Seduction & Scandal (25 page)

With a deep drink, he tried to push her out of his thoughts. But it wasn't working. Nothing worked.

I
SABELLA HAD VOWED
to steer clear of Black and his temptations, and thus far she had been successful. The memory of what had happened in the carriage was still fresh, and never far from her thoughts, but she refused to dwell on it. She had taken the coward's way and out and cut him dead, without any reason for her horrid behavior. The truth was, she just couldn't trust herself around him. She had to give him up because he wasn't what she needed. What she desired was right here. Mr. Knighton was back at her side, which is what she wanted—a proper courtship with a proper gentleman.

Wendell was as he always had been, perhaps even a bit more distracted than before by his work at the museum, but she accepted the fact that as a scholar he had many things on his mind—not just her. Truth be told, she was not one of those females who must be constantly entertained. She was quite content with her own company, and that of her imagination, but there were times, she admitted, when she felt as though something was missing. There were unexplained moments of utter despair that would grip her, and she couldn't understand from where it sprang, she just knew that it had arisen from a place deep inside her—a place she refused to look at.

She had Wendell now, she reminded herself. Here he was, at her side. Tonight it had been she whom he had asked to attend the unveiling of his artifacts at the museum. She was honored that he'd singled her out. This
was a proud moment for him, and he had asked her to be a part of it. There was now no doubt to her, and to society, that Wendell Knighton was officially courting her.

She should be congratulating herself on her victory, but it felt hollow. Not a victory at all, but rather a defeat. Strangely, she felt the loss of Black so keenly. She had not expected that. Had no idea how hard it would be on her to forget him—or how often her thoughts would stray to him, or her gaze would look longingly out the window to where his gloomy town house stood tall and proud, and dark. It was during those moments of reflection that the melancholy was strongest. The despair she had felt ate at her, until she had been forced to find something else to do—anything that would take her thoughts away from Black, and the inexplicable link she felt to him.

How had he impacted her so much, and in so short a time? Put in perspective, she had spent but two full days with him—but in those days and nights she had experienced more than she ever had in her twenty-three years of life. In the private moments they had shared, she could not help but think that she had shared them with a kindred spirit. There was something about Black that mirrored her soul. Occasionally that happened in life, two souls would find each other and connect on a higher plane. There was no doubt that Black had been that person for her. But that didn't mean he had been the right fit for what she wanted in life. Sometimes love and passion were just not enough. It hadn't been for her mother. Her mother's love for Isabella's father had been a curse. A yoke she was forced to bear all the days of her life.

Isabella did not care to bear the weight of such a burden. No, it was far better that she continue, with her dream of a proper marriage—even a passionless one. Her deepest desires she would save for her novel. Wendell need never know of it. It would be her secret, and it would be enough. It would have to be.

“Here we are!” Wendell said excitedly as the carriage slowed before the imposing facade of the British Museum.

“Oh, look at the people,” she whispered, and both Wendell and Lucy pressed closer to glance out the window.

“What a crush!” Lucy exclaimed. “Why, Mr. Knighton, you'll be famous throughout England before the night is over.”

His smile was slow, and Isabella stared at him, startled by the transformation in his face. He looked different somehow—there was something about that smile. It was knowing, superior and it gave her a start. There was ambition in his hazel eyes, something that had never been there before. Certainly he had wanted to succeed, but what she saw now seemed beyond success.

“Mr. Knighton?” she asked. “Wendell,” she said when he didn't answer her or look her way.

“One day, people will look at me and know that I am responsible for unearthing the most sought-after relics in the world,” he said.

His voice was distant, hollow—eerie. Chills chased down her spine, and she watched as Wendell rubbed his temples. He murmured something, but Isabella could not make it out. Was he…talking to himself? she wondered. She'd noticed this behavior the past few days. He was always mumbling to himself, and rubbing his temples.

Perhaps the strain of this unveiling was having unhealthy effects upon him. He was not a robust man, but quite lean. He'd lost weight, too, she noticed.

“Wendell?” she asked, concerned. “Are you well?”

The carriage stopped and Wendell did not wait for the footman to open the door, but thrust it open and kicked out the metal carriage steps. He did not turn to assist them out, but walked up the lit pathway to the stairs, shaking hands and basking in the adulation of the crowd that gathered around him.

“Well,” Lucy muttered as the footman reached into the
carriage and offered his hand, “Mr. Knighton has a rather high opinion of his dusty old relics, doesn't he? Really, Issy, he's become rather pompous.”

Indeed he had. But Isabella could never admit to such a thing. Lucy and she had called a truce to their squabbling about what sort of man she should desire. The waters had been relatively calm, but she could tell from the flash in Lucy's eyes, and the way her spine stiffened, that she was sorely tempted to tell Isabella exactly what she thought of her suitor.

And to be certain, Isabella had a good mind to pull Wendell aside and question what the devil had gotten into him. She would do so, too, right after this evening was over.

Holding the footman's hand, Isabella descended the stairs, careful to ensure that her hem did not catch on the metal steps. She had worn a very plain evening gown, as was Wendell's preference. The color was crème, with little adornment or lace. Her shoulders were bare, though, and she had chosen to wear a four-strand choker made of black jet. Wendell had frowned when he had seen it, stating that the black stones were for mourning, but Isabella loved the piece because it reminded her of home—of Whitby where the jet was mined from the Yorkshire cliffs.

Standing side by side, she and Lucy took a minute to admire their surroundings. Patrons of the museum, scholars, lords and their ladies strolled up the lit path. Wendell was in the middle of the melee, talking animatedly and shaking hands.

“He'll be a busy fellow tonight by the looks of it.”

It was the duke's voice, and they turned in time to see Sussex escorting Elizabeth over to them.

“Your Grace,” Isabella gasped. “How good of you to come.”

“Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world, Miss Fairmont.
I'm intrigued to discover just what Mr. Knighton has unearthed beneath Solomon's Temple.”

“Where is Mr. Knighton?” Elizabeth asked.

“Being adored, up by the doors,” Lucy said with a sardonic smile. “He quite forgot us.”

Sussex's gaze flittered over Lucy, and she looked away, trying not to notice how close His Grace stood to her. “I have an extra arm, if you would allow me,” he offered.

“Well, then, I shall insist Miss Fairmont escort me,” Elizabeth said as she held out her hand. Isabella grasped it, and wrapped Elizabeth's fingers around her forearm. “She promised to tell me of the book she is writing, isn't that right, Isabella?”

“Oh, it is nothing. Just a novel.”

“I love novels,” Elizabeth said. The duke and Lucy were ahead of them, and Isabella stood still, just for a brief moment, to gather herself. She was nervous. She wanted to be the sort of woman tonight that would make Wendell proud. Her education was sadly lacking, and she did not want to make a faux pas, or embarrass him.

Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the cool breeze—the quiet was what she needed to get her thoughts in order—the solitude would lull her into relaxation. With her eyes closed she became aware of the change in her surroundings, the heaviness of the air, the earthy scent of the autumn night.

It was a subtle thing, like the calming of the wind, and the quieting of the rustling leaves. It was as if the earth had stopped turning for just one brief second.

And then she felt it. Or rather
him
. That inexplicable feeling of awareness whenever Black was near. She felt it in the atmosphere, in its changing current, in the tingling down her spine and the fluttering of her heart. The feeling was so close now, nearly palpable. She knew he had to be standing directly behind her.

Whirling around, she met him, his hand outstretched
as if he was reaching for her. His eyes were unreadable, his expression one of implacability.

No words were said, both stood before the other, silent, taking each other's measure, wondering how to get past the difficulties of the past few days.

“Shall we?” Elizabeth asked, and Isabella broke the spell of Black's stare, and gently raised her hem to walk up the long pathway.

“Yes, let's.”

 

H
IS GAZE FOLLOWED HER
around the perimeter of the room. She felt it, that impenetrable stare burning into her back. Despite the crowd, the heat, the noise of excited chatter, Isabella could still make out his presence in the room. Quiet. Focused. Intent. He unnerved her. This…connection intimidated her. It was wrong. Mr. Knighton was courting her. She was happy with the situation. It was all she had ever desired—a good match and a proper marriage. Yet why did she feel the tentacles of sin reaching for her, enveloping her? Black was sin incarnate, a temptation that must be resisted at all costs.

“Ah, there you are,” Wendell murmured. Grasping her arm, he held tightly onto her elbow. “There is someone I wish for you to meet.”

Wendell was in his element. Isabella could not help but smile up at him. He was so immensely proud of his accomplishments, and so he should be. Finding the Templar relics in the Holy Land and bringing them to London was the highlight of his career. He was most sought after now, and Isabella couldn't be happier for him. There was a lightness to him tonight. He smiled more and his conversation was certainly more varied. Albeit he continued to talk of his work. But that was a man. And a wife's duty—to listen to his stories and support his efforts. It didn't matter that Wendell hardly knew her. She supposed that he would, in time.

“Come, he's waiting.”

Isabella allowed Wendell to steer her away from the crowd, and to the back of the room where the gaslight did not quite reach. Seated behind a large desk was a man with long dark hair and pale skin. He wore sun spectacles despite the darkness and the dim lighting.

“The glare of the light hurts his eyes,” Wendell supplied. “Make nothing of it. He's rather eccentric, and easily offended. But he's the museum's most devoted patron. And I've just learned that it was his anonymous donation that funded the majority of my research trip.”

“Oh, then we must meet him,” she said, and Wendell scowled.

“Make no mention of the donation. It's not done for females to mention such things.”

“I won't embarrass you, if that's your concern.”

Wendell glanced at her. “I didn't mean to insinuate such a thing, Isabella. I merely meant to guide you.”

“I am not completely lacking wits or manners, Wendell.”

“Shh, your voice is carrying, and you're frowning. Come, we do not want people speculating that we're having a row.”

“But we are.”

“No, we're not. Smile, he's watching.”

“Ah, Mr. Knighton,” the man announced as they approached. “A success, yes?” Isabella detected the faintest of French accents.

“Indeed, sir. And one I hope may grow over time.”

“You are the foremost authority on the Templars during the Crusades, Mr. Knighton. I expect many more successful finds from you. Your career is just beginning, sir.”

Wendell practically preened like a peacock. “My thanks, sir. But I suppose my interest is just as great as yours.”

“It is,” he murmured. “I have a very great interest in
the subject. And who, Knighton, is this charming young lady?”

“May I present Miss Isabella Fairmont?”

“Ah, so this is the Miss Fairmont you told me about. Delighted, my dear.” The man reached for her hand and bowed over it. “The fairest of roses,” he murmured. “Mr. Knighton was not profuse enough in his testament to your beauty.”

Isabella blushed to her roots and glanced at Wendell, who turned a deep shade of scarlet.

“Miss Fairmont, this is Nigel Lasseter.”

“An honor, sir.”

“Mr. Knighton tells me you have a great fondness for the museum.”

“Indeed, sir. I do. I grew up in the north, where museums are few and far between.”

“Ah, the north. I detect a Yorkshire accent. Is that correct?”

“Indeed, sir. Have you ever been?”

He smiled, but it was not one of warmth, but rather distaste. It was not a smile, but rather a sneer. “Indeed, Miss Fairmont. I was once there and have no wish to ever go back.”

“Oh!” She was rendered mute by the venom in his words.

“It has been lovely to meet you. Now, if you will excuse us. I have business with Mr. Knighton.”

Dismissed. And so rudely, too! Who was this Nigel Lasseter anyway? Wendell gave her an apologetic smile and motioned for her to rejoin the others.

“I shall be along shortly,” he murmured, and then he turned back to converse with the taciturn Mr. Lasseter.

Why should talk of Yorkshire change Mr. Lasseter from all that was complimentary to reticent?
Men.
She doubted she would ever understand them or their moods.
But then, she had never grown up with a male in her life. Perhaps this was what they were truly like.