Seduction & Scandal (15 page)

Linking arms, they left Isabella's room and headed down the stairs. She was nervous, the emotion a mixture of excitement and fear. It would be all right, Isabella kept repeating to herself. They were just having dinner and it wasn't as though she would find herself alone with Black. She could forget the kisses they had shared. She
would
forget, she confirmed. Not only his kisses, but the man himself.

 

B
LACK WATCHED
from the shadows as Billings slipped the black cloak from Isabella's shoulders. For a moment he was struck dumb as his gaze hungrily drank in the sight of her pale shoulders and neck as the black velvet slid away, revealing Isabella in a stunning crimson gown.

By God, she was the most gorgeous, voluptuous creature he had ever laid eyes upon. That gown…it ought to be outlawed for what it did to her body. It framed her figure perfectly, he could see every indent and curve, as
though she were wearing nothing but a thin lawn nightrail and standing before a candle flame.

And her bosom… Black swallowed hard as his lascivious eyes raked over her breasts. What a sight it was. She had not worn any jewelry, nothing to mar the flesh that lay between her breasts and her gown. He had a sudden urge to see her in the family pendant—a four-carat black diamond surrounded by glimmering white diamonds. The black diamond would rest nicely in the cleft of her breasts.

He could not wait to get her alone tonight and kiss her lips, which appeared cherry colored and succulent; to press his cheek to that soft, swelling expanse of bosom that was going to tempt his gaze to stray for the remainder of the night.

“Take a breath, old boy,” muttered a voice beside him. “You're wheezing away like a pair of ancient bellows.”

Black glared at the man who stood beside him. Iain Sinclair, the Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the Sinclair clan, was a renowned rake—known for his sexual proclivities, not to mention his exceptional taste in women.

“She is stunning,” Alynwick murmured as he took a sip of whiskey and continued his appraisal of Isabella. “Amply curved, just how I prefer them. Nothing compares to the feel of a soft, warm woman beneath you. And that smile, so sweet it makes you want to kiss it off her face. And all that innocent milk-white skin pressed against that sinful crimson gown. Makes a man wish to skip dinner and move straight to dessert.”

“Keep your damn eyes off her,” Black growled, but Alynwick smiled knowingly.

“A physically impossible feat. With a body like that, she commands the eye's attention—and something a bit lower.”

“She isn't one of your dolly-mops, Alynwick,” Black snarled.

“No, she's someone you might discover at the back of
the royal circle in the Empire Theatre. I can see her now, wearing that glorious gown, smiling and nodding as she walks up and down between the velvet-covered couches.”

Black couldn't keep his gaze from straying to her. “You will cease speaking of her in that common, disrespectful way.”

Alynwick smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Ennui, I'm afraid, it does make a man a trifle provoking.”

“Provoking?” Black snapped. “It'll make you a dead man.”

Alynwick laughed and finally met Black's mutinous gaze. “Look at you in all your puffed-up glory, Black. You look like an enraged rooster snuffing and wheezing because there is a new cock in the henhouse.”

Black raised a challenging brow. “I trust the cock in question has enough sense to keep far away from the hen—and the resident rooster.”

Alynwick laughed, a deep melodious chuckle that drew Isabella's gaze to where they were standing. “I know about your attachment to Miss Fairmont. I saw you dancing with her at Stonebrook's. You never dance. Besides, Sussex told me you're moonfaced for her, and I can see his claims weren't exaggerated.”

“Sussex should talk,” he mumbled.

Tossing his head back, Alynwick finished the contents of his glass. He'd let his hair grow long, and the dark locks were now loose curls that made him look like a romantic poet, not the blackguard he was.

“Ah, yes, poor old Sussex. In love. Personally I believe it was the very fine bottle of my scotch whiskey that induced such feelings. Sussex in love, I can't countenance it. It's lust, I told him. Bed the redhead, and see if that feeling stays around. I bet him my finest horse that it would not.”

“You're a jaded, dissolute libertine, Alynwick, that's why you can't countenance any of the higher feelings.
How do you bear it? I wonder,” Black asked. “Waking up in the morning and looking into the mirror.”

“With one part equanimity and the other part humor. It is the only way to get about through life, to laugh at one's follies and then indulge in them again.”

“There is nothing of substance in your life.”

“And how would you know, you're a bloody recluse. At least I've made an attempt to take a stab at living. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“You're not living,” Black challenged. “You're merely pretending to.”

“Well, you can make damn sure that Iain Sinclair will not be so stupid as to fall in love. Lot of rubbish love is,” Iain mumbled. “There is nothing I detest more than the promise of love. There is nothing more depressing than a room full of it,” he drawled. “It makes one eager to run screaming. Or wonder what one will do to make the night more tolerable.”

“Alynwick, you're to be on your best behavior tonight.”

“Aren't I always?”

“That's debatable. It depends on whether you're employing your English manners, or your Highland rogue persona.”

“I haven't decided who I'll be tonight. I suppose it depends on which one the ravishing lady in red warms up to.”

Black was about to bash Alynwick over the head, until Isabella smiled at him, propelling him forward, leaving the marquis behind to brood and stew and pretend to an ennui that the ladies thought most fetching.

“Good evening, Stonebrook, Lady Lucy.” Black turned his gaze upon Isabella and reached for her hand, letting it rest in his palm as he lowered his mouth to her gloved hand. “Miss Fairmont.”

With a deep curtsy that afforded him a magnificent
view of her chest, Isabella smiled, and said, “Thank you for the invitation to your home, my lord.”

“You are most welcome.”

A discreet cough behind his right shoulder informed him that Alynwick was lingering in the hall, waiting to be introduced.

“Stonebrook, you are acquainted with the Marquis of Alynwick.”

“Indeed,” Stonebrook said as he pumped Sinclair's hand. “It's been a while, though, you've been up in the north, I sup pose.”

“Aye, Scotland,” Alynwick drawled in his exaggerated brogue that never failed to make the ladies swoon—
bastard.
“The Highlands—there is no match for the beauty and wildness of the lochs and moors, except p'rhaps the company of these lovely ladies.”

“Oh, I love a Scottish accent,” Lucy purred.

“Do ye now, lass? 'Tis good tae know.”

“Alynwick,” Black muttered, “this is Lady Lucy, Stone brook's daughter.”

“My lord,” Lucy murmured as she curtsied deeply.

“Verra lovely indeed,” Alynwick murmured appraisingly as he took Lucy's hand and helped her to rise.

“And this, Alynwick, is Miss Isabella Fairmont.”

Isabella conducted herself as though she were a queen. The incline of her head, the straight back, the inflection of her curtsy were perfect. It was unbelievable to him that only two years ago she had been a poor Yorkshire girl living in a ramshackle room above the fishmonger's in Whitby.

He could see how dazzled Alynwick was, until the marquis caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and his attention was deviated. Not that Black cared. He was too relieved to give a damn that Alynwick might find himself uncomfortable tonight with the other guests. Served
the bastard right for always being so smug and arrogant, and assured of his prowess.

“Miss Fairmont,” Alynwick replied, his brogue not quite as thick, or charming, as before, “delighted.”

“As am I, my lord. I am not from Scotland, but from the north—Yorkshire—and I do share with you your assessment of the moors.”

“Yes, yes, lovely,” Alynwick muttered as he turned to peer inside the salon where Sussex stood holding the hand of a young woman.

“You will forgive me?” the marquis muttered. “I forgot something in the library.”

With a gracious nod, Isabella released him. Their gazes met, and Black offered her his arm, while Lucy took her father's. “Shall we go into the salon? Mr. Knighton is there, and the duke. And someone else who is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, yes,” Isabella whispered. “Mr. Knighton. I must speak to him.”

Her hand trembled on his arm, and he felt her body grow stiff and unyielding. The glow in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by caution. The minute they walked into the room, and her gaze landed on Knighton, he heard her breath catch, and then she looked up at him, her cheeks blazing crimson, and he knew then that she was afraid.

She didn't want Knighton to know what she had done with him. Anger was swift and unyielding, overtaking him until all he could think about was taking her shoulders in his hands and demanding to know how she could even glance at Knighton in such a way after what they had shared.

“My lord?” she asked with a tip of her head. “Are you all right? Your color is high.”

Anger was not a novel emotion for him—he'd experienced it numerous times. But this raging jealousy was so
foreign to him. It stole his breath, made him vibrate like a damn tuning fork. He didn't know what to do with the feelings; he wanted to bash Knighton, and he wanted to lift Isabella into his arms and carry her off to his room, ravishing her until she could no longer see, or think of any other man but him.

Not trusting himself to speak, he bowed to her, excused himself and quit the room.

Five minutes, he told himself. And then he would be fine. He didn't glance back at her. Didn't want to find her sashaying her way over to Knighton.

“My lord, is everything all right?” Billings inquired.

“Fine,” he grumbled, and then whirled around. “Where did you seat Mr. Knighton?”

Billings frowned in thought for a moment, then looked up. “On the left of Miss Fairmont.”

“Move him,” Black ordered. “Put him beside Alynwick.”

“Very good, milord. Then I shall move Lady Elizabeth, and put her beside Miss Fairmont. Would that be satisfactory?”

“Fine,” Black hissed as he struggled to get a hold of his emotions. Five minutes he told himself as he felt the anger slowly subside, and then he could once more be in control.

“W
HO IS THAT
with the duke?” Lucy demanded as they strolled side by side with Stonebrook in the salon.

“I have no notion,” Isabella muttered. She had enough of her own problems other than worrying over who was talking with His Grace. What had Black been about escorting them into the room and then promptly abandoning them?

“She's very elegant,” Lucy observed.

“Yes.”

“He's holding her hand,” Lucy hissed. “The rogue! He kissed me last night and now he appears at a dinner, knowing full well I will be here, with another woman on his arm. Just because he is a duke does not give him leave to act so churlishly. Issy…” Lucy stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. The look in her cousin's eye was most strange. “He spoke of marriage last night, and now this? Is this his mistress, then? I've heard about men like Sussex and Black who when they entertain, their mistresses act as hosts and all the other kept women of the gentlemen guests attend. I would never tolerate something like this. What utter humiliation it would be for a wife to suffer such a situation.”

“For someone who found the idea of the duke revolting this morning, you're certainly acting strangely.”

Lucy sent her a murderous glare. “I don't care to play the fool.”

“I doubt anyone does, Luce,” she mumbled. “But really,
it's of no concern since you're quite determined not to marry him.”

“Quite,” Lucy sniffed.

Isabella glanced at the well-appointed room. The furniture was exquisite, straight clean lines, with none of the heavy ornamentation that had become so popular in the past years. The walls were painted a pale crème with white trim, the curtains were silk and a most fetching color of amber, giving the room a cozy atmosphere. In the large marble hearth a fire crackled, and oversize leather chairs sat on either side of the fireside, begging for someone to curl up in them with a good book.

There were objets d'art strategically placed around the room—all of exceptional quality, and many of them looked to Isabella like priceless antiques. The room held and delighted the eye, but stopped just short of ostentation. In all, the salon was classical and distinguished, a very good reflection upon the owner of the house.

Speaking of which, where had Black gone? He had not returned after taking his abrupt leave of them. Nervously, she fidgeted. Lucy was still prattling on about the duke, sending Sussex and the woman venomous glares. In the corner, Wendell stood chatting quite animatedly with Alynwick. Whatever they were discussing, they appeared in deep conversation, for Wendell had not even glanced up and noticed her arrival. A fact, Isabella had to admit, that stung.

He looked quite handsome tonight, dressed in a new suit of black. His hair was brushed back, his usual scholarly dishabille replaced by slick sophistication. He looked like a man born to be a Freemason. She wondered if he felt nervous about the initiation, but from what she saw, Wendell seemed rather comfortable talking to these men who were socially above him. From her vantage point, that fact didn't seem to deter Mr. Knighton. He was at ease here speaking amongst dukes and marquis as he was
in the lecture room, or while discussing a new find with his scholarly peers.

They had not talked since yesterday afternoon, when he called upon her at her uncle's. He had been so happy to have been sponsored—by Black no less. Today there seemed a marked change in him. For all his awkward, occasionally inattentive ways he sometimes had for her, he had never downright ignored her before.

What had happened to cause this? she wondered. He had not even bothered to glance up, despite the fact he knew very well that she and Stonebrook and Lucy were invited.

Did a man who was courting someone not feel even the slightest bit of anticipation when his lady was expected to arrive?

Something strange inside her began to twist, and she thought of Black, who had seemed to watch her arrival from the shadows. His eyes had glimmered with appreciation when he saw her, and she had to admit, her body had softened, and her heart did the tiniest little flip when she saw him. Shouldn't she be feeling the same thing with Knighton?

“She's very beautiful, isn't she?” Lucy whispered as she appraised the woman hanging on to Sussex's hand. “The color of her hair is like burnished mahogany, and look how the gaslight reflects the deep auburn in it. And her body,” Lucy said in what sounded almost like a whimper of defeat. “Her bosom puts even yours to shame, Issy. And that gown…oh, how lovely that sapphire blue is on her, and the peacock feathers trimming the shoulder is just the touch.”

“Lucy, you're not…comparing yourself to this woman, are you?”

“Of course not,” Lucy sniffed. “Why should I?”

“You shouldn't. You're every bit as beautiful.”

“Ah, Stonebrook, Lady Lucy,” the duke drawled as he
looked up from his tête-à-tête with the striking woman who still had a hold of his hand.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” her uncle replied. “Damn fine night, isn't it?”

“It is indeed. Have you seen the moon? It is the beginning of a harvest moon. An auspicious event, to be sure, especially for being initiated into the Brethren, isn't that right, Knighton?”

Wendell paused long enough in his conversation with Lord Alynwick to glance up and acknowledge His Grace. His eyes darted to where she stood, widened a fraction and then with his glass raised, he saluted Isabella and returned to his conversation.

She heard Lucy's sharply indrawn breath at Wendell's disinterested greeting. Thankfully, the duke started for them, and Isabella couldn't help but hear Lucy's indrawn breath once more as he wrapped an arm about the woman's waist and maneuvered her across the room.

“Lady Lucy, Miss Fairmont, might I introduce Lady Elizabeth York.”

The woman smiled and Isabella thought she might be glimpsing an angel from heaven. She was that lovely—and pure.

“Good evening,” Lucy replied coolly as she curtsied. “A pleasure, I'm sure.”

The woman frowned slightly and Isabella felt compelled to elbow Lucy in the ribs. Then it was Isabella's turn, and she hoped she made her greeting a bit more civil, although she couldn't blame Lucy for being taciturn. The duke had kissed her cousin last evening, and even had suggested the prospect of marriage, and here he was standing before them with a most striking woman, whom he was holding much too familiarly for a formal dinner party.

The woman stuck out her hand, and His Grace held her hand in his. “Which one is which?”

“Lady Lucy is to the left, and Miss Fairmont to my right.”

“You will forgive my brother, ladies,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “for I see he has quite forgotten to tell you of my infirmity.”

“Brother?” Lucy choked, which sent a rather bemused smile to the duke's face.

“Indeed. I am the younger York, I'm afraid,” he said.

Lucy promptly recovered. “Oh, yes, I do recall hearing that you had an older sister, Your Grace. But I assumed, well, that is, I have never had occasion to meet her.”

“Thought I was up rusticating in the country with my husband and a parcel of children, and my mop cap?” Elizabeth teased, making Lucy blush furiously.

“Oh, no, if I insinuated—”

“I'm only teasing,” Elizabeth said with a beaming smile. “The truth is, I find it such a trial to go about in society, and really, one can only hear the same gossip being repeated so many times before one feels as though they are a candidate for bedlam. Now then, the introductions? Adrian can be forgetful at times. Lady Lucy,” Elizabeth said, and the duke helped her to hold out her hand to Lucy. “Miss Fairmont.” The duke took Elizabeth's hand and moved it to the right. Isabella clasped her hand tightly.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elizabeth.”

“And you as well. I've heard so much about you, Lady Lucy, and your cousin who is newly arrived in London. And I can tell that my brother has not exaggerated your merits. One does not need sight to sense a person's virtues.”

Lucy looked humbled, and began to blush. The expression that crossed her face was an array of shock, shame and…relief?

“Oh, dear, have I said something wrong?”

“Of course not, Lizzie,” the duke responded.

“Well, it is always like this at first, isn't it? But rest assured, Lady Lucy, Miss Fairmont, that each meeting in the future will get easier. I am not troubled by my blindness, and I hope that you aren't, either.”

“Oh, no, no,” Isabella blurted out. “I hope I haven't offended you.”

“Of course not, but I've four other senses that have been heightened since I lost my sight. There was an awkward pause, a lapse in conversation, and I knew that you had not been informed before our introduction and were left feeling broadsided. But then that is a man, isn't it? Occasionally they are rather careless beasts.”

Sussex grinned at them. “My sister has a way of chastising with such charm, does she not?”

The little group laughed, and the awkwardness eased as quickly as it had come.

“I must say, Lady Elizabeth,” Lucy murmured with obvious appreciation, “your frock is lovely. That color of blue is just so deep and rich, like the most exquisite of sapphires. And the peacock feathers look charming.”

“Oh, is that what I am wearing? I asked Sussex to describe it and he said in his perturbed voice—” which Elizabeth parodied perfectly “—‘It is blue, Lizzie, with feathers blowing about your shoulders.' I had no idea what sort of feathers, for all I knew, they could have been those horrible ostrich feathers they put on horses pulling funeral carriages.”

Laughter erupted again, and Isabella marveled at the skill Elizabeth possessed at putting people at ease.

“I do believe I mentioned something about a sapphire if you will recall,” the duke grumbled.

“Men are never eloquent with descriptions of colors and such,” Lucy teased. “They underestimate the power of color to women when it comes to the importance in choosing a wardrobe. Why, I do believe they would not
even notice if we spent our lives going about in shades of black and gray.”

“Well, Lady Lucy, you may be quite certain that shade of aubergine is most fetching on you. I've never known a woman with such deep auburn hair to wear that dark purple before, but you carry it off beautifully.”

“Oh, well done, Adrian!” Elizabeth laughed as Lucy gracefully curtsied to the duke. “Aubergine. How lovely that sounds.”

“Oh, wonderful, you've met Lady Elizabeth.” Black strolled up to them and took Elizabeth's hand from Sussex and placed a chaste kiss upon her knuckles.

“Good evening, Black.”

“And how do you know it's me?”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Because I know your voice, and I can smell you. You're still wearing that awful spice-and-sandalwood cologne. I told you, pine and cedar would become you much better. It's woodsy and grounded, like you.”

Isabella disagreed. Black smelled divine. And he looked startlingly attractive tonight dressed in black and gray. How interesting that Elizabeth should think pine and cedar would suit the earl. Pine and cedar had featured in her writing of Death. Isabella had never thought to link it to Black. They were woodsy scents, true, but Isabella thought the spicy aromas of the East were more suited to him. There was something very seductive about the Far East, which meshed perfectly with Black's mysterious and sensual aura.

“Well, then, shall we adjourn to the dining room? Dinner is about to be served.”

“Yes, where is Alynwick?” Elizabeth demanded. “He can walk me in to supper tonight.”

“Lady Lucy,” the duke murmured as he offered her his arm. “May I?”

“Of course,” Lucy announced as her gaze, which was
rather perplexed, volleyed between Sussex and his sister, and then Isabella saw it, the faintest flicker of something flash in Lucy's green eyes. Was it interest? Sussex did indeed look most striking this evening.

Black stood back waiting as the salon emptied. He was not standing on protocol tonight. By rights, it should have been the duke to enter the dining room first—he was the highest-ranking noble present—but Sussex was content to hold back and allow Alynwick and his sister to pass him by. It had taken Isabella months to understand the ranking of the peerage and all their little rules. In her somewhat limited experience, they were always strictly adhered to, especially when one was called in to dinner. Already, Isabella mused, this had the making of a most unconventional evening.

Wendell, she noted, brought up the rear of the group. She saw he was engrossed in something her uncle was saying, and Alynwick was already escorting Lady Elizabeth into the dining room. When Wendell passed by her, seemingly unaware, Isabella wanted to die of mortification, but then Black was there, taking her arm, pulling her tight against his body as he maneuvered them toward the dining room.

“Goddamn fool,” he whispered. “He doesn't deserve you.”

Shivering, Isabella refused to look at Black. She couldn't. Just could not bear to see his face. She had promised to forget him, and she must. She knew that if she looked up, she would once more be swept away.

 

D
INNER WAS A GRAND AFFAIR
. The dining room was enormous, and very masculine. The table was at least twelve feet long and gleaming in the candlelight. The chandelier was doused, as were the gas lamps. Candelabras were lit, and the glow of the flickering candlelight made the event seem that much more intimate.

Black had a knack for setting a scene, and this one was straight out of the history pages. She had never dined by candlelight alone, and the effect was quite breathtaking. Not to mention dramatic. She wondered if the others thought so as well, or if it was only her, and her imagination, that thought such fanciful things.

She was aware of how the candlelight flickered over the guests' faces, and how lovely Lucy and Lady Elizabeth looked in the light's warm glow. She wondered how she appeared, and glanced down to see the candlelight was casting warm, flickering shadows over her bosom. She should have been self-conscious that so much of her chest was exposed by the low-cut gown, but when she noted how the crimson satin seemed to sparkle in the candlelight, she was transfixed.