Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Laughter erupted again, and Isabella marveled at the skill Elizabeth possessed at putting people at ease.

  “I do believe I mentioned something about a sapphire if you will recall,” the duke grumbled.

  “Men are never eloquent with descriptions of colors and such,” Lucy teased. “They underestimate the power of color to women when it comes to the importance in choosing a wardrobe. Why, I do believe they would not even notice if we spent our lives going about in shades of black and gray.”

  “Well, Lady Lucy, you may be quite certain that shade of aubergine is most fetching on you. I’ve never known a woman with such deep auburn hair to wear that dark purple before, but you carry it off beautifully.”

  “Oh, well done, Adrian!” Elizabeth laughed as Lucy gracefully curtsied to the duke. “Aubergine. How lovely that sounds.”

  “Oh, wonderful, you’ve met Lady Elizabeth.” Black strolled up to them and took Elizabeth’s hand from Sussex and placed a chaste kiss upon her knuckles.

  “Good evening, Black.”

  “And how do you know it’s me?”

  Elizabeth chuckled. “Because I know your voice, and I can smell you. You’re still wearing that awful spice-and-sandalwood cologne. I told you, pine and cedar would become you much better. It’s woodsy and grounded, like you.”

  Isabella disagreed. Black smelled divine. And he looked startlingly attractive tonight dressed in black and gray. How interesting that Elizabeth should think pine and cedar would suit the earl. Pine and cedar had featured in her writing of Death. Isabella had never thought to link it to Black. They were woodsy scents, true, but Isabella thought the spicy aromas of the East were more suited to him. There was something very seductive about the Far East, which meshed perfectly with Black’s mysterious and sensual aura.

  “Well, then, shall we adjourn to the dining room? Dinner is about to be served.”

  “Yes, where is Alynwick?” Elizabeth demanded. “He can walk me in to supper tonight.”

  “Lady Lucy,” the duke murmured as he offered her his arm. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Lucy announced as her gaze, which was rather perplexed, volleyed between Sussex and his sister, and then Isabella saw it, the faintest flicker of something flash in Lucy’s green eyes. Was it interest? Sussex did indeed look most striking this evening.

  Black stood back waiting as the salon emptied. He was not standing on protocol tonight. By rights, it should have been the duke to enter the dining room first—he was the highest-ranking noble present—but Sussex was content to hold back and allow Alynwick and his sister to pass him by. It had taken Isabella months to understand the ranking of the peerage and all their little rules. In her somewhat limited experience, they were always strictly adhered to, especially when one was called in to dinner. Already, Isabella mused, this had the making of a most unconventional evening.

  Wendell, she noted, brought up the rear of the group. She saw he was engrossed in something her uncle was saying, and Alynwick was already escorting Lady Elizabeth into the dining room. When Wendell passed by her, seemingly unaware, Isabella wanted to die of mortification, but then Black was there, taking her arm, pulling her tight against his body as he maneuvered them toward the dining room.

  “Goddamn fool,” he whispered. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  Shivering, Isabella refused to look at Black. She couldn’t. Just could not bear to see his face. She had promised to forget him, and she must. She knew that if she looked up, she would once more be swept away.

  DINNER WAS A GRAND AFFAIR. The dining room was enormous, and very masculine. The table was at least twelve feet long and gleaming in the candlelight. The chandelier was doused, as were the gas lamps. Candelabras were lit, and the glow of the flickering candlelight made the event seem that much more intimate.

  Black had a knack for setting a scene, and this one was straight out of the history pages. She had never dined by candlelight alone, and the effect was quite breathtaking. Not to mention dramatic. She wondered if the others thought so as well, or if it was only her, and her imagination, that thought such fanciful things.

  She was aware of how the candlelight flickered over the guests’ faces, and how lovely Lucy and Lady Elizabeth looked in the light’s warm glow. She wondered how she appeared, and glanced down to see the candlelight was casting warm, flickering shadows over her bosom. She should have been self-conscious that so much of her chest was exposed by the low-cut gown, but when she noted how the crimson satin seemed to sparkle in the candlelight, she was transfixed.

  All too soon she became aware of Black’s staring at her. He sat to her right, his eyes hooded, giving him the appearance of boredom, but she knew he was staring at her—she could feel the heat of his stare, and she began to blush, knowing the crests of her décolletage would turn pink. Hopefully, no one would notice in this light. With any luck no one was paying them any heed, or chancing to see Black’s lingering heated stare as it roamed over her body.

  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.

  The dinner scene was very reminiscent of her book, and the words she had written somehow sprung to mind as she gazed quickly at Black, who was studying her over the rim of his wineglass.

  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.

  Black smiled back at her. It was a slow, intimate grin, and Isabella looked sharply down at the bowl that a footman had placed before her. She had already had a third of her wine. It was the drink that was making her so warm, not Black’s gaze. It was the alcohol that freed her imagination and made her think to compare her book to this dinner.

  Chastising herself, Isabella focused on eating. She had barely eaten anything yesterday due to her headache, and as a result she was ravenous today. Concentrating on the meal and using the proper utensil would take her mind off Black and his luring sensuality that seemed to flow out to her, even when she wasn’t looking at him. It was always there, that feeling. He made his presence known, or maybe it was just her body that perceived his being there. Whatever it was, she was very conscious of how close he was. Even with her head bent, she could see from the corner of her eye how he held his silverware, how beautiful his hands looked. All that was needed to make the picture even more alluring was a ring on his finger—a black onyx one.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it, she thought as she took a spoon in her hand. She must cease this fascination with Black before she became irrevocably enthralled by him.

  The first course was a soup of marrow, made from the very delicate butternut squash. It was liberally spiced with honey and demerara sugar and a spice called cumin. She had never tasted anything so exotic before, and the flavors blended nicely on her tongue. When Black encouraged her to sprinkle some ground almonds on top, she had been intrigued enough to try it, and discovered how much the nuts enhanced the flavoring, and how much she enjoyed trying different foods.

  She was well fed at her uncle’s, but traditional English faire was on the menu. But Black, she discovered, had made extensive trips to the East and India, and had brought back many of their spices and dishes. He enjoyed good food, and wine, and sharing both at dinner parties.

  Reaching for her wineglass, she sipped at the bloodred liquid. The rich red wine that was being served was full-bodied and sweet. She was surprised the earl had chosen it, for he didn’t seem like a man who would care for anything sweet, but when the main course arrived she knew why he had: the sweetness enhanced the pork and brought out the natural sugars in the accompanying sauce.

  “By God,” her uncle said. “The members of the lodge were not lying when they said an invitation to dine with you was better than an i
nvitation from the queen.”

  Amusement flickered in Black’s sea-colored eyes. “I would not go that far, Stonebrook, but I do thank you.”

  “Nor would I,” Sussex grumbled.

  “We’re adversaries,” Black explained as she looked startled by the duke’s ungracious comment. “You see, we both enjoy food, and different ways of preparing it. We have a long rivalry, which the members of our lodge seem far too keen to keep alive. I believe it is so we will keep issuing invitations to come dine with us so that one of us may be finally titled the victor.”

  “Ah, I see,” she said, smiling at him. “So you attempt to best each other?”

  “Yes, as a matter fact, we do. Sussex, however, seems to have a special butcher whom he refuses to name. His meat, I’m afraid, is always that little bit better than mine.”

  “Ha!” Sussex grunted. “Flattery will not get you the name of my butcher.”

  “So you see, the rivalry continues.”

  “Well, I can understand why everyone wishes to have an invitation. The meal is lovely. Might I ask what the sauce is on the pork?”

  “Red wine, mustard, prunes and Stilton cheese. Do you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  Everyone nodded and proceeded to eat. It was the first dinner party she had ever attended where the conversation lacked. The food was that good. There was a wild-mush-room bread pudding and an excellent mash of potatoes. The pork with its prune sauce was remarkable, and Isabella kept telling herself that there was not enough room in her gown for her to eat with unabashed enthusiasm. But how she wished she could. If she had been in her old frock, back in Yorkshire, she would have shoveled it in, and asked for seconds—possibly even thirds. There was enough food on the table for thirds, and as a child and young woman, the ever-present sense of hunger had always been there. There was never enough money and, as a consequence, never enough to eat.

  Despite this lack of food, she’d always been what she described as sturdy, but since coming to live with Lucy and Stonebrook, she’d gained nearly a stone—and had enjoyed every morsel that had contributed to the gain.

  “Legendary these dinners are,” Stonebrook said as he refilled his plate with more mushroom pudding. “I believe that men join the lodge just to sample Black’s and Sussex’s dinner menu.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth, who was seated next to her, said, “your cook has outdone himself tonight, Black. But I assume he cooked what you requested.”

  “I did indeed suggest the menu. I have a very great fondness for wild mushrooms, and I recall that you do as well.”

  Elizabeth placed her hand on the table. It was amazing to Isabella just how refined and regal she was. She couldn’t see, yet she ate so daintily. Nothing slopped or splashed; Isabella could not boast such a feat, for she was staring down at a piece of prune that had fallen onto her napkin.

  “Well, I can attest that both my brother’s and Black’s houses are the finest places to eat in all of London. Look at me,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “without a vigorous exercise regimen, I’ve become rather plump!”

  Lucy gasped, and Alynwick scowled.

  “There, there, Lady Elizabeth,” Stonebrook soothed. “Take heart. The most celebrated of beauties in history have been known to be plump as raisins.”

  “Why, thank you, my lord.”

  “There is nothing wrong with the way you look,” Lord Alynwick muttered before refilling his glass with wine and raising his arm. “A toast to the ladies, it’s about damn time Black saw to livening up these dreary dinner parties with such lovely company.”

  Elizabeth slid her hand along the tablecloth, her fingertips delicately searching for the stem of her glass. Isabella was about to help her, when she caught Black’s gaze, and noted the gentle shake of his head.

  There really was no need to assist her, for when Isabella returned her attention, Elizabeth was already taking a sip of the wine.

  “Excellent red,” she murmured as she discreetly licked her lips. “Beyond the grapes I detect berries, and apples, and perhaps some spice.”

  “Yes,” Black said.

  “It’s not French. Spanish?”

  Black smiled and saluted her with his wineglass. “Lady Elizabeth, you are a vintner’s dream come to life.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Well, I for one am just as pleased with a good meat pie and a fine ale,” Alynwick muttered. He glanced up and caught her eye. “You mentioned you were from Yorkshire, Miss Fairmont. Which part?”

  “Whitby, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, lovely scenery. Positively moody at this time of year. I’ve been once. There was an excellent tearoom there that made the best steak-and-mushroom pie I’ve ever known.”

  “Elizabeth Botham’s!” she cried.

  “Do you know it?”

  “Know it? Oh, I spent every extra pence I had there. The Sally Lunns are not to be beat. And the Yorkshire brack. Oh, it’s been an age since I tasted it,” she said wistfully.

  “There was a very fine plum cake, too, as I recall.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, remembering her home with such a heavy heart. While her childhood had not been happy or prosperous, she had very much enjoyed growing up in Whitby. The Yorkshire coast was a beautiful place, with the ocean, the heather-covered moors and the forest of Pickering. There was beauty to behold in every direction.

  “I enjoyed mine smeared with butter,” Alynwick said. “And they make a bracing cup of good Yorkshire tea.”

  Isabella had never been able to afford butter. But, oh, she could imagine it, a thick slice of plum bread slathered in butter. Oh, how wonderful it would have been. Even plum cake on its own was heaven. She had never been able to afford it, but occasionally her mother would come into money when a shipping vessel and the navy were in port, and magically a loaf of plum cake or Yorkshire brack would appear at the breakfast table.

  As a child, she hadn’t bothered to question it. As a young woman, she’d known how her mother provided the loaf. Her scruples had told her that they were ill-gotten goods, obtained via a passionate drive to be loved and adored. Her mother never could resist a man in a sailor’s uniform, and with her looks, which never faded, the men who were new to town, or staying for a brief spell, fell easily into her bed. Every passionate encounter was purported to her by her mother “to be the one.” Unfortunately, after all her mother’s passionate affairs, not one of them ended up being close to what she had dreamed of. Her mother had died a heartbroken, destroyed woman.

  Which brought her back to the past, when she had been standing at the small table they shared, gazing down upon a loaf of warm fruit-filled bread. Isabella had known she shouldn’t partake of her mother’s sin, but it had always seemed like such a waste, cutting off one’s nose to spite their face. If she didn’t eat the bread, then it would go to waste. Waste not, want not soon became her motto.

  “Whitby Abbey is a magnificent place. Gothic and melancholy, it’s a most inspiring spot for contemplation.”

  Her body tingled all over at the sound of Black’s voice. “You’ve been, my lord?”

  “Yes, two years ago. It’s a charming village, and the abbey, how it stands so tall and proud even in its ruin, is quite awe inspiring.”

  “The abbey was my favorite place to go. I used to sit there and gaze down at the ocean and dream.”

  “It seems a most fitting place for one to search out dreams.”

  Lowering her head, she felt the eyes of the table upon them. The subject of dreams was far too personal for a dinner exchange.

  The conversation lapsed once more, and Isabella grew conscious of her gown and, having no wish to pull at the seams of the tight bodice, glanced around the table. Her uncle sat at the opposite end, merrily eating away. She watched as his thick sideburns moved with his jaw. She always wanted to giggle whenever he ate. It was a silly notion, but then, Stonebrook’s sideburns were silly themselves.

  Lucy sat beside her father, hardly eating. Every once in a while
she would cast a surreptitious glance at the duke. Whatever Lucy believed, there was something there between them. Lucy, the dear, just stubbornly refused to see it.

  Next to the duke was the handsome Marquis of Alynwick. Upon their introduction he had been so charming. He seemed to have eased up somewhat during their discussion of Yorkshire, but now he was morose and brooding once more. Whatever had happened to cause such an abrupt change she had no idea. But when she noticed the marquis scowl for the third time as he glanced at Lady Elizabeth, she reasoned that his ill humor had something to do with her. But she couldn’t fathom what had caused his displeasure. The duke’s sister was a delight.

  Across from Lucy and the duke was Wendell. He had been particularly quiet this evening, hardly even joining in the conversation. He kept checking his timepiece and fidgeting with his napkin. He certainly hadn’t spoken to her, and an ugly black thought began to form in her mind.

  Had Black told him? Wendell had arrived before her. There had been ample time for the earl to inform Mr. Knighton that he had quite thoroughly ravished her in the carriage and then again in the salon.

  She swung her gaze to the right of her, where Black was lounging in his chair, his wineglass in his hand, his gaze boring into her, studying her. When he arched a brow in question, she flushed and looked away.

  Was Black the reason Wendell was ignoring her?

  “So, Mr. Knighton,” Elizabeth said, capturing the attention of the table, “I have heard that you are the man who found treasure buried in Solomon’s Temple.”

  “Indeed, my lady. I am.”

  “How exciting to see Jerusalem. You must tell me about the city. Is it hot?”

  “Very.”

  “And sandy?”

  “Yes. And when the breeze kicks up, the sand and grit land everywhere. But the winds bring with it the smells of the East, cloves and cumin, star anise and saffron. The sway of silk rippling in the air in the open bazaars. The glare of the sea against the whitewashed buildings. The sound of a foreign tongue surrounding you and the bustle of the markets. It is a land of antiquity, of Christian and Muslim worship. There are memories of the West interspersed with the everyday East. I find that sometimes my descriptions lack luster, for it’s hard to truly convey just how powerful a feeling sweeps over you as you stand in the city that has been the cradle of Christian civilization.”