Seduction & Scandal (10 page)

From the moment he had first seen her on the bustling streets of Whitby, he'd been drawn to her. It was if his soul had recognized her as his. For two years he had thought of nothing but her, of how he wanted to care for her, protect her, love her. He had been merely existing, a shell of a man living out his days in preordained routine. He hadn't lived until he'd discovered Isabella, and the fact that he had somehow managed to give his heart to a person he didn't truly know still baffled him.

But from that moment on, he had known what it meant to truly be alive. To live for something—
someone
. And he wasn't about to let her slip through his hands. Souls had a way of finding one another. He believed that. Would Isabella? Would she understand that true lovers did not search for each other? But that they were in each other all along?

 

“I
T WAS VERY KIND
of you to offer to see me home.”

Black's eyes were not discernible through the darkness. Only his silhouette, outlined by the moonlight that shone through the carriage window, made him visible. She could hear him breathing, though, sense his presence. He seemed to suck the very air out of the carriage, so that Isabella was only aware of him.

“It is no bother, Isabella. It was apparent that your cousin had no great desire to quit Highgate before midnight and her jaunt through the stones, just as it was evident that you had no desire to stay another moment.”

“You're upset with Lucy, I can hear the censure in your voice.”

“Of course I am,” he snapped. “I can think of vastly more amusing entertainments then the one I was just subjected to.”

She shivered. His voice was different somehow. Colder? More aloof? What had caused this change?

“I fear perhaps that I have ruined your evening.”

“My evening?” His quiet laugh was sardonic. “I had no desire to stay and bear witness to such things. The supernatural may be in vogue, but I am not, and never was, a slave to fashion. Your cousin, however, seems hell-bent on pursuing the pleasure, to the detriment of anyone else. She deserved far more than my censure for what she did to you.”

“Lucy could have no way of knowing I would react in such a way, my lord.”

“Did she not?” There was a long pause, followed by, “I'm not so sure.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” His hand waved in the air dismissively. “I fear you must ignore me, Isabella. I'm in somewhat of a mood.”

“I didn't want to disappoint Lucy, or put an end to her evening. She…she has a great fondness for this sort of thing.”

“And you don't?”

Isabella wet her lips. “No, my lord, I do not. I do not believe in taunting the spirit world. What good could come of it?”

“I don't know. I've often wondered about that, what the dead would say if they could return to the mortal realm. I shouldn't like to face a specter from my past, that is certain.”

“I fear it,” Isabella said with a little shudder.

“As do I,” he murmured, making Isabella wonder what Black had to be frightened of.

“I believe the dead are just that. There is no purpose in returning to the mortal realm. They are at peace in the afterlife and should be left as such.”

“Are they?” he asked quietly. “I've regularly contemplated if there is any peace in death. Or if the pain of life spills over into the afterworld. It's one of the things I fear
most—the question haunts me, in fact. Is there to be no rest in the eternal life?”

This was another side of Black. He was brooding, his mood suddenly morose, sullen. It should have frightened her, but the opposite seemed to be happening. She felt herself being drawn to him, to the tiny scrap of intimacy he was letting her glimpse. He was comfortable with desire. But this, this was the first of him she had glimpsed that had nothing to do with desire. This was the man—not the mysterious earl.

“Do you worry for someone, my lord?” she asked. “Do you fear that their soul is not at rest?”

He did not answer, but kept his head turned, his gaze focused on the window where he could see nothing but inky blackness and a starless, cloudy night. Minutes passed and she thought he would keep silent, but then he sighed, his body slouching as he slunk more comfortably onto the bench, allowing his head to lean back against the squabs.

“My mother,” he answered, his voice quiet. “My brother. And…another…” He paused, shook his head. “I've wondered about them, lying cold in their graves. Are they at peace? Is there anger that they were forced from this earth so young? Sometimes I think my dreams of them are just their way of haunting me. You see…they did not die…naturally.”

“Oh, Black!” Before she could think of what she was doing, Isabella leaned forward and reached for his hand. “I'm quite certain that both your brother and mother and…this other person are most certainly at peace, regardless of how they met Death.”

“Let us talk no more of death tonight,” he said.

“All right. What shall we talk of?”

“Does the quiet unnerve you, then? Do you feel you must fill it with conversation?”

He was studying her. Isabella could feel his cool gaze
boring into her. She wanted to know more of him—the passion, but the man as well. There was more to Black than what met the eye, and she wanted to peel away the layers until she discovered the true man lying beneath.

“Isabella?” he asked again. “Are you afraid of the quiet?”

“Yes,” she whispered without thinking. “Amongst shadows in the darkness of night I do fear the quiet, and things I find lurking there, for it is never truly silent, is it?”

“Are you afraid? Even now, here with me?”

Fingers fidgeting with her reticule, Isabella swallowed and gazed down into her lap, unseeing in the darkness. He probed too closely—much too close to the truth. Yes, she was afraid. Afraid of her feelings and the reckless desire that seemed to rule her blood when he was near. Not once this evening had she thought of Mr. Knighton. Before meeting Black she had thought of Wendell every night, and now, he seemed nothing more than a foggy memory. Everything had been obliterated by Black since their meeting.

The carriage leaned slightly as it dipped and swayed over the uneven track of road, making its way to London. In the near distance the glow of the city blazed through the night. It was like a beacon, the safety of a light from a lighthouse in a storm. She craved the light, the security she would feel once inside her uncle's home. Perhaps then, away from anything that had to do with the dead and the dark, she would feel more at ease. Certainly she would be more herself once she was away from Black. His presence was much too unsettling.

Black's gentle touch on her chin surprised her, made her gasp and grow rigid, replacing her growing sense of ease with a sensual tension she could not fight. She was afraid, truth be told. And she desperately wanted to throw herself into his arms and have him hold her, just as he
had outside the cottage. She wanted to be cocooned in his strength, wanted him to stave off the darkness and shadows, and in the quiet she would hear nothing but his heart beating as she laid her head on his chest and allowed herself to take comfort.

“You'll not be alone tonight, Isabella,” he said. “I won't leave you in the dark. Tonight, I'll keep the shadows away.”

T
HE FRONT DOOR
closed behind Jennings and Isabella sighed, relieved to be at home, where the gas lamps were lit and the hall was devoid of shadows. She was weary, worn down by the evening and the headache and dream of the afternoon. She wanted her bed, but she didn't want to climb the steps and know she was alone in the house.

The servants were there, of course, but they would all be abed soon, in their quarters on the third floor while she was alone in the family wing until Lucy and her uncle arrived home. She didn't want to think of that, how lonely and frightening it would be stay in this huge house all by herself, with no one to talk to.

Her upbringing might have been humble and poor, but at least the two-room cottage that she and her mother had shared had been cozy and full of light. She'd had her mother and grandmother to talk with. She hadn't always been alone. Despite the fact her uncle had taken her in, sheltered her and cared for her as best as an elderly man could, Isabella still felt the sharp pang of loneliness. Sometimes at night she would lie awake in bed and weep. She did not belong in this glittering world of Lucy's, no matter how hard she tried. She was a simple girl, looking for a safe, secure life. She did not need jewels and mansions. She wanted only comfort—the sort of emotional safekeeping that money could not always buy.

Sometimes she missed her mother and grandmother so much it was as if an acute pain had seized her heart.
Her mother had been many things—she might have been reckless in her passions—but she had at least been kind and ready with a hug.

She exhaled quietly, hating that she was being melancholy. Her mother had been gone nearly two and half years now. And her grandmother nearly five. She should not still be so sad. Yet something told her it was not just loss that made her this way, but her life. It was lacking something, despite the riches she had been given. There was something inside her that had not been gratified by her uncle's largesse.

What would make her happy? She had thought Mr. Knighton's attentions would. And they had, but things had changed. In that moment in her uncle's ballroom, when her gaze had locked with Black's, everything had changed. She no longer saw the world—and herself—through the same eyes as she had before meeting him.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Isabella stared at the man removing his hat, and felt her throat tighten. How strange. Black was only a man. Yet she knew that he was no ordinary man. He had cast some sort of spell on her, enchanting her. With one dance he had made her forget what she truly desired in life. He had changed her, and not for the better. Somehow Black had unlocked the door where she kept her tightly guarded passionate nature hidden. She had never wanted to see what lurked behind that door, never wanted anyone else to see, either.

Sliding her cloak off her shoulders, Black handed the velvet cape to the butler. “Would you be so good as to bring in a warm drink for Miss Fairmont? The night is chilly.”

Jennings's gaze narrowed. Whether Black noticed the butler's impertinence or not was unclear. But Isabella saw it, and reached out to touch Jennings's sleeve. “We'll be in the green drawing room, Jennings.”
With the door open,
she wanted to add.

“Very good, miss,” he muttered before hanging up her cloak and heading to the kitchen. With a deep breath, she turned to face the man she had come to rely upon this night.

“Lord Black,” she began, but he silenced her when he pressed his index finger against her lips.

“You're pale and tired. Let's get you into the salon where you can be at ease and rest.”

“You must think me weak, the damsel in distress. But I assure you, my lord, I have a core of steel. I can take care of myself, and have done so for years.”

“I know you can. I've seen that strength reflected in your eyes, but sometimes it is nice to have another to lean on. Sometimes, Isabella, it is nice to be needed, to offer comfrot and a shoulder to a soul in need. I want to be that person. That comfort. That shoulder upon which you may lay your head and rest.”

“I don't think this is wise, my lord.” She swallowed and licked her lips, trying to be brave about this, even though what she was going to say was the furthest thing from what she wanted. “I think you should leave. People may talk, they might even see your carriage and realize that my uncle is out tonight. It's…not done to be here with you without a proper chaperone.”

“I'll not leave you alone, Isabella. I promised you that. I also promise that you're safe from me.”

“My reputation—”

“Will come to no harm. I assure you. Come, is my company so very unpalatable that you wish me gone?”

With a flush, she looked down at her clasped hands, then back at him. “You know it is not. But—”

“But nothing, Isabella. I will stay and keep you company. Nothing more. Perhaps I have need of your company, as well.”

Something inside her fractured. No one since her mother had needed her, and hearing Black's words,
whispered in his deeply masculine voice, freed her. To be needed by someone like him was a balm to her soul.

“Is…is that true?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. When he caught her chin on the edge of his fingers and forced her to look at him, she saw with clarity the sincerity in his eyes.

“Never have the words been truer, Isabella. Tonight,” he murmured, his eyes darkening, “I do have need of you. A need so great that I know I could never make my feet move to that door—even if you asked it of me.”

Her insides felt warm, and she smiled, relieved that he had refused her. “I want to give you my thanks, my lord. You've been very kind to me, and I've taken you away from your evening festivities.”

“Nonsense. Here, with you, is where I want to be.”

Isabella was flushing profusely as he led her to the salon. It was clear he had been to visit her uncle before, for he knew his way around the house without being shown. How had she never seen him here? she wondered.

“Now then, sit here,” he said softly, and helped her to sit on the chaise longue. The fire was laid in the hearth, and the roar and crackle of the flames instantly heated her chilled body. It was a wonderful feeling to be warm again. To feel safe. Highgate seemed far away now and that afternoon's dream long gone. For the first time since leaving Black's carriage after retrieving her medicine she felt at ease.

They sat in companionable silence while the parlor maid carried in a tea service, and passed a steaming cup of cider to her. Black refused a drink with a brisk shake of his head.

“I can ask the maid to retrieve the whiskey if you'd like. Uncle keeps it in his study.”

“No, thank you.”

“Something to eat, then?”

“No, I'm comfortable. And I will help myself later if I need anything.”

Silence descended once more, and sipping the warm, comforting drink, Isabella let the familiar taste of cinnamon and apples, with a delicate lashing of mulled wine, warm her insides and quiet her thoughts. It was really rather lovely sitting here in this cozy salon, which was the smallest of the public rooms in Stonebrook's mansion, the firelight glowing and crackling while the autumn winds picked up and howled outside. She really should excuse herself and find a mirror. She probably looked a fright. Her gown was loose around her bodice and she was certain parts of her hair had come unpinned and were hanging loose. Except, she could not make herself move. The chaise longue was much too comfortable, and all too soon her eyelids began to close, only to flicker wide when Black's voice disturbed the quiet.

“May I say that I'm thankful you wrote to me and requested I join you at the séance, Isabella.”

“What?” She was certainly wide awake now. “Wrote to you?”

“Yes. I received your note during dinner.”

“My lord, I realize that I might have acted…indiscreet in the maze last night, and this afternoon in the carriage…” She swallowed another gulp of her cider and tried to meet his eyes. “It may seem to you that I am rather…well…bold for a lady of my years, and perhaps I have been, but I may assure you, my lord, that boldness has not lent itself to writing you missives.”

His gaze narrowed, and something very dark and alarming glittered in his eyes. “You did not pen this note?”

Rising from his chair, he strolled to her as his fingers fished in his waistcoat pocket. Sitting down beside her, he handed her the missive. She opened it, read it and gave
it back to him. Her hands were shaking and her mind reeling with the implications.

“I don't understand this, my lord. I most certainly did not write that letter. Someone has forged my signature. Oh, I cannot believe it,” she began, her anxiety spiking. “Someone must have seen us today, in the carriage, or last night. Oh, what will my uncle say if he learns of my behavior—after everything he's done for me?”

“Your uncle will say nothing, because he will not learn of anything that has transpired between us.” He placed his fingers on her chin and gently turned her head to look upon him. “And as to the message, I will discover who has written it. In light of what happened, maybe the missive was well intentioned, hmm?”

Oh, she didn't want to think of those events tonight, when she had acted like a complete ninny with him. To be able to turn the hands of time back, she would not have gone to that ridiculous séance in the first place.

“I'm glad I was there.” His voice was deep and luring, and she gazed up at him as he brushed his fingers along her cheek. “The roses are still gone from your cheeks. Your skin so pale. I can still see you, struggling for air.”

She was positively humiliated by the memory. Her over active imagination, her irrational fears, had made her act like a silly chit straight out of the schoolroom. And in front of Black who was suave and worldly, and so in control of himself.

A sharp pang of disappointment seared her breast as he released her and moved away. Their intimate moment was broken, and she had been half holding her breath, hoping that Black would kiss her once more, as he had that afternoon in the carriage. The slight hum in her body that had been present in the cottage was now a very real, very live current of need. It took only his nearness to make it flare to life.

“Tell me, Isabella, do you know of something called the House of Orpheus?”

“No. Why?”

“Have you ever heard the name?”

“No. I have no idea who Orpheus is.”

“Was,” Black muttered as he returned the missive to his pocket. “Orpheus was an ancient Greek poet who descended to Hades and returned. His lover, Persephone, who was forced to spend half the year in Hades, is the symbol of rebirth for those believers who follow Orpheus's teachings.”

“I'm sorry. I do not know much Greek mythology.” Her face flamed, and she knew the exact instant the roses returned to her cheeks. It was the moment she felt utterly humiliated in Black's presence.

“Understandable. Mythology is not often taught to girls, is it?”

“No, I don't think you understand, my lord. My education was rather lacking until my aunt sent for me the summer I was fifteen. I was tutored then, upstairs in the nursery. But my studies focused on more practical matters. Not philosophy or mythology. Before that, my mother taught me to read, but little else. Her attentions were focused elsewhere.”

Mercifully he did not comment on her lack of education or the embarrassment of not having benefited from any formal training. She didn't think she could bear it if he did.

“Perhaps you've heard your uncle or…Lucy talk of Orpheus and his teachings?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“Mr. Knighton, then?”

Isabella shook her head, trying to understand what he wanted from her.

“You see, the wax seal on the missive, it contains a lyre and a set of laurel leaves and a six-pointed star. Upon
the seal are the words
The House of Orpheus
. I think if I could discover this club, then it might lead me to find whoever sent this missive.”

“I can't help you, but I can most certainly question Lucy or Mr. Knighton if you—”

He grasped her hands in his warm palms. “No, you don't have to. Leave it to me. I'll discover this House and the person behind the note. There is nothing for you to worry about, Isabella. Your reputation is safe. I won't allow anything to happen to your good name.”

It was either the cider or the way Black was looking at her that made her feel entirely too warm. She was feeling a bit cup shot, as well. Her eyes were slowly closing and she longed to fall back on the settee and doze off. But that would be rude, especially since Black had condescended to stay with her until Lucy or Stonebrook arrived home. “You're exhausted.”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “I did not sleep well last night, and this afternoon I had another dream.”

“Did you?”

Sipping again at the cider, she let the warm liquid soothe her insides. She really should stop drinking it, it was making her tongue loose. “I did.”

“And what was this dream about?”

She shouldn't tell him—she never spoke of her dreams, especially
those
ones, but she was speaking of it before she could stop herself. “I am in a strange room—all alone.”

“Yes?”

“But there is a presence there. I can feel it. But it will not come out from the shadows but rather sits there, watching me.”

“Do you know where you are?”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. Exhaustion was taking over and she was hardly cognizant of what she was saying. “No, I've never seen this place before, but I
think it is a man's room. It feels very masculine. Like a library or study.”

“And you fear this dream?”

“Yes, because it is one of
those
dreams.”

He moved closer, took her glass from her hands and set it aside. The touch of his fingers against hers made her body heat, and she wished that he had let his touch linger longer. She wanted to feel his hand in hers. That afternoon he had been wearing gloves; tonight his hands were bare, and she had the shocking realization that she wanted to feel his hands on her.