Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  It was all due to her cousin, the rash, impetuous Lucy Ashton. He loathed her and everything she stood for. She was the embodiment of the aristocracy that the middling class, as Stonebrook called him and his brethren, despised. She lived for pleasure and felt no guilt that she had so much, while millions had nothing.

  He had risen from virtually nothing to get where he was. The thought of marrying a woman from the ton repulsed him, but then he had met Isabella. She was of blue blood, but with a humble upbringing and a past scandal that had been very tightly shut up. He’d decided immediately that he would have her as his wife. Isabella represented the blossoming of his career through gifts and introductions from Stonebrook, while making it possible for him not to compromise his principles. The very thought of placating a spoiled wife was anathema to him. Isabella had grown up poor and in harsh circumstances. She would be grateful—and happy—for anything he gave her. He would be kind. He would allow her—to a certain extent—to read the ridiculous gothic stories she liked so much, provided they did not taint her idea of what sort of marriage they should have. Often, those silly weekly serials gave women the wrong impression of what a man should be. Silly love stories, he thought as he tripped along.

  He would have her to wife, provided he survived this ordeal. And if Black was behind this bit of business, he doubted very much he would live to see the morning light.

  Death was no stranger to the Earl of Black. He had discovered at least that much about the reclusive earl. It was suspected that Black had murdered his brother in cold blood after discovering his brother’s plan to run off with the woman the earl was intended to marry. After offing his brother, he’d turned his murderous intent to his fiancée. The police had deemed her death a suicide, but there were many who believed she’d died at his hand.

  If he survived tonight, he would make certain Isabella knew of Black’s character. Make her realize how much of a danger he was to young women.

  They had stopped, and Wendell felt warmth on his bare chest, as if he stood in the glow of a hundred candles. He heard the hiss of candle flame as a draft swept through the alcove.

  “Kneel.”

  He was forced to his knees at the command of a new voice, a familiar voice. There was an accent to it. A rather cultured accent. If he could only hear it again.

  “Wendell Knighton, correct?”

  “It is.” That voice… He searched his mind trying to place it, but could not.

  “You found something of interest in Jerusalem, did you not?”

  He swallowed hard; the thickness of the air was saturated with danger. “Yes.”

  “An ancient text that tells of how three Templar knights were given three sacred relics to protect from the world.”

  How had they discovered such a thing? He’d said nothing about it, not to anyone. Unless they had been to his house and discovered…

  “Bastards,” he spat, thrashing about his bonds. The rope around his neck was pulled back and was choking him. Damn thieves! The bastards were everywhere. Well, they would get nothing out of him. That was his find, and he would die in silence and under torture, for he would never reveal what he knew. That find would bring him riches—greatness. It would be his claim to fame, and he would not see someone else take it from him, not after all the digging, the weeks of finding nothing! And then, when he had almost abandoned all hope, he’d come across the dusty, crumbling tome, and the story of the Templars and the relics they had taken from the Holy Land. It had long been maintained the Templars had been guardians of an ancient wisdom, and the text he’d found proved that fact.

  “Release him.”

  The rope went slack and he pitched forward, gasping and coughing. He heard footsteps walk around him, the brush of a robe against his bound hand, and then he was brought upright.

  “Who the hell are you?” Wendell rasped.

  “Orpheus.”

  “Not bloody likely,” he snapped. “You’re a treasure-hunting thief.”

  “In a way, I suppose I am, but you need have no fear of me.”

  The voice was more familiar. He could almost place it…

  “You found an ancient text that speaks of three Templars. You discovered that they have in their possession relics of significant religious importance.”

  He neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, but remained on his knees, head bent, and allowed his captor to talk. Religious importance, perhaps, but from what the tome said, it went way beyond that. It was a mixture of alchemy and black magic and the power of the devil himself—and with that came the darkness, the greatest gifts one could ever dream of.

  “I want to offer you a chance to make your place in the world. I know the name of the three Templars, and their descendants—the Brethren Guardians.”

  “How?”

  The sound of the laugh chilled him, even as he was intrigued by the very notion of this person knowing anything about his mysterious Templars, and even more, the artifacts.

  “I have risen from hell, have seen Death and survived his grip—I have knowledge that you can only begin to guess at.”

  “Black,” he gasped, suddenly seeing it quite clearly—remembering the earl’s expression as he talked of his discovery at supper. “Black is one of them—these guardians.”

  “Well done, Knighton. Yes. Black is one of them.”

  “And Sussex, and Alynwick.”

  “Good,” the man named Orpheus said with a laugh. “You have all the pieces you need.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “For you to join us.”

  “Why?”

  “We need your skills, your ability to speak the tongue of the ancients—and the chalice and scroll. And as a gesture of good faith, I will give you this.”

  His hands were lifted and a thin metal chain was curled into his palm. His thumb caressed the metal, and swept over something egg shaped and smooth. Heat rose from the metal, and he swore he could hear the seductive siren song of a woman’s voice calling to him.

  “The pendant from the Garden of Eden?”

  “Indeed. Take it, and in return you will help me.”

  “To do what?” he asked with suspicion.

  “I need you to discover the scroll that is necessary to decipher the powers behind the pendant and the chalice. Think of it, Knighton, being able to bring this story to light. To take credit for such a monumental find.”

  He could hardly believe it, knew he should probably realize it was too good to be true, but the power of knowing he would be the first to expose the Templar story was too enthralling. He knew what he kept hidden in his workroom. Knew what he held in his hand was the monumental piece he needed.

  “Have we a deal, Knighton?”

  “Yes,” he rasped closing his fist around the pendant.

  “Yes.”

  “My man will contact you when I am ready for you. Tell no one of this. Most especially do not alert the Brethren Guardians that you know anything about them.”

  “No,” he whispered, “no, I won’t.”

  “Do not make an enemy of me, Knighton,” his captor said with chilling coldness. “You would not like what I would do to you if I find you have betrayed me.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  UNABLE TO FIND Lucy in her chamber, Isabella cracked open the door to the sitting room where Lucy sewed. She found her there, sitting at the round table with a piece of emerald-green velvet in her hand. Surrounding her were the hundreds of dolls that had been carefully placed on shelves, and the dozens of dollhouses she had collected since childhood. They were all dressed in elaborate costumes—all made by Lucy’s hand.

  As writing was a solace to Isabella, these dolls, and the dresses she made, were a comfort to her cousin. Isabella should have known this was where she would find her.

  “What are you doing here?” Lucy demanded as she held up the cloth to inspect her work.

  “I came to see what you were doing.”

  “Acting spoiled and indulged, as you can see. I�
�m working on a new frock for Christmas, because I haven’t enough already.”

  Wincing, Isabella said, “I deserved that.”

  Closing her eyes, Lucy bent her head. “No, you didn’t.” When she looked up, her eyes were shining with tears. “I apologize for what I said before, Issy. I’ve sat here all this time wondering how in the world I could have said such a horrific thing. No one is more relieved that you survived that November night. I don’t know what I was thinking to accuse you of not living your life to the fullest.”

  Isabella took the empty chair beside Lucy and ran her fingers over the gorgeous green velvet that Lucy was embroidering with silver thread.

  “I think we both made statements we regret, but the things you said to me were not without some truth.”

  Lucy reached for her hand, clasped it tightly in hers. “Issy, pay me no mind. I’m…not myself.”

  “I’ve noticed you haven’t been for quite a while, Lucy. And it’s gotten much worse this past month, since…Mr. Knighton began paying me attention.”

  She glanced away, but Isabella lowered her head, forcing Lucy to meet her gaze. “Won’t you tell me, Luce? Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can’t, but it is better not to keep these thoughts and feelings bottled up inside.”

  “Oh, Issy…” Lucy began to cry in earnest. “I am not a spoiled child, and whatever people think of me is not the truth. I can only say that I, too, have been hurt. And while I did not grow up poor like you, I was every bit as lonely as you. Do you think it is only your mother who has this family’s share of passion? No, it is you and I that she has bequeathed them to.”

  “Lucy, what is this about?”

  “Don’t you see?” Lucy whispered as she dried her tears. “It is about you and me, and our futures. Issy,” she cried, squeezing her hands. “You have a chance to live—truly live—with a man who feels so much for you, and you would throw it away for something cold and comfortable. I know what sort of life that is. I’ve lived it my whole life. I watched my parents endure it. And I would rather be dead than to suffer it—to see the vibrancy in your eyes dulled over time. I would give my soul to have that passion. I had but a taste of it, and it was taken from me. Gone, in a flash. I didn’t cherish it the way I should have. Didn’t care for it. And when it was gone I was left aching and alone. Despondent. Searching for something that will never come back.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” she asked, suddenly worried by the hysteria she heard climbing in her cousin’s voice.

  “You don’t understand.”

  Gripping her hand, she forced Lucy’s gaze back. “Then make me understand. Tell me in plain terms, Lucy.”

  Lucy swallowed and Isabella noticed how much her hands trembled. “I’ve had a lover, Issy, and it was passionate and heady, and everything I could ever want, but he was taken from me—gone. Forever. I am left aching, searching for something that will fill the void he has left in my heart and soul.”

  “Lucy! A lover? When?”

  Her cousin would not answer. “Don’t throw this away, Issy. Black, don’t push him aside because you fear what he makes you feel. Trust him.”

  “That is the reason for the séances, your consuming interest in the occult, you’re trying to find him—your lover.”

  Bursting into tears, Lucy launched herself into Isabella’s arms. She held her cousin, let her weep against her shoulder until she had cried all her tears.

  “I would give anything to see him once more. We…we never got to say goodbye. I never told him I loved him.”

  “Lucy,” Isabella whispered as she looked at her cousin through her own veil of tears. “What can I do?” she asked. “How can I make it better?”

  “You can keep my confidence. And you can learn from my mistake. Don’t let Black be a regret of yours. Regrets are unbearable to endure, Issy. Follow your heart, and passions. No one who writes like you, with such deep rooted passion should commit themselves to a life without it. Only think on it,” she whispered as Isabella tried to protest. “Please, for me. Do not dismiss anyone yet. You know how I have been living since he—” she gulped and choked on a sob “—since he died. Can you say you want that for yourself, to be burdened with regrets?”

  “All right,” she said, but because Lucy was working herself up into a lather again. “I will try, for you.”

  “Thank you,” she replied quietly. “I’m sorry to be such a watering pot, but it is…well, it’s the first time I have spoken of him—Sibylla knows, of course, but it is not at all the same talking to my maid as it is to you.”

  “You can tell me anything, Luce.”

  “And the same for you, too, Issy.”

  Isabella knew that they were both holding back secrets. There was something in her past she’d never tell a soul because, looking back on it, she was utterly ashamed of it. Neither one would speak of it. The time wasn’t right, but one day, maybe it would be.

  Holding up the black leather book she had brought with her, Isabella said, “I brought my journal.”

  “An olive branch?” Lucy asked with a smile.

  “I hoped so.”

  “It is accepted. Will you read to me while I sew?”

  “Of course.”

  Rising from the chair, Isabella made her way to the window bench that overlooked the square. From the window she could see Black’s townhouse standing tall amongst the trees. The moon was cast in shadow, but she could still see its bloodred glow between the black clouds.

  Curling up on the cushion, she drew her knees up and silently stared at the house, remembering her encounter in the library with Black. The passion that had flared between them frightened her. The intensity of it, the unbridled need that would not be harnessed.

  She was scared to death of that passion, and the need.

  Glancing down at the book, she read the words she had penned…

  Watching. Waiting. Hungering…the whispered words seemed to burn in my belly, filling me with a warmth that curled low in my womb, making it ache. Yearn.

  Death was here, a beautiful vision—a feeling. I could not see him, but I sensed him, as I always did. I had come to him, this the first night of my task. He was not here to greet me, but instead I awaited him by the fire, curled upon a black velvet chaise longue.

  And then I felt him, the power he held over my soul—my body. I was warm in his presence. My body tingled. The heat intensified, engulfing my neck. And closing my eyes, I savored the fluttering touch against my skin, hoping—praying—that I might once more experience the illicit sensation of being stroked by a strong, seductive hand. Death’s hand, the one with the black ring that held me captive. How I wanted to see that hand against me.

  Eyelids flickering slowly, as if heavy from sleep, I reluctantly raised my lashes, not wanting to wake from my dream state. Outside, the wind howled yet again, followed by a violent gust that thrust the window wide open. The blast of cold air immediately extinguished the candles and plunged the library into blackness. The sound of the rain angrily hitting the windowpane, the relentless, haunting howl of the wind as it wailed through the open window announced his arrival. Lord Death.

  “You have come,” I whispered as the current of cold air engulfed the room. It hovered in the atmosphere like a patch of wispy fog, then seemed to find its way over to me and wrap itself around me. Like a burial shroud it became part of me as it slowly swirled around my shoes, up and around my ankles and calves, snaking up my skirts and petticoats and beneath my fine lawn chemise. It spread across my lap, winding its way between my thighs, caressing their inner faces. Involuntarily, my legs parted. I felt the air stroke me, high on the inside of my thighs, felt my flesh begin to quiver and grow moist where the coldness kissed the joining of my thighs.

  Rising up, the sensation stroked my belly before it lingered over my breasts, which felt painfully confined behind the tight crimson bodice of my gown. Struggling for air, I began to breathe faster, felt my breasts rising and falling as the sensation all but engulfed me.
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  “Feel me,” I heard him whisper. “Feel me now.”

  “My Lord Death,” I whispered as my hand came up to rest against the swells of my bosom. My head seemed to tilt to the side of its own accord, exposing the expanse of my throat as my fingers gripped the rosettes that edged my bodice. Pulling the satin aside, I exposed the swollen mound of my breast. I needed him…I needed Death’s kiss.

  And he gave it to me. The cold turned to warmth as it covered my breasts like the breath of a lover. The warmth—now hot—washed over my bosom, to the deep valley, and then up to my throat where the vein in my neck throbbed. For seconds I waited to experience a touch, a kiss, a whispered word.

  The rhythm of my blood sang in my ears until it was all I could hear; the rushing of my blood in my veins, the life soaring in. I could feel the warmth stroking over the vein that throbbed just beneath the flesh of my throat as if someone was breathing against me. It was Death. I smelled him, and my lips parted as I tilted my head farther, desiring to feel more. And then I did—a mouth—warm and soft. A strong, wet tongue that repeatedly stroked the vein, priming it as if preparing to suckle the bulging length beneath the tender flesh of my throat. Is this where Death would steal my soul? Would he suck the life essence from me in an erotic kiss? Would I die in his arms, with his mouth clasped to my throat?

  The stroke of his tongue, the pressure of the lips increased as my hunger deepened. Wetness pooled within me as I lowered my bodice farther, silently begging for the caress to descend to my breast and nipple, which was beaded into a hard little bud, and which throbbed mercilessly against the satin.

  “Kiss me, Isabella,” I heard Death whisper, and when I opened my eyes, the vapor that had warmed me turned solid, and I was looking upon Death. His mouth lowering to mine as his hand cupped my breast. Death…