Seduction & Scandal (3 page)

“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.