Seduction & Scandal (8 page)

“He has made you no offer of marriage, has he?” She flushed and looked away, but he bent his head to catch her gaze, and lowered his mouth close to hers. His thumb was now brushing the contour of her bottom lip. “Has he given you any indication of his desire?”

Her heart was beating hard, and her hand, good Lord, her hand had come up and her fingers were brushing through Black's long hair. His eyes closed, and then they slowly opened, the green flecks more brilliant than before, making his pale blue eyes more turquoise.

“Has he given you a taste of pleasure? A glimpse of what you might find in his arms?”

“No,” she breathed, the word nothing but a husky pant.

He brushed her lips once more with his thumb, the leather sliding smoothly along her dampened mouth, parting her lips until she could feel the edge of his leather-encased finger on the inside of her lip. But this time it was not slow and sensual, it was more forceful, direct.
Dominant
. She shivered in response, not a reaction that was of fear, but desire—her body's instinctive response to his. “Do you know what I would give for a chance to show you what it could be like in mine?”

Looking deep into his eyes, Isabella licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, her breathing harsh behind her tight corset and the cuirass bodice of her gown. “My lord, this is reckless.”

“Reckless, dangerous, irresponsible, yes,” he murmured as he pressed against her, his chest slowly, inexorably pushing her backward till she was lying on the carriage bench and he was looming above her. “It is all those things, but it is also unavoidable, inevitable, inescapable.”

Isabella watched as Lord Black's face came closer to hers. As if in a dream, she felt her arms go up, supposedly to push him away, but they betrayed her and she felt her hands slide up over his shoulders where her fingertips
tangled in his hair. “Inescapable,” she repeated, her voice husky.

“Yes.” He lowered his mouth slowly to hers. “Wherever you are, I will follow. I will find you, Isabella.”

“Like Death,” she whispered, her lashes lowering as she awaited his kiss. “He knows where to find those who hide from him.”

Cold air swept between their bodies, and Isabella's eyelids flew open, only to see Lord Black abruptly pull himself away from her. Before she could right herself, he was seated once again on the opposite bench, watching her with hooded eyes. “We have arrived at your home, Miss Fairmont,” he announced, his voice no longer filled with the desire she had only seconds before heard. “I bid you good afternoon. May I extend my best wishes for a speedy recovery from your headache.”

“My lord?” she asked, puzzled, still breathing hard from the kiss he had nearly given her. Had she done something? Been too bold? Should she have put up a fuss, struggled beneath him as she ought to have?

Their eyes met, and in a swift move, he was before her, his hands clutching her face. “They say that Death is a shadow that always follows a body, but Death will not find you. I vow it. But you will promise me that you will be very careful with your tonic,” he whispered fiercely, “for I couldn't bear it if Death were called to pay you a visit and forced to steal the roses from your cheeks.”

“I will,” she whispered back, awed by the severe concern she saw in his expression and heard in his warning.

“Vow it,” he whispered, angling his head as though he was going to kiss her. “Swear to me, Isabella.”

“I swear to you.”

And then Lord Black lowered his mouth to hers, his lips brushing softly, slowly—once, twice—each time they parted more overtop hers until she moaned and he opened
her mouth, slipped his tongue inside, devouring her as though he was starved for her.

She did not know how to return such a kiss. She could not breathe, could not move. Could only luxuriate in the silken feel of his lips moving overtop hers and the sweep of his tongue curling around her own. How enthralling it was to think of him so intimately connected to her. She could feel him seeking, searching, discovering and she wanted to do the same to him, but did not want to end the kiss with her bumbling inexperience, so instead, she allowed him to tutor her, to kiss her, and let his tongue search the depths of her mouth, to lick and probe and listen to the sound of Black's kiss, his rasping breaths and her soft, wanton moans.

She had no idea how long he kissed her, but she protested when his kiss became less fervent, and he broke away.

“Bella,” he rasped between drugging sweeps of his lips and the teasing wetness of his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth. “Reckless, irresponsible, inescapable.”

“Unavoidable,” she breathed as she kissed him back.

He clutched her body to his, his hand skating up her side to her ribs, only to rest beneath her breast. Like a wanton, she pressed into him, making him feel her body—the body he had made ache with desire. The body she seemed no longer able to control. He had made it his with this kiss, and now she felt as though she would die if he did not show her how to give her body what it was screaming for.

She was wound tight, restless, and he knew it, made the tightness more taut as he deepened the kiss, kissing her harder and hungrier then before. Yes, she chanted.
More…more…

Breaking the kiss, Black was breathing fast as he rested his forehead against hers, while their gazes locked. With his fingertip, he brushed her lower lip, sweeping slowly,
erotically. “Inevitable,” he whispered, and somehow Isabella knew that what had transpired between them was only the beginning of the fall.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Black was still ruminating on the carriage ride, and the kiss he'd shared with Isabella. His mind should be clear, focused on his goals—find the person behind the House of Orpheus and locate the relics. However, he couldn't still his thoughts long enough to focus on anything but Isabella and how he had wanted much, much more from her.

He could still taste her, feel her shape beneath his hands. Damn it, he was still semiaroused, and thinking of it was making it worse.

“Your usual table is ready, my lord,” the butler announced as Black shed his hat and coat and passed them to the retainer. With a nod, he turned and walked down the dimly lit corridor. It was late afternoon, and the gas lamps had not been lit yet despite the fact that the card rooms and dining room were already filled. But then, this wasn't a club where aristocrats wiled away the hours.

He'd come to Blake's, a little-known gentleman's club in Bloomsbury, for a reason. Its clientele mostly comprised artists and poets, and the odd financier. Very few people of the ton were members, and that was precisely why he'd chosen to pay his membership here—beyond prying eyes and gossiping mouths. He loathed gossip. Especially since he'd frequently been an object of it. He did everything in his power not to subject himself to it, but he'd broken his self-imposed rule last evening by ventur
ing out of his house to a ball and singling out a beautiful young woman by dancing with her.

Years of strictures shot to hell in less than five minutes. But there were some things in life that proved too great a temptation—even for him. And Isabella had proved to be one of them. She was most likely the only temptation he could not resist.

Turning right, he entered the small room at the back of the club. The gaming rooms and bar were up front, leaving the back relatively quiet—and empty. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth. Sitting at the table was Sussex, reading a paper and drinking a whiskey.

At Black's entrance, a servant placed a freshly pressed news sheet and a dram of scotch at the empty place, which Black immediately occupied. Once the servant was out of earshot, he took a sip of his drink and watched as Sussex lowered the paper.

“Well?” he asked. “I received your message.”

Black glanced around, shifted in his chair, giving the air that he was settling in for a bit. “I have information on the House of Orpheus.”

His Grace's eyes lit with interest. “Indeed? You've been busy, and for one who apparently doesn't give a damn about finding the relics.”

Ignoring the taunt, he continued. “Last night I told you I recalled recently seeing the image for the House of Orpheus.” He lifted the paper and pretended to peruse it. “It was on a billet at the front of the Adelphi Theatre.”

The duke's dark brow rose in question. “The Adelphi is little more than a bawdy house—with its painted women and questionable productions.”

“Which makes it a wonderful cover for such a club, don't you think?”

Sussex folded his paper and downed the rest of his whiskey. “I do. Brilliant, in fact. Are you certain?”

“I knew I had seen that image somewhere,” Black
murmured. “It was only a matter of time before I recalled exactly where. I was out of my mind with boredom the other night and decided to take in a show.”

The duke merely arched his brow. Black glared back. “I don't need your censure, Sussex,” he snarled. “So what, I needed a few mindless hours of terrible singing and even worse dancing. At any rate, I noticed the billet when I left the theater. I didn't read it then, but after I dropped Miss Fairmont off at her home this afternoon, I had my driver return to the Strand, and I nicked this—it was posted on the front of the theater, by the doors.”

“Miss Fairmont, did you say?” Sussex asked with interest as he took the billet from Black's hand. “What was she doing there?”

“The apothecary.”

Sussex glanced up from reading the billet. “And Miss Ashton?”

“She wasn't there.”

Sussex's gaze turned dark. “This is an advertisement for the club, but it gives no address, no means of making contact or anything about what this House of Orpheus is.”

“I know. That must be part of its allure. I suspect it's one of those exclusive, elitist-type clubs that men trip over themselves to join—nothing like a mysterious club with initiation rites and secret ceremonies to draw members.”

“Sounds like Freemasonry,” Sussex said with a grin.

“I think the Adelphi is the place to start. By its size alone it's the perfect venue to hide such a club. Maybe after a night spent there, we might find out more about it. I hear that the theater is closed on Wednesdays—perhaps it's closed because the club meets then? Or maybe there's a special room—there are always those sorts of rooms set up for theatrics that these places tend to induce.”

Sitting forward, Sussex passed him the billet. “I don't like this, Black. Every gut instinct I possess tells me
that this club has something to do with Lucy. And God help me if it's some notorious club set in the Adelphi. I should be thinking of the chalice and the pendant, and what bloody mayhem might ensue if they fall into the wrong hands, but I confess all I can think about is Lucy and how she's gotten herself involved in something dangerous.”

“I'll go to the theater, mingle, ask around about this House of Orpheus and see what I can learn, and in the process discover if it has anything at all to do with the artifacts. Do not worry, Sussex. Lady Lucy's reputation will remain intact, and we will find the relics. Good God, we don't want it getting out that the pendant and chalice have the powers to alter the world.”

“You said you didn't believe it. You stated it was nothing but a medieval fairy tale.”

Shrugging, Black sat back in his chair and gazed into the fire. “I lack faith, I suppose. But that doesn't mean that I can let it go. It has been my family's curse to look after the damn pendant and hide it away from the world for over five hundred years. I simply can't shrug it off now. I must find it, whether or not I believe it contains nefarious powers.”

“All my life, I have been consumed with keeping the chalice hidden from the world, but with one glance from a green-eyed nymph, I've suddenly become sidetracked.”

“Besotted,” Black corrected his friend. “A moon-calved fool.”

“Enough,” the duke growled. “I'm merely trying to keep the girl out of it. For the sake of her father. Stonebrook doesn't need the aggravation or the scandal.”

Black snorted. “You may use your arrogance and aloof, distant airs to fool the insipid members of the ton, Sussex, but I know you better. You're pining away for the girl.”

His Grace refused to return his stare, and instead focused on the fire that blazed in the large hearth. “Yes,”
he murmured so quietly that Black wasn't certain he was supposed to have heard him. “Pining, perishing, bloody angsting over the girl, and she won't give me the time of day.”

He'd known Sussex since the cradle, and had never seen him this way. Lucy Ashton was tying him in knots.

“Enough of this,” Sussex snapped. “When will you go to the theater, and do you want company? Lord knows I would do well with a night out.”

“I'll make preparations and let you know. As an aside, I met with Knighton on the docks this morning. There was nothing of interest to us in the crates. I don't think him a threat, but all the same, I offered to sponsor him into the lodge. I hold to the adage that one should keep their friends close, and their enemies closer.”

Sussex smiled slyly. “You just said he wasn't a threat to us.”

“Not to the Brethren Guardians,” Black murmured. “But he is a threat to me.”

“Now who's moonfaced?” Sussex said, and laughed when Black rose from the chair and retreated from the room. It was fine for him to tease His Grace about this affliction for Lucy, but it was quite the opposite to be the object of the duke's mockery.

 

S
HE COULD NOT STOP THINKING
of that kiss, or the feel of Lord Black's arms encircling her. She had felt wild, unbidden and in truth, he was just as wild as she. Which was shocking in a way, for Black always seemed so composed and self-contained. That he should possess such passion was both a surprise and a fright. The kiss had been hard, frenzied, as if both of them had been denying such a thing for eternity. Yet they had only just met. And therein lay the fear.

She should be mortified. Ashamed. She had kissed a man who was not courting her. She should feel at least a
glimmer of remorse for kissing Black while courting with Mr. Knighton. Yet how could she regret the
event
of her life? For this was what that kiss was…the most exhilarating moment of her entire existence.

She could still taste him on her tongue. Her lips still red and swollen from the fervor of his mouth atop hers. Her body, which had been so tight and hurting, now dully ached. She was aware of a persistent restlessness inside her, something she had never felt before. An agitation that she knew could only be abated by seeing Black again.

It had been a mere twenty-four hours after their introduction, and here she was, pining for him. How could this be? After so many years of carefully guarding her passions. After watching her mother throw herself at any man that glanced her way, here she was just waiting for the opportunity to lunge herself into Black's arms.

He was a sorcerer, a beautiful, dark magician who had woven a spell upon her. It was the only way to explain her rash behavior—the way she had discarded her beliefs, her fears. She had sworn never to allow herself to be at the mercy of her desires. But here she was, on the threshold of desire. With one kiss, Black had opened the door to a room she could not allow herself to enter, for inside that beckoning chamber, Isabella knew her destruction lay within the hands of a most alluring master.

This attraction between them was inexplicable. Despite having only been introduced, Isabella felt as though she'd known him all her life. When she was with him, she felt the familiar agitation disappear, suddenly filled with the calm from the storm that had been her life. In Black's company, there was familiarity, as if he had somehow long been a presence in her life. But she had never seen him or talked to him until the night of the ball. There was no denying that there was something inside him that beckoned her. Whatever it was, her soul seemed to answer.

Was it fate? Destiny? She no longer knew if she
believed in such things. Could passion be fate, or was it nothing more than an impulsive human instinct that needed fulfillment? Was what she felt shimmering between them destiny pushing them together, or was it nothing but physical attraction of the most basic nature?

No, that afternoon in the carriage had not been base. It had been beautiful, and the way he looked at her…yes, a man could be anything, say anything, but his eyes did not lie. When Black looked at her, there was something there other than simple lust. His words tempted her, so, too, his looks. Even their silence was charged with a palpable undercurrent. With Black, she was another person. A woman not afraid of the passion that simmered just below her skin. It frightened her, how easily he coaxed that person forth.

He would ruin her, she reminded herself, if she didn't have a care. If she dared step even one foot inside the door he had opened that afternoon she would be utterly destroyed—morally and spiritually.

The sound of the shutter slamming against the bricks startled her, pulling her back to the moment. Isabella jumped, unable to hide her response. Here was not the place to woolgather and daydream about her kiss with Black. Now was the time to keep her wits about her. How had she allowed Lucy to talk her into coming to Highgate Cemetery tonight, especially since she wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire and write down every little nuance of that magnificent kiss?

Why was it that Lucy was so drawn to such things as séances and spirits? They were dark entertainments done in the night. Without light there was only darkness—evil. What was her cousin searching for in the darkness?

Pausing at the window of the tiny cottage, Isabella pulled the curtain aside and gazed out at the trees beyond. The wind was up, stirring the dried leaves, blowing them upward as the branches waved back and forth. The clouds
were thick and heavy, the moon hung low on the horizon, its brightness illuminating the sky, which churned with an impending storm. Another gust of wind howled, and she shivered, the draft wafting in through a crack in the mullion. Beyond the trees lay the cemetery. She could make out the tops of the statuary, angels and crosses, and the peaked roofs of mausoleums and family crypts. In the darkness and the cool October air with its lamenting winds, the crosses looked ominous and the angels mercenary. The shadows…well, they were there, too, weaving beneath the moonlight and the tendrils of fog that wrapped like ghostly specters around the headstones. Never in the wildest reaches of her imagination could she have conjured up such an atmospheric setting for a séance.

How she abhorred the darkness and shadows, while her cousin coveted them. Unlike Lucy, Isabella knew that there was nothing good to be learned by shadows. But Lucy was past listening to Isabella's protests. It was as if Lucy had somehow become a shadow herself. There was no denying that Lucy was not the vivacious young woman whom Isabella had always known. She was a shadow of her former self. Oh, she tried to hide it, but Isabella saw through her cousin's facade. Shadows flickered in her cousin's green eyes, and darkness, of unknown origin, was slowly blotting out the light that had been Lucy. Like a destructive vine, the darkness had its tendrils wrapped tightly around Lucy's soul. If only her cousin would confide in her. If only Isabella could save herself—and her cousin—from the shadows that had always seemed to haunt the women of their family.

But Lucy would not let her in, and Isabella, still filled with her own darkness of dreams and shadows, let her be—for now.