She stiffened in his arms, tried to pull away, but he held her tight, his arms holding her beneath her breasts, where he could feel her breathe, see her décolletage rise and fall. She was innocent, he reminded himself, not a woman to be trifled with. But he had been too long without the physical pleasures of sex. And he was weak. But then, he’d not ever had to control his base thoughts and desires before. Innocents had never interested him. But Isabella did. She ruled his dreams. His fantasies that played out late at night when he was alone in his room, with only shadows to keep him company. In those, he had not had to restrain himself. In his dreams his seduction of her had been sensual and erotic—so vivid—that even now he could close his eyes and recall how his mind had painted her naked. All pale skin and deep, feminine curves. Above his hand were her breasts, and he imagined them full and heavy and he itched to move his palm upward and test them, to see if they compared to his fantasy.
But this was not the time to bring to mind his desires. Already he had moved too swiftly. She was as fragile as a doe, and he was like a cougar, scenting her, running her to ground. If he wasn’t careful, he would find himself pawing her.
“I am not usually so…unnerved,” she whispered, bringing him back to their present situation. “Pray forgive that scene.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You were frightened, that is all.”
“Nevertheless, I do not make a habit of indulging in theatrics such as the ones I just displayed.”
“You are overly concerned, Isabella.”
She was warm; her skin, which had been clammy and pale, was now heated and pink. Even through the shadowy light, he could see the rose color of her cheeks, the sweep of a flush covering her bosom. Her eyes, mesmerizing and intelligent, sparkled, too.
A gentleman would promptly repair her gown and send her on her way. A gentleman would not stare at the enticing view of Isabella’s gown sliding from her shoulders, exposing even more of her breasts. A gentleman would not contemplate pressing her against the wall and capturing her mouth with his. “My lord?”
Did she see the hunger in his eyes? Did she know his thoughts? He had always been so damn good at staying controlled, aloof. An enigma. Yet this woman tore down his defenses without even knowing it.
“Help me?” She motioned to the back of her dress. “And then I may return to the others.”
He had asked for nothing in this world—until two years ago, when he had asked for one thing. To know Isabella as only a man can know a woman. To unveil her secrets, to know what resided in her heart, to feel that beautiful gaze on him and bask in the glow of her body. He must remember that he had seen her that long ago, but that they had only been introduced. He mustn’t move too fast and scare her away. But not too slow, either, his instincts warned. He must move swiftly—but carefully—capturing her without any way of release before she discovered his past. Her actions tonight had firmly confirmed his suspicions, and his fears. She might very well run from him if she learned of his past before he had her firmly his.
“Lord Black?” she asked, stepping away from him, alarm in her eyes.
He reached for her, but a shadow stopped him from pulling her roughly against him and capturing her mouth with his.
“My lord?” Lucy’s voice. “My lord, is Isabella well?”
“She is quite well, Lady Lucy.”
Isabella’s frantic gaze met his, and he turned her around, quickly lacing her back up. The corset strings were loose and the bodice of her gown did not fit quite as well as before, but he doubted the others would notice, for it was dark in the cottage.
“Oh, there you are.” Lucy Ashton wheeled around the corner, coming to an abrupt stop just as Black finished buttoning up the back of Isabella’s gown. It was dark in this corner, the moonlight didn’t fully reach them. Isabella’s cousin would have no idea what he had done—and still wanted to do.
“Lord, you gave me a fright, Issy,” Lucy admonished as she stood before them. “If Lord Black had not been here, I have no idea what we would have done.”
“I am well, Lucy,” Isabella murmured. Black noticed how Isabella would not meet her cousin’s gaze. “It was a rather convincing scene, wasn’t it? I suppose that is the only explanation for my behavior—utter fear.”
“Mmm, I wonder how Miss Fox managed it all? She must have had some help.”
Lucy’s gaze darted to his. Despite the darkness he could see the flash in her green eyes. “Do not tell me after what you witnessed, after what we all witnessed, that you believe it a hoax? Come, my lord, how can you? I vow, Miss Fox successfully summoned Death.”
“Miss Fox,” he snorted, “did nothing more than move a planchette and write on some paper while using the darkness and impending storm to set her stage. No, Lady Lucy, Miss Fox did not summon Death or any of his minions.”
“My lord,” Lucy challenged. “You deny what you witnessed with your own eyes? Impossible!”
“There was something in that room,” Isabella murmured as a shudder racked through her body. “I sensed it immediately, even before I saw its shadow.”
“Nonsense. Miss Fox is a most convincing charlatan, that is all. There was nothing in that room but shadows, and then my arrival. It was me you saw, Isabella. Nothing more.”
Lucy gazed between them, and for the first time both of them were cognizant of how cold it was outside, and how Isabella was trembling.
“I suppose now is not the time to argue the presence of the supernatural, Lady Lucy. Your cousin is cold and worn down by this trial tonight. I would not have her ill, for it will prevent her, and you and Lord Stonebrook, from dining with me tomorrow night.”
“We would be delighted to accept your invitation to supper, my lord.”
“Lucy!” Isabella gasped in outrage. It was then that Black knew Isabella was having doubts—about him. About them. Moving, he placed his arm around Isabella’s elbow before she could offer up any excuses for refusing his invitation.
“We must get your cousin out of this dampness. Outside, in the dead of October in a cemetery of all places, is most certainly not conducive to one’s health.”
Lucy did not misinterpret his pointed gaze. He held the young and carefree Lucy responsible for this night. It had been her desire to attend a séance, her will that she had imposed upon Isabella. He didn’t like it, and Lucy knew it. Still, it did not prevent her from sending him a haughty glance before she took Isabella’s hand in hers.
“I’m sorry, Isabella. Indeed, had I known it would disturb you so, I would never have brought you here tonight.”
She allowed herself to be steered back into the cottage, Black following behind them. For some strange reason he had wanted to lash out at Lucy. She had made Isabella anxious. It had been Lucy’s egocentric desire to attend the séance that had directly contributed to Isabella’s frantic fear. And all he wanted to do was protect her. To wrap his arms around her and take her home—to his house and hold her, lie with her in his bed. He wanted to offer her the comfort of his home, shelter in his arms, pleasure from his body. She’d had very little of that in her young life, and he wanted to be the one to remedy that.
From the moment he had first seen her on the bustling streets of Whitby, he’d been drawn to her. It was if his soul had recognized her as his. For two years he had thought of nothing but her, of how he wanted to care for her, protect her, love her. He had been merely existing, a shell of a man living out his days in preordained routine. He hadn’t lived until he’d discovered Isabella, and the fact that he had somehow managed to give his heart to a person he didn’t truly know still baffled him.
But from that moment on, he had known what it meant to truly be alive. To live for something—someone. And he wasn’t about to let her slip through his hands. Souls had a way of finding one another. He believed that. Would Isabella? Would she understand that true lovers did not search for each other? But that they were in each other all along?
“IT WAS VERY KIND of you to offer to see me home.”
Black’s eyes were not discernible through the darkness. Only his silhouette, outlined by the moonlight that shone through the carriage window, made him visible. She could hear him breathing, though, sense his presence. He seemed to suck the very air out of the carriage, so that Isabella was only aware of him.
“It is no bother, Isabella. It was apparent that your cousin had no great desire to quit Highgate before midnight and her jaunt through the stones, just as it was evident that you had no desire to stay another moment.”
“You’re upset with Lucy, I can hear the censure in your voice.”
“Of course I am,” he snapped. “I can think of vastly more amusing entertainments then the one I was just subjected to.”
She shivered. His voice was different somehow. Colder? More aloof? What had caused this change?
“I fear perhaps that I have ruined your evening.”
“My evening?” His quiet laugh was sardonic. “I had no desire to stay and bear witness to such things. The supernatural may be in vogue, but I am not, and never was, a slave to fashion. Your cousin, however, seems hell-bent on pursuing the pleasure, to the detriment of anyone else. She deserved far more than my censure for what she did to you.”
“Lucy could have no way of knowing I would react in such a way, my lord.”
“Did she not?” There was a long pause, followed by, “I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.” His hand waved in the air dismissively. “I fear you must ignore me, Isabella. I’m in somewhat of a mood.”
“I didn’t want to disappoint Lucy, or put an end to her evening. She…she has a great fondness for this sort of thing.”
“And you don’t?”
Isabella wet her lips. “No, my lord, I do not. I do not believe in taunting the spirit world. What good could come of it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve often wondered about that, what the dead would say if they could return to the mortal realm. I shouldn’t like to face a specter from my past, that is certain.”
“I fear it,” Isabella said with a little shudder.
“As do I,” he murmured, making Isabella wonder what Black had to be frightened of.
“I believe the dead are just that. There is no purpose in returning to the mortal realm. They are at peace in the afterlife and should be left as such.”
“Are they?” he asked quietly. “I’ve regularly contemplated if there is any peace in death. Or if the pain of life spills over into the afterworld. It’s one of the things I fear most—the question haunts me, in fact. Is there to be no rest in the eternal life?”
This was another side of Black. He was brooding, his mood suddenly morose, sullen. It should have frightened her, but the opposite seemed to be happening. She felt herself being drawn to him, to the tiny scrap of intimacy he was letting her glimpse. He was comfortable with desire. But this, this was the first of him she had glimpsed that had nothing to do with desire. This was the man—not the mysterious earl.
“Do you worry for someone, my lord?” she asked. “Do you fear that their soul is not at rest?”
He did not answer, but kept his head turned, his gaze focused on the window where he could see nothing but inky blackness and a starless, cloudy night. Minutes passed and she thought he would keep silent, but then he sighed, his body slouching as he slunk more comfortably onto the bench, allowing his head to lean back against the squabs.
“My mother,” he answered, his voice quiet. “My brother. And…another…” He paused, shook his head. “I’ve wondered about them, lying cold in their graves. Are they at peace? Is there anger that they were forced from this earth so young? Sometimes I think my dreams of them are just their way of haunting me. You see…they did not die…naturally.”
“Oh, Black!” Before she could think of what she was doing, Isabella leaned forward and reached for his hand. “I’m quite certain that both your brother and mother and…this other person are most certainly at peace, regardless of how they met Death.”
“Let us talk no more of death tonight,” he said.
“All right. What shall we talk of?”
“Does the quiet unnerve you, then? Do you feel you must fill it with conversation?”
He was studying her. Isabella could feel his cool gaze boring into her. She wanted to know more of him—the passion, but the man as well. There was more to Black than what met the eye, and she wanted to peel away the layers until she discovered the true man lying beneath.
“Isabella?” he asked again. “Are you afraid of the quiet?”
“Yes,” she whispered without thinking. “Amongst shadows in the darkness of night I do fear the quiet, and things I find lurking there, for it is never truly silent, is it?”
“Are you afraid? Even now, here with me?”
Fingers fidgeting with her reticule, Isabella swallowed and gazed down into her lap, unseeing in the darkness. He probed too closely—much too close to the truth. Yes, she was afraid. Afraid of her feelings and the reckless desire that seemed to rule her blood when he was near. Not once this evening had she thought of Mr. Knighton. Before meeting Black she had thought of Wendell every night, and now, he seemed nothing more than a foggy memory. Everything had been obliterated by Black since their meeting.
The carriage leaned slightly as it dipped and swayed over the uneven track of road, making its way to London. In the near distance the glow of the city blazed through the night. It was like a beacon, the safety of a light from a lighthouse in a storm. She craved the light, the security she would feel once inside her uncle’s home. Perhaps then, away from anything that had to do with the dead and the dark, she would feel more at ease. Certainly she would be more herself once she was away from Black. His presence was much too unsettling.
Black’s gentle touch on her chin surprised her, made her gasp and grow rigid, replacing her growing sense of ease with a sensual tension she could not fight. She was afraid, truth be told. And she desperately wanted to throw herself into his arms and have him hold her, just as he had outside the cottage. She wanted to be cocooned in his strength, wanted him to stave off the darkness and shadows, and in the quiet she would hear nothing but his heart beating as she laid her head on his chest and allowed herself to take comfort.
“You’ll not be alone tonight, Isabella,” he said. “I won’t leave you in the dark. Tonight, I’ll keep the shadows away.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FRONT DOOR closed behind Jennings and Isabella sighed, relieved to be at home, where the gas lamps were lit and the hall was devoid of shadows. She was weary, worn down by the evening and the headache and dream of the afternoon. She wanted her bed, but she didn’t want to climb the steps and know she was alone in the house.
The servants were there, of course, but they would all be abed soon, in their quarters on the third floor while she was alone in the family wing until Lucy and her uncle arrived home. She didn’t want to think of that, how lonely and frightening it would be stay in this huge house all by herself, with no one to talk to.
Her upbringing might have been humble and poor, but at least the two-room cottage that she and her mother had shared had been cozy and full of light. She’d had her mother and grandmother to talk with. She hadn’t always been alone. Despite the fact her uncle had taken her in, sheltered her and cared for her as best as an elderly man could, Isabella still felt the sharp pang of loneliness. Sometimes at night she would lie awake in bed and weep. She did not belong in this glittering world of Lucy’s, no matter how hard she tried. She was a simple girl, looking for a safe, secure life. She did not need jewels and mansions. She wanted only comfort—the sort of emotional safekeeping that money could not always buy.
Sometimes she missed her mother and grandmother so much it was as if an acute pain had seized her heart. Her mother had been many things—she might have been reckless in her passions—but she had at least been kind and ready with a hug.
She exhaled quietly, hating that she was being
melancholy. Her mother had been gone nearly two and half years now. And her grandmother nearly five. She should not still be so sad. Yet something told her it was not just loss that made her this way, but her life. It was lacking something, despite the riches she had been given. There was something inside her that had not been gratified by her uncle’s largesse.
What would make her happy? She had thought Mr. Knighton’s attentions would. And they had, but things had changed. In that moment in her uncle’s ballroom, when her gaze had locked with Black’s, everything had changed. She no longer saw the world—and herself—through the same eyes as she had before meeting him.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, Isabella stared at the man removing his hat, and felt her throat tighten. How strange. Black was only a man. Yet she knew that he was no ordinary man. He had cast some sort of spell on her, enchanting her. With one dance he had made her forget what she truly desired in life. He had changed her, and not for the better. Somehow Black had unlocked the door where she kept her tightly guarded passionate nature hidden. She had never wanted to see what lurked behind that door, never wanted anyone else to see, either.
Sliding her cloak off her shoulders, Black handed the velvet cape to the butler. “Would you be so good as to bring in a warm drink for Miss Fairmont? The night is chilly.”
Jennings’s gaze narrowed. Whether Black noticed the butler’s impertinence or not was unclear. But Isabella saw it, and reached out to touch Jennings’s sleeve. “We’ll be in the green drawing room, Jennings.” With the door open, she wanted to add.
“Very good, miss,” he muttered before hanging up her cloak and heading to the kitchen. With a deep breath, she turned to face the man she had come to rely upon this night.
“Lord Black,” she began, but he silenced her when he pressed his index finger against her lips.
“You’re pale and tired. Let’s get you into the salon where you can be at ease and rest.”
“You must think me weak, the damsel in distress. But I assure you, my lord, I have a core of steel. I can take care of myself, and have done so for years.”
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