Seduction & Scandal

Hands trembling, Isabella could stand the torture no longer. She would keep up a one-sided conversation because talking was the only thing that kept her thoughts away from the image of Black holding her hand … kissing her.

“Mr. Knighton came by this morning.”

“Did he? Did you not inform him that etiquette states that calls are not made till the afternoon?”

“He couldn’t wait to tell me that you had offered to sponsor him as a Mason. It has been his fondest wish for some time. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Again he inclined his head, but refused to answer. Damn the man. She was unsettled, at a disadvantage, and she didn’t like it. She felt herself growing reckless, the calm she had striven for having long abandoned her.

“You seem to know a great deal about me—a rather disconcerting amount, some would say.”

His gaze continued to stay focused on the window. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, but his voice in the silence was like a velvet caress that Isabella felt along her spine. “I would not have you disconcerted, Isabella.”

That was it? All he would say? Indeed, she was very disturbed by the fact he knew so much about her—and the man who was courting her. But Black … his inexplicable knowledge of her past made her nervous. Nerves were not a healthy thing for those who possessed an active imagination. All sorts of notions could run rampant through one’s head. Isabella couldn’t allow herself to even think of the possible ways Black had discovered so much about her.

It really was rather unfair. His lordship seemed to know her rather well, and yet she, and everyone else in London, knew basically nothing of him. He shielded his privacy well, and no one got beyond the cool indifference, or the iron gates that protected his realm.

What was he hiding? she wondered. Who was he really? Was he playing some sort of dark game with her? He seemed the type of man—worldly and intelligent—who could easily become jaded and bored by his life of privilege. Maybe it was a case of ennui, and he was amusing himself by toying with her?

These thoughts again made her quite agitated. How in the world had the earl learned so much about her—she, a penniless, fatherless urchin from the crumbling Yorkshire coast? How was forefront, but why quietly whispered in the back of her mind. Why would a man like Black, powerful, wealthy, sophisticated, wish to know about someone like her?

The only way to ease her questing thoughts was to have answers. Although she doubted the earl would grant them. He seemed content to sit quietly, staring out the window, keeping his own counsel while blanketing himself in his cloak of mystery.

“How is it you knew where to find me today?” she demanded. “And about Herr Von Schraeder? And why did you go to the docks to find Mr. Knighton this morning? Why could you not wait to see him at the museum or at a ball to offer your sponsorship of him? What was so urgent that it needed to be done then, at the crack of dawn?”

“So many questions,” he murmured, trying to make light, but Isabella saw the intense scrutiny in his eyes as he slowly slid his gaze to her face. “And for one not feeling well.”

“My head pounds even more, my lord, wondering about the answers.”

“Quid pro quo, Isabella?” he asked, his eyes flashing beneath long onyx lashes. “Do you wish to play? It is not a game for one, but two. It is hardly fair that you get to ask all the questions, and I am not allowed the same luxury.”

She met his stare, willing, for now, to play by his rules. “How did you know about Von Schraeder?”

“He was an old man, and reported to be ill. Minutes before you arrived at the apothecary I witnessed him in his traveling cart. He appeared weak and frail, and not long for the mortal realm. He was clutching his chest, as one does when suffering a heart seizure.” He looked her over—slowly, methodically, and she did not doubt that one thing escaped his notice. She could never hide anything from him—she knew that, deep in her belly. Black was a man that let nothing slip by him. “Tell me about your headaches, Isabella.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I started having them when I was twelve. They grew worse last year. Mr. Knighton.” She asked, her fingers curling in agitation, “Why did you look for him on the docks?”

“It’s no secret Knighton’s been anxiously awaiting the boat’s arrival. I knew he wouldn’t wait patiently at the museum for it to be delivered.”

“So you waited for him on the docks?”

“I did.”

“But why?”

He smiled and pressed forward, capturing her cheek in his palm. “It’s not your turn.” His grin turned wolfish, and she trembled. Good Lord, he was mesmerizing in his masculinity. There was something about him that made her feel very safe and protected, and … womanly. For so long she had relied on her own wits to get her through, it was rather novel to feel like a damsel in distress being saved by a knight in shining armor.

“I wonder,” he asked, “do you dream of things with your headaches?”

Gasping, Isabella pulled away, but he followed her to her bench, and forced her to look at him. He stared at her—deeply—and Isabella was shocked by the sensation of having him so close, his full attention upon her. It went straight to her belly, to the tips of her breasts.

His gloved finger brushed the apple of her cheeks and he moved closer, holding her gaze. “Tell me.”

“That, sir, is none of your concern.” Struggling, she was able to put a small amount of distance between them. It was not enough to restore her composure. “How did you know where to find me?” she demanded.

“I followed you. Now, tell me, do you dream of things, see things when you have the headaches?”

“Yes,” she whispered, hating to admit it. But something in his gaze compelled her to the truth. It drew her in, wrapped her securely in its hold. Whatever passed between them, Isabella knew—bone deep—soul deep—that Black would never tell another person. Her secrets would be safe with him. But was she?

“And that’s the reason for the medicine, so that you’ll sleep so deeply you won’t dream?”

She nodded, held his stare, and braved the question that was burning in her mind. The one she could not suppress. The one question she needed to hear—yet feared—to have answered. “Why did you follow me?”

He traced her cheeks with his fingertips; the soft kidskin leather gliding along her flesh felt decadent and wicked. When his leather-covered thumb brushed her bottom lip, parting her lips with a gentle but seductive sweep she inhaled sharply, let her lashes flicker and absorbed the erotic swipe of his finger against her mouth. “Can you not guess why?”

She shook her head, intoxicated by the scent of leather and man, and the pressure of his thumb as he pressed on her lip, parting them farther until the pad of his thumb swept across the damp tissue inside her lip.

“I wanted you to myself. Even if only for a few minutes.”

She swallowed hard, and shivered as his free hand came up, only to wrap gently around her throat, while his thumb brushed over her bounding pulse. Did he know how dangerous and seductive the leather felt against her? Did he know that behind her closed lashes she imagined how the black leather must look against her pale skin—darkness and light—sin and purity. Could he tell that she was even now imagining him pulling his gloves from his hands and putting his skin against hers—his mouth to her throat?

“And Mr. Knighton?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

His thumb swept over her rapidly bounding pulse, brushing, lulling as his voice dropped to a sinful huskiness. “I would be lying if I said it was out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Then what would be the truth?”

“To part you from him for the next few weeks while he studies for his first degree.”

Her lashes fluttered and she gazed up at him through a haze of sensation that felt the way it did when the effects of her tonic began to take hold—but only better. It was sensual. Euphoric. And utterly improper. “I must remind you that I am being courted, my lord.”

“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.

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