He placed her fingers over his lips and she startled at the softness of them. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, almost whimpering when she felt him softly kiss her fingers.
“I need to touch you.” His breath was harsh against her ear, and she felt the tips of his fingers glide down her throat and along the tops of her breasts. His finger dipped low. He stroked her nipple with his finger and she squirmed, her fingernails digging into the silk of his jacket. “I want this, Isabella. Do you?”
She couldn’t think, couldn’t agree or protest. She could only concentrate on the feel of his touch against her nipple that was now painfully taut. Her breasts were full, throbbing, waiting for the feel of his hand.
Swallowing hard, she nodded. He blew hot breath across her nipple before his tongue came out in a slow, tantalizing lick. Grasping his head, she moaned, bringing his mouth closer, holding him to her.
“Bella, come to me.” His mouth moved across her breasts. “Be with me.”
“You know I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to…it’s…I just can’t.”
His expression turned dark—stormy—and he thrust himself away from her, looking very much like a ravaging knight.
“You forget, I know what your cousin was doing tonight.”
“Yes,” she said as she slid her sleeves back up her arms.
“I could ruin her.”
She froze, lifted her face to his, which was dark and utterly unreadable. “I could go to Scotland Yard right now and tell all, and by morning her reputation would be in tatters.”
“But you won’t if I what? Sleep with you?” she shrieked. “Is that the sort of man you are, Black?”
He reached for her wrists, bent over her, caging her, and she was reminded of her story, when Death had huddled overtop her, his eyes dark and storming.
“You will come to me, Isabella. For three nights. And you will read to me from your book.”
She gasped, her fingers flew to her mouth, trembled against her lips. Three nights for his silence. Oh, God, it was her book coming to life!
“Tomorrow night. Midnight. Be there. Or I will come for you.”
She watched him storm away, and her gaze caught the journal that sat on the table. It was impossible to credit, but the story of her and Black was unfolding like that of Death’s tale.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I NEED THE PENDANT… Oh, Issy,” Lucy moaned as Isabella mopped her sweating brow. “Please,” she implored. “Black has it. Beg him, Issy. Give him anything he wants, if only he’ll return the pendant to me.”
“Lucy, you must calm yourself.”
“Listen to me! I want the pendant—I need it. My soul relies upon it returning to me. Oh,” Lucy growled in frustration. “Why will you not listen to me?”
“She’s raving,” Isabella murmured to Elizabeth who sat in the corner. “She’s out of her mind with the fever. She keeps talking of a pendant.”
Elizabeth sat quietly, listening. She did not respond to Isabella’s fears.
“The doctor will be here shortly,” Sussex said as he paced before the hearth. “I’ve done what I can, purging her of the poison, but she’s not better. I cannot understand it, there can be nothing left in her stomach.”
“What poison?” she asked, aghast, only to be met with silence. What the devil was going on here? Why was Elizabeth and her brother being so secretive, and how in the world was Black involved?
“Lucy,” Isabella said sternly. Taking Lucy’s pale face in her hands, she shook her cousin gently until her heavy eyelids opened. “Tell me what is going on.”
“The pendant. It will bring you your greatest wish…”
“What pendant?” Isabella demanded. “Lucy, answer me!”
“Black’s.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she narrowed her eyes at the duke. “What the devil does she mean? Explain this, Your Grace.”
“I cannot. She’s…she’s fevered. Talking nonsense,” he muttered as he paced the floor. “I have no notion what she speaks of.” But Isabella knew it was a lie. The duke knew exactly what her cousin was talking of.
“The voice is calling to me…calling,” Lucy whispered as her head tossed on the pillow. “It wants to be reunited with the chalice and the book. It’s chosen me to do the task…then I shall have…my greatest wish.”
“Lucy, please,” she begged. “Open your eyes. Tell me where you are.”
“In hell,” she whispered. “I am in hell, burning alive. I’m dying. Dying…”
“No!” she cried, gripping Lucy. “No, you’re not.”
“I want to,” Lucy replied as she went limp against the pillows. “I want to be where he is…”
Sussex pounded his fist on the hearth, making Isabella jump. Lucy was raving, and the duke should not be present to bear witness to the demons that tore at her soul.
“Your Grace, you should remove yourself. I…I can care for Lucy now.”
The glare he sent her was glacial. She had never seen this side of the duke, this dark, menacing air that came upon him like a thunderstorm. “You won’t be throwing me out, Miss Fairmont,” he snarled.
“I think it is better this way, Adrian,” Elizabeth murmured as she carefully rose from the chair. “It is best, I think, to remove ourselves before the doctor arrives, don’t you agree?”
Something played out across the duke’s face, and Elizabeth, despite her lack of sight, seemed to sense it. She reached for the duke’s hand, and he grasped it, held on to her tightly. “You’ll send word to us if you need us, Miss Fairmont?”
“Of course. And please,” she said, not wanting to sound imperial and autocratic. “We are deeply indebted to both of you. Your Grace, you saved Lucy tonight.”
He said nothing, and with one last longing glance at Lucy lying in the bed, he left, leaving Isabella alone with her cousin.
“Lucy, what have you done?” she asked while pulling the sheets up high around her neck. “Whatever possessed you to do something so rash?”
“The pendant,” Lucy whispered, her lips barely moving. “Issy…please… Black…Black has it.”
“I have no intention of taking anything that belongs to Black.”
“He’ll use it,” she cried. With a twist, Lucy was sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide and wild, her voice deep, frightening. “Don’t you see, he’ll destroy everything.”
Goose bumps covered her body as she gazed into Lucy’s crazed eyes. Perhaps it was she who was slowly going mad. First her dreams, the story of Death, Black and his mysterious ways, and now Lucy, raving like a madwoman.
“Lucy, you’re out of your mind.” Perhaps all these séances were responsible for her behavior.
“Shall I stay with her?” Sibylla asked as she stepped around the door with fresh towels and a pitcher of water.
“No, I’ll sit with her,” Isabella replied as she watched Lucy’s maid go about the room, tidying things up. She had never really cared for Sibylla. There was something about her that did not sit well with her. Ever since her arrival at Stonebrook, Lucy’s mood had sunk even further. And there was no denying that since Sibylla’s arrival, Lucy’s interest in the occult had dramatically increased.
“Has she said anything?” the maid asked. She stood at the side of the bed, her long black hair pulled back in a plait. She was exotic, with her dark skin and even darker eyes.
“No.”
“Nothing?” Sibylla asked, surprise in her voice. “I thought I heard her voice.”
Isabella waved away the maid’s concerns. She did not trust Sibylla with any information. Long years of self-preservation had taught Isabella to allow her instincts to guide her, and her instincts told her that Sibylla need not know anything of what had transpired this night.
“She has the fever,” Isabella supplied. “She was talking nonsense.”
“Oh.” The way Sibylla looked at her let Isabella know that the distrust Isabella felt was mutual.
“Miss Fairmont, the doctor.”
“I have taken the liberty of sending for Lord Stonebrook. He should be here shortly.”
“Thank you, Jennings.”
The doctor placed the bag on the bed and opened it, drawing out numerous bottles filled with medicine.
“She’s fevered,” he stated as his hand rested on her forehead. “His Grace said something about poisoning.”
“Did he?” Isabella asked archly.
“He’s waiting in the salon, he met with me on my way up. This is charcoal,” he stated as he poured a vile-looking concoction onto a spoon. “It will induce vomiting and rid her body of the effects.”
“I shall prepare more towels and bowls,” Jennings said quietly.
“Yes, do,” the doctor replied. “The vomiting will last for quite some time. I shall stay with her, of course.”
“As will I,” Isabella announced.
“It will not be easy, young lady,” the doctor drawled as he spooned the medicine down Lucy’s throat.
Stiffening, Isabella raised her chin. “My grandmother was a midwife, and I joined her many times. I’ve been awake the night through more times than I can count.”
“Is that right?” the doctor muttered, although Isabella thought she saw a fleeting smile on his sober face. “Then you will be more than welcome here. Reach for that basin, will you? It looks like the tonic will take quickly.”
MORNING LIGHT BROKE through the curtains, and Isabella, drained and exhausted, finally collapsed onto the bed beside Lucy, who had at last rested quietly. She barely heard the conversation that took place at the foot of the bed.
“Is it done?”
It was Sussex, and Isabella stirred, struggled to open her eyes. The duke’s image was fuzzy, but she made him out, standing beside the doctor. “She’ll live.”
The sigh that escaped His Grace warmed Isabella. He cared so deeply for Lucy.
“Well, Doctor,” Stonebrook announced. “What did it? What made my Lucy so ill?”
“Poison, my lord. I’m not sure which, but the effects of it have been purged from her body.”
“Poison? By God, what is poison doing in my daughter?”
“That is a very good question, sir.”
“Perhaps we should remove ourselves from the room,” Sussex said.
Stonebrook’s voice broke. “She looks little more than a child, lying there pale and helpless.”
“She will make a full recovery, my lord.”
“Yes, well,” Stonebrook grunted, and coughed, as if trying to hide his emotions. “I thank you, Sussex, for coming to her aid.”
“No thanks are necessary, my lord. I am only happy that my sister and I happened to visit.”
A lie. Sussex was lying to her uncle!
“When she is better, I will sort out this business. I have no notion where my daughter would acquire poison, and in her own home.”
“I think it might be several days before Lady Lucy is feeling up to snuff. Normally purgatives drain a body of its energy and vitality. It may take days before your daughter is her old self.”
“Well, then, I’ll let her rest. I’ll see you to your carriage, shall I?”
The men left, and Isabella dragged herself up from the bed and wiped her eyes, which burned from lack of sleep. Glancing at Lucy, she saw her cousin rested peacefully. She slid from the bed and made her way to the window and parted the curtains, watching as Sussex entered his carriage. The coachman cracked the whip, but the carriage did not make its way down the street. Instead, it turned and headed for the black iron gates that stood high across the street.
Black. Sussex was going there. Why, she asked herself, was everything come back to him?
Instincts were guiding, and Isabella knew what she had to do. She had to go to him, just as he commanded. Or he would come to her.
An image of Death riding his horse, sweeping her up in his arms, invaded her mind. Her instincts warned that the earl was not what he appeared. He was dangerous, and he had proved as much last night. But if she was to have answers, she would have to meet with him tonight—meet with Death in his domain.
TAKING THE BREAKFAST TRAY away from Lucy, Isabella frowned when she saw that her cousin had taken only a few sips of tea, and nothing to eat.
“You need your strength, Lucy,” she said, trying to cajole her cousin. “You really must try something.”
Frowning, Lucy turned onto her side, where she could not see the tray Isabella held. “After casting up my accounts all night long, you can hardly expect it. My stomach has been purged, and just the look of that food makes me want to retch.”
“Well, then, perhaps luncheon will be met with greater success.”
Sitting beside Lucy on the bed, Isabella began to brush out the tangles that had begun in her cousin’s long red curls. “What do you remember from last night?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. I do recall setting out to retrieve a book from the Masonic lodge, but why, I have no idea. It was a relentless burning desire that would not let go. I can’t even remember what I wanted there.”
“You spoke of a pendant.”
There was a beat of silence and an awkward pause before Lucy turned onto her back and gazed up at her. “Oh, yes, the pendant. I found it lying on the salon floor beneath the chair that Mr. Knighton had been using when he came to call. You remember, don’t you? He was telling us of the Knights Templar and how the story goes that three of them were entrusted with the safekeeping of sacred artifacts. He showed us the pendant.”
“But Black has it now?” she asked, perplexed about how Black featured in the tale. The points of the story were a little vague. Isabella was having a difficult time recalling exactly what Wendell had been saying. Her thoughts had been turning to Black. As a consequence, Wendell’s story was lost to her.
“Miss Fairmont,” Jennings said beyond the door.
Isabella rose and met him in the hall, closing the door behind her. “Cook was wondering about luncheon, madam.”
“I think a broth and toast is all we can expect Lady Lucy to eat today.”
“Very good, miss. And might I say that staff is very relieved that Lady Lucy is on the mend.”
Smiling, Isabella glanced up at the old retainer. “That is very kind, Jennings. I shall inform Lady Lucy when she awakes.”
“And, miss?” Jennings said before he turned to go. “Staff is very grateful that you were here to care for her. The marchioness would have been very happy that you were there to care for her daughter.”
It was the most human she had seen the man. She had thought him a cold, unfeeling cog in the wheel of the Stonebrook mansion, but this morning it was apparent that Jennings did have a heart after all.
“I believe, Jennings, that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
With a bow, he took his leave. She returned to the bedroom and saw that Lucy was resting easily. She moved to the window so as not to disturb her cousin, and gazed out at the dull sky. It was late autumn and the skies looked more like November than October. Few trees had leaves left, and the wind continued its relentless howl. Across the street, the iron gates that shielded Black’s town house remained closed.
There was no other recourse. She must discover what she could of Black, and the mysterious pendant. There was no other way. She would have to go to him—tonight.
“HIS LORDSHIP IS AWAITING you in his study, madam.”
Black’s butler slipped her velvet cloak from her shoulders and hung it on the rack behind them.
“Shall I show you the way, miss?”
She was nervous, more than she had ever been in her life. She was acting like a silly heroine from one of the penny dreadfuls, she reminded herself, but she could not stop it—no matter how hard she tried.
Following the butler, she tried to at least appear in control, even though every little nerve inside her jangled and flickered. She needed answers—answers to questions she feare
d to ask.
“Miss Fairmont,” Billings announced loudly before opening the door. He ushered her through, and Isabella stepped into the darkened study. Her eyes took several seconds to accustom themselves to the dim light. Only one small oil lamp atop the desk glowed in the dark besides the fire in the massive hearth.
“Good evening, Miss Fairmont.”
She saw Black sprawled out in a wingback chair, jacketless, the white shirt he wore unbuttoned to the waist, revealing an enticing view of his chest and the fine black hair that was hidden beneath. “I was beginning to wonder if you would come tonight. It is midnight after all.”
On cue the large pendulum clock in the hall began to chime out the hour. Isabella met his gaze, marveled at the dark layers in his eyes. He appeared at once indolent, yet supremely masculine, and in his state of dishabille he was utterly breathtaking.
Shifting his weight, he swung one leg over the arm of the chair. Something glinted around his neck, and she saw it was a silver chain with a large black stone surrounded by diamonds. Beside the chair was a table, laden with a decanter of wine and a peregrine of the most luscious purple grapes she had ever seen. They were enormous, succulent and frosted with sugar, making them appear as though they had come in from a winter’s ice storm.
She had never had grapes. They were a luxury she and her mother had never been able to afford—especially up north. She didn’t even realize that one could have grapes at this time of year.
He caught her looking longingly at the fruit as he pulled one from the stem and popped it in his mouth. Her mouth watered, desiring the taste of the juicy fruit on her tongue.
Her uncle had never gone to the expense of serving grapes.
“Please,” Black said as he slid the peregrine toward her. “Help yourself.”
She wanted to, but there was something rather ominous about his offering, rather like the reversal of Eve tempting Adam with the bite of an apple.
Watching her, he took another grape and bit into the dark purple globe. Juice trickled onto his hand, and she looked away, trying to school her thoughts.
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