Seduction & Scandal (4 page)

“An escape from the world so full of rules and restrictions,” he whispered, “to a world where you are free to think and feel as you will, regardless of your sex and the convention put upon you.”

“Black,” she murmured, but this time it sounded like a plea. But a plea for what, she could not tell.

“Tales of love,” he drawled as his lips moved along her jaw. Her head tipped back of its own accord, and his fingertips smoothed down the column of her throat, to her necklace, which he traced with the tips of his cool fingers. “Stories of passion, desire…”

She exhaled through her parted lips, her heart hammering heavy in her breast. She could not answer that. To do so would be too damning. She could not admit it, even though it was the truth.

“Will you tell me a story, Isabella?” He pulled her closer, till her bodice was against his chest, and his breath rasped against her ear. “A story of burning passion and forbidden desire.”

“Please. I…”

“I know.” His fingers toyed with the curls that had begun to cling to her neck. “You mustn't tarry here—with me.”

“N-no,” she stuttered, reaching for the starched pleats of his crisp white shirt. “I shouldn't.”

“I've never been very good at resisting things I know
I should,” he murmured as he inched his mouth to hers. “What of you, Isabella?”

She had always been good. Always fearful of ending up like her mother.

“Bella?” He brushed his lips, featherlight, against hers. “Can you resist?”

Her lashes fluttered closed. “I must,” she said, and moved away. His jacket slipped from her shoulders and puddled onto the bench. “Good night, Lord Black.”

He watched her rise from the bench, tracking her progression. The wind rose, weaving through the branches. An owl hooted, and she chanced a glance back over her shoulder only to find him standing where they had seconds ago sat.

Their gazes locked, and a voice, beckoning and seductive, whispered to her.
The first time I met Death, it was at a ball and we danced a waltz, and I feared him, feared the things he made me feel, made me want. That night I ran from him, but Death was right behind me, chasing me and I wanted him to catch me.

Black awoke in a rush. He was sitting up in bed, the darkness shadowing his walls, a scream burning his throat.

He had dreamed of her. She had been lying dead in his arms, her delicately flushed skin devoid of color and warmth. The pliant body he had felt in his arms was stiff, unyielding. The sparkle in her green eyes gone, replaced with an opaque veil that clouded her eyes.

Dead. He couldn't bear it.

Breathing heavily, he threw the bedcovers off and
stood, reaching for the black velvet dressing gown that lay draped over a chair. Shrugging into it, he belted the sash around his waist, covering his nakedness as he went to the window, resting his forearm on the frame. Flickering light illuminated the window in the mansion across the street and his fingers, which had been lax, curled into a fist. It was
her
window—Isabella's.

He still had the scent of her lingering on his fingers. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her as she had been only a few hours before, sitting with him in the maze, her lashes lowering, her lips parting in invitation. She had been a vision there in the dark, in his arms, her softly rounded body melting into his. He had seen desire in her haunting green eyes, had felt it heat the skin he had not been able to resist touching.

The scent of her aroused him, clouded his mind. He'd wanted her.
Fiercely.

Damning as the admission was, he could not lie to himself. He would have taken things further tonight if Isabella had not pulled away from him. And what business had he, a man of experience, to pursue an innocent virgin?

For the hundredth time that night, he cursed himself for a fool. Asking her to dance had been a mistake. But he hadn't been able to stop himself. For so long he had hungered for her, keeping his distance. For too long he had stood at this very window, blending in with the shadows, wishing night after long, interminable night that he might see her beyond the glass.

It was strange, this feeling. His body actually warmed at the thought of her. It had been years since he had felt anything but coldness—emptiness. His life had become one of isolation, rumor and speculation. He was cursed. He knew it, had accepted it and used that comprehension to erect the ice that now surrounded his heart. Yet
one glimpse of Isabella was enough to begin thawing the thick, frigid layers.

He'd only ever had a job to do, duties to see carried out. It was those obligations that had brought him back to London. It was those duties he should have been seeing to this evening when he was dancing with Miss Isabella Fairmont.

But she had looked too damn lovely and irresistible to avoid. In her lilac gown, which was sparsely adorned, she stood out to him from amongst all the fluffy, overly embellished women who had flocked to his side. She had been elegant standing there, her hair pulled up in a loose cascade of curls. He had liked her hair like that, enjoyed the way it allowed him to see the long column of her throat, which had been adorned with a diamond and amethyst choker. He had wanted to kiss the bounding pulse that beat a furious tattoo beneath the skin she had perfumed. He wanted to feel the delicate beat of her heart against his lips. Her body against his—her flesh, flushed with passion, warming him. But that was madness.

So was standing here in the dark, hidden away in his home, waiting for a glimpse of her. He smiled, thinking of her sitting on a settee, her legs folded beneath her as she wrote feverishly in her journal.

He had seen her that way before, scribbling away while the wind blew her hair and mist hovered around her. But that had been another place—another time. He could not allow her to know of that—how he had watched her.

Hers was a fertile imagination. And a considerable threat. There was no telling what might happen if Isabella discovered anything about him. In truth, she was too perceptive, and he had spoken too freely tonight.

Still, he could not regret those moments in the maze, or the hunger for her that suddenly felt insatiable. She was young—an innocent. He was older, experienced, a
connoisseur of all things forbidden. He had no right to even gaze at her, let alone kiss her in a maze. Even as he realized the dangers of doing such a thing, he knew he would go to her again—
soon
.

“My lord, you've been summoned.”

He had not heard the door to his chamber open, a fact that should have disturbed him, but he could not work up the remorse. He'd been too busy reliving his dance with the delectable and highly desirable Isabella Fairmont.

Billings, one of only a handful of servants he employed, padded wraithlike across the Turkish carpet. “I've sent round for the carriage. Shall I lay out a fresh suit and cravat, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Billings.” He gazed to the corner where his brindle-colored English mastiff, Lamb, lay snoring by the hearth. “Take him outside, will you, Billings?” A shadow flickered in Isabella's window, and his gaze was drawn to the spot of movement like a moth to a flame. “No, on second thought, I'll do it.”

“As you wish, my lord,” his faithful retainer murmured as he backed out of the room.

“I've been summoned by the Brethren, then?”

“You have, milord. Sussex's seal was on the carriage door.”

He snorted, hating to leave his spot by the window and a chance he might see Isabella wearing a transparent nightrail with her hair unbound, spilling about her shoulders. “I suppose the carriage is waiting in the street.”

“It is, my lord.”

“Well then, they shall have to wait, for I have something to see to before I go.”

With a snap of his fingers, he awoke his pet and signaled for him to follow. Dressing quickly in a shirt and trousers, Black moved through the darkness, descending the steps of the winding staircase, and headed for
the kitchen, and the door that led to the garden. He knew where he was going and what he wanted.

So did Lamb.

Off into the darkness the mastiff loped, chasing a rabbit that had ventured into the garden. Himself, he made his way down the path to a rosebush. One lone rose bloom wavered on a tall stem that waved back and forth in the chill October breeze.

Carefully he snapped it off and brought the delicate bloom to his nose. It was a heady scent, and he stood there for long minutes with his eyes closed, bringing the sweet aroma into his lungs. Isabella had smelled of roses. The scent had been in his head all night, ever since the moment he had captured her hand during their introduction.

There were few things he was certain of, but of two things he was one hundred percent convinced. He wanted her. And he'd find a way to have her.

“Our greatest fear has come to fruition,” a voice announced behind him.

“We have feared many things since the Brethren Guardians came to rest in our hands,” he replied, savoring the last images of Isabella as they floated away.

“I think you know I'm here on business that cannot be delayed.”

Out of long habit, Black flicked his gaze to each of the darkened corners of his back garden. No place was truly safe. “I will meet you at the lodge and we can discuss it there.”

“I've already ensured the garden is secure,” Sussex snapped. “You will meet with me now.”

Irritated by the anger he heard in Sussex's normally controlled voice, Black slowly turned and allowed his guest to see the savagery in his eyes. “What do you want, Sussex? I thought we decided that it's not prudent to be
seen in each other's company. Do you not remember the rules of the Brethren?”

“Damn you! I know them every bit as well as you do!”

“Then why are you here? I thought we settled our business upon leaving Yorkshire.”

“They're gone.”

Twirling the stem of the rose between his fingers, he inhaled the delicate scent as it whirled around him. “What is gone?”

“The chalice and pendant.”

Black's gaze narrowed, even as the hairs on his neck rose in alarm. “When we took them from Yorkshire, we hid them away where they could never be found—only the three of us know of the catacombs beneath the lodge. How can they be gone?”

“How the hell should I know?” Sussex snapped. “When I learned that Wendell Knighton had unearthed some artifacts from Solomon's Temple when he was in Jerusalem, I feared he might have come across some information of the existence of the artifacts. Naturally, I went to ensure the chalice and pendant were still hidden beneath the Templar church. They were not there.”

“And what am I to do about it?” Black grumbled. He had never wanted anything to do with protecting the whereabouts of the legendary chalice and pendant. But both Sussex and himself had been charged with their protection, a behest from both their fathers. Sussex's father had hidden the chalice, and Black's had kept the pendant. Both artifacts had brought nothing but death and grief to both families since the time their Templar ancestors had returned from the Holy Land, carrying them—charged with the task of keeping them hidden from the world.

Never tell what you know. Never say what you are. Never lose faith in your purpose, for the kingdom to come will have need of you and your sons.

It had been the mantra—and curse of his family, and
that of Sussex's. Those words had literally been written on his flesh, branded into his soul. He could never forget, because it was who he was. Who he would always be. What his sons would one day become.

“You forget, we vowed allegiance to hide them from the world. And if someone has found them—if they know of what their true purpose is—”

“I'm fully aware of what could happen, Sussex. I just don't happen to believe it.” His faith had died years ago—along with any desire to carry on the family legacy.

“Your beliefs are irrelevant. We must find them and make sure that no one discovers their powers. I've already summoned Alynwick. He's coming with the scroll.”

“I know, I saw the marquis at Stonebrook's soirée tonight. He's a Highland brute and people were staring. He'll cause a bloody scene and people will begin to talk. If it's known he's associated with either one of us, there could be speculation—especially if Knighton uncovered anything about our forebears in Jerusalem.”

Sussex shrugged. “He is part of this, isn't he? It's his knowledge of the old order that we need. He has a right to be here, to help us find the chalice and pendant.”

Indeed he was. Alynwick and his forebears had been in charge of keeping the ancient religious text safe, and well away from the chalice and the pendant. The text, which was in the form of an ancient scroll, was the third artifact that had been carried out of Solomon's Temple by their Templar ancestors. The scroll was said to have the power of prophecy and alchemy, and contained the secrets of how to bring the powers of the chalice, pendant and scroll together. It was said that to possess all three, and their knowledge and power, was to rule supreme. Black had never believed, but there was that time, once, when he had held the black onyx pendant with its strange symbols marked in gold in his hand, and began to wonder if what his ancestors had passed down from generation to
generation, son to son, was not true. He had felt something…heard something…a voice calling, whispering to him, tempting him with all he might have.

He'd been grieving at the time, Death had surrounded him, come in threes to take those closest to him. He'd assumed what he'd heard had been nothing but grief and despair. But now, ten years later, he began to wonder whether the pendant really had magical properties.

“Those are Templar treasures coming,” Sussex reminded him, “and we need Alynwick's help if we are going to be able to keep London safe in the event that whoever has stolen the chalice and pendant discovers their powers.”

“Safe,” he murmured, gazing at the sky, thinking of Isabella. “Death follows me like a cloud, Sussex. No one is safe from my family's curse.”

“We're all cursed,” Sussex grumbled. “But that hardly matters now, does it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Sussex raked an unsteady hand through his dark hair. “Tomorrow the ship from Jerusalem arrives. Be there to find out what Knighton has unearthed. Report back as soon as you discover anything. We must be very careful, Black.”

“Aren't I always cautious?”

“Tonight you weren't.”

He glared at Sussex. “Some could accuse you of the same.”

“Just keeping tabs on what could be a very inconvenient discovery of our involvement.”

Black laughed, a deep sound of jaded weariness. “Is that what you're calling Lucy Ashton, an
inconvenience?
”

Resentment flashed in Sussex's eyes. “You needn't concern yourself with her, I'll manage her,” he snapped, and Black felt the duke's possession in every word.

“You've fallen for Lucy.”

“Of course I haven't.”

“Your tone says otherwise.”

“My tone is exasperation, Black. The young lady is far too intelligent and nosy for her own good,” he grumbled. “I can't allow her to discover anything about the artifacts—or me.”

“What makes you think she knows anything about the artifacts?”

“She's been plaguing me with questions about the Brotherhood and the Grand Lodge. She's enamored of its secrets and I'm afraid she might just uncover that our family has been using Freemasonry as a way to keep the secrets they found in Solomon's Temple buried. Miss Ashton has a hunger for knowledge, and it scares the devil out of me. She's started attending séances and spirit meetings, for God's sake. There's no telling what lengths that single-minded miss will go to in order to indulge her quest for answers.”