Seduction & Scandal

“He has made you no offer of marriage, has he?” She flushed and looked away, but he bent his head to catch her gaze, and lowered his mouth close to hers. His thumb was now brushing the contour of her bottom lip. “Has he given you any indication of his desire?”

Her heart was beating hard, and her hand, good Lord, her hand had come up and her fingers were brushing through Black’s long hair. His eyes closed, and then they slowly opened, the green flecks more brilliant than before, making his pale blue eyes more turquoise.

“Has he given you a taste of pleasure? A glimpse of what you might find in his arms?”

“No,” she breathed, the word nothing but a husky pant.

He brushed her lips once more with his thumb, the leather sliding smoothly along her dampened mouth, parting her lips until she could feel the edge of his leather-encased finger on the inside of her lip. But this time it was not slow and sensual, it was more forceful, direct. Dominant. She shivered in response, not a reaction that was of fear, but desire—her body’s instinctive response to his. “Do you know what I would give for a chance to show you what it could be like in mine?”

Looking deep into his eyes, Isabella licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, her breathing harsh behind her tight corset and the cuirass bodice of her gown. “My lord, this is reckless.”

“Reckless, dangerous, irresponsible, yes,” he murmured as he pressed against her, his chest slowly, inexorably pushing her backward till she was lying on the carriage bench and he was looming above her. “It is all those things, but it is also unavoidable, inevitable, inescapable.”

Isabella watched as Lord Black’s face came closer to hers. As if in a dream, she felt her arms go up, supposedly to push him away, but they betrayed her and she felt her hands slide up over his shoulders where her fingertips tangled in his hair. “Inescapable,” she repeated, her voice husky.

“Yes.” He lowered his mouth slowly to hers. “Wherever you are, I will follow. I will find you, Isabella.”

“Like Death,” she whispered, her lashes lowering as she awaited his kiss. “He knows where to find those who hide from him.”

Cold air swept between their bodies, and Isabella’s eyelids flew open, only to see Lord Black abruptly pull himself away from her. Before she could right herself, he was seated once again on the opposite bench, watching her with hooded eyes. “We have arrived at your home, Miss Fairmont,” he announced, his voice no longer filled with the desire she had only seconds before heard. “I bid you good afternoon. May I extend my best wishes for a speedy recovery from your headache.”

“My lord?” she asked, puzzled, still breathing hard from the kiss he had nearly given her. Had she done something? Been too bold? Should she have put up a fuss, struggled beneath him as she ought to have?

Their eyes met, and in a swift move, he was before her, his hands clutching her face. “They say that Death is a shadow that always follows a body, but Death will not find you. I vow it. But you will promise me that you will be very careful with your tonic,” he whispered fiercely, “for I couldn’t bear it if Death were called to pay you a visit and forced to steal the roses from your cheeks.”

“I will,” she whispered back, awed by the severe concern she saw in his expression and heard in his warning.

“Vow it,” he whispered, angling his head as though he was going to kiss her. “Swear to me, Isabella.”

“I swear to you.”

And then Lord Black lowered his mouth to hers, his lips brushing softly, slowly—once, twice—each time they parted more overtop hers until she moaned and he opened her mouth, slipped his tongue inside, devouring her as though he was starved for her.

She did not know how to return such a kiss. She could not breathe, could not move. Could only luxuriate in the silken feel of his lips moving overtop hers and the sweep of his tongue curling around her own. How enthralling it was to think of him so intimately connected to her. She could feel him seeking, searching, discovering and she wanted to do the same to him, but did not want to end the kiss with her bumbling inexperience, so instead, she allowed him to tutor her, to kiss her, and let his tongue search the depths of her mouth, to lick and probe and listen to the sound of Black’s kiss, his rasping breaths and her soft, wanton moans.

She had no idea how long he kissed her, but she protested when his kiss became less fervent, and he broke away.

“Bella,” he rasped between drugging sweeps of his lips and the teasing wetness of his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth. “Reckless, irresponsible, inescapable.”

“Unavoidable,” she breathed as she kissed him back.

He clutched her body to his, his hand skating up her side to her ribs, only to rest beneath her breast. Like a wanton, she pressed into him, making him feel her body—the body he had made ache with desire. The body she seemed no longer able to control. He had made it his with this kiss, and now she felt as though she would die if he did not show her how to give her body what it was screaming for.

She was wound tight, restless, and he knew it, made the tightness more taut as he deepened the kiss, kissing her harder and hungrier then before. Yes, she chanted. More … more …

Breaking the kiss, Black was breathing fast as he rested his forehead against hers, while their gazes locked. With his fingertip, he brushed her lower lip, sweeping slowly, erotically. “Inevitable,” he whispered, and somehow Isabella knew that what had transpired between them was only the beginning of the fall.

CHAPTER FIVE

TWO HOURS LATER, Black was still ruminating on the carriage ride, and the kiss he’d shared with Isabella. His mind should be clear, focused on his goals—find the person behind the House of Orpheus and locate the relics. However, he couldn’t still his thoughts long enough to focus on anything but Isabella and how he had wanted much, much more from her.

He could still taste her, feel her shape beneath his hands. Damn it, he was still semiaroused, and thinking of it was making it worse.

“Your usual table is ready, my lord,” the butler announced as Black shed his hat and coat and passed them to the retainer. With a nod, he turned and walked down the dimly lit corridor. It was late afternoon, and the gas lamps had not been lit yet despite the fact that the card rooms and dining room were already filled. But then, this wasn’t a club where aristocrats wiled away the hours.

He’d come to Blake’s, a little-known gentleman’s club in Bloomsbury, for a reason. Its clientele mostly comprised artists and poets, and the odd financier. Very few people of the ton were members, and that was precisely why he’d chosen to pay his membership here—beyond prying eyes and gossiping mouths. He loathed gossip. Especially since he’d frequently been an object of it. He did everything in his power not to subject himself to it, but he’d broken his self-imposed rule last evening by venturing out of his house to a ball and singling out a beautiful young woman by dancing with her.

Years of strictures shot to hell in less than five minutes. But there were some things in life that proved too great a temptation—even for him. And Isabella had proved to be one of them. She was most likely the only temptation he could not resist.

Turning right, he entered the small room at the back of the club. The gaming rooms and bar were up front, leaving the back relatively quiet—and empty. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth. Sitting at the table was Sussex, reading a paper and drinking a whiskey.

At Black’s entrance, a servant placed a freshly pressed news sheet and a dram of scotch at the empty place, which Black immediately occupied. Once the servant was out of earshot, he took a sip of his drink and watched as Sussex lowered the paper.

“Well?” he asked. “I received your message.”

Black glanced around, shifted in his chair, giving the air that he was settling in for a bit. “I have information on the House of Orpheus.”

His Grace’s eyes lit with interest. “Indeed? You’ve been busy, and for one who apparently doesn’t give a damn about finding the relics.”

Ignoring the taunt, he continued. “Last night I told you I recalled recently seeing the image for the House of Orpheus.” He lifted the paper and pretended to peruse it. “It was on a billet at the front of the Adelphi Theatre.”

The duke’s dark brow rose in question. “The Adelphi is little more than a bawdy house—with its painted women and questionable productions.”

“Which makes it a wonderful cover for such a club, don’t you think?”

Sussex folded his paper and downed the rest of his whiskey. “I do. Brilliant, in fact. Are you certain?”

“I knew I had seen that image somewhere,” Black murmured. “It was only a matter of time before I recalled exactly where. I was out of my mind with boredom the other night and decided to take in a show.”

The duke merely arched his brow. Black glared back. “I don’t need your censure, Sussex,” he snarled. “So what, I needed a few mindless hours of terrible singing and even worse dancing. At any rate, I noticed the billet when I left the theater. I didn’t read it then, but after I dropped Miss Fairmont off at her home this afternoon, I had my driver return to the Strand, and I nicked this—it was posted on the front of the theater, by the doors.”

“Miss Fairmont, did you say?” Sussex asked with interest as he took the billet from Black’s hand. “What was she doing there?”

“The apothecary.”

Sussex glanced up from reading the billet. “And Miss Ashton?”

“She wasn’t there.”

Sussex’s gaze turned dark. “This is an advertisement for the club, but it gives no address, no means of making contact or anything about what this House of Orpheus is.”

“I know. That must be part of its allure. I suspect it’s one of those exclusive, elitist-type clubs that men trip over themselves to join—nothing like a mysterious club with initiation rites and secret ceremonies to draw members.”

“Sounds like Freemasonry,” Sussex said with a grin.

“I think the Adelphi is the place to start. By its size alone it’s the perfect venue to hide such a club. Maybe after a night spent there, we might find out more about it. I hear that the theater is closed on Wednesdays—perhaps it’s closed because the club meets then? Or maybe there’s a special room—there are always those sorts of rooms set up for theatrics that these places tend to induce.”

Sitting forward, Sussex passed him the billet. “I don’t like this, Black. Every gut instinct I possess tells me that this club has something to do with Lucy. And God help me if it’s some notorious club set in the Adelphi. I should be thinking of the chalice and the pendant, and what bloody mayhem might ensue if they fall into the wrong hands, but I confess all I can think about is Lucy and how she’s gotten herself involved in something dangerous.”