“And many men in ill humor,” Alynwick charged.
Black sat back and glared down the length of the table. “Now, you cannot have it said that this particular problem is one that only affects the lower orders, Stonebrook.”
The clock in the hall chimed, signaling the hour of ten. With relief, her uncle sat back in his chair and tossed his napkin upon the table. “Girls, it is time to leave. I have my meeting in less than an hour.”
“I’ll see them home,” Black announced. “You take Knighton now to the lodge.”
“Very well, we shall see you shortly at the lodge. Lady Elizabeth, it has been…most educational.”
“Why, thank you, my lord. Debates can be most inspiring, can they not?”
Black rose and left the dining room to see her uncle out. Wendell reached her, and allowed his hand to trail lightly over her shoulder.
“Shall I call on you tomorrow?” he murmured.
“That would be nice.” She smiled, and he returned it, although not with the warmth he once had. “Good luck tonight.”
With a nod, he left her, and when her gaze tracked his progress across the room, she saw that Black was watching her with his beautiful eyes. There was something there in his gaze. Something she had never seen before—anger.
“Lady Lucy,” Sussex said as he rose from his chair and reached for Lucy’s hand. “Shall we take a turn around the salon? There is an interesting portrait I’d like to get your opinion on.”
Not giving Lucy a chance to protest, Sussex held on to Lucy’s hand and all but dragged her from the dining room.
“Miss Fairmont—” Black’s velvety voice cut through the silence “—if you would be so kind as to follow me to my study. I believe I have a stack of shilling shockers that may be of interest to you.”
His tone was casual, but it brooked no opposition. She had no alternative but to obey, or to cause a scene before Elizabeth and Alynwick.
“If you will excuse me,” she murmured as she moved away from the table. When she stood before Black, he took her hand, flipped it over and traced the lines of her palm with his fingertip.
“There aren’t any shilling shockers or penny dreadfuls to show me, are there?”
His gaze met hers, and she felt her stomach flip and flop. Her throat was dry. Outside, she could hear the door of a carriage shutting, then the sound of horses’ hooves clopping against the cobbles. Her uncle and Mr. Knighton were departing, leaving her quite at the mercy of Lord Black.
“No,” he said as he pulled her to him. “There aren’t. Come with me.”
And like a sleepwalker, she followed him, willingly, even knowing it might very well be to her doom.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“WHERE ARE YOU taking me?”
“To my library, I thought you might like to see it.” He smiled mischievously. “Don’t all authors love books?”
She ought not to be charmed by him, but it was useless to put up a front. She was captivated and couldn’t help it. She would follow him anywhere, and not just because he acknowledged her as an author, but because she adored books.
She knew she shouldn’t follow him anywhere, and leaving her cousin behind and alone wasn’t something she should do, either. “Lucy,” she asked as she glanced over her shoulder, but Black pulled her along, down the darkened hallway, and around the corner.
“She’ll be fine,” he muttered. “Your cousin has the constitution to attend séances, I daresay she can handle herself with Sussex.”
Opening the door, he ushered her through and Isabella forgot all about Lucy and Wendell, and the fact that she had vowed to put Black out of her mind and never again allow herself to be alone with him.
“Oh, look at this,” she whispered in awe. Turning in a small circle, she stood, openmouthed, and looked at the walls that were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, every inch of them housing books with different-covered spines with gilt lettering.
A massive desk with a large leather chair dominated the room, and she ran her fingers over the gleaming veneer thinking how lovely it would be to curl up in that chair and write her book at this very desk.
On the other side of the library were more chairs, all wingback, and a very beautiful black velvet chaise longue with gilt-scrolled edges sat in the middle of the room, with a thick carpet underneath.
The hearth was massive, the mantel constructed of marble with heavy Corinthian columns. The crest of the earls of Black dominated the center of the frontispiece, a Scottish shield with a cross and a dragon curled around it.
Above the fireplace was an enormous portrait of a knight who bore the white mantle and red cross of the Templars. His hair was long and black, his beard the same onyx color as his hair, and his eyes…she stared up at him, and imagined this man a little younger, his hair shorter, his face clean shaven… It was the very likeness of Black.
“Drake Sheldon, the first earl of Black,” he announced as he stood beside her gazing up at the portrait. “He was known as the Dragon because, simply put, he was a beast both in and out of battle. They said that one could see the flames of hell mirrored in the metal of his sword as it came slashing down.”
“You have his eyes. My goodness,” she whispered. “It’s uncanny the resemblance.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes, it’s remarkable. He was a Templar.”
“Yes. Before he left on Crusade he was a knight for hire. He’d be considered a mercenary by today’s standards, selling his sword and arm to the highest bidder. But back then, in the twelve hundreds, knights for hire were as common as girls selling oranges in front of theaters.”
“This portrait is over five hundred years old?” she gasped.
“It is. In my country house, in…the north,” he said, “the portrait gallery is lined with my ancestors. There are all sorts of wily Blacks staring down at you as make your way down the hall.”
“In the north?” she asked, not missing how he was purposely being elusive.
“Yes. The north.”
“Where in the north?”
His flickered from the portrait to her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Just outside Helmsley.”
“Why, that is not at all far from Whitby, my lord.”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and swept his arm in a wide arc. “What do you think? An acceptable collection?”
“I think it magnificent,” she said, and meant it. “How many books are here?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“If I were so fortunate as to own a collection so splendid I would know exactly how many books I owned so as not to have anyone come in and steal them from beneath my nose,” she announced.
Books had been a luxury they had never been able to afford. Isabella clutched what few books she possessed closely to her breast.
He saw that he was smiling at her. “This is my sanctuary. Only Billings comes in upon occasion to dust. The books are quite safe from thieves.”
She could see why he called it his sanctuary; it was a dark, masculine domain, with wood paneling and emerald-green velvet curtains. The scent of lemon oil, leather books and Black’s cologne perfumed the air. She could hide away in here for hours and just stare at the walls, and the fireplace, and the portrait of the first earl of Black and let her imagination take root and soar. Drake Sheldon, what a dashing name for a knight. How the ladies must have swooned over him.
“What is your name, my lord?” she asked, suddenly curious. He had ever only been Black to her, and it had always suited him, but now she was consumed with the need to know him in a much more intimate way. Did he have a name that was as debonair as his ancestor’s?
“My family name is Sheldon.”
“And your Christian name?”
He met her gaze, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheek. Behind those lashes his beautiful eyes appeared slightly more green in this light. “Jude.”
“Jude,” she repeated in a soft voice. What a lovely name. It suited him, that o
ne syllable could at once be said in a hard voice, or uttered so softly, a whispered name in passion.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
“Jude.”
She saw that he closed his eyes, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I have not heard my name in so long, and now, to hear your voice say it…it quite undoes me.”
The energy that always seemed to hum between them suddenly crackled, sending Isabella closer to the bookcase, anything to get away from him. Trying to gather her wits, she studied the titles of the books as she calmed her breathing.
Her gaze landed on a black leather volume with gold lettering. Jane Eyre.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Is this a first edition?” It looked old enough to be, and the thought sent her blood pumping wildly.
Black watched her with his mysterious eyes. “Indeed. Do you like the story?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered as her fingers slid down along the spine of the book. “I like it very much. Lucy has a copy that she lent me. I read it in one night. It was so beautiful…so perfect. I could never write anything so…exquisite.”
“I’m quite certain you could, Isabella.”
“No, I couldn’t. But I’ll keep trying, and one day, when I am old and it no longer matters if I am published or not, I will create a masterpiece. Oh, how beautiful it is,” she whispered as her fingers trailed along the wrinkled spine. “It’s hard to believe that this book is nearly thirty years old—it’s older than me.”
“It was my mother’s.”
“A gift?”
“I don’t know. My mother was forever buying books, I can only assume she purchased it. My father was never the sort to take notice of another’s pleasures. I find it highly doubtful that he had purchased it for her.”
“Oh.” There was pain in his voice, and a hint of anger, too.
“Have you no copy of your own?” he asked softly, coming closer to her.
“No, I have not. I…have not used any of my pin money for books.” Books would not feed you. Clothe you. She had spent too many years hungry, wearing wash-thinned clothing that had sometimes been little more than rags. The money her uncle so generously gave her went into a biscuit tin that Cook had allowed her to keep when it was emptied. The tin was hidden away beneath a floorboard under her dressing table. Beneath the mattress had seemed much too obvious to her and she was afraid of the upstairs maids coming into her room and stealing it. She was like a ferret, coveting her treasures. She had teeth; she could bite the hand that would take it from her very easily.
Try as she might, the events of her past would not simply vanish. The fear of being left destitute or a spinster made her very careful. The thought that something horrible might happen to her uncle sent a tremor of fear down her spine. She would be all alone again if Stonebrook were to die. Lucy would be taken care of, but Isabella didn’t dare hope—or believe—the same would happen to her.
No, she was a frugal creature, while Lucy spent lavishly, but then her cousin had never known hardship. Her next meal had promptly arrived with the sounding of the gong. Isabella had never had that surety.
“What have you spent your money on, then?” His question was bold. The expression in his eyes even bolder, and Isabella was momentarily caught off guard by his closeness, by the frisson of awareness that was always, always present between them.
“Nothing,” she confessed in a small whisper.
“A little magpie,” he murmured as he reached out and trailed his finger along hers as they rested reverently against the book’s spine. “You hoard it away,” he whispered, and she realized how close he was, standing right behind her, touching her with his chest, with his fingers that slowly glided down hers in a sensual, almost unbearably erotic touch. She could feel the hardness of his chest, the heat of him, the scent of man and the lingering essence of the red wine.
She swallowed, closed her eyes, no longer able to watch his fingers atop hers, it felt too good, looked much too sinfully improper. And yet, the act seemed even more exciting with her eyes closed, because then she was left with only the sensation of touch, hearing—Black’s slow breaths—and smell. Everything coalesced, and she was left struggling to keep from throwing herself at him.
“You must take this book, Isabella,” he whispered, and she felt the brush of his hair against her cheek, then her neck. It was followed by the subtle sweep of his nose against her skin, and at last, the brush of his lips against the column of her neck. “I want you to have it, to open the pages and reverently turn them, to glide your fingers along the paper, tracing the words, thinking of me as you read.”
“I…I…” Her head tilted to the side, even as she tried to prevent it. It opened her up, allowed Black’s head to press deeper against her, his lips to sweep up and down her neck in a caress that stole her breath. His fingers, featherlight, like the wings of a butterfly, continued to trace across her hand.
“You know I cannot,” she said, her voice cracking, belying the need that suddenly seemed all consuming. Her lips actually parted, seeking his mouth—but she would not follow them, would absolutely not turn her face to Black, and press her lips against his.
“I want to think of you in your room, in bed beneath the covers, reading this book, thinking of me. I want you to close your eyes, and remember this, this moment between us right now, where our desire and need is so palpable neither of us can resist—where we will just fall into each other’s arms without thought or guilt, or fear of repercussions.”
“I cannot,” she rasped. “Not the book, not…what you’re offering.”
“You must, for if you don’t take it, I will go out and buy you a copy and have it sent directly to your house, where everyone will see…and will know.”
“Jude…” His name was broken, a deep sound part fear, but mostly need.
“Say it again,” he ordered, his voice harsh against her throat. His arm wrapped around her waist, his palm, flattened against her belly, slowly slid upward, and his fingers, which had only seconds ago been lax against hers, curled tightly around her hand. “God, yes,” he said, his voice a seductively, velvety caress. “Say it, whisper it, let me hear my name on your lips, let me feel your lips against my skin as you say it.”
“We mustn’t do this,” she pleaded even as her fingers gripped his.
“Why mustn’t we?” he asked as his palm slowly but steadily climbed over her ribs to where it nestled between her breasts. Her eyes flew open and she saw that he traced the outline of one of the rosettes on her bodice with the tip of his index finger. Slowly he circled the fabric rose. Each time the circle became smaller and smaller as he worked toward the middle until he was very slowly, very erotically, circling the very center of the flower. It was a seductive innuendo of what he would do to her areola and nipple, and the image of his hand on her, his finger reaching out and touching her, circling her, made her stomach burn. Between her thighs she felt quivering, wet, aching—she could feel her body opening to him, and she was aroused and frightened by it.
No woman in the world could possess the willpower to withstand such beautiful torment. She was breathing much too fast, her breasts now hurt behind the harsh confines of her corset and the bodice, and despite all this she tried to fight it, the desire to know what it would be like to be held by him—ravished by his mouth and hands, the powerful body she felt crowding her from behind.
She couldn’t continue like this. It was wrong. Deceitful. Dangerous.
“Did you tell him?” she asked on a gasp as he trailed his tongue behind her ear and over the delicate, sensitive shell.
“Tell him what?” He was back to toying with another rosette on her bodice. Behind her, she felt the hardness of him pressing into her backside. “How much I want you? How I haven’t been able to stop looking at you all night in that gown? How now, I’m imagining what your body will look like beneath this red satin.”
“Jude,” she warned, but his name trailed off on a little moan as he slipped the
tips of his fingers beneath the bodice and brushed the swells of her breasts with his warm fingertips. “You know what I’m asking. Did you tell him about that afternoon in the carriage? Last night…in the salon?”
“No. If Knighton wishes to know your activities he should keep a better eye on you.”
His fingers left her breast only to move around to her back, and the little buttons that secured her gown. One by one, he slowly undid them. “Please, don’t. This…this can’t go on. You know that.”
“Because of Wendell Knighton?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you waste yourself on a man like that?”
Because he won’t break my heart when he leaves. Because there won’t be this passion with him, and because of that, I won’t be afraid.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“You don’t?” The button came free and the bodice gaped open in the back, the sleeves sliding off her shoulders. He pressed in, and she felt his lips against the bones in her neck, then lower, as he pressed soft, silken kisses along her spine above her corset.
“I want you, Isabella. Heart, body and soul. I want to feel you beneath me, I want to know you—every inch of this beautiful flesh. I want to see it turn pink from my hands, the wicked words I want to whisper in your ear. I want to learn your taste, the sound of your pleasure.”
“Stop.” But it was not a refusal that carried any weight. It was a breathless sound, and he moaned, pressed his forehead against her shoulder blade as he lowered her bodice to her waist and returned his hand to the fleshy mounds of her breasts that strained over her corset.
“Stop?” The word was pained. “That is like asking me to hold back a new day, or the tide from rushing in. It is like asking a starving man to sit at the table of a king and watch as others around him feast. It is a feat that is impossible, Isabella. I can’t do it.” The words were breathed against her, and she felt the hardness of him, now as hard as ever, pressing relentlessly into her as he held on to her hand. With his free hand, he began to pull at her corset strings, and she kept her eyes shut in hopes it would settle her, but it only made it worse. In her mind were unbidden images, she heard the words—hers, and what she would later write in her book.
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