Seduction & Scandal (11 page)

“Why do you fear this dream, Isabella?”

She wanted to sleep, not talk, but Black would not hear of it. He kept prodding her until she answered.

“Because he is there, of course. Death. I feel him as I have always felt him. I haven't dreamed of him in months. I thought I was cured, but then, this afternoon, the dream returned. It is him in the room with me. Him I feel watching me.”

“It is only a dream,” he whispered soothingly. “Go to sleep, Isabella. And have no fear that Death will come to mar your dreams, for I shall keep him away.”

 

S
HADOWS FROM THE FIRELIGHT
danced and flickered along Isabella's décolletage and shoulders. Like a lover's tongue, the forked flames licked their way across her skin, and Black found himself entranced by the erotic image—wondering what it would be like—after all this time—to feel his tongue gliding along her luminous flesh, just like the shadows.

Isabella feared the dark and shadows, two entities that bound him. He was at home amongst the shadows and mist. After tonight, he wondered if Isabella would understand that. Could accept it.

It had been years since he had made friends with the dark. In the end it had been the only way to bury his past.
To grieve for what he had lost, and for what he had received, no matter how he had tried to refuse it.

Society thought they knew him, but the truth was, they didn't know a fraction of what made up the Earl of Black. He had always thought Isabella a kindred soul. They had both been wronged. Both left alone to face the tragedies that had befallen them. He had believed that Isabella clung to shadows, just as he did. But he was wrong. Isabella was light. With her milk-white skin she was everything ethereal and he wanted to partake of it. But her response to his kisses was something altogether different. Sultry. Impassioned, dark and comforting, her passion was the sort that would encompass a man. Black wanted to bury himself in it, to feel his body encased by her response to him.

That afternoon in the carriage had shaken him to his core. There had been vibrancy—life—crackling in the atmosphere. The air had been charged, heavy, and he had sat there in utter silence, absorbing it. Never had he felt that static pull to another human being. It was Isabella who drew him. Like a moth to the flame, the tides and the moon, birth and death—they were intrinsically wound together, two spirits who had at last found their way to one another.

He was thirty-three years old and had lived long enough, had seen enough to know that what had happened in the carriage was beyond mere lust. That moment of silence, the hum that vibrated between them had been an omen, a whisper of what was to come. The kiss had been but a prelude, a temptation of what they would find together.

Isabella would fear it. Instinctively he knew that. She feared what lay between them because she felt it every bit as strongly as he. Her passion simmered too close to the surface; he had felt it, heard it begging to break free when he deepened the kiss and brought her body up against his.
She hadn't known what to do with all that desire. But soon she would. And soon she would have no regret or guilt about sharing it with him.

Inevitable.
He had spoken the truth to her. It was unavoidable. A certainty that he would have her, that he would introduce her to the pleasures to be found between man and woman.

One did not have to know a person for any length of time to be convinced of this. He believed that you could live with someone for twenty years or more and still not know them. One glance at Isabella—the meeting of their gazes—and he had known what sort of woman she was.

A sigh escaped her lips and her head tipped back, her eyes shut. He studied the delicate fluttering of lashes against pale cheeks. There was no fear in her now. Just a languid warmth he felt as he reached out and skimmed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. He watched her lashes flutter, then her eyes open. She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.

There was no fear in those eyes. And the slow smile she gave him spoke of a dreamy lassitude that beckoned him closer.

“Sleep,” he whispered as he took her hand and drew her down onto the chaise longue. She was malleable in his hold, and did not protest as he maneuvered her so that her head and shoulders lay on his lap. The silk of her gown draped over the settee. The firelight danced over the silk, making the dusky rose appear a pale copper. She was warm and soft in his lap, and her eyes closed, her lips parting on a slow breath.

“I shall stay with you, Isabella, and keep the shadows away.”

Instantly she was asleep, and he gave in to temptation and freed a loose curl that was tumbling from its pin. Her hair was soft, like corn silk. Rubbing his fingers against
the golden strands, he watched them tumble from his hand, only to land on her exposed shoulders.

Running his index finger along her shoulder, he traced the outline of the delicate bones, the winged tip of her collarbone. Her skin was smooth, like a pearl, and the same color. The texture was indescribable—like cream—he thought, and wondered what it would be like to lap at her. To see her lush lips part in pleasure.

How he wanted to hear the sound of her pleasure, to listen as her passion escalated. Higher and higher he would take her, winding her up until she grasped at him, pleaded with him—until her pants turned from little gasps to moans, to the feminine cries of release. And then he would bring her to the peak, finish her, pull back just enough to watch her as he listened to her come for him.

She would be beautiful in her passion. Wanton. And she would be his. He would not wait much longer to claim her. Every cell inside him screamed that he must protect her, that she was in some sort of danger, but what, he could not imagine. Who would wish to hurt her? Nonetheless, he heeded his instincts. They had always served him well. The one time he hadn't, disaster had befallen him. A woman had died. A woman he should have protected. He would not make the same mistake this time. Not with Isabella.

He would discover the author of this missive, would guard Isabella—and he would make her happy. Tonight, after he left her he would go to Sussex, and together they would investigate this House of Orpheus. Whatever web was being spun, Isabella, and perhaps Lucy, too, were being caught up in the silk.

In his father's time, the House of Orpheus had been an elitist occult club where secret initiation ceremonies and scandalous sexual rites had drawn the bored and debauched of London society. Black couldn't help but fear the same could be said for this new club. If Lucy had been
drawn into the seduction, how soon would it be until Isabella followed in her cousin's footsteps? And if the club was connected to the missing relics? What sort of dangers were Isabella and Lucy involved in?

Gazing down at Isabella, he felt his chest tighten. She was so innocent, so afraid of the dark. He would keep her safe. He would not allow her to die. She would not become Death's next victim. She would not, he reminded himself, become another Abigail Livingstone.

 

T
HROUGH THE HAZE
of smoke, the man who called himself Orpheus lounged back on a pile of silk pillows, basking in his creation.

Surrounding him were his minions, these disciples who were bored and jaded, and willing to part with their money for a chance to join his club. The House of Orpheus… He smiled at the nonsense of it all. Fools, all of them. But for a taste of exotic decadence—for opium and absinthe, illusion and sex and the magical, mysterious ceremonies he staged—they paid him for a chance to experience his decadent, debauched world. A world where secrets were encouraged, and the dark and the occult were embraced. It was a world for the hedonist, and for those who felt the world above this club had nothing new to offer. It was sin and passion, darkness mixed with pleasure. It was ecstasy and power.

How easy it had been to get what he needed, which like any man who had dredged himself up from the stews, needed—money. How depraved and desperate the elite of London were. How damn willingly they had parted with their money for only a forbidden taste. And now, each week, they came back to him, paying to be entertained, to be corrupted by sin.

Despite their masked identities, he could pick out every person, their names, titles and the predilections they enjoyed. Through them he could move through the ton, to
hear and see his enemies. For the House of Orpheus was no mere secret society—no, its mission was far more sinister then the pleasure it promised.

The smooth shining onyx he cradled so protectively was cool in his palm. He could hear it whispering to him, as if it were a living, breathing thing. The pendant was now warm, vibrating. With his thumb he shaped it, feeling its oval outline and the raised gold lettering in the tongue of the ancient Hebrews.

Did the Brethren Guardians know it was missing? He smiled, thinking of Black, Sussex and Alynwick frantically searching the city for their priceless relic. Let them come, he silently hoped, for it was his greatest wish. Retribution. Annihilation, utter destruction.

Let them come….

“It is time, Orpheus.”

Nodding, he acknowledged his servant. It had been this longtime servant who had helped him infiltrate the Brethren Guardian, through a green-eyed minx who had so easily fallen for the illicit taste of pleasure.

Rising from his darkened corner, he slipped his gilded mask over his face and rapped his staff against the marble floor. The conversation of his minions faded, leaving only the sound of excited breaths. The weekly dues had already been collected and now the assembled dilettantes waited breathlessly for the secret rites to progress and the planned debaucheries of the evening to begin.

Raising his arms above his head, he repeated the words of Orpheus. His minions joined him…

“Now you have died and now you have come into being. O thrice happy one, on this same day. Tell Perse phone that Orpheus has released you.”

He had died, and now he was being reborn into a power that would shape the world, and inside his pocket, he felt
the pendant vibrant with excitement. He would take back what was his. He would create a new world, and never again would he die.

The ringing of bells pierced the dream, and Isabella came awake with a start. The bells were the chimes of the library clock, the hour midnight. She was not alone. She sensed that. And when she opened her eyes, she discovered she was sitting bolt upright on the chaise longue. Her gaze flew to the right, to the wall behind where she sat, only to see that she truly was not alone. As the twelfth bell of midnight sounded, Isabella saw in the reflection of the mirror, the man in her dreams—Death. It was not Death, but Black.

She wanted to scream, but the sound would not come out. It was midnight, the moment when darkness was at its height and light at its lowest ebb. The exact moment when the mortal realm was linked to the other worlds. It was the time of day associated with chaos, the underworld and Death—and the creatures of darkness were most potent. It was also a time when it was most dangerous to look in the mirror in case the devil looks back at you.

And, dear God, the last chime had barely faded and here she was, gazing into a mirror, and seeing Black
standing there, watching her, his pale eyes so reminiscent of the man in her dreams. The hero in her story.

“You've had a dream.”

The sound of his voice broke through her silent horror, and she allowed herself to fall back against the settee. “I did.”

“I tried to wake you when I realized it, but you couldn't hear me.”

“Did I say anything?” Oh, how she would be utterly horrified if he had heard her sleep talking.

He shook his head, and came to sit beside her. He was sitting far too close, but his warmth, and the security she sensed in him, were welcoming.

“Tell me about it?” he asked. “Perhaps it might help to share what frightens you.”

“It was just a dream.”

“Not the same one from the afternoon?”

“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn't.” It was a completely different dream, much more sensual. Even now she was trembling, remembering what it had felt like to succumb to Death—Death who looked so very much like Black.

But how? she wondered. When she had started her story, she had never met Black. In her mind Death was already formed; he possessed those sea-colored eyes, and the black hair. Death was sophisticated and enigmatic, just like Black. But Death had been a figment of her imagination, and the earl…he was a flesh-and-blood man.

Black stood near the settee, watching her with unreadable eyes. “I hear a carriage approaching. It should be your cousin.”

Listening, Isabella could hear nothing above the din of her pounding heart. She was overwrought, was all. It was the effects of the séance and waking up to the chimes of midnight. Her imagination was running away with her, aided by her fatigue. She had always been rather imaginative and excitable. She wasn't superstitious, she
reminded herself. Discovering Black looking back at her in the mirror at the stroke of midnight meant nothing. He was not the devil and he was most certainly not…Death.

“Will you be all right if I leave you now?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. My lord, I cannot thank you enough, and must apologize for being such a reprehensible host. I was very poor company this evening.”

“You needn't apologize.”

“Oh, but I must,” she said as she rose from the chaise longue. “I've been asleep for more than an hour.”

“An hour and a half, actually,” he said with a grin. A grin that played havoc with her mind—and body.

“Again, my apologies, my lord.”

He stepped closer and caught her face in his hands. He looked deeply down into her eyes and watched her carefully as his thumbs stroked the apples of her cheeks. “If you would apologize, Isabella, then let it be like this.”

His mouth caught hers in a slow, sensual melding of lips. His tongue slipped past and slowly danced with hers. It was a languid, lulling kiss, as if he had all the time in the world to savor her lips.

Just when she grew impatient, he deepened it, let his hand fall from her face to the back of her head where his fingers raked through her hair and anchored her for his kiss, which was now harder, more demanding than coaxing.

Her moan shattered the quiet, and did something to him. He was no longer controlled, but needy, frantic in the way his mouth sought hers. She gripped his waistcoat, pulling at him, bringing him closer. Their bodies brushed together, and she gasped, feeling his hardness pressed against her, while he groaned, pushing insistently against the softness of her belly.

The kiss lingered, slowed, until it was a seductive dance and Isabella clung to him, weak and needy, refusing to think of him leaving her in such a state.

“Black,” she purred, kissing him, meeting his mouth with her own urgent one.

“I want you,” he rasped as he brought her up close and held her tight. “I want to keep kissing you, to carry you up to your room and love you until the sun comes up, and then I want to make love to you and watch as the dawn creeps across the windowpanes, and over your body.”

She felt wild with need, and she clutched at Black's hair as he kissed her neck and whispered those words between rasping kisses.

“Come to me,” he coaxed as his hand slid up her waist, to cup her breast. “Lie down for me and let me see you, taste you,” he whispered before curling his tongue behind her earlobe. “Let me be a part of you.”

The sound of the front door opening shattered their embrace, and with a groan, they reluctantly parted, attempted to school their breathing, when Black reached for her once more and kissed her, softly, reverently, before sweeping his tongue inside her mouth one last time. When he pulled back, he cupped her chin and brushed his thumb along her kiss-swollen lips.

“No apologies, for there was nowhere on earth I would have rather been tonight than here with you. Good night, Isabella.”

She reached for him, and he half turned, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I meant every word, Isabella. I want you to come to me, or let me come to you. Think on it,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Oh, good evening.” Lucy came to a halt just inside the doorway. Her gaze volleyed back and forth between Isabella and Black. Releasing her hold on the earl, Isabella watched as he passed by Lucy, mumbling good-night. With a slow smile, Lucy took in Isabella's disheveled hair and gown and smiled widely as she half turned to watch Black's departure.

“Why, Isabella Fairmont—” Lucy beamed incredulously “—you have, at last, been properly seduced!”

 

B
OOT STEPS RANG
on the marble tile of Sussex House, echoing off the high walls and domed ceiling. Inside the massive ducal town house, the servants were quiet and still above stairs. Only Hastings, Sussex's butler, remained awake. It was well past midnight, but Black knew the duke would still be awake.

Black followed the young butler down the long gallery hall to the end where the glass conservatory lay dark and quiet. To the right was Sussex's study. Outside, the wind had risen, and Black could see the swaying of tree limbs beyond the conservatory windows. The moon, which had been bright and full while he was at Highgate, was now obscured by thick cloud cover.

From deep inside the study, a log consumed with fire could be heard sparking and crackling—the sound beckoning one to pull up a chair and gaze into the dancing flames. The door was opened a crack, and Black saw the duke seated in a wingback chair cradling a glass of whiskey as he stared into the hearth.

“Your Grace,” Hastings called after clearing his throat. “The Earl of Black wishes an audience.”

“Send him in. I'll see to the lamps and locks, Hastings. You may retire for the evening.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

When the butler had disappeared down the dark corridor, Black let himself into Sussex's den and firmly shut the door behind him. The duke did not bother to look up from his contemplation of the fire, and Black went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. A double. He needed it.

The last two hours had been a lesson in torture. How he had managed not to awaken Isabella and ravage her was beyond him. He'd been sorely tempted on more than
one occasion. Only the letter, and the mysterious House of Orpheus, had been motivation enough to sever his attentions from Isabella's lovely sleeping form.

“I suppose you're here about this séance business,” Sussex muttered. “Damn frightening seeing Miss Fairmont worked into such a state. I never thought she was the flighty sort, but she certainly was terrified.”

“Miss Fairmont has an unpleasant past,” he answered as he lowered his tall frame into a chair and made himself comfortable. He, more than any other soul on earth, knew that. He knew more about Isabella than she suspected, and if she ever found out, she would be mortified. In just one day, he was already learning how her mind worked. She would at first be frightened by the idea of someone having private knowledge of her life in Yorkshire, and then she would be humiliated—worried that perhaps he knew of her
unfortunate event
—which, of course, he did. But what she didn't know was, he had witnessed it. Had been a part of it. It was that moment that tethered him so securely to her. His life before that was gone, faded into nothing. He had started living that night as a wintry gale blew into Whitby Harbor. It had been her, Isabella, who had made him look at his life through new eyes.