Seduction & Scandal. Charlotte Featherstone

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      It really was rather unfair. His lordship seemed to know her rather well, and yet she, and everyone else in London, knew basically nothing of him. He shielded his privacy well, and no one got beyond the cool indifference, or the iron gates that protected his realm.

      What was he hiding? she wondered. Who was he really? Was he playing some sort of dark game with her? He seemed the type of man—worldly and intelligent—who could easily become jaded and bored by his life of privilege. Maybe it was a case of ennui, and he was amusing himself by toying with her?

      These thoughts again made her quite agitated. How in the world had the earl learned so much about her—she, a penniless, fatherless urchin from the crumbling Yorkshire coast? How was forefront, but why quietly whispered in the back of her mind. Why would a man like Black, powerful, wealthy, sophisticated, wish to know about someone like her?

      The only way to ease her questing thoughts was to have answers. Although she doubted the earl would grant them. He seemed content to sit quietly, staring out the window, keeping his own counsel while blanketing himself in his cloak of mystery.

      “How is it you knew where to find me today?” she demanded. “And about Herr Von Schraeder? And why did you go to the docks to find Mr. Knighton this morning? Why could you not wait to see him at the museum or at a ball to offer your sponsorship of him? What was so urgent that it needed to be done then, at the crack of dawn?”

      “So many questions,” he murmured, trying to make light, but Isabella saw the intense scrutiny in his eyes as he slowly slid his gaze to her face. “And for one not feeling well.”

      “My head pounds even more, my lord, wondering about the answers.”

      “Quid pro quo, Isabella?” he asked, his eyes flashing beneath long onyx lashes. “Do you wish to play? It is not a game for one, but two. It is hardly fair that you get to ask all the questions, and I am not allowed the same luxury.”

      She met his stare, willing, for now, to play by his rules. “How did you know about Von Schraeder?”

      “He was an old man, and reported to be ill. Minutes before you arrived at the apothecary I witnessed him in his traveling cart. He appeared weak and frail, and not long for the mortal realm. He was clutching his chest, as one does when suffering a heart seizure.” He looked her over—slowly, methodically, and she did not doubt that one thing escaped his notice. She could never hide anything from him—she knew that, deep in her belly. Black was a man that let nothing slip by him. “Tell me about your headaches, Isabella.”

      “There’s nothing to tell. I started having them when I was twelve. They grew worse last year. Mr. Knighton.” She asked, her fingers curling in agitation, “Why did you look for him on the docks?”

      “It’s no secret Knighton’s been anxiously awaiting the boat’s arrival. I knew he wouldn’t wait patiently at the museum for it to be delivered.”

      “So you waited for him on the docks?”

      “I did.”

      “But why?”

      He smiled and pressed forward, capturing her cheek in his palm. “It’s not your turn.” His grin turned wolfish, and she trembled. Good Lord, he was mesmerizing in his masculinity. There was something about him that made her feel very safe and protected, and … womanly. For so long she had relied on her own wits to get her through, it was rather novel to feel like a damsel in distress being saved by a knight in shining armor.

      “I wonder,” he asked, “do you dream of things with your headaches?”

      Gasping, Isabella pulled away, but he followed her to her bench, and forced her to look at him. He stared at her—deeply—and Isabella was shocked by the sensation of having him so close, his full attention upon her. It went straight to her belly, to the tips of her breasts.

      His gloved finger brushed the apple of her cheeks and he moved closer, holding her gaze. “Tell me.”

      “That, sir, is none of your concern.” Struggling, she was able to put a small amount of distance between them. It was not enough to restore her composure. “How did you know where to find me?” she demanded.

      “I followed you. Now, tell me, do you dream of things, see things when you have the headaches?”

      “Yes,” she whispered, hating to admit it. But something in his gaze compelled her to the truth. It drew her in, wrapped her securely in its hold. Whatever passed between them, Isabella knew—bone deep—soul deep—that Black would never tell another person. Her secrets would be safe with him. But was she?

      “And that’s the reason for the medicine, so that you’ll sleep so deeply you won’t dream?”

      She nodded, held his stare, and braved the question that was burning in her mind. The one she could not suppress. The one question she needed to hear—yet feared—to have answered. “Why did you follow me?”

      He traced her cheeks with his fingertips; the soft kidskin leather gliding along her flesh felt decadent and wicked. When his leather-covered thumb brushed her bottom lip, parting her lips with a gentle but seductive sweep she inhaled sharply, let her lashes flicker and absorbed the erotic swipe of his finger against her mouth. “Can you not guess why?”

      She shook her head, intoxicated by the scent of leather and man, and the pressure of his thumb as he pressed on her lip, parting them farther until the pad of his thumb swept across the damp tissue inside her lip.

      “I wanted you to myself. Even if only for a few minutes.”

      She swallowed hard, and shivered as his free hand came up, only to wrap gently around her throat, while his thumb brushed over her bounding pulse. Did he know how dangerous and seductive the leather felt against her? Did he know that behind her closed lashes she imagined how the black leather must look against her pale skin—darkness and light—sin and purity. Could he tell that she was even now imagining him pulling his gloves from his hands and putting his skin against hers—his mouth to her throat?

      “And Mr. Knighton?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

      His thumb swept over her rapidly bounding pulse, brushing, lulling as his voice dropped to a sinful huskiness. “I would be lying if I said it was out of the goodness of my heart.”

      “Then what would be the truth?”

      “To part you from him for the next few weeks while he studies for his first degree.”

      Her lashes fluttered and she gazed up at him through a haze of sensation that felt the way it did when the effects of her tonic began to take hold—but only better. It was sensual. Euphoric. And utterly improper. “I must remind you that I am being courted, my lord.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ