“I did, I swear it. I couldn’t sleep after the Anstruther soirée. I was sitting on my window box, gazing out at the stars when I saw those massive iron gates swing open. A carriage, black and shining and led by four black horses, came clattering out of the drive. The conveyance lingered for a moment, and then I saw it, a shadow that was illuminated by the lanterns. It engulfed the interior, like spilt ink, and then I saw him, his pale face appeared in the window, and he was looking up, and I swear his gaze lingered on the window beside mine—your bedroom window, Issy.”
“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed.
“It’s the truth.”
“I think, Luce that you should take up novel writing with me. You’ve the imagination for it.”
“Think what you like, Isabella, but I know what I saw. And you mark my words, our neighbor will be here tonight. The Marquis of Stonebrook will have it no other way, I assure you.”
THERE WAS ONE THING that had surprised Isabella after coming to live with her uncle, the Marquis of Stonebrook, and that was the strange fact that she rather despised balls.
For most of her girlhood, she had sat on the weathered window bench of the small cottage her mother rented, thinking of her beautiful cousin, laughing and flirting and dancing around the Stonebrook’s glorious ballroom, wearing an outrageously expensive gown. Her young heart had ached with longing. She had wanted to attend a ball. To wear a stunning gown. To have a handsome suitor.
It was rather satirical that now, after she possessed all three, she had no taste for it. She would have much preferred curling up before the large hearth in her room, wearing her old flannel nightrail, writing her stories—just as she had before Stonebrook and Lucy had come to Whitby to bring her back to London.
The wonder and novelty of town life had soon worn thin. There had been so many balls this past week, despite it being October. It seemed that the aristocracy no longer found it necessary to depart for their country estates at the end of the season as they did in the past. Perhaps it was because the nouveau riche rarely ever left London. An aristocrat could hardly marry off his titled daughter to a wealthy businessman if he was up in Yorkshire with sheep and trees.
No, the marriage mart had extended well beyond the traditional season. And this season, it was no secret that the Marquis not only wanted to marry off his daughter, but his niece, as well.
Isabella had been taken with the idea at first. The romance of a courtship, rides in the park, the soirées, the balls, the musicales. It had not taken long before she realized that the thought of going out yet another night provoked her to distemper. Not even Lucy who had been born and raised in this way of life enjoyed the endless parties.
They were a fine pair, Isabella thought, as she slipped the delicate silver strap of her reticule higher onto her wrist. Lucy was content to pursue her interest in the occult, and Isabella was happy writing the stories that constantly filled her head. Both of them were originals, and nothing like a young lady of good breeding should be. Perhaps both of them had inherited Isabella’s mother’s taste for shunning the ideals of what made a woman a proper lady. Lord knew her mother had been nothing like her sister. Aunt Mildred had always been frightfully proper—haughty, even. So unlike Isabella’s mother who shunned society’s rules. Lucy, Isabella thought, very much reminded Isabella of her own mother—both in looks and temperament. She wasn’t the only who had thought so, either. Aunt Mildred had despaired of Lucy becoming just like her “fallen unfortunate sister.” That fear had been so great that upon Lucy’s tenth birthday, Aunt Mildred had refused to come to Yorkshire to visit them. They had been kept separate after that, lest Lucy catch the wanton, wild streak Isabella’s mother had never outgrown.
There hadn’t ever been any fear that Isabella would end up like her mother. She had learned a hard lesson, from a very young age. She would not follow her mother’s footsteps.
“My toes are already pinched,” Lucy hissed into her ear as they stood and watched the swell of dancers waltzing around the overly hot room. “And I fear my forehead is glistening.”
Isabella studied Lucy. “Only a titch. Can you discreetly wipe it?”
“Not likely. I feel like all eyes are on us.”
“Not us, you, sweetie,” Isabella murmured. “I think they’re waiting to see if the Duke of Sussex will come up to scratch tonight.”
“Good Lord, let us hope not,” Lucy moaned as she furiously beat the air with her fan. “I cannot for the life of me imagine His Grace at a séance.”
Hiding her laugh behind her hand, Isabella stood on tiptoes, searching for the duke who had become increasingly more ardent in his pursuit of her cousin. He glanced their way, and immediately his expression changed from feigned politeness to brooding. Sussex certainly could brood, and he looked immensely handsome while doing so. Why her cousin could not see this, Isabella had no idea. The way he stared at Lucy was positively worthy of a dramatic swoon.
“Do you like him, Luce?”
“He’s handsome. Rich. Titled. He has at least four estates spread throughout the kingdom and I hear he’s a bit of philanthropist to boot—belongs to all sorts of charities and committees to better the ordinary man and those less fortunate. A virtual paragon,” Lucy muttered as she glanced away from Sussex’s prolonged stare. “Of course I should like him, but I confess that I do not feel much more than friendliness toward him. He’s too shiny,” she said, her tone turning thoughtful. “Rather like an immaculate archangel. I admit—but only to you—that I have a taste for more of the fallen angel. With those black curls and his beautiful face, you would think him one of the fallen, but no, he’s not the least bit dangerous, but one hundred percent glowing and pure.”
“Dangerous men prove only useful in selling books,” Isabella muttered as she watched Sussex conversing with his friends. “In real life they serve to be more of a handful than what they’re worth. Trust me, I am the product of a dangerous rakehell and a naive, overly passionate woman.”
Lucy let out a most unrefined snort. “Issy, there is no woman on earth who can pen a more compelling, delicious rakehell than you. Pray do not pretend that you do not also covet a bit of danger in your life. Your writing is an extension of your soul. A glimpse deep inside. No,” she said, slapping the tip of her fan over Isabella’s hand. “Do not deny it. Admit it,” Lucy whispered, “there is someplace inside that wishes for a dangerous man to come and sweep you off your careful, proper feet.”
“No. I do not. Of that I can safely say you’re wrong, Lucy. If I were ever to encounter a dangerous man I would run screaming in the opposite direction.”
Lucy laughed, and Isabella scanned the dark-haired man from across the room. Sussex was tall, well formed, extremely well dressed and possessed a light, jovial personality. He enjoyed a laugh, as did her cousin. Isabella had thought it a perfect match when the duke had sought an introduction to her cousin, by way of Isabella’s suitor, Wendell Knighton. Unfortunately, her cousin remained utterly obtuse to the duke’s merits.
At the thought of her suitor, Mr. Knighton suddenly appeared beside the duke. She felt the slight lurch of her heart at the sight of him. Her pulse definitely leaped when his dark brown gaze found hers from across the room. He smiled, and Isabella returned it, along with the delicate beginnings of a flush. “Your Mr. Knighton is obviously smitten, Issy.”
Her flush grew to a full-out blush. “I like him very much.”
Lucy tipped her head and studied her. “And yet I still feel, as I always did, that he’s not the right man for you. You need someone different. Deeper. More complex. Someone who understands who you really are, Issy.”
“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed as she watched the dancers. “You make me out to be a mystery when I am nothing but a simple Yorkshire country girl.”
But that wasn’t true. After the unfortunate event of last spring, everyone knew she was different. Neither she nor her family talked of it, but it was there, always lurking, threatening to come out.
“Oh, loo
k,” Lucy murmured. “He’s come.”
“Who’s come?” Isabella tried to peer over two ornate feathered headdresses, but could see nothing.
“To the left, on the balcony.”
The crowd quieted, sensing something was about to happen. All heads turned in the direction of the balcony where the butler stood and pronounced, “The Earl of Black.”
The cacophony of music and laughter faded as the guests pressed forward, waiting for a glimpse of the man whose name had just been announced. The room went perfectly quiet as all interest was now focused on the crab-shaped staircase. Like a magus arising from a cloud of smoke he appeared, looking down upon the faces that peered curiously up at him.
Hair as black as night fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Skin, pale and smooth, glinted beneath the blazing chandeliers. Eyes, a haunting shade of turquoise, scanned the crowd with unconcealed interest. Black brows, perfectly arched, enhanced his eyes, which had a slight upward slant.
His fingers, long and elegant, ever so slightly rapped against the balustrade as he surveyed the scene below him. He was very tall and immensely broad in the chest and shoulders. His black dress clothes and white cravat were impeccably tailored. Bow ties were the fashion now, but the elegance of the old-fashioned cravat suited him, giving him an aristocratic allure. So, too, did his black velvet jacket, which was styled in the Eastern fashion—mandarin collar with two rows of gold buttons in the military style.
He looked liked an ancient Romany prince—a warrior boyar—as his head moved slowly from right to left, his gaze spanning the entire room and its occupants.
Here was a man of the world, Isabella thought as she perused him from head to toe. A man who was mysterious and experienced, and utterly captivating. There was an air of danger about the man, a thought that was supported by the fact that a few matrons to her right were quietly but rapidly whispering behind their fans. More than one gentleman stiffened, their eyes wary as they watched the commanding earl. Everyone seemed to move in the smallest of increments—as if they were in slow motion. Was it out of fear that their movements might catch the infamous earl’s attention?
Warmth spread through Isabella’s body as she watched the Earl of Black stroll with negligent ease down the stairs. He was all arrogance and predatorlike grace. Tall and sleek, he resembled the Bengal tiger Wendell had shown her on display in the British Museum. He had the same rapacious look in his eye as she had seen in the tiger’s green eyes. He was on the hunt, that was for certain, but for what, or whom, she feared to guess.
Lord Black never emerged from his town house, which was across the street from her uncle’s town house. She had only ever caught the odd glimpse of him. His reclusiveness just fueled her imagination, and Isabella felt her breathing grow rapid and shallow, her writer’s mind taking over. Her skin had grown taut, itchy beneath the lilac satin of her tight-fitting bodice as she watched him cut a swath through the guests who parted for him as though he were as powerful as Moses, parting the sea. Suddenly he stopped, turned his head and found her amidst the crowd. Isabella felt strangely light-headed as their gazes collided from across the ballroom.
He was all mystery and exoticness and more than a touch hazardous to a lady’s well-being as he held her gaze. Needing to break the hypnotizing spell of Lord Black’s aqua eyes that were holding her captive, she blinked and forced her body, which now felt overheated and lethargic, to move.
“It’s grown rather warm, don’t you think?” she asked her cousin in what sounded like a strangled voice. “I do believe I could use some air.”
Before Lucy could protest, Isabella backed away and turned in the direction of the French doors that led to the terrace. Reaching for the handle, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw that Black was still in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by hordes of London’s elite. He paid his admirers no heed, but instead stared at her with his piercing eyes. There was a promise in those eyes—a very dark, forbidden promise.
“My dear,” her uncle said behind her. She felt his hand lift hers from the door handle, then the feel of his arm threading with hers. “Someone wishes an introduction with you.”
She tried to refuse as her uncle steered her to where Lord Black held court. His gaze was still focused solely on her, and she shivered.
“Here now, there’s nothing true about what you’ve heard about Black. It’s only rumors.”
She hadn’t heard anything about the earl, other than his appearance at tonnish events was much sought after, and that he was generally considered a recluse. What rumors could her uncle be referring to?
When she stood before him, when their eyes met, she gasped, unable to disguise the sound. Black did not possess turquoise eyes, but pale blue, with flecks of light green. Tempest-tossed eyes, she thought, like the churning seas in Whitby.
“Your servant, Miss Fairmont,” he murmured in a dark, husky voice that was as velvety as a starless night.
“Shall we?” he asked, accepting her hand from her uncle. “I believe a Viennese waltz is next on the program.”
As he pulled her to him, she was shocked by the tingle she felt beneath her glove. When the music started and he pulled her close, his hand resting low on her back, the words she had written whispered to her.
The first time I met Death, it was at a ball, and we danced a waltz.
Black looked down at her, his gaze lingering over her in a far too familiar way. “And you were not afraid,” he murmured, then swept her up into a graceful turn that stole her breath.
CHAPTER TWO
“I BEG YOUR PARDON, my lord, but what did you say?” Isabella demanded. But the earl ignored her imprudence, and softly turned her once again. Her hand trembled in his, and he squeezed, ever so softly in an attempt to ease her.
“You are nervous, Miss Fairmont.”
“I…yes. My apologies.”
“I believe you were asking me something.”
“Oh, yes. Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you were saying about being afraid when we began our dance?”
Black’s pale gaze lowered, and Isabella was positive she saw it linger at the base of her throat where her pulse beat wildly. She swallowed, hard, and her hand began to tremble again.
“Ah, yes, now I recall. Although I do not make it a habit to be out in society, I am able to dance with some degree of efficiency, Miss Fairmont. There’s no need to be afraid that I may step on your toes.”
All her nervousness was vanquished with the sight of his charming grin. Her writer’s imagination had run away with her when she thought he had said something altogether different.
What nonsense, she chastised. She was being silly, believing that his looks, and in fact, this dance, was reminiscent of her own book opening. Good heavens, she had to get a hold of herself and her impetuous imagination.
Lord Black was a distinguished earl from a titled family that went back to the earliest of times. While a recluse, he was only just a man. Not…death.
Besides, death by all accounts smelled sickly sweet, and Lord Black’s pleasing scent was a mysterious and exotic blend of spice. Eastern spice if she was correct.
“You dance very well, Miss Fairmont.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She could not hide her smile at his compliment. She’d had a devil of a time learning the waltz. She was quite proficient at country dances, having grown up dancing them, but the waltz was entirely another matter. Appearing as though she knew what she was doing while remaining elegant and light on her feet wasn’t easy.
“I believe you grew up in Whitby, on the coast?” Lord Black asked as he deftly maneuvered them away from the throng of couples. They were dancing on the peripheries now, where it was quieter and much more conducive to conversation, which the earl seemed inclined to encourage.
“I did,” she replied, not giving any further particulars than what he had asked. Her uncle had cautioned her not to give out too many details of her life. The marquis had paid a great deal of money to bury her mother’
s scandal.
“You came to London only last year to live with your uncle and cousin, is that not right?”
“It is, my lord.”
“And this is your first season out in society.”
“Again, you are correct.” For a recluse he was remarkably well informed.
“And how have you found the season, Miss Fairmont?”
Insufferably long and trying. “Glorious,” she lied.
He chuckled and the sound wrapped around her. “As a person who detests society most of the time, you would not injure my sensibilities if you were to tell me the truth. You’ve found your first season to be tedious at best.”
Isabella felt her eyes flare wide with shock. How was it Black could read her so well?
“Your mother was your uncle’s wife’s sister, I believe.”
She swallowed hard at this new line of questioning. “Yes, my lord.”
“You look very much like your mother, Miss Fairmont.”
She caught her breath in surprise. “You knew my mother?”
“I was a young boy when your mother left London for Whitby.”
A very polite and discreet way of informing her that he knew of her mother’s scandalous past, and the wicked rogue who was her father.
“Your aunt and mother lived just down the street from here, I believe.”
“Yes, they did,” she answered, feeling much too unsettled. Just how much did he know about her?
“I used to see them go out for walks. My schoolroom window faced the street, you see, and I found myself staring out of that window more often than I should have.”
“Ah.” She glanced away from his gaze, which was focused deeply upon her.
“You have your mother’s curls and pale hair.”
Yes, she did. She also possessed her mother’s inclination toward romantic adventures. But unlike her mother, she would only write about them, not indulge in them.
“You were all alone when your uncle came to Whitby to bring you back to London.”
Seduction & Scandal Page 2