Seduction & Scandal. Charlotte Featherstone

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СКАЧАТЬ What if it were murder?” the lad crowed with enthusiasm. “I bet they’d pay me more than a pound if he were done in.”

      Black pulled him back by his collar. “I’ll give you a fiver if you would be so kind as to cross the street and give this to that man in the blue-and-white livery.”

      “The man talking with Sally?” the boy inquired.

      “That’s the man.” Black handed the boy his calling card. “Tell him that I have Miss Fairmont and I will be bringing her home. She’s not well. Be quick about it,” Black demanded as he slipped the boy a five-pound note. “And see that the task is done before you go screaming in the streets of Von Schraeder’s murder.”

      “Right away, my lord.” The boy grinned, then ran as fast as his thin little legs would carry him.

      “This way, Miss Fairmont,” Black commanded, as he took her arm and walked with her around the corner of the apothecary to his waiting carriage.

      “What did that lad mean that Von Schraeder was dead?” she asked. When he stopped beside her, Isabella was forced to glance over her shoulder. Black was staring at something, but what?

      “My lord?” It appeared to her that he was staring at the Adelphi Theatre and his complexion had grown quite ashen. “Black, is something amiss?”

      Shaking his head, she saw his gaze rove over the theater before he tore it away and looked down upon her. “Nothing at all, Miss Fairmont. Shall we?”

      Reaching for the carriage door, he opened it, then motioned her forward. Inside, it was dark, the upholstery a luxurious black velvet that lent the carriage a rich, relaxing air.

      “Lord Black,” she insisted, but he put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “This really isn’t necessary.”

      “Shh,” he murmured. “You mustn’t tax yourself.”

      “I’m neither a child nor an invalid,” she chastised. “I merely have a headache.”

      “A devil of one if you’ve resorted to valerian and opium.”

      There was nothing to do but accept his hand as he helped her up the iron steps. His hand felt large and warm in hers—strong—and Isabella closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of sensation to absorb his touch and the feel of his hand engulfing hers. She’d never felt her hand pressed strongly in another’s. The experience was at once comforting and arousing, making her wonder where else on her person his hands would feel as wonderful.

      “Isabella? Are you unwell?”

      “No,” she gasped, realizing she was standing on the steps holding Black’s hand. “No, I … my hem was caught, that is all.”

      Ninny, she scolded herself as she sat upon the empty bench. What must he think of her? Did he think her a silly child? She was certainly acting like one.

      Black shouldered his way into the carriage and took the opposite bench. His long legs stretched out, his thighs outlined in his trousers, his shoulders taking up most of the space on his bench. Dropping her gaze to her lap, she flatly refused to look at him, sprawled out in masculine lassitude.

      With a rap of his walking stick on the ceiling of the carriage, the coach lurched forward, and soon they were making slow but steady progress back up the Strand and toward Grosvenor Square.

      She felt nervous and fidgety. The silence was almost unbearable, yet she did not know how to begin the conversation. She could hardly remark upon the weather, for it was gray and dreary, the autumnal sky heavy with the promise of a storm. Nor could she mention anything about last evening, when she had been most unladylike to sit in the dark, all alone, with him.

      However the silence affected her, it had the opposite effect on his lordship. He was a man who was at ease with silence—and solitude. Black did not feel the need to fill the quiet with useless chatter. She did not have to be well acquainted with the earl to know this about him.

      He wore the quiet like a shroud—unmoving, soundless, becoming one with it as it blanketed the luxurious interior of the coach. It unnerved her the quiet that hovered between them. Not because she feared it, but because it felt too intimate. She could hear his slow, steady breaths, could hear her own. There was a sensuality to it, the resonance of air whispering past their lips. Without words, they were alone with their thoughts, the images in their minds. The picture in Isabella’s mind was that of her hand in Black’s, and how it would feel to experience the brush of his thumb inside her palm. The pleasure of awaiting his kiss as he lowered his mouth to hers.

      No, the quiet was far too intimate, and her thoughts much too reckless.

      His leg moved, his booted foot brushed against the hem of her day gown, and she swallowed—averting her gaze, allowing it to roam the carriage—anywhere, as long as it was not lingering on him, or the imagery her mind wished her to acknowledge.

      She was a sinful creature to be thinking such thoughts! She had been given the opportunity that many of her sort never had. She’d been gifted with the chance to live as a lady, and here she was, thinking base, depraved thoughts and succumbing to the lure of pleasure just like her reckless parents.

      She must put an end to this. Unable to withstand the silence—and her own wayward thoughts—Isabella said the first thing that came to mind.

      “I received your note this morning.” He glanced at her sharply, but said nothing. It was a dim-witted thing to have said. She should never have opened up this conversation, but it was done, and she was committed now. “Thomas Moore’s poem is one of my favorites. I can recite it from memory.”

      “Can you?”

      “The last verse of Moore’s poem is, in my opinion, the best. ‘So soon may I follow when friendships decay, from love’s shining circle the gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, Oh! Who would inhabit this bleak world alone?’”

      Slowly he turned to look at her. “You’re a romantic.”

      Isabella felt her cheeks flame scarlet. “Yes. But what woman is not, my lord? I think you’re a romantic as well.”

      “And what makes you say that?”

      “You removed the thorns from the rose you picked for me.”

      He inclined his head, then averted his gaze on the window, fixing on the scenery that was passing slowly by. He declined further comment, and it made Isabella wonder if he had grown uncomfortable with the familiarity of their conversation. For certain, his quiet contemplation unnerved her. They were back to silence, and the intimacy was a living breathing thing—a pulsation—that throbbed with each of their breaths, their heartbeats.

      Isabella could hardly stand it. But Black appeared to be unaware of the rippling current that simmered between them.

      Hands trembling, Isabella could stand the torture no longer. She would keep up a one-sided conversation because talking was the only thing that kept her thoughts away from the image of Black holding her hand … kissing her.

      “Mr. Knighton came by this morning.”

      “Did he? Did you not inform him that etiquette states that calls are not made till the afternoon?”

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