How easy it had been to get what he needed, which like any man who had dredged himself up from the stews, needed—money. How depraved and desperate the elite of London were. How damn willingly they had parted with their money for only a forbidden taste. And now, each week, they came back to him, paying to be entertained, to be corrupted by sin.
Despite their masked identities, he could pick out every person, their names, titles and the predilections they enjoyed. Through them he could move through the ton, to hear and see his enemies. For the House of Orpheus was no mere secret society—no, its mission was far more sinister then the pleasure it promised.
The smooth shining onyx he cradled so protectively was cool in his palm. He could hear it whispering to him, as if it were a living, breathing thing. The pendant was now warm, vibrating. With his thumb he shaped it, feeling its oval outline and the raised gold lettering in the tongue of the ancient Hebrews.
Did the Brethren Guardians know it was missing? He smiled, thinking of Black, Sussex and Alynwick frantically searching the city for their priceless relic. Let them come, he silently hoped, for it was his greatest wish. Retribution. Annihilation, utter destruction.
Let them come….
“It is time, Orpheus.”
Nodding, he acknowledged his servant. It had been this longtime servant who had helped him infiltrate the Brethren Guardian, through a green-eyed minx who had so easily fallen for the illicit taste of pleasure.
Rising from his darkened corner, he slipped his gilded mask over his face and rapped his staff against the marble floor. The conversation of his minions faded, leaving only the sound of excited breaths. The weekly dues had already been collected and now the assembled dilettantes waited breathlessly for the secret rites to progress and the planned debaucheries of the evening to begin.
Raising his arms above his head, he repeated the words of Orpheus. His minions joined him…
“Now you have died and now you have come into being. O thrice happy one, on this same day. Tell Perse phone that Orpheus has released you.”
He had died, and now he was being reborn into a power that would shape the world, and inside his pocket, he felt the pendant vibrant with excitement. He would take back what was his. He would create a new world, and never again would he die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alone in the forest, I turned in circles, realizing at last that I was lost. An owl hooted in the distance, and the full moon hung low over the trees, which were bereft of leaves. The path was thick with mud, the wind cold and harsh, howling through the grove.
I was in Death’s world now. Summoned by an unknown force—a need so pressing and compelling in the deepest part of night. That force had been Death, beckoning me silently, pulling at my body until I obeyed his unspoken command.
He was an ever-present entity in my mind, my memory—and I fear for my soul. How could I forget him, the way he whirled me around the dance floor? How could I forget his kiss? I couldn’t. My body couldn’t. My body ached for more—it longed for Death and his dark embrace.
How sweetly Death had enslaved me. How quickly he had lured me here, to his domain, where most mere mortals feared to tread. With Death’s kiss I had been consumed. I was consumed now, awaiting his arrival.
Even if I desired to run from him, I could not, for my feet would not move, my dancing slippers caked with mud, glued me to the spot. The earth surrounding me was dark, quiet. Between the veil of the living and the dead, the mortals slumbered as midnight drew near, and I awaited my fate along with all the other souls whom Death would claim this night.
Death would come for me tonight. I knew that. I felt his presence as it clung to the grove. I smelled him, a scent now so familiar to me. I should be weeping, fearing the inevitable, but as I waited for Death my heart began to race, my body, which had been cold, was now warming at just the thought of feeling Death pulling me into his intoxicating embrace.
When would Death come for me?
The wind gusted once more—violently, sending a rustle of leaves swirling, circling, like whirling dervishes. They brushed against my face, clung to my hair, and I raised my arms to fling them away. And then as suddenly as the vicious wind came, it stilled, and my arms fell away, and there, at the opposite end of the path which I stood upon was a white horse—riderless. It stomped and snorted, tossing its head up and down, as its giant hoof pawed at the ground. And then with one final snort, it began to run—to me.
Where was Death? Would he not save me? Would he not gather me in his arms and protect me?
He had kissed me once—so kindly, so tenderly, that I knew there was warmth in him. He was not cold and callous, but quiet. Reserved. Yet inside him, I glimpsed a soul, something I never dared dream Death would possess. But it was there, in his kiss, in the way his arms wrapped around me and embraced me.
Where was he now? How could he lure me here, only to sacrifice me to the bounding hooves and the horse that was intent upon trampling me?
Unable to do anything but stare in horror at the beast who would run me down, I stood frozen, the warmth leaving my body, as cold dread filled me. The moment of my doom was here, and I was alone. Death had tricked me. He tempted me into his forest, even though I knew that good girls should not be tempted. But Death was beautiful, his hands soft, his mouth against mine even softer. No mere mortal could refuse such beauty—the promise of such sublime pleasure.
I had wanted that dance. The kiss, and the embrace that was certain to follow. I had wanted Death. How foolish I was to believe in him. What a fool I was, for I had shoved aside my morality for one night with Death, and he deceived me. Abandoned me.
And now, because I was sinful in thought and action, I was going to die. This very night, in Death’s forest beneath the crushing hooves of Death’s mount.
The earth thundered, and the sound of the horse’s powerful hooves echoed in my ears. My last thought as I felt the heat of the horse, the mist from his muzzle as it bore down upon me, was of Death, and how beautiful he was. How, if given the chance once more, I would still choose that dance. That kiss.
In those last seconds, I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable, and then it happened. Time stood still as the horse’s heaving snorts shattered through the thundering ground. He was upon me, and I was thrown up, and the pain…it did not come as I thought it would.
I was floating, and when I finally found the bravery to open my eyes, I saw that Death had claimed me, swooped me up in his arms and he was carrying me away. Death, how beautiful he was. How welcoming…
I clasped his cheeks in my hands and opened my mouth to his. His pale eyes, those mesmerizing blue eyes with sea-green flecks, watched me. I shivered in awareness, understood that look. There was no going back.
“Wherever you are,” he whispered as he lowered his head to claim my mouth. “I will find you…”
The ringing of bells pierced the dream, and Isabella came awake with a start. The bells were the chimes of the library clock, the hour midnight. She was not alone. She sensed that. And when she opened her eyes, she discovered she was sitting bolt upright on the chaise longue. Her gaze flew to the right, to the wall behind where she sat, only to see that she truly was not alone. As the twelfth bell of midnight sounded, Isabella saw in the reflection of the mirror, the man in her dreams—Death. It was not Death, but Black.
She wanted to scream, but the sound would not come out. It was midnight, the moment when darkness was at its height and light at its lowest ebb. The exact moment when the mortal realm was linked to the other worlds. It was the time of day associated with chaos, the underworld and Death—and the creatures of darkness were most potent. It was also a time when it was most dangerous to look in the mirror in case the devil looks back at you.
And, dear God, the last chime had barely faded and here she was, gazing into a mirror, and seeing Black standing there, watching her, his pale eyes so reminiscent of the man in her dreams. The hero in her story.
“You’ve had a dream.�
�
The sound of his voice broke through her silent horror, and she allowed herself to fall back against the settee. “I did.”
“I tried to wake you when I realized it, but you couldn’t hear me.”
“Did I say anything?” Oh, how she would be utterly horrified if he had heard her sleep talking.
He shook his head, and came to sit beside her. He was sitting far too close, but his warmth, and the security she sensed in him, were welcoming.
“Tell me about it?” he asked. “Perhaps it might help to share what frightens you.”
“It was just a dream.”
“Not the same one from the afternoon?”
“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.” It was a completely different dream, much more sensual. Even now she was trembling, remembering what it had felt like to succumb to Death—Death who looked so very much like Black.
But how? she wondered. When she had started her story, she had never met Black. In her mind Death was already formed; he possessed those sea-colored eyes, and the black hair. Death was sophisticated and enigmatic, just like Black. But Death had been a figment of her imagination, and the earl…he was a flesh-and-blood man.
Black stood near the settee, watching her with unreadable eyes. “I hear a carriage approaching. It should be your cousin.”
Listening, Isabella could hear nothing above the din of her pounding heart. She was overwrought, was all. It was the effects of the séance and waking up to the chimes of midnight. Her imagination was running away with her, aided by her fatigue. She had always been rather imaginative and excitable. She wasn’t superstitious, she reminded herself. Discovering Black looking back at her in the mirror at the stroke of midnight meant nothing. He was not the devil and he was most certainly not…Death.
“Will you be all right if I leave you now?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. My lord, I cannot thank you enough, and must apologize for being such a reprehensible host. I was very poor company this evening.”
“You needn’t apologize.”
“Oh, but I must,” she said as she rose from the chaise longue. “I’ve been asleep for more than an hour.”
“An hour and a half, actually,” he said with a grin. A grin that played havoc with her mind—and body.
“Again, my apologies, my lord.”
He stepped closer and caught her face in his hands. He looked deeply down into her eyes and watched her carefully as his thumbs stroked the apples of her cheeks. “If you would apologize, Isabella, then let it be like this.”
His mouth caught hers in a slow, sensual melding of lips. His tongue slipped past and slowly danced with hers. It was a languid, lulling kiss, as if he had all the time in the world to savor her lips.
Just when she grew impatient, he deepened it, let his hand fall from her face to the back of her head where his fingers raked through her hair and anchored her for his kiss, which was now harder, more demanding than coaxing.
Her moan shattered the quiet, and did something to him. He was no longer controlled, but needy, frantic in the way his mouth sought hers. She gripped his waistcoat, pulling at him, bringing him closer. Their bodies brushed together, and she gasped, feeling his hardness pressed against her, while he groaned, pushing insistently against the softness of her belly.
The kiss lingered, slowed, until it was a seductive dance and Isabella clung to him, weak and needy, refusing to think of him leaving her in such a state.
“Black,” she purred, kissing him, meeting his mouth with her own urgent one.
“I want you,” he rasped as he brought her up close and held her tight. “I want to keep kissing you, to carry you up to your room and love you until the sun comes up, and then I want to make love to you and watch as the dawn creeps across the windowpanes, and over your body.”
She felt wild with need, and she clutched at Black’s hair as he kissed her neck and whispered those words between rasping kisses.
“Come to me,” he coaxed as his hand slid up her waist, to cup her breast. “Lie down for me and let me see you, taste you,” he whispered before curling his tongue behind her earlobe. “Let me be a part of you.”
The sound of the front door opening shattered their embrace, and with a groan, they reluctantly parted, attempted to school their breathing, when Black reached for her once more and kissed her, softly, reverently, before sweeping his tongue inside her mouth one last time. When he pulled back, he cupped her chin and brushed his thumb along her kiss-swollen lips.
“No apologies, for there was nowhere on earth I would have rather been tonight than here with you. Good night, Isabella.”
She reached for him, and he half turned, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I meant every word, Isabella. I want you to come to me, or let me come to you. Think on it,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Oh, good evening.” Lucy came to a halt just inside the doorway. Her gaze volleyed back and forth between Isabella and Black. Releasing her hold on the earl, Isabella watched as he passed by Lucy, mumbling good-night. With a slow smile, Lucy took in Isabella’s disheveled hair and gown and smiled widely as she half turned to watch Black’s departure.
“Why, Isabella Fairmont—” Lucy beamed incredulously “—you have, at last, been properly seduced!”
BOOT STEPS RANG on the marble tile of Sussex House, echoing off the high walls and domed ceiling. Inside the massive ducal town house, the servants were quiet and still above stairs. Only Hastings, Sussex’s butler, remained awake. It was well past midnight, but Black knew the duke would still be awake.
Black followed the young butler down the long gallery hall to the end where the glass conservatory lay dark and quiet. To the right was Sussex’s study. Outside, the wind had risen, and Black could see the swaying of tree limbs beyond the conservatory windows. The moon, which had been bright and full while he was at Highgate, was now obscured by thick cloud cover.
From deep inside the study, a log consumed with fire could be heard sparking and crackling—the sound beckoning one to pull up a chair and gaze into the dancing flames. The door was opened a crack, and Black saw the duke seated in a wingback chair cradling a glass of whiskey as he stared into the hearth.
“Your Grace,” Hastings called after clearing his throat. “The Earl of Black wishes an audience.”
“Send him in. I’ll see to the lamps and locks, Hastings. You may retire for the evening.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
When the butler had disappeared down the dark corridor, Black let himself into Sussex’s den and firmly shut the door behind him. The duke did not bother to look up from his contemplation of the fire, and Black went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. A double. He needed it.
The last two hours had been a lesson in torture. How he had managed not to awaken Isabella and ravage her was beyond him. He’d been sorely tempted on more than one occasion. Only the letter, and the mysterious House of Orpheus, had been motivation enough to sever his attentions from Isabella’s lovely sleeping form.
“I suppose you’re here about this séance business,” Sussex muttered. “Damn frightening seeing Miss Fairmont worked into such a state. I never thought she was the flighty sort, but she certainly was terrified.”
“Miss Fairmont has an unpleasant past,” he answered as he lowered his tall frame into a chair and made himself comfortable. He, more than any other soul on earth, knew that. He knew more about Isabella than she suspected, and if she ever found out, she would be mortified. In just one day, he was already learning how her mind worked. She would at first be frightened by the idea of someone having private knowledge of her life in Yorkshire, and then she would be humiliated—worried that perhaps he knew of her unfortunate event—which, of course, he did. But what she didn’t know was, he had witnessed it. Had been a part of it. It was that moment that tethered him so securely to her. His life before that was gone, faded into nothing. He had started living that night as a wintry gale blew into Whitby Harbor. It had been her, Isab
ella, who had made him look at his life through new eyes.
“What is in Miss Fairmont’s past that makes her so jittery, then?”
The duke’s question pulled Black out of his reverie and the memories of that night, the sound of the waves crashing violently against the shore and the rocks. The howl of the wind, and the stinging of the sea mist on his face. The frigid waters surrounding him.
“She is not a fan of the dark,” he answered, “or the speculative nonsense our Miss Fox was so successful at conjuring up.”
“You certainly timed your entrance perfectly. How did you know where to find her? I myself just happened upon them leaving Stonebrook, with nothing but Lucy’s maid for a chaperone, if you can believe it. Reckless, silly girl,” Sussex snarled. “She has no bloody notion of what could happen to her.”
“So you accompanied them?”
Sussex glared at him, his gray eyes the most turbulent he had ever seen them. “Of course. What would you have me do? Let them travel to Highgate alone? And then what? There was no telling what might have happened to them out there. They may have been robbed, or…worse.”
“No, you needed to be there. I beg your pardon, but it seems I am not myself tonight, either.”
Sussex blew out a ragged breath as he let his head fall back against the chair. He was looking up at the ceiling as he said Lucy’s name aloud. “If this is what love feels like, then it’s no damn wonder most rational men fear the state.” He glanced at him, his eyes troubled. “Damn me, Black, what the devil is the chit about? This is not some fashionable passing interest that Lucy is dabbling in. This…obsession with the dead and conjuring spirits is damn unsettling. I can’t fathom why it has attracted her so.”
“Why don’t you have a look at this.”
Leaning forward, Black pressed a folded news clipping into his hand. “What’s this?”
Sipping his whiskey, Black gazed into the fire. “Something of interest, I believe.”
He waited in the silence as Sussex read the clipping. It was eight months old, and he’d found it hidden away beneath Lucy Ashton’s mattress.
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