“Keep your damn eyes off her,” Black growled, but Alynwick smiled knowingly.
“A physically impossible feat. With a body like that, she commands the eye’s attention—and something a bit lower.”
“She isn’t one of your dolly-mops, Alynwick,” Black snarled.
“No, she’s someone you might discover at the back of the royal circle in the Empire Theatre. I can see her now, wearing that glorious gown, smiling and nodding as she walks up and down between the velvet-covered couches.”
Black couldn’t keep his gaze from straying to her. “You will cease speaking of her in that common, disrespectful way.”
Alynwick smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Ennui, I’m afraid, it does make a man a trifle provoking.”
“Provoking?” Black snapped. “It’ll make you a dead man.”
Alynwick laughed and finally met Black’s mutinous gaze. “Look at you in all your puffed-up glory, Black. You look like an enraged rooster snuffing and wheezing because there is a new cock in the henhouse.”
Black raised a challenging brow. “I trust the cock in question has enough sense to keep far away from the hen—and the resident rooster.”
Alynwick laughed, a deep melodious chuckle that drew Isabella’s gaze to where they were standing. “I know about your attachment to Miss Fairmont. I saw you dancing with her at Stonebrook’s. You never dance. Besides, Sussex told me you’re moonfaced for her, and I can see his claims weren’t exaggerated.”
“Sussex should talk,” he mumbled.
Tossing his head back, Alynwick finished the contents of his glass. He’d let his hair grow long, and the dark locks were now loose curls that made him look like a romantic poet, not the blackguard he was.
“Ah, yes, poor old Sussex. In love. Personally I believe it was the very fine bottle of my scotch whiskey that induced such feelings. Sussex in love, I can’t countenance it. It’s lust, I told him. Bed the redhead, and see if that feeling stays around. I bet him my finest horse that it would not.”
“You’re a jaded, dissolute libertine, Alynwick, that’s why you can’t countenance any of the higher feelings. How do you bear it? I wonder,” Black asked. “Waking up in the morning and looking into the mirror.”
“With one part equanimity and the other part humor. It is the only way to get about through life, to laugh at one’s follies and then indulge in them again.”
“There is nothing of substance in your life.”
“And how would you know, you’re a bloody recluse. At least I’ve made an attempt to take a stab at living. Which is more than I can say for you.”
“You’re not living,” Black challenged. “You’re merely pretending to.”
“Well, you can make damn sure that Iain Sinclair will not be so stupid as to fall in love. Lot of rubbish love is,” Iain mumbled. “There is nothing I detest more than the promise of love. There is nothing more depressing than a room full of it,” he drawled. “It makes one eager to run screaming. Or wonder what one will do to make the night more tolerable.”
“Alynwick, you’re to be on your best behavior tonight.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“That’s debatable. It depends on whether you’re employing your English manners, or your Highland rogue persona.”
“I haven’t decided who I’ll be tonight. I suppose it depends on which one the ravishing lady in red warms up to.”
Black was about to bash Alynwick over the head, until Isabella smiled at him, propelling him forward, leaving the marquis behind to brood and stew and pretend to an ennui that the ladies thought most fetching.
“Good evening, Stonebrook, Lady Lucy.” Black turned his gaze upon Isabella and reached for her hand, letting it rest in his palm as he lowered his mouth to her gloved hand. “Miss Fairmont.”
With a deep curtsy that afforded him a magnificent view of her chest, Isabella smiled, and said, “Thank you for the invitation to your home, my lord.”
“You are most welcome.”
A discreet cough behind his right shoulder informed him that Alynwick was lingering in the hall, waiting to be introduced.
“Stonebrook, you are acquainted with the Marquis of Alynwick.”
“Indeed,” Stonebrook said as he pumped Sinclair’s hand. “It’s been a while, though, you’ve been up in the north, I sup pose.”
“Aye, Scotland,” Alynwick drawled in his exaggerated brogue that never failed to make the ladies swoon—bastard. “The Highlands—there is no match for the beauty and wildness of the lochs and moors, except p’rhaps the company of these lovely ladies.”
“Oh, I love a Scottish accent,” Lucy purred.
“Do ye now, lass? ’Tis good tae know.”
“Alynwick,” Black muttered, “this is Lady Lucy, Stone brook’s daughter.”
“My lord,” Lucy murmured as she curtsied deeply.
“Verra lovely indeed,” Alynwick murmured appraisingly as he took Lucy’s hand and helped her to rise.
“And this, Alynwick, is Miss Isabella Fairmont.”
Isabella conducted herself as though she were a queen. The incline of her head, the straight back, the inflection of her curtsy were perfect. It was unbelievable to him that only two years ago she had been a poor Yorkshire girl living in a ramshackle room above the fishmonger’s in Whitby.
He could see how dazzled Alynwick was, until the marquis caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and his attention was deviated. Not that Black cared. He was too relieved to give a damn that Alynwick might find himself uncomfortable tonight with the other guests. Served the bastard right for always being so smug and arrogant, and assured of his prowess.
“Miss Fairmont,” Alynwick replied, his brogue not quite as thick, or charming, as before, “delighted.”
“As am I, my lord. I am not from Scotland, but from the north—Yorkshire—and I do share with you your assessment of the moors.”
“Yes, yes, lovely,” Alynwick muttered as he turned to peer inside the salon where Sussex stood holding the hand of a young woman.
“You will forgive me?” the marquis muttered. “I forgot something in the library.”
With a gracious nod, Isabella released him. Their gazes met, and Black offered her his arm, while Lucy took her father’s. “Shall we go into the salon? Mr. Knighton is there, and the duke. And someone else who is most eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh, yes,” Isabella whispered. “Mr. Knighton. I must speak to him.”
Her hand trembled on his arm, and he felt her body grow stiff and unyielding. The glow in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by caution. The minute they walked into the room, and her gaze landed on Knighton, he heard her breath catch, and then she looked up at him, her cheeks blazing crimson, and he knew then that she was afraid.
She didn’t want Knighton to know what she had done with him. Anger was swift and unyielding, overtaking him until all he could think about was taking her shoulders in his hands and demanding to know how she could even glance at Knighton in such a way after what they had shared.
“My lord?” she asked with a tip of her head. “Are you all right? Your color is high.”
Anger was not a novel emotion for him—he’d experienced it numerous times. But this raging jealousy was so foreign to him. It stole his breath, made him vibrate like a damn tuning fork. He didn’t know what to do with the feelings; he wanted to bash Knighton, and he wanted to lift Isabella into his arms and carry her off to his room, ravishing her until she could no longer see, or think of any other man but him.
Not trusting himself to speak, he bowed to her, excused himself and quit the room.
Five minutes, he told himself. And then he would be fine. He didn’t glance back at her. Didn’t want to find her sashaying her way over to Knighton.
“My lord, is everything all right?” Billings inquired.
“Fine,” he grumbled, and then whirled around. “Where did you seat Mr. Knighton?”
Billings frowned in thought for a moment,
then looked up. “On the left of Miss Fairmont.”
“Move him,” Black ordered. “Put him beside Alynwick.”
“Very good, milord. Then I shall move Lady Elizabeth, and put her beside Miss Fairmont. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Fine,” Black hissed as he struggled to get a hold of his emotions. Five minutes he told himself as he felt the anger slowly subside, and then he could once more be in control.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“WHO IS THAT with the duke?” Lucy demanded as they strolled side by side with Stonebrook in the salon.
“I have no notion,” Isabella muttered. She had enough of her own problems other than worrying over who was talking with His Grace. What had Black been about escorting them into the room and then promptly abandoning them?
“She’s very elegant,” Lucy observed.
“Yes.”
“He’s holding her hand,” Lucy hissed. “The rogue! He kissed me last night and now he appears at a dinner, knowing full well I will be here, with another woman on his arm. Just because he is a duke does not give him leave to act so churlishly. Issy…” Lucy stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. The look in her cousin’s eye was most strange. “He spoke of marriage last night, and now this? Is this his mistress, then? I’ve heard about men like Sussex and Black who when they entertain, their mistresses act as hosts and all the other kept women of the gentlemen guests attend. I would never tolerate something like this. What utter humiliation it would be for a wife to suffer such a situation.”
“For someone who found the idea of the duke revolting this morning, you’re certainly acting strangely.”
Lucy sent her a murderous glare. “I don’t care to play the fool.”
“I doubt anyone does, Luce,” she mumbled. “But really, it’s of no concern since you’re quite determined not to marry him.”
“Quite,” Lucy sniffed.
Isabella glanced at the well-appointed room. The furniture was exquisite, straight clean lines, with none of the heavy ornamentation that had become so popular in the past years. The walls were painted a pale crème with white trim, the curtains were silk and a most fetching color of amber, giving the room a cozy atmosphere. In the large marble hearth a fire crackled, and oversize leather chairs sat on either side of the fireside, begging for someone to curl up in them with a good book.
There were objets d’art strategically placed around the room—all of exceptional quality, and many of them looked to Isabella like priceless antiques. The room held and delighted the eye, but stopped just short of ostentation. In all, the salon was classical and distinguished, a very good reflection upon the owner of the house.
Speaking of which, where had Black gone? He had not returned after taking his abrupt leave of them. Nervously, she fidgeted. Lucy was still prattling on about the duke, sending Sussex and the woman venomous glares. In the corner, Wendell stood chatting quite animatedly with Alynwick. Whatever they were discussing, they appeared in deep conversation, for Wendell had not even glanced up and noticed her arrival. A fact, Isabella had to admit, that stung.
He looked quite handsome tonight, dressed in a new suit of black. His hair was brushed back, his usual scholarly dishabille replaced by slick sophistication. He looked like a man born to be a Freemason. She wondered if he felt nervous about the initiation, but from what she saw, Wendell seemed rather comfortable talking to these men who were socially above him. From her vantage point, that fact didn’t seem to deter Mr. Knighton. He was at ease here speaking amongst dukes and marquis as he was in the lecture room, or while discussing a new find with his scholarly peers.
They had not talked since yesterday afternoon, when he called upon her at her uncle’s. He had been so happy to have been sponsored—by Black no less. Today there seemed a marked change in him. For all his awkward, occasionally inattentive ways he sometimes had for her, he had never downright ignored her before.
What had happened to cause this? she wondered. He had not even bothered to glance up, despite the fact he knew very well that she and Stonebrook and Lucy were invited.
Did a man who was courting someone not feel even the slightest bit of anticipation when his lady was expected to arrive?
Something strange inside her began to twist, and she thought of Black, who had seemed to watch her arrival from the shadows. His eyes had glimmered with appreciation when he saw her, and she had to admit, her body had softened, and her heart did the tiniest little flip when she saw him. Shouldn’t she be feeling the same thing with Knighton?
“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Lucy whispered as she appraised the woman hanging on to Sussex’s hand. “The color of her hair is like burnished mahogany, and look how the gaslight reflects the deep auburn in it. And her body,” Lucy said in what sounded almost like a whimper of defeat. “Her bosom puts even yours to shame, Issy. And that gown…oh, how lovely that sapphire blue is on her, and the peacock feathers trimming the shoulder is just the touch.”
“Lucy, you’re not…comparing yourself to this woman, are you?”
“Of course not,” Lucy sniffed. “Why should I?”
“You shouldn’t. You’re every bit as beautiful.”
“Ah, Stonebrook, Lady Lucy,” the duke drawled as he looked up from his tête-à-tête with the striking woman who still had a hold of his hand.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” her uncle replied. “Damn fine night, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed. Have you seen the moon? It is the beginning of a harvest moon. An auspicious event, to be sure, especially for being initiated into the Brethren, isn’t that right, Knighton?”
Wendell paused long enough in his conversation with Lord Alynwick to glance up and acknowledge His Grace. His eyes darted to where she stood, widened a fraction and then with his glass raised, he saluted Isabella and returned to his conversation.
She heard Lucy’s sharply indrawn breath at Wendell’s disinterested greeting. Thankfully, the duke started for them, and Isabella couldn’t help but hear Lucy’s indrawn breath once more as he wrapped an arm about the woman’s waist and maneuvered her across the room.
“Lady Lucy, Miss Fairmont, might I introduce Lady Elizabeth York.”
The woman smiled and Isabella thought she might be glimpsing an angel from heaven. She was that lovely—and pure.
“Good evening,” Lucy replied coolly as she curtsied. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”
The woman frowned slightly and Isabella felt compelled to elbow Lucy in the ribs. Then it was Isabella’s turn, and she hoped she made her greeting a bit more civil, although she couldn’t blame Lucy for being taciturn. The duke had kissed her cousin last evening, and even had suggested the prospect of marriage, and here he was standing before them with a most striking woman, whom he was holding much too familiarly for a formal dinner party.
The woman stuck out her hand, and His Grace held her hand in his. “Which one is which?”
“Lady Lucy is to the left, and Miss Fairmont to my right.”
“You will forgive my brother, ladies,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “for I see he has quite forgotten to tell you of my infirmity.”
“Brother?” Lucy choked, which sent a rather bemused smile to the duke’s face.
“Indeed. I am the younger York, I’m afraid,” he said.
Lucy promptly recovered. “Oh, yes, I do recall hearing that you had an older sister, Your Grace. But I assumed, well, that is, I have never had occasion to meet her.”
“Thought I was up rusticating in the country with my husband and a parcel of children, and my mop cap?” Elizabeth teased, making Lucy blush furiously.
“Oh, no, if I insinuated—”
“I’m only teasing,” Elizabeth said with a beaming smile. “The truth is, I find it such a trial to go about in society, and really, one can only hear the same gossip being repeated so many times before one feels as though they are a candidate for bedlam. Now then, the introductions? Adrian can be forgetful at times. Lady Lucy,” Elizabeth said, and the
duke helped her to hold out her hand to Lucy. “Miss Fairmont.” The duke took Elizabeth’s hand and moved it to the right. Isabella clasped her hand tightly.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elizabeth.”
“And you as well. I’ve heard so much about you, Lady Lucy, and your cousin who is newly arrived in London. And I can tell that my brother has not exaggerated your merits. One does not need sight to sense a person’s virtues.”
Lucy looked humbled, and began to blush. The expression that crossed her face was an array of shock, shame and…relief?
“Oh, dear, have I said something wrong?”
“Of course not, Lizzie,” the duke responded.
“Well, it is always like this at first, isn’t it? But rest assured, Lady Lucy, Miss Fairmont, that each meeting in the future will get easier. I am not troubled by my blindness, and I hope that you aren’t, either.”
“Oh, no, no,” Isabella blurted out. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Of course not, but I’ve four other senses that have been heightened since I lost my sight. There was an awkward pause, a lapse in conversation, and I knew that you had not been informed before our introduction and were left feeling broadsided. But then that is a man, isn’t it? Occasionally they are rather careless beasts.”
Sussex grinned at them. “My sister has a way of chastising with such charm, does she not?”
The little group laughed, and the awkwardness eased as quickly as it had come.
“I must say, Lady Elizabeth,” Lucy murmured with obvious appreciation, “your frock is lovely. That color of blue is just so deep and rich, like the most exquisite of sapphires. And the peacock feathers look charming.”
“Oh, is that what I am wearing? I asked Sussex to describe it and he said in his perturbed voice—” which Elizabeth parodied perfectly “—‘It is blue, Lizzie, with feathers blowing about your shoulders.’ I had no idea what sort of feathers, for all I knew, they could have been those horrible ostrich feathers they put on horses pulling funeral carriages.”
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