Indeed he had. But Isabella could never admit to such a thing. Lucy and she had called a truce to their squabbling about what sort of man she should desire. The waters had been relatively calm, but she could tell from the flash in Lucy’s eyes, and the way her spine stiffened, that she was sorely tempted to tell Isabella exactly what she thought of her suitor.
And to be certain, Isabella had a good mind to pull Wendell aside and question what the devil had gotten into him. She would do so, too, right after this evening was over.
Holding the footman’s hand, Isabella descended the stairs, careful to ensure that her hem did not catch on the metal steps. She had worn a very plain evening gown, as was Wendell’s preference. The color was crème, with little adornment or lace. Her shoulders were bare, though, and she had chosen to wear a four-strand choker made of black jet. Wendell had frowned when he had seen it, stating that the black stones were for mourning, but Isabella loved the piece because it reminded her of home—of Whitby where the jet was mined from the Yorkshire cliffs.
Standing side by side, she and Lucy took a minute to admire their surroundings. Patrons of the museum, scholars, lords and their ladies strolled up the lit path. Wendell was in the middle of the melee, talking animatedly and shaking hands.
“He’ll be a busy fellow tonight by the looks of it.”
It was the duke’s voice, and they turned in time to see Sussex escorting Elizabeth over to them.
“Your Grace,” Isabella gasped. “How good of you to come.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Miss Fairmont. I’m intrigued to discover just what Mr. Knighton has unearthed beneath Solomon’s Temple.”
“Where is Mr. Knighton?” Elizabeth asked.
“Being adored, up by the doors,” Lucy said with a sardonic smile. “He quite forgot us.”
Sussex’s gaze flittered over Lucy, and she looked away, trying not to notice how close His Grace stood to her. “I have an extra arm, if you would allow me,” he offered.
“Well, then, I shall insist Miss Fairmont escort me,” Elizabeth said as she held out her hand. Isabella grasped it, and wrapped Elizabeth’s fingers around her forearm. “She promised to tell me of the book she is writing, isn’t that right, Isabella?”
“Oh, it is nothing. Just a novel.”
“I love novels,” Elizabeth said. The duke and Lucy were ahead of them, and Isabella stood still, just for a brief moment, to gather herself. She was nervous. She wanted to be the sort of woman tonight that would make Wendell proud. Her education was sadly lacking, and she did not want to make a faux pas, or embarrass him.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the cool breeze—the quiet was what she needed to get her thoughts in order—the solitude would lull her into relaxation. With her eyes closed she became aware of the change in her surroundings, the heaviness of the air, the earthy scent of the autumn night.
It was a subtle thing, like the calming of the wind, and the quieting of the rustling leaves. It was as if the earth had stopped turning for just one brief second.
And then she felt it. Or rather him. That inexplicable feeling of awareness whenever Black was near. She felt it in the atmosphere, in its changing current, in the tingling down her spine and the fluttering of her heart. The feeling was so close now, nearly palpable. She knew he had to be standing directly behind her.
Whirling around, she met him, his hand outstretched as if he was reaching for her. His eyes were unreadable, his expression one of implacability.
No words were said, both stood before the other, silent, taking each other’s measure, wondering how to get past the difficulties of the past few days.
“Shall we?” Elizabeth asked, and Isabella broke the spell of Black’s stare, and gently raised her hem to walk up the long pathway.
“Yes, let’s.”
HIS GAZE FOLLOWED HER around the perimeter of the room. She felt it, that impenetrable stare burning into her back. Despite the crowd, the heat, the noise of excited chatter, Isabella could still make out his presence in the room. Quiet. Focused. Intent. He unnerved her. This…connection intimidated her. It was wrong. Mr. Knighton was courting her. She was happy with the situation. It was all she had ever desired—a good match and a proper marriage. Yet why did she feel the tentacles of sin reaching for her, enveloping her? Black was sin incarnate, a temptation that must be resisted at all costs.
“Ah, there you are,” Wendell murmured. Grasping her arm, he held tightly onto her elbow. “There is someone I wish for you to meet.”
Wendell was in his element. Isabella could not help but smile up at him. He was so immensely proud of his accomplishments, and so he should be. Finding the Templar relics in the Holy Land and bringing them to London was the highlight of his career. He was most sought after now, and Isabella couldn’t be happier for him. There was a lightness to him tonight. He smiled more and his conversation was certainly more varied. Albeit he continued to talk of his work. But that was a man. And a wife’s duty—to listen to his stories and support his efforts. It didn’t matter that Wendell hardly knew her. She supposed that he would, in time.
“Come, he’s waiting.”
Isabella allowed Wendell to steer her away from the crowd, and to the back of the room where the gaslight did not quite reach. Seated behind a large desk was a man with long dark hair and pale skin. He wore sun spectacles despite the darkness and the dim lighting.
“The glare of the light hurts his eyes,” Wendell supplied. “Make nothing of it. He’s rather eccentric, and easily offended. But he’s the museum’s most devoted patron. And I’ve just learned that it was his anonymous donation that funded the majority of my research trip.”
“Oh, then we must meet him,” she said, and Wendell scowled.
“Make no mention of the donation. It’s not done for females to mention such things.”
“I won’t embarrass you, if that’s your concern.”
Wendell glanced at her. “I didn’t mean to insinuate such a thing, Isabella. I merely meant to guide you.”
“I am not completely lacking wits or manners, Wendell.”
“Shh, your voice is carrying, and you’re frowning. Come, we do not want people speculating that we’re having a row.”
“But we are.”
“No, we’re not. Smile, he’s watching.”
“Ah, Mr. Knighton,” the man announced as they approached. “A success, yes?” Isabella detected the faintest of French accents.
“Indeed, sir. And one I hope may grow over time.”
“You are the foremost authority on the Templars during the Crusades, Mr. Knighton. I expect many more successful finds from you. Your career is just beginning, sir.”
Wendell practically preened like a peacock. “My thanks, sir. But I suppose my interest is just as great as yours.”
“It is,” he murmured. “I have a very great interest in the subject. And who, Knighton, is this charming young lady?”
“May I present Miss Isabella Fairmont?”
“Ah, so this is the Miss Fairmont you told me about. Delighted, my dear.” The man reached for her hand and bowed over it. “The fairest of roses,” he murmured. “Mr. Knighton was not profuse enough in his testament to your beauty.”
Isabella blushed to her roots and glanced at Wendell, who turned a deep shade of scarlet.
“Miss Fairmont, this is Nigel Lasseter.”
“An honor, sir.”
“Mr. Knighton tells me you have a great fondness for the museum.”
“Indeed, sir. I do. I grew up in the north, where museums are few and far between.”
“Ah, the north. I detect a Yorkshire accent. Is that correct?”
“Indeed, sir. Have you ever been?”
He smiled, but it was not one of warmth, but rather distaste. It was not a smile, but rather a sneer. “Indeed, Miss Fairmont. I was once there and have no wish to ever go back.”
“Oh!” She was rendered mute by the venom in his words.
“It has bee
n lovely to meet you. Now, if you will excuse us. I have business with Mr. Knighton.”
Dismissed. And so rudely, too! Who was this Nigel Lasseter anyway? Wendell gave her an apologetic smile and motioned for her to rejoin the others.
“I shall be along shortly,” he murmured, and then he turned back to converse with the taciturn Mr. Lasseter.
Why should talk of Yorkshire change Mr. Lasseter from all that was complimentary to reticent? Men. She doubted she would ever understand them or their moods. But then, she had never grown up with a male in her life. Perhaps this was what they were truly like.
Meandering through the throng, Isabella fanned herself. The room could do with an open window, for the air had grown stuffy and close. She was fighting the onset of another headache, and knew that any more time caught in this room would be her undoing. Deciding on a glass of punch, she made her way to the refreshment table, hoping a cool drink would help her. She wanted to find Lucy, who, the last time Isabella had seen her, had been promenading with Sussex and Elizabeth.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
The velvety timbre of Black’s voice whispered over her, and she closed her eyes, savoring the sound, while steeling her wits. Black was the last thing she needed now. Wendell, she noticed when she opened her eyes, was casting anxious glances her way, and her head, which was suddenly pounding fiercely, was not clear enough to do battle with the enigmatic earl.
“I saw you in the park yesterday, and I know you saw me.”
Yes, she had been strolling with Lucy and Elizabeth, and she had glanced him from afar, and purposely set out on a different path. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t,” she lied.
“And last night, at the Renfrew ball. You saw me coming toward you and you fled before I could reach you.”
“I was merely engaged for that dance, my lord.” No, she had hid like a coward.
“I sent you a letter this morning.”
“Oh? I’m afraid I didn’t get it.”
She felt him press against her, his breath caressing the exposed flesh behind her ear. She wanted to shiver—in pleasure. But she stood firm, hiding any signs of her desire.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I have been rather busy, my lord.”
“Busy evading me.” He stood behind her, and she felt the barest touch of his fingertips along her spine. He was close, far too close. Someone would see, and she could not allow that. “But why? I wonder.” His fingers glided softly, like the fluttering of butterfly wings, against her skin. “I have asked myself the same question these past seven days. ‘Why would Isabella Fairmont be avoiding me after that magical night in my library, and that moment in the carriage when I tasted your pleasure, and you came for me?’”
“Please, someone will see,” she hissed. “You mustn’t…that is, you’re much too close to me. And your voice…lower it. Please.”
“Then take a turn with me about the room. No one will talk then.”
“No.”
“The hall. Meet me there where we can be alone and unencumbered by roving eyes.”
“My lord, you know I cannot.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she met his gaze and was startled by the dangerous expression he wore. She had never seen him like this. He was always amazingly controlled, but tonight he was wild—feral. She could easily see how he could be the most dangerous man in England.
“Well?”
“I fear the answer is both, my lord.”
“Why?”
“I think we both know the answer to that, Lord Black. Now, if you will excuse me, I see a few friends. Good evening, my lord.”
She made to move away, but he reached for her wrist, giving her no opportunity to flee. She could struggle, but then that would cause a scene. She had no other option but to do his bidding—for now.
“Walk with me.”
He moved through the crowded room, stopping occasionally to admire some object or another. They did not speak. After a few minutes, Isabella found herself staring up at a picture of a Templar knight. In the background was the Holy City, and Solomon’s Temple. Behind them, the guests mingled and conversed, heedless of her standing beside Lord Black.
“I will quit the room now. In ten minutes, you will come to me. Walk through the doors to your right—no, don’t look,” he murmured. “There is a hallway beyond the doors. I will wait for you there. If you do not appear, I will be forced to come into this room and drag you out. Do you understand?”
She nodded. And she felt him soften the slightest bit as he stood beside her. He reached out, caught himself and forced his hand back to his side.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered. And then he was gone.
WENDELL KNIGHTON CAST an anxious glance around the room only to discover that no one was watching him. Slipping into his workshop, he reached for a sulfur match and lit the oil lamp that sat on his desk. Fumbling with his keys, he fitted the skeleton key into the lock and pulled open the desk drawer, only to find it empty.
“Looking for something, Knighton?”
From the shadows, Black emerged, holding the tome he had been searching for. “How did you get in here?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“And my book!”
“Also irrelevant.”
“You bloody bastard, what do you want?”
“I want to know what you’ve discovered.”
Wendell tried to make certain his gaze didn’t dart between Black and the back cupboard. Black was a clever bastard. He would notice, and then he would be compelled to search for the chest. Wendell could not allow that.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know damn well what I mean,” Black thundered as he slammed the book on the desk. “You found something in Jerusalem, Knighton, and I want to know what it is.”
“That book,” he snapped, glancing at the tome.
“There’s more,” Black said, his voice lethally soft.
“That’s it, I swear it.”
Black watched him closely, his eyes roving over him. “We have unfinished business, Knighton, and it’s more than just what you’re hiding.”
“Isabella,” he replied, his body stiffening.
“Isabella,” he answered.
“What is left to say, Black? You attempted to steal her away, and she wasn’t interested in what you were offering. There is nothing left to be resolved.”
“You little prat,” he shouted, then reached for him. Wendell was forced to move behind the desk, but Black lunged across the wooden top and grabbed him by his jacket.
“Black, stop.”
It was the Marquis of Alynwick’s voice coming from the door. He ran into the study, shoved Black away from him, put his body between the two of them. “Enough,” he said over and over until Black appeared to be once more in control. But those eyes… Wendell could very easily imagine he saw his own death in Black’s eyes.
“Sorry about that, Knighton,” Alynwick said, “Black here has had a bit too much. Always full of vinegar when he’s in his cups.”
Wendell straightened and smoothed his waistcoat. “Just get him out of here.”
“We’re not done, Knighton,” Black growled. “I’ll be coming for you.”
The door slammed behind them and Knighton locked it, then hurried to the chest of drawers, emptying the sheafs of paper and the maps. Tossing them on the floor, he frantically dug to the bottom. His fingers came in contact with the smooth grain and silk and he sighed deeply, and pressed his eyes shut. In his hands, he felt his prize.
Gently he pulled out the ancient white cloth and lovingly peeled it back to reveal the glittering gold goblet in his hand.
The chalice. He smiled, his body soaring with energy. How fortunate he’d found it first. It had been a stroke of luck to discover that the passage that ran beneath the Masonic lodge led to the fourteenth-century Templar church. He had spent the night searching the catacombs, his fingers bloody from
clawing away at rock and loose mortar. And then he had seen it, hidden behind a rock at the base of the floor. He wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the white cloth had not been disturbed and the candle he held in his hand had not glinted off the gold, drawing his eyes.
He studied it from all angles and felt the pendant he wore around his neck begin to hum and vibrate against his skin.
He only needed the scroll now. And after Orpheus had informed him which of the families protected each relic, he knew where to look. Alynwick. He’d made an attempt before to search his house, but he’d been disturbed. Tonight he would try once more.
One step away, he though with awe. One more relic to claim and the world would kneel at his feet.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ISABELLA FOUND HIM standing in the hallway before a large transom window. The glow of the moon outlined his tall form, and she stood there just drinking him in. The magnetic pull that she so often felt around him lured her, and she walked toward him, powerless to break whatever spell he was weaving. There had been an altercation between him and Wendell. Lucy had told her about it—she had heard the raised voices of both Black and Wendell when she had passed the office on the way to the ladies’ retreating room—right before Isabella had left the gallery to meet him.
She could not fathom what Black’s intentions were to corner Wendell in his workroom.
“You would tempt me into a seduction, and then a scandal,” she said quietly as she came to stand beside him. “You would see me ruined.”
“No.”
His refusal was swift. Hard.
“Then what is this, my lord, this clandestine meeting in the dark—all alone?”
“Desperation.”
“And meeting with Knighton a moment ago? Was that also desperation?”
“Yes.” He turned to her, and lifted his hand to her face, where he cradled her cheek in his palm. “Sheer desperation, Isabella. I can’t go on like this.”
“You got on quite well before my uncle’s ball.”
“Do not tell me you don’t feel this, Isabella.”
“What should I feel?”
“This…this thing between us. From the first time our gazes collided in Stonebrook’s ballroom there has been a force drawing us together. That night in my library—how can you refute it? What happened was inevitable—from the moment I first saw you, I knew that I would one day have you naked in my arms. In that moment when our gazes met, and we suddenly fell into each other’s arms without thought or fear, I knew it was an inescapable fate. It was the only thing to be done—to taste the pleasure in each other. You felt it, I know you did. This connection between us…it crackles. It’s a living, breathing entity of its own, and that night…what we did was not just about my desires. It was about yours, too.”
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