Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  With the candelabras lit and placed at perfectly measured intervals down the long length of the mahogany table, Death studied me over the rim of his goblet of wine, while firelight cast part of his face in shadow.

  He had brought me to his home, where I was a most pampered guest. Every pleasure was catered for, brought to me by unseen servants. His house was richly furnished, decorated in voluptuous jewel tones done in silk and velvet. Cushions and pillows were scattered on the floor, resembling something out of a sultan’s harem. The carpets were thick and soft, and the furnishings dark shades of walnut. The stone hearths were huge, majestic in their size, and lit with a fire that crackled with heat and the smell of pine and cedar. On the table in a tall-footed silver bowl, fruit was piled high, spilling over the sides—such an exotic assortment—pomegranates, figs, quince and grapes. Oh, the grapes! Lush and round and the deepest shade of purple I had ever known. The cluster was full, loaded with fruit as it cascaded down the side of the bowl. I felt my mouth watering as I gazed upon them. I had never had grapes. They were as forbidden to me as the apple from the Tree of Knowledge had been to Eve. I had never seen such decadence, for it was late autumn and the contents of this fruit bowl must have been imported. At great expense.

  But then he was Death. And Death could take whatever he wished.

  Casting my gaze away from the beckoning fruit, I took in my surroundings, awed once more by what my eyes saw.

  It was like a castle from a fairy tale, except there was not an air of innocence in this room. It was heavy with the ambience of sensual decadence. It spoke of forbidden passion and reckless temptation. There was a thick blanket of sensuality that shrouded the room, and even I, an innocent, could perceive it—wanted to reach out and grasp it, and bury myself in the cloak of pleasure and carnal sin.

  In his domain, Death was even more imposing, more beautiful. He possessed an air of sexual danger, as if he would at any minute lunge at me and devour me as he had his dinner. Something told me that Death had a ravenous appetite, and that if I allowed it, I would be his next meal.

  I could not help but glance at his hand that held the goblet, and stare at the ring that bore a gleaming black stone. He wore it on his index finger—silver and onyx, heavy and masculine. It was a ring that a great knight would wear—a prince of darkness. I could not stop thinking of that hand, bearing that ring, what it might look like against my flesh. As I drew my gaze away from his hand and toward his eyes, I noted the gleam that shone in that tempest-tossed gaze. He knew! Knew my impious thoughts, and his slow smile, so sensual and wicked, confirmed my suspicions.

  As we sat in silence, me, in my bloodred satin gown, and Death, in his black velvet jacket, we were as opposite as any two souls could be. Yet there was a connection between us. An understanding that both seemed to understand and accept. There was a force pulling us together. We were incapable of denying it—denying each other. But he was Death, and I, a mere mortal.

  “Why have you brought me here?” I asked, already knowing the answer to my question.

  “You were lost in the woods—my woods. The time had come for you to die.”

  “Did I die then, in your arms?”

  His stare flickered over me, and I felt the lingering heat of that impenetrable gaze on my throat, my bosom, which was so much exposed by my gown.

  “No,” he murmured as he set his goblet on the table. “You wept.”

  I could not remember weeping in his arms—if I had, it had been tears of relief that he had come for me. Not tears that were shed in fear.

  “I could not bear it, to take your life when I could feel your warm tears against my cheeks.”

  “You spared me,” I whispered. “You do have a soul.”

  His expression blackened, his gaze turning even more turbulent. “I am nothing but Death. I do not have a soul. No feeling. I do not know what it is to be human—to feel—to experience life and living.”

  “Then why am I still here?”

  He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his gaze staring, assessing, making me wish to squirm in my chair. “I want to know what it is to feel. I want to weep, to feel the warmth of tears on my cheeks.”

  “You want to be human.”

  His nod was brisk, almost imperceptible. “You will come to me for three nights, and tell me a story. If, during those three nights you succeed in making me weep, then I will release my claim upon you. If you fail, then you will remain here with me—for eternity.”

  What could I do? I had to accept. There was no alternative.

  “But what sort of story do you wish to hear?” I asked.

  His grin was slow, intoxicating. I watched as he slowly rose from his chair and walked lazily to where I sat. Then, he bent down, placed his hands on each arm of my chair, caging me. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against my bosom, my throat and then my ear, where I could feel his breath, warm and scented of wine, whispering across my flesh. “I want to hear our story—the seduction of an innocent at the hands of the unyielding, unfeeling Lord Death.”

  “Oh, my heavens,” Lucy gasped as she threw herself back onto the heap of pillows in a rather overly dramatic parody of a swoon. “Death is every woman’s dream—so dark and intense, and utterly delicious.”

  She was rather fond of him, too, Isabella realized. His story had begun to consume her. She had stayed up last night writing, the words pouring from her pen in a stream of thought that had the power of water rushing through floodgates. Something had compelled her to write, then she had slept and had a most wonderful dream of Lord Black.

  “But you still haven’t given us your heroine’s name. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful to hear her name uttered in Lord Death’s velvety voice as he was about to kiss her and have his wicked way with her?”

  Frowning, Isabella glanced down at her journal. She had purposely not named her character because nothing felt right. More than once she had caught herself writing her own name and had scribbled it out.

  “Well?” Lucy said with a giggle, “I for one would like to put in a special vote that you name her Lucy.”

  “Definitely not.” She shuddered with dramatic flare. “I couldn’t possibility write your name during a ravishment scene.”

  “What a spoilsport you are.” Lucy laughed. “But, Issy, you must write more. I insist. Stay in this chamber all morning and write. And please, please make it a scene where Lord Death takes her in his arms and forces the most shocking embrace upon her person. Make him merciless in his pursuit of her.”

  Smiling, Isabella closed the cover of her journal and clicked the lock shut. “I shall try my best to please you.”

  Closing her eyes, Lucy let out a long sigh. “That was just mesmerizing, Isabella. How do you do it, when you’ve never even been kissed, hmm?”

  Lucy was fishing again. She had pestered all night after Lord Black had left, wanting to know what transpired between them. Isabella had denied everything, and Lucy, curse her, had not believed her.

  “Is that what it was like last night, in the carriage with Lord Black sitting on the bench in brooding silence as he stared at you from beneath his black lashes? Was he like your Lord Death, watching you from beneath hooded eyes?”

  “Lucy, don’t be ridiculous,” Isabella answered as she stood and rifled her brush through the tangles of her hair. She did not want Lucy to see her expression, or the high color in her cheeks.

  “If not then, what about in the parlor? Did he capture and cage you and demand a kiss?”

  “Lucy!”

  As she rose from the pillows, Lucy’s long red hair spilled over her shoulders as she sat forward, her green eyes glowing as she whispered, “Did Lord Black make you commit unspeakable acts on the parlor floor, Issy?”

  Isabella flushed furiously and Lucy bounced on the bed. “Oh, he did! Tell me!”

  “Lord Black is a gentleman,” Isabella muttered. “It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly if he were to take advantage of me in my own home, now, would it?”
r />   “No, it wouldn’t,” Lucy admitted on a little pout. “But I daresay it would be vastly exciting.”

  “Lucy!”

  “Oh, Issy, it is only you and I here. We can be honest with each other, can’t we?”

  Not about Black. Isabella couldn’t even allow herself the truth when it came to how exciting it was to be in Black’s company, and his kisses…exciting was not the right adjective to describe what havoc his lordship’s mouth could have upon a woman.

  No, Lucy must never discover how Black had nearly ravished her in the carriage and in the salon. As an innocent, Isabella was quite certain that ravishment was the only correct word to use for what Black had done to her.

  He had robbed her of thought and speech. Had made her a slave to her own passions. In the darkness of night it had been thrilling, surrendering to the need that flooded her blood, but with the dawn of morning that thrill had ebbed into something more like shock. With a good night’s sleep and a clear head this morning, Isabella was astounded that she had so readily released the reins of her control. Not once, mind, but twice.

  “Oh, isn’t passion wonderful?” Lucy said wonderingly.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you had been forced to live destitute because of it,” she grumbled. In the reflection of the mirror, Isabella saw Lucy frown.

  “I know your life was extremely hard, Issy, and I am truly sorry for what you had to endure. But really, do you believe that the sins of the parent become the sins of the child?”

  “I do.”

  “Oh, good Lord, then I truly am cursed,” Lucy moaned. “For my parents’ sins were to be excruciatingly polite and…absent. I don’t want that for my fate. I’d prefer to give myself up to a feverish ardor.”

  “Lucy, passion is all very well and I suppose it has its place in life, but nothing takes the place of security. There is no protection in passion. It is a volatile emotion that is ignited by a spark, erupts into a fireball of flame and then promptly explodes, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.”

  “You certainly have a way with words. You’ve completely destroyed my image of passion.”

  “I simply speak the truth.”

  Lucy glanced at her. “I would rather walk through hell for the chance of experiencing passion than exist in a cold world with little affection.”

  “Because there is only a little spark between two people does not mean there cannot be affection.”

  “Is that it, then? You and your Mr. Knighton have a little spark of passion between you?”

  Isabella felt the blood drain from her face. Oh, good Lord, she had not even given Wendell a passing thought all night. All she could think of was Black and the embrace, and his whispered words in the salon. How she had wanted more—to be consumed in a fireball of passion and lust.

  What sort of woman was she? Her mother’s daughter, came the reply, and it hurt. Oh, Lord, it hurt to have to acknowledge such a flaw. She was an inconstant woman, and she was mortified by what she had done. True, there was no formal offer from Wendell, and their courtship was just in the beginning stages, but he had intimated that he liked her very much, and Isabella had allowed herself to believe that perhaps Wendell might see her as a suitable wife. But last night…with Black. Oh, she had been selfish, and she had betrayed Wendell. Formal offer or not, she had been disloyal to him with another man.

  “Issy, is that it? You’ve decided that your nice, if inattentive, Mr. Knighton will do because you want security, not passion, in your marriage?”

  “Lucy, let it go.”

  “I can’t, Issy,” Lucy said as she punched a pillow. “I love you too well to see you make the mistakes my parents made. Their marriage was based on the same ideas that you have. Politeness. Companionship. After twenty-five years of marriage they were nothing but friends. There was not enough spark between them to light a match, let alone a fireball.”

  “I’m content with that. Not everyone has the constitution for such a marriage, but I believe I do.”

  “I don’t. How can you be content with such an arrangement? How can you say you will be satisfied when you write with such yearning? No woman who writes of passion so beautifully could be content with a marriage that is anything less than a maelstrom of desire.”

  “How can you ask me that,” she exploded, “when you’ve seen where I was forced to live? How I was forced to live and what my mother endured after she gave in to her reckless passions. Both my mother and I suffered because of her desire to experience passion and love. As I watched her destroy herself I vowed never to become a victim to base emotions. My mother’s selfish desire to experience a man’s touch, his physical affection, destroyed her, and in the process it ruined me. Do not look at me and say such things, Lucy, for in your heart, you know what my mother’s wildness led me to.”

  Lucy paled and glanced away. Oh, yes, Lucy knew the truth of her unfortunate event. She would never dare say the words, for they were scandalous—the gravest of sins—but she knew even though Isabella had never told another soul the real truth.

  “It always comes down to this, doesn’t it? Our different outlooks.”

  Trying to give her comfort, Isabella smiled sadly. “Lucy, we come from two different worlds. Our worlds have shaped us into the women we are today. That can’t be changed. But we can learn from each other. I can warn you to be more temperate in your search for passion, and you can occasionally remind me that it is quite all right to indulge in a most unseemly kiss in the parlor.”

  Lucy’s smile brightened the room. “Oh, I knew it. You had the look of a woman who had been thoroughly kissed. I bet it was wonderful.”

  Nodding, Isabella admitted it was. “But it won’t happen again. It made me realize that I didn’t care for the reckless feeling it gave me.” Liar! “In fact, it rather confirmed Mr. Knighton is the one I want.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. Now, let us talk no more about this,” Isabella said. Resting the brush back on the tray, she turned in her chair and watched as Lucy gazed out the bedroom window. She was pale today, with dark circles beneath her eyes. There was a sadness there that Isabella wished Lucy would speak of. But try as she might, her cousin remained steadfast in her refusal to talk of it. This discussion of passion had only made her more melancholy.

  “How was the séance after I left?”

  “Predictable,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I vow, the most excitement was when Black showed up and we all thought him a specter.”

  Not a specter, Isabella thought. But Death.

  “And the duke?”

  Lucy groaned and fell back onto the bed, covering her head with the sheet. “I absolutely refuse to talk of His Grace. What a prig! Do you know,” Lucy snapped as she shot up in bed and tossed the sheet aside, “he actually had the audacity to lecture me on the way home. In fact, he forced Sibylla to sit with the coachman for the better part of the ride so he could lecture me on proper ladylike decorum! Oh, the nerve of the man,” she ranted as she slipped from the bed and paced the room. “Can you believe it? As if I would welcome such a lecture. And from him! Oh, he’s insufferable,” she seethed. “He absolutely ruined my night, and then…then—” She broke off and whirled around to face her. “Oh, Issy, after he was done lecturing me he sat back and glared at me and stated quite boldly that once I was his wife, he’d paddle my backside if I ever sought another séance. Imagine, being denied my hobby!”

  “Imagine being a duchess,” Isabella said.

  “Oh, don’t you smile like that, Issy. This is…this is absolutely horrid. I won’t marry him! I told him so at once, and quite forcefully.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Oh, something very pompous and ducal. The dreadful man actually said that my opinions on the matter weren’t of importance here. Imagine it, being married to such a man.” She whirled on her then, and there was true fear in Lucy’s eyes. “Issy, there is honestly not even the tiniest flare between us. Most especially on my part.”

&nb
sp; “That doesn’t sound like the duke at all. I knew he was concerned for your safety, but from what you describe of him, he sounded…provoked.”

  “Oh, yes, he said that…that I would provoke a saint and such nonsense. But, Issy, I can’t marry him. I don’t even like him, and the way he insinuated himself into coming with us, why, the man was as stubborn as a bull.”

  “Did he kiss you…when he was provoked?”

  Lucy froze, then her gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes. And it was perfectly vile.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh’ is right.”

  “Well, I’m quite certain that your father will not force you to marry him if you don’t wish it.”

  “Ha!” Lucy grumbled. “How little you know of Papa. He will positively salivate at the very thought of me being a duchess. You know, he’s already thinking of how my son shall inherit not only the Stonebrook title but the title of his father. The very thought of being a man with two titles excites him beyond belief. To know that his grandson will be a marquis and a duke will definitely seal the deal, and then I will be whisked away and forced to live with a pious, passionless man for the rest of my days.”

  “Passionless?” Isabella questioned. How could that be, when the duke was so obviously smitten with her cousin? Isabella had seen him on more than one occasion staring at Lucy with fire and unrequited longing in his eyes.

  “Yes, passionless,” Lucy snapped. “A vicar would have kissed with better skill than the duke. It was like kissing a dead fish pulled out of the Thames.”

  “Oh, that does sound dreadful.”

  “Do not laugh, Issy. I am in no mood for it.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Oh, this weather. I hate autumn. It’s raining and cold, and we will be forced to stay indoors all day which will do nothing to remedy my mood.”

  “It is rather gloomy, isn’t it?” she answered as her gaze strayed to the window where lashes of rain pelted the window. “Not even a trifling drizzle, at least in that we could take a carriage ride.”