“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.
“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.
CHAPTER THREE
Even in death she was beautiful. Her porcelain skin, drained of color, rendered her angelic. Her hair, which was fanned out over black velvet, shone silver beneath the moonlight, reminding him of shimmering silk threads as it dangled over his arm. He lowered his head, inhaling the scent of all that luxurious hair, imagining it gliding along his body, his hands cupping handfuls of curls.
So still she lay that he could not bear it, and slowly he raised his face from her hair to touch the cold alabaster cheeks that were plump, the becoming flush he had see
n no longer there. He bent to kiss the lips that were no longer pink. A goodbye. A parting. Their mouths touched, hers cold, his colder. Death’s eternal kiss…
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.”
Seduction & Scandal Page 4
