on the inside of her lip. But this time it was not slow and sensual, it was more forceful, direct. Dominant. She shivered in response, not a reaction that was of fear, but desire—her body’s instinctive response to his. “Do you know what I would give for a chance to show you what it could be like in mine?”

Looking deep into his eyes, Isabella licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, her breathing harsh behind her tight corset and the cuirass bodice of her gown. “My lord, this is reckless.”

“Reckless, dangerous, irresponsible, yes,” he murmured as he pressed against her, his chest slowly, inexorably pushing her backward till she was lying on the carriage bench and he was looming above her. “It is all those things, but it is also unavoidable, inevitable, inescapable.”

Isabella watched as Lord Black’s face came closer to hers. As if in a dream, she felt her arms go up, supposedly to push him away, but they betrayed her and she felt her hands slide up over his shoulders where her fingertips tangled in his hair. “Inescapable,” she repeated, her voice husky.

“Yes.” He lowered his mouth slowly to hers. “Wherever you are, I will follow. I will find you, Isabella.”

“Like Death,” she whispered, her lashes lowering as she awaited his kiss. “He knows where to find those who hide from him.”

Cold air swept between their bodies, and Isabella’s eyelids flew open, only to see Lord Black abruptly pull himself away from her. Before she could right herself, he was seated once again on the opposite bench, watching her with hooded eyes. “We have arrived at your home, Miss Fairmont,” he announced, his voice no longer filled with the desire she had only seconds before heard. “I bid you good afternoon. May I extend my best wishes for a speedy recovery from your headache.”

“My lord?” she asked, puzzled, still breathing hard from the kiss he had nearly given her. Had she done something? Been too bold? Should she have put up a fuss, struggled beneath him as she ought to have?

Their eyes met, and in a swift move, he was before her, his hands clutching her face. “They say that Death is a shadow that always follows a body, but Death will not find you. I vow it. But you will promise me that you will be very careful with your tonic,” he whispered fiercely, “for I couldn’t bear it if Death were called to pay you a visit and forced to steal the roses from your cheeks.”

“I will,” she whispered back, awed by the severe concern she saw in his expression and heard in his warning.

“Vow it,” he whispered, angling his head as though he was going to kiss her. “Swear to me, Isabella.”

“I swear to you.”

And then Lord Black lowered his mouth to hers, his lips brushing softly, slowly—once, twice—each time they parted more overtop hers until she moaned and he opened her mouth, slipped his tongue inside, devouring her as though he was starved for her.

She did not know how to return such a kiss. She could not breathe, could not move. Could only luxuriate in the silken feel of his lips moving overtop hers and the sweep of his tongue curling around her own. How enthralling it was to think of him so intimately connected to her. She could feel him seeking, searching, discovering and she wanted to do the same to him, but did not want to end the kiss with her bumbling inexperience, so instead, she allowed him to tutor her, to kiss her, and let his tongue search the depths of her mouth, to lick and probe and listen to the sound of Black’s kiss, his rasping breaths and her soft, wanton moans.

She had no idea how long he kissed her, but she protested when his kiss became less fervent, and he broke away.

“Bella,” he rasped between drugging sweeps of his lips and the teasing wetness of his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth. “Reckless, irresponsible, inescapable.”

“Unavoidable,” she breathed as she kissed him back.

He clutched her body to his, his hand skating up her side to her ribs, only to rest beneath her breast. Like a wanton, she pressed into him, making him feel her body—the body he had made ache with desire. The body she seemed no longer able to control. He had made it his with this kiss, and now she felt as though she would die if he did not show her how to give her body what it was screaming for.

She was wound tight, restless, and he knew it, made the tightness more taut as he deepened the kiss, kissing her harder and hungrier then before. Yes, she chanted. More … more …

Breaking the kiss, Black was breathing fast as he rested his forehead against hers, while their gazes locked. With his fingertip, he brushed her lower lip, sweeping slowly, erotically. “Inevitable,” he whispered, and somehow Isabella knew that what had transpired between them was only the beginning of the fall.




CHAPTER FIVE


TWO HOURS LATER, Black was still ruminating on the carriage ride, and the kiss he’d shared with Isabella. His mind should be clear, focused on his goals—find the person behind the House of Orpheus and locate the relics. However, he couldn’t still his thoughts long enough to focus on anything but Isabella and how he had wanted much, much more from her.

He could still taste her, feel her shape beneath his hands. Damn it, he was still semiaroused, and thinking of it was making it worse.

“Your usual table is ready, my lord,” the butler announced as Black shed his hat and coat and passed them to the retainer. With a nod, he turned and walked down the dimly lit corridor. It was late afternoon, and the gas lamps had not been lit yet despite the fact that the card rooms and dining room were already filled. But then, this wasn’t a club where aristocrats wiled away the hours.

He’d come to Blake’s, a little-known gentleman’s club in Bloomsbury, for a reason. Its clientele mostly comprised artists and poets, and the odd financier. Very few people of the ton were members, and that was precisely why he’d chosen to pay his membership here—beyond prying eyes and gossiping mouths. He loathed gossip. Especially since he’d frequently been an object of it. He did everything in his power not to subject himself to it, but he’d broken his self-imposed rule last evening by venturing out of his house to a ball and singling out a beautiful young woman by dancing with her.

Years of strictures shot to hell in less than five minutes. But there were some things in life that proved too great a temptation—even for him. And Isabella had proved to be one of them. She was most likely the only temptation he could not resist.

Turning right, he entered the small room at the back of the club. The gaming rooms and bar were up front, leaving the back relatively quiet—and empty. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth. Sitting at the table was Sussex, reading a paper and drinking a whiskey.

At Black’s entrance, a servant placed a freshly pressed news sheet and a dram of scotch at the empty place, which Black immediately occupied. Once the servant was out of earshot, he took a sip of his drink and watched as Sussex lowered the paper.

“Well?” he asked. “I received your message.”

Black glanced around, shifted in his chair, giving the air that he was settling in for a bit. “I have information on the House of Orpheus.”

His Grace’s eyes lit with interest. “Indeed? You’ve been busy, and for one who apparently doesn’t give a damn about finding the relics.”

Ignoring the taunt, he continued. “Last night I told you I recalled recently seeing the image for the House of Orpheus.” He lifted the paper and pretended to peruse it. “It was on a billet at the front of the Adelphi Theatre.”

The duke’s dark brow rose in question. “The Adelphi is little more than a bawdy house—with its painted women and questionable productions.”

“Which makes it a wonderful cover for such a club, don’t you think?”

Sussex folded his paper and downed the rest of his whiskey. “I do. Brilliant, in fact. Are you certain?”

“I knew I had seen that image somewhere,” Black murmured. “It was only a matter of time before I recalled exactly where. I was out of my mind with boredom the other night and decided to take in a show.”

The duke merely arched his brow. Black glared back. “I don’t need your censure, Sussex,” he snarled. “So what, I needed a few mindless hours of terrible singing and even worse dancing. At any rate, I noticed the billet when I left the theater. I didn’t read it then, but after I dropped Miss Fairmont off at her home this afternoon, I had my driver return to the Strand, and I nicked this—it was posted on the front of the theater, by the doors.”

“Miss Fairmont, did you say?” Sussex asked with interest as he took the billet from Black’s hand. “What was she doing there?”

“The apothecary.”

Sussex glanced up from reading the billet. “And Miss Ashton?”

“She wasn’t there.”

Sussex’s gaze turned dark. “This is an advertisement for the club, but it gives no address, no means of making contact or anything about what this House of Orpheus is.”

“I know. That must be part of its allure. I suspect it’s one of those exclusive, elitist-type clubs that men trip over themselves to join—nothing like a mysterious club with initiation rites and secret ceremonies to draw members.”

“Sounds like Freemasonry,” Sussex said with a grin.

“I think the Adelphi is the place to start. By its size alone it’s the perfect venue to hide such a club. Maybe after a night spent there, we might find out more about it. I hear that the theater is closed on Wednesdays—perhaps it’s closed because the club meets then? Or maybe there’s a special room—there are always those sorts of rooms set up for theatrics that these places tend to induce.”

Sitting forward, Sussex passed him the billet. “I don’t like this, Black. Every gut instinct I possess tells me that this club has something to do with Lucy. And God help me if it’s some notorious club set in the Adelphi. I should be thinking of the chalice and the pendant, and what bloody mayhem might ensue if they fall into the wrong hands, but I confess all I can think about is Lucy and how she’s gotten herself involved in something dangerous.”

“I’ll go to the theater, mingle, ask around about this House of Orpheus and see what I can learn, and in the process discover if it has anything at all to do with the artifacts. Do not worry, Sussex. Lady Lucy’s reputation will remain intact, and we will find the relics. Good God, we don’t want it getting out that the pendant and chalice have the powers to alter the world.”

“You said you didn’t believe it. You stated it was nothing but a medieval fairy tale.”

Shrugging, Black sat back in his chair and gazed into the fire. “I lack faith, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean that I can let it go. It has been my family’s curse to look after the damn pendant and hide it away from the world for over five hundred years. I simply can’t shrug it off now. I must find it, whether or not I believe it contains nefarious powers.”

“All my life, I have been consumed with keeping the chalice hidden from the world, but with one glance from a green-eyed nymph, I’ve suddenly become sidetracked.”

“Besotted,” Black corrected his friend. “A moon-calved fool.”

“Enough,” the duke growled. “I’m merely trying to keep the girl out of it. For the sake of her father. Stonebrook doesn’t need the aggravation or the scandal.”

Black snorted. “You may use your arrogance and aloof, distant airs to fool the insipid members of the ton, Sussex, but I know you better. You’re pining away for the girl.”

His Grace refused to return his stare, and instead focused on the fire that blazed in the large hearth. “Yes,”

he murmured so quietly that Black wasn’t certain he was supposed to have heard him. “Pining, perishing, bloody angsting over the girl, and she won’t give me the time of day.”

He’d known Sussex since the cradle, and had never seen him this way. Lucy Ashton was tying him in knots.

“Enough of this,” Sussex snapped. “When will you go to the theater, and do you want company? Lord knows I would do well with a night out.”

“I’ll make preparations and let you know. As an aside, I met with Knighton on the docks this morning. There was nothing of interest to us in the crates. I don’t think him a threat, but all the same, I offered to sponsor him into the lodge. I hold to the adage that one should keep their friends close, and their enemies closer.”

Sussex smiled slyly. “You just said he wasn’t a threat to us.”

“Not to the Brethren Guardians,” Black murmured. “But he is a threat to me.”

“Now who’s moonfaced?” Sussex said, and laughed when Black rose from the chair and retreated from the room. It was fine for him to tease His Grace about this affliction for Lucy, but it was quite the opposite to be the object of the duke’s mockery.

SHE COULD NOT STOP THINKING of that kiss, or the feel of Lord Black’s arms encircling her. She had felt wild, unbidden and in truth, he was just as wild as she. Which was shocking in a way, for Black always seemed so composed and self-contained. That he should possess such passion was both a surprise and a fright. The kiss had been hard, frenzied, as if both of them had been denying such a thing for eternity. Yet they had only just met. And therein lay the fear.

She should be mortified. Ashamed. She had kissed a man who was not courting her. She should feel at least a glimmer of remorse for kissing Black while courting with Mr. Knighton. Yet how could she regret the event of her life? For this was what that kiss was … the most exhilarating moment of her entire existence.

She could still taste him on her tongue. Her lips still red and swollen from the fervor of his mouth atop hers. Her body, which had been so tight and hurting, now dully ached. She was aware of a persistent restlessness inside her, something she had never felt before. An agitation that she knew could only be abated by seeing Black again.

It had been a mere twenty-four hours after their introduction, and here she was, pining for him. How could this be? After so many years of carefully guarding her passions. After watching her mother throw herself at any man that glanced her way, here she was just waiting for the opportunity to lunge herself into Black’s arms.

He was a sorcerer, a beautiful, dark magician who had woven a spell upon her. It was the only way to explain her rash behavior—the way she had discarded her beliefs, her fears. She had sworn never to allow herself to be at the mercy of her desires. But here she was, on the threshold of desire. With one kiss, Black had opened the door to a room she could not allow herself to enter, for inside that beckoning chamber, Isabella knew her destruction lay within the hands of a most alluring master.

This attraction between them was inexplicable. Despite having only been introduced, Isabella felt as though she’d known him all her life. When she was with him, she felt the familiar agitation disappear, suddenly filled with the calm from the storm that had been her life. In Black’s company, there was familiarity, as if he had somehow long been a presence in her life. But she had never seen him or talked to him until the night of the ball. There was no denying that there was something inside him that beckoned her. Whatever it was, her soul seemed to answer.

Was it fate? Destiny? She no longer knew if she believed in such things. Could passion be fate, or was it nothing more than an impulsive human instinct that needed fulfillment? Was what she felt shimmering between them destiny pushing them together, or was it nothing but physical attraction of the most basic nature?

No, that afternoon in the carriage had not been base. It had been beautiful, and the way he looked at her … yes, a man could be anything, say anything, but his eyes did not lie. When Black looked at her, there was something there other than simple lust. His words tempted her, so, too, his looks. Even their silence was charged with a palpable undercurrent. With Black, she was another person. A woman not afraid of the passion that simmered just below her skin. It frightened her, how easily he coaxed that person forth.

He would ruin her, she reminded herself, if she didn’t have a care. If she dared step even one foot inside the door he had opened that afternoon she would be utterly destroyed—morally and spiritually.

The sound of the shutter slamming against the bricks startled her, pulling her back to the moment. Isabella jumped, unable to hide her response. Here was not the place to woolgather and daydream about her kiss with Black. Now was the time to keep her wits about her. How had she allowed Lucy to talk her into coming to Highgate Cemetery tonight, especially since she wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire and write down every little nuance of that magnificent kiss?

Why was it that Lucy was so drawn to such things as séances and spirits? They were dark entertainments done in the night. Without light there was only darkness—evil. What was her cousin searching for in the darkness?

Pausing at the window of the tiny cottage, Isabella pulled the curtain aside and gazed out at the trees beyond. The wind was up, stirring the dried leaves, blowing them upward as the branches waved back and forth. The clouds were thick and heavy, the moon hung low on the horizon, its brightness illuminating the sky, which churned with an impending storm. Another gust of wind howled, and she shivered, the draft wafting in through a crack in the mullion. Beyond the trees lay the cemetery. She could make out the tops of the statuary, angels and crosses, and the peaked roofs of mausoleums and family crypts. In the darkness and the cool October air with its lamenting winds, the crosses looked ominous and the angels mercenary. The shadows … well, they were there, too, weaving beneath the moonlight and the tendrils of fog that wrapped like ghostly specters around the headstones. Never in the wildest reaches of her imagination could she have conjured up such an atmospheric setting for a séance.




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