Read the book: «Seduction & Scandal»

Praise for the work of Charlotte Featherstone

ADDICTED “A wonderful old-fashioned love story is at the very heart of this novel. Agreeably outside of the norm with its damaged hero, it also has plenty of sizzle and emotional clout.” —RT Book Reviews

“Ms Featherstone, will you be writing about any of the other characters in future novels? I hope so; the characters you’ve built in Addicted have very likeable, very human personalities … Your novel was an easy and an especially enjoyable read.” —Night Owl Reviews Top Pick!

SINFUL “Pairing a tortured hero and a strong-minded heroine creates a dynamic conflict and off-the-charts sexual tension. Throw in lots of witty dialogue and a non-traditional happy ending, and you’ve got a keeper.” —RT Book Reviews Top Pick!

“[Featherstone] manages to weave an interesting tale, combining sizzling sex scenes with characters deeply rooted within their sexual identities … I’m impressed with what [Featherstone] has to offer in the romance world.”

—Dear Author

LUST “Featherstone knows how to write sexy in this unusual tale of the fey. Thane’s seduction of Chastity is titillating and is complemented by the other well-written characters and their relationships.” —RT Book Reviews

“This was the first time I have read a Charlotte Featherstone book; I can safely say that it will not be the last … Now I just have to be patient and wait for the next Sin to find his Virtue …”

—Forbidden Reviews

Don’t miss The Brethren Guardians series!

Seduction & Scandal August 2012

Pride & Passion September 2012

Temptation & Twilight October 2012

Seduction & Scandal
Charlotte Featherstone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to my granny MacAlpine, and all the ancient Scots who weaved their stories and shared them, passing them down for the next generation to enjoy and share.

Had it not been for Janet and Death’s story, told to me when I was a child, this book would never have been written! I made it my own, Gran, and hope you won’t mind that Janet is Isabella, and that instead of moving Death to tears with her song, she does so with her words.

Till we meet again….

And to Beth, from the Pussycat Parlor, for that oh so inspiring picture of Lord Black! You’re the best!

I am the fog, mist and rain, the shadows that creep across your windowpane.

I am darkness and disease, the entity whom all fear to see.

I am hate, dread, rage, all humans pray to keep me at bay.

I am sorrow and loneliness. Emptiness and despair.

I am, and will be, your last breath of air.

In the end it is you and me, and our walk of darkness where I will set you free.

Side by side we will go, we’ll touch hands, mine will be cold.

You will look at me, and say, “Please, Lord Death, don’t take me away.” And I will reply, as I always do, “Nothing can sway me, pray do not try, for I have seen millions cry. Their tears, while soft, cannot break through this iron heart.”

I am Lord Death, bound by command, to steal life from those souls who have reached their end. I am Lord Death, a shadow of fear, a man say some, a demon cry most.

I am Lord Death, and this I will say, one day you and I shall walk the path of eternal darkness.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1875

The first time I met death, it was at a ball and we danced a waltz. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, and amidst the swirls of ball gowns, their silk trains decorated with pearls and lace, Death guided me in sweeping circles until I was dizzy and breathless and all the other dancers had seemed to melt away, leaving only Death and myself whirling on the dance floor.

I should have feared him and his steely embrace, but I did not. Death had been by my side for so many years that I felt a kindred spirit in him. I have seen Death. He is beautiful in his severity, heartrending in his coldness. A dark, shadowy specter whose web draped like an ethereal veil over the mortals he would one day lay claim to.

A man in every appearance, whose isolation and loneliness he could not hide. It shone in his eyes, which were a mesmerizing dichotomy of coldness and warmth. His irises were a light shade of blue with the faintest chips of pale green, reminding me of the turbulent, chilly waters of the North Sea. But his lashes, thick and luxurious, and black as a raven’s feathers, put me in mind of a sable wrap, warm and comforting and soft—so supple and inviting. His hair was just as dark, inky and shining as it hung to his shoulders, like a pelt of fur. I yearned to run my fingers through the long strands, burying them in the thick suppleness and warmth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked me, his voice deep and velvety. It slithered along my pores, awakening a deep feeling inside me—not fear, but something else. Something that made me warm and languorous, and as though my will were no longer my own.

“Lord Death,” I replied in a breathless whisper.

“And do you not fear me?”

I looked up, held his icy blue gaze steady. “No. I do not.”

He pulled me closer, till our chests meshed and our bodies danced, pressing and moving as if as one. It was indecent. Hedonistic. Exhilarating. My pulse raced, heating my skin. He found the frantic beating in my throat, his gaze lingered there and I knew then that he could snuff the warmth that was climbing steadily inside me.

“Have you come to claim me, Lord Death?”

His gaze slowly lifted to mine, and the thick, onyx lashes lowered, casting a hood over his eyes. “I have. Will you come with me now?”

We finished the turn and he took me by the hand, threading his fingers through mine, guiding me toward the French doors and the velvet blackness beyond.

I followed him willingly, his beauty beckoning me, and like a sleepwalker, I trailed beside him, compelled by something I could not name.

“Am I to die?” I asked, and he stopped, raised our joined hands to his mouth and gently kissed my knuckles.

“You are, my love, and in your sleep, you will become Death’s bride.”

“And that is it?” cried Lucy as she threw a pillow at Isabella. “You fiend!”

Lucy rushed to the dressing table where Isabella sat and pulled the black leather journal from her hand. Flipping through the pages, Lucy searched frantically for more.

“I told you, Luce, that I had only just begun the story.”

Lucy looked up from the book, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I was just about to swoon when you ended it. I vow I am in love with Death!”

A tremor of pride curled within Isabella as she accepted the volume back from her cousin. “Do you think it’s that good?” she asked, feeling nervous as she gazed down at the words she had written. “I will admit it is a rather strange concept.”

“Good? Gracious, Issy, you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not even Mr. Rochester is as gloriously brooding as your Lord Death.”

Smiling, Isabella tucked her journal and pencil into the seed-pearl reticule she was using for the night. “I could never outdo Mr. Rochester, Lucy. Charlotte Brontë has penned an unsurpassable hero with him.”

“Death, with his black hair and pale blue eyes …” Lucy murmured, closing her eyelids as she began to dance around the room, as though she was waltzing. “He is every maiden’s dream. To be swept up into the arms of a man focused solely on you … Issy,” she said, stopping before her. “It’s perfection.”

“I must confess, I do rather like the opening.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Lucy ordered as she glanced in the mirror and replaced a few wayward auburn ringlets, “it’s only me. You can say you think it’s a smashing opening, and I will wholeheartedly agree.”

Hiding her grin, Isabella turned on the little stool and straightened the amethyst-and-diamond necklace that adorned her throat. It had been a gift from her uncle, and she wore it whenever possible. Never could she have imagined wearing something so beautiful—and expensive.

Her hair could use a fixing, she noticed, but there wasn’t much that could be done with the riotous flaxen curls that enjoyed springing from their pins. She had been able to cover up most of her past, to bury her common roots and essentially make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but her hair, it seemed, had other plans. It would not obey and she hid her smile, realizing that bit of tough Yorkshire stubbornness would not be stretched, ironed or pulled out of her. At least not yet.

“Tell me about your heroine, Issy, the woman who is to capture Death’s heart.”

Isabella frowned. That was the strange part. She hadn’t really put much thought into the woman who was to be Death’s bride. The opening had come from someplace deep inside her, the words spilling out from her soul. She did not want to look too deeply there, afraid of what she might see of her past—or perhaps it was the future she feared?

Lucy caught her scowl, and lowered her head, so their temples were touching as they looked at their reflections. “Or are you Death’s heroine, Issy?”

Isabella’s mouth fell open and Lucy laughed as Isabella flushed furiously. “Don’t be silly, Lucy.”

Her cousin gave her a dubious look. “You naughty little girl, penning such a thing.”

Had it been her in that opening? Had it been herself she’d envisioned, had written about dancing indecently with Death?

She was no stranger to him, that was for certain. But to write him as a hero? As someone who could lure and seduce … someone to be desired, and not reviled …

“You know I’m only teasing,” Lucy said. “For heaven’s sake, Issy, do not be so temperamental. I can’t abide that in artists. That’s why I broke off my flirtation with Eduardo. He was too moody for my tastes.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Isabella mumbled, finally recovering from her shock that she might possibly be the heroine in her story. “You met him at a séance.”

Lucy’s emerald-colored eyes flashed with excitement. “And there’s going to be another one in a few days. Say you’ll come, Issy.”

It wasn’t as though she didn’t have loved ones she’d dearly love to connect with in the spirit realm. Her mother, grandmother and now her aunt. They had all been taken from her, and each time she had felt Death’s shadow, standing quietly in the corner, waiting to take them.

Perhaps it was just her overactive imagination, but each time she had fancied that she had seen Death with her own eyes. Of course, she had never dared to admit such a thing. For who would believe her? Still, a part of her feared she really could see Death, and that part absolutely refused to attend a séance with Lucy, for fear the Grim Reaper would present himself.

“Well?” Lucy prodded. “If nothing else, it’s a good night away from balls and soirées. You might even think of it as research for your book. Bring Mr. Knighton if you wish.”

“I don’t think the curator of medieval studies at the British Museum would be very interested in a séance, or chair tipping, or communicating with spirits while using a talking board.”

Lucy huffed as she pulled on her long leather gloves.

“What you see in that stuffed shirt, I’ll never understand.”

“He’s very kind. And … and I think him handsome.”

“I’ll give you those two, but I would like to remind you that he’s rather boring in his conversation, and that he’s probably not going to look upon your dream of being a lady novelist with a kind eye. The academic sort never do,” she reminded her. “Knighton is a scholarly fellow in a scientific, hard-facts sort of way. Novels are made up stories, after all. I doubt Knighton could wrap his rather well-formed brain around that fact to grasp the delight to be found in them.”

“What is it you are trying to say, exactly, cousin?”

Lucy’s gaze softened. “That he is likely not going to be able to understand your brilliant mind, Isabella. He deals in facts, and you delight in fantasy. You’re opposite in every respect.”

Isabella dropped her gaze to her hands, where they folded primly in her lap. The jet bracelet that held the key to her journal caught her eye, and she brushed her thumb over the shining black stones. “It would do me well to give up this fantasy I so enjoy. Perhaps that is what I need, Lucy, a man who keeps me planted on earth, not in the ethers of some magical realm.” Shrugging, she glanced up to see her cousin watching her with what Isabella imagined was sympathy. “It hardly matters. The chance I will be published is very slim, Lucy. It’s really only a hobby.”

Lucy lifted Isabella’s chin with her slim fingers and gazed down upon her with her brilliant green eyes. “Repeat after me. I, Isabella Fairmont, will finish this book and submit it to every publisher in London—”

“And New York,” Isabella reminded her.

“And New York,” Lucy added. “And I will not rest until I see it published. I will not give up on my dreams.”

Isabella stood and hugged Lucy who, although she was her cousin, was more like her best friend. They were sisters of a sort, now that Isabella had come to live with Lucy and her father. “I promise you, Luce. I will finish it, and it will find a home. And I will make Mr. Knighton a devotee of the fictional world if it’s the last thing I do.”

“And you must promise to read to me, every night when you’ve written something new.”

Isabella flushed. “You only want the parts that speak of breathlessness and heaving bosoms.”

“Well, of course,” Lucy drawled. “Why else does one read a novel? Now then.” Lucy sighed. “Let us go downstairs. We’re already late and Papa will be snorting with indignation. We must not keep the Marquis of Stonebrook waiting.” Lucy shook her head, although she was grinning. “Papa is such a pompous aristocrat.”

Yes, the old marquis was rather self-important, but he was a good man. He had taken Isabella in, his niece by marriage, despite the scandal of her parents’ nuptials. He had clothed her, protected her and Isabella loved him like the father she never knew. He had saved her from an uncertain future and from herself. She owed her uncle more than she could ever repay. Still, she missed the comfort of her mother’s stories, and her grandmother’s arms. She missed Whitby with its dark and forbidding abbey, and the mist that rolled in from the sea. She missed the heather-covered moors, and the rocky cliffs that stood tall and proud against the foamy, turbulent waves of the North Sea. She missed home, and everything about it.

She missed them.

How dearly she longed to see her mother and grandmother again, and Isabella felt her eyes begin to well with tears. Thankfully Lucy’s voice drew Isabella out of her thoughts. “My feet ache already just thinking of the night ahead of us. Dear me, Issy, I’m tired of the social whirl.”

Whitby forgotten for now, Isabella strived for composure. “I am as well, Luce. I would pay a very high price for a chance to stay in my room and sit at my desk and write until my fingers are blackened with ink.”

“As much as I’d like more of Death, Issy, it’s pertinent we make an appearance at my father’s ball.”

“You know, when I was a young girl, I envied you your life, the gowns, the balls, the suitors … Now, I’m not so certain you had it better than I.”

Lucy tossed her a cheeky smile over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “I always envied you your cozy cottage and the meadow and woods where you and the other children from the village ran and played without any concern for deportment. You had a childhood, Issy. Something I never did.” Lucy tipped her head and smiled. “I’ve always been envious of that. And here we were all this time, feeling resentful of the other. It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“It is, indeed, for I’m sitting here loath to go to a ball, something I’ve always dreamed about.”

“Chin up,” Lucy ordered. “There could still be light at the end of the tunnel for this night. Perhaps you can write more of your book. Our ballroom has many private corners, you know.”

“And of course that will have the suitors flocking to my side,” Isabella muttered ungraciously. “Men adore lady novelists.”

“I bet Lord Black does.”

Isabella sent her cousin a glare before she reached for the ivory gloves that sat atop her dressing table. “How could you suppose such a thing, Luce? Lord Black never comes out of that mausoleum he calls a town house.”

Lucy stopped at the threshold, and slowly turned, the salmon-pink silk of her gown’s elaborate train wrapping around her legs. “I saw him last night.”

“Fibber! You did not!” Isabella challenged.

“I did, I swear it. I couldn’t sleep after the Anstruther soirée. I was sitting on my window box, gazing out at the stars when I saw those massive iron gates swing open. A carriage, black and shining and led by four black horses, came clattering out of the drive. The conveyance lingered for a moment, and then I saw it, a shadow that was illuminated by the lanterns. It engulfed the interior, like spilt ink, and then I saw him, his pale face appeared in the window, and he was looking up, and I swear his gaze lingered on the window beside mine—your bedroom window, Issy.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed.

“It’s the truth.”

“I think, Luce that you should take up novel writing with me. You’ve the imagination for it.”

“Think what you like, Isabella, but I know what I saw. And you mark my words, our neighbor will be here tonight. The Marquis of Stonebrook will have it no other way, I assure you.”

THERE WAS ONE THING that had surprised Isabella after coming to live with her uncle, the Marquis of Stonebrook, and that was the strange fact that she rather despised balls.

For most of her girlhood, she had sat on the weathered window bench of the small cottage her mother rented, thinking of her beautiful cousin, laughing and flirting and dancing around the Stonebrook’s glorious ballroom, wearing an outrageously expensive gown. Her young heart had ached with longing. She had wanted to attend a ball. To wear a stunning gown. To have a handsome suitor.

It was rather satirical that now, after she possessed all three, she had no taste for it. She would have much preferred curling up before the large hearth in her room, wearing her old flannel nightrail, writing her stories—just as she had before Stonebrook and Lucy had come to Whitby to bring her back to London.

The wonder and novelty of town life had soon worn thin. There had been so many balls this past week, despite it being October. It seemed that the aristocracy no longer found it necessary to depart for their country estates at the end of the season as they did in the past. Perhaps it was because the nouveau riche rarely ever left London. An aristocrat could hardly marry off his titled daughter to a wealthy businessman if he was up in Yorkshire with sheep and trees.

No, the marriage mart had extended well beyond the traditional season. And this season, it was no secret that the Marquis not only wanted to marry off his daughter, but his niece, as well.

Isabella had been taken with the idea at first. The romance of a courtship, rides in the park, the soirées, the balls, the musicales. It had not taken long before she realized that the thought of going out yet another night provoked her to distemper. Not even Lucy who had been born and raised in this way of life enjoyed the endless parties.

They were a fine pair, Isabella thought, as she slipped the delicate silver strap of her reticule higher onto her wrist. Lucy was content to pursue her interest in the occult, and Isabella was happy writing the stories that constantly filled her head. Both of them were originals, and nothing like a young lady of good breeding should be. Perhaps both of them had inherited Isabella’s mother’s taste for shunning the ideals of what made a woman a proper lady. Lord knew her mother had been nothing like her sister. Aunt Mildred had always been frightfully proper—haughty, even. So unlike Isabella’s mother who shunned society’s rules. Lucy, Isabella thought, very much reminded Isabella of her own mother—both in looks and temperament. She wasn’t the only who had thought so, either. Aunt Mildred had despaired of Lucy becoming just like her “fallen unfortunate sister.” That fear had been so great that upon Lucy’s tenth birthday, Aunt Mildred had refused to come to Yorkshire to visit them. They had been kept separate after that, lest Lucy catch the wanton, wild streak Isabella’s mother had never outgrown.

There hadn’t ever been any fear that Isabella would end up like her mother. She had learned a hard lesson, from a very young age. She would not follow her mother’s footsteps.

“My toes are already pinched,” Lucy hissed into her ear as they stood and watched the swell of dancers waltzing around the overly hot room. “And I fear my forehead is glistening.”

Isabella studied Lucy. “Only a titch. Can you discreetly wipe it?”

“Not likely. I feel like all eyes are on us.”

“Not us, you, sweetie,” Isabella murmured. “I think they’re waiting to see if the Duke of Sussex will come up to scratch tonight.”

“Good Lord, let us hope not,” Lucy moaned as she furiously beat the air with her fan. “I cannot for the life of me imagine His Grace at a séance.”

Hiding her laugh behind her hand, Isabella stood on tiptoes, searching for the duke who had become increasingly more ardent in his pursuit of her cousin. He glanced their way, and immediately his expression changed from feigned politeness to brooding. Sussex certainly could brood, and he looked immensely handsome while doing so. Why her cousin could not see this, Isabella had no idea. The way he stared at Lucy was positively worthy of a dramatic swoon.

“Do you like him, Luce?”

“He’s handsome. Rich. Titled. He has at least four estates spread throughout the kingdom and I hear he’s a bit of philanthropist to boot—belongs to all sorts of charities and committees to better the ordinary man and those less fortunate. A virtual paragon,” Lucy muttered as she glanced away from Sussex’s prolonged stare. “Of course I should like him, but I confess that I do not feel much more than friendliness toward him. He’s too shiny,” she said, her tone turning thoughtful. “Rather like an immaculate archangel. I admit—but only to you—that I have a taste for more of the fallen angel. With those black curls and his beautiful face, you would think him one of the fallen, but no, he’s not the least bit dangerous, but one hundred percent glowing and pure.”

“Dangerous men prove only useful in selling books,” Isabella muttered as she watched Sussex conversing with his friends. “In real life they serve to be more of a handful than what they’re worth. Trust me, I am the product of a dangerous rakehell and a naive, overly passionate woman.”

Lucy let out a most unrefined snort. “Issy, there is no woman on earth who can pen a more compelling, delicious rakehell than you. Pray do not pretend that you do not also covet a bit of danger in your life. Your writing is an extension of your soul. A glimpse deep inside. No,” she said, slapping the tip of her fan over Isabella’s hand. “Do not deny it. Admit it,” Lucy whispered, “there is someplace inside that wishes for a dangerous man to come and sweep you off your careful, proper feet.”

“No. I do not. Of that I can safely say you’re wrong, Lucy. If I were ever to encounter a dangerous man I would run screaming in the opposite direction.”

Lucy laughed, and Isabella scanned the dark-haired man from across the room. Sussex was tall, well formed, extremely well dressed and possessed a light, jovial personality. He enjoyed a laugh, as did her cousin. Isabella had thought it a perfect match when the duke had sought an introduction to her cousin, by way of Isabella’s suitor, Wendell Knighton. Unfortunately, her cousin remained utterly obtuse to the duke’s merits.

At the thought of her suitor, Mr. Knighton suddenly appeared beside the duke. She felt the slight lurch of her heart at the sight of him. Her pulse definitely leaped when his dark brown gaze found hers from across the room. He smiled, and Isabella returned it, along with the delicate beginnings of a flush. “Your Mr. Knighton is obviously smitten, Issy.”

Her flush grew to a full-out blush. “I like him very much.”

Lucy tipped her head and studied her. “And yet I still feel, as I always did, that he’s not the right man for you. You need someone different. Deeper. More complex. Someone who understands who you really are, Issy.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed as she watched the dancers. “You make me out to be a mystery when I am nothing but a simple Yorkshire country girl.”

But that wasn’t true. After the unfortunate event of last spring, everyone knew she was different. Neither she nor her family talked of it, but it was there, always lurking, threatening to come out.

“Oh, look,” Lucy murmured. “He’s come.”

“Who’s come?” Isabella tried to peer over two ornate feathered headdresses, but could see nothing.

“To the left, on the balcony.”

The crowd quieted, sensing something was about to happen. All heads turned in the direction of the balcony where the butler stood and pronounced, “The Earl of Black.”

The cacophony of music and laughter faded as the guests pressed forward, waiting for a glimpse of the man whose name had just been announced. The room went perfectly quiet as all interest was now focused on the crab-shaped staircase. Like a magus arising from a cloud of smoke he appeared, looking down upon the faces that peered curiously up at him.

Hair as black as night fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Skin, pale and smooth, glinted beneath the blazing chandeliers. Eyes, a haunting shade of turquoise, scanned the crowd with unconcealed interest. Black brows, perfectly arched, enhanced his eyes, which had a slight upward slant.

His fingers, long and elegant, ever so slightly rapped against the balustrade as he surveyed the scene below him. He was very tall and immensely broad in the chest and shoulders. His black dress clothes and white cravat were impeccably tailored. Bow ties were the fashion now, but the elegance of the old-fashioned cravat suited him, giving him an aristocratic allure. So, too, did his black velvet jacket, which was styled in the Eastern fashion—mandarin collar with two rows of gold buttons in the military style.

He looked liked an ancient Romany prince—a warrior boyar—as his head moved slowly from right to left, his gaze spanning the entire room and its occupants.

Here was a man of the world, Isabella thought as she perused him from head to toe. A man who was mysterious and experienced, and utterly captivating. There was an air of danger about the man, a thought that was supported by the fact that a few matrons to her right were quietly but rapidly whispering behind their fans. More than one gentleman stiffened, their eyes wary as they watched the commanding earl. Everyone seemed to move in the smallest of increments—as if they were in slow motion. Was it out of fear that their movements might catch the infamous earl’s attention?

Warmth spread through Isabella’s body as she watched the Earl of Black stroll with negligent ease down the stairs. He was all arrogance and predatorlike grace. Tall and sleek, he resembled the Bengal tiger Wendell had shown her on display in the British Museum. He had the same rapacious look in his eye as she had seen in the tiger’s green eyes. He was on the hunt, that was for certain, but for what, or whom, she feared to guess.

Lord Black never emerged from his town house, which was across the street from her uncle’s town house. She had only ever caught the odd glimpse of him. His reclusiveness just fueled her imagination, and Isabella felt her breathing grow rapid and shallow, her writer’s mind taking over. Her skin had grown taut, itchy beneath the lilac satin of her tight-fitting bodice as she watched him cut a swath through the guests who parted for him as though he were as powerful as Moses, parting the sea. Suddenly he stopped, turned his head and found her amidst the crowd. Isabella felt strangely light-headed as their gazes collided from across the ballroom.

He was all mystery and exoticness and more than a touch hazardous to a lady’s well-being as he held her gaze. Needing to break the hypnotizing spell of Lord Black’s aqua eyes that were holding her captive, she blinked and forced her body, which now felt overheated and lethargic, to move.

“It’s grown rather warm, don’t you think?” she asked her cousin in what sounded like a strangled voice. “I do believe I could use some air.”

Before Lucy could protest, Isabella backed away and turned in the direction of the French doors that led to the terrace. Reaching for the handle, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw that Black was still in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by hordes of London’s elite. He paid his admirers no heed, but instead stared at her with his piercing eyes. There was a promise in those eyes—a very dark, forbidden promise.

“My dear,” her uncle said behind her. She felt his hand lift hers from the door handle, then the feel of his arm threading with hers. “Someone wishes an introduction with you.”

She tried to refuse as her uncle steered her to where Lord Black held court. His gaze was still focused solely on her, and she shivered.

“Here now, there’s nothing true about what you’ve heard about Black. It’s only rumors.”

She hadn’t heard anything about the earl, other than his appearance at tonnish events was much sought after, and that he was generally considered a recluse. What rumors could her uncle be referring to?

When she stood before him, when their eyes met, she gasped, unable to disguise the sound. Black did not possess turquoise eyes, but pale blue, with flecks of light green. Tempest-tossed eyes, she thought, like the churning seas in Whitby.

“Your servant, Miss Fairmont,” he murmured in a dark, husky voice that was as velvety as a starless night.

“Shall we?” he asked, accepting her hand from her uncle. “I believe a Viennese waltz is next on the program.”

As he pulled her to him, she was shocked by the tingle she felt beneath her glove. When the music started and he pulled her close, his hand resting low on her back, the words she had written whispered to her.

The first time I met Death, it was at a ball, and we danced a waltz.

Black looked down at her, his gaze lingering over her in a far too familiar way. “And you were not afraid,” he murmured, then swept her up into a graceful turn that stole her breath.

CHAPTER TWO

“I BEG YOUR PARDON, my lord, but what did you say?” Isabella demanded. But the earl ignored her imprudence, and softly turned her once again. Her hand trembled in his, and he squeezed, ever so softly in an attempt to ease her.

“You are nervous, Miss Fairmont.”

“I … yes. My apologies.”

“I believe you were asking me something.”

“Oh, yes. Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you were saying about being afraid when we began our dance?”

Black’s pale gaze lowered, and Isabella was positive she saw it linger at the base of her throat where her pulse beat wildly. She swallowed, hard, and her hand began to tremble again.

“Ah, yes, now I recall. Although I do not make it a habit to be out in society, I am able to dance with some degree of efficiency, Miss Fairmont. There’s no need to be afraid that I may step on your toes.”

All her nervousness was vanquished with the sight of his charming grin. Her writer’s imagination had run away with her when she thought he had said something altogether different.

What nonsense, she chastised. She was being silly, believing that his looks, and in fact, this dance, was reminiscent of her own book opening. Good heavens, she had to get a hold of herself and her impetuous imagination.

Lord Black was a distinguished earl from a titled family that went back to the earliest of times. While a recluse, he was only just a man. Not … death.

Besides, death by all accounts smelled sickly sweet, and Lord Black’s pleasing scent was a mysterious and exotic blend of spice. Eastern spice if she was correct.

“You dance very well, Miss Fairmont.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She could not hide her smile at his compliment. She’d had a devil of a time learning the waltz. She was quite proficient at country dances, having grown up dancing them, but the waltz was entirely another matter. Appearing as though she knew what she was doing while remaining elegant and light on her feet wasn’t easy.

“I believe you grew up in Whitby, on the coast?” Lord Black asked as he deftly maneuvered them away from the throng of couples. They were dancing on the peripheries now, where it was quieter and much more conducive to conversation, which the earl seemed inclined to encourage.

“I did,” she replied, not giving any further particulars than what he had asked. Her uncle had cautioned her not to give out too many details of her life. The marquis had paid a great deal of money to bury her mother’s scandal.

“You came to London only last year to live with your uncle and cousin, is that not right?”

“It is, my lord.”

“And this is your first season out in society.”

“Again, you are correct.” For a recluse he was remarkably well informed.

“And how have you found the season, Miss Fairmont?”

Insufferably long and trying. “Glorious,” she lied.

He chuckled and the sound wrapped around her. “As a person who detests society most of the time, you would not injure my sensibilities if you were to tell me the truth. You’ve found your first season to be tedious at best.”

Isabella felt her eyes flare wide with shock. How was it Black could read her so well?

“Your mother was your uncle’s wife’s sister, I believe.”

She swallowed hard at this new line of questioning. “Yes, my lord.”

“You look very much like your mother, Miss Fairmont.”

She caught her breath in surprise. “You knew my mother?”

“I was a young boy when your mother left London for Whitby.”

A very polite and discreet way of informing her that he knew of her mother’s scandalous past, and the wicked rogue who was her father.

“Your aunt and mother lived just down the street from here, I believe.”

“Yes, they did,” she answered, feeling much too unsettled. Just how much did he know about her?

“I used to see them go out for walks. My schoolroom window faced the street, you see, and I found myself staring out of that window more often than I should have.”

“Ah.” She glanced away from his gaze, which was focused deeply upon her.

“You have your mother’s curls and pale hair.”

Yes, she did. She also possessed her mother’s inclination toward romantic adventures. But unlike her mother, she would only write about them, not indulge in them.

“You were all alone when your uncle came to Whitby to bring you back to London.”

Yes. But how had he known that? That fact, and the unfortunate event surrounding it was a secret no one save Lucy and Stonebrook knew about. It was impossible that Black would know. Unless, of course, he’d been there that night …

Impossible. She was allowing her fertile imagination to ride roughshod over her sensibilities.

“We are playing quid pro quo, Miss Fairmont. It is your turn to ask me anything you’d like.”

“All right,” she murmured, her mind racing for something to say. “What brings you to London?”

He pulled her closer to avoid another couple who had decided to quit the dance. She felt her breath leave her body as her bodice brushed up against his jacket. “I’m here on business,” he answered.

It was on the tip of her tongue to inquire about what sort of business, but she held her curiosity in check. She did not wish to have others prying into her life, so she extended the same courtesy to Lord Black, whom she assumed guarded his privacy fiercely. Perhaps now he would indulge her with the same civility, and refrain from asking further questions about her past and her family.

“I hope you will visit the museum while you are here, my lord. Mr. Knighton is opening a new exhibit. It’s bound to be a smashing success.”

“Knighton,” he murmured, and Isabella saw Black’s gaze find Mr. Knighton through the dancing couples.

“Yes, he’s a very good friend of mine, and while on a dig in—”

“He’s your suitor, Miss Fairmont.”

She missed a step, and slammed up against Black’s broad chest. He steadied her, pretending she had not made a faux pas.

“You said he was your friend, but I have been told he’s courting you.”

She blinked rapidly as she met his gaze. “Yes, well …” She flushed, off balance and not knowing what she should say. Suddenly, the scent of spice was all around her. It toyed with her mind, making her dizzy. He smelled so good …

“You said he was on a dig?”

Isabella tried to rein in her reeling senses. How had Black known about Wendell Knighton? It had been only a month since Wendell had starting courting her.

“Yes, a dig,” she murmured, finding her footing at last, “in the holy city. He’s bringing back medieval treasures, and amongst them are some belonging to the Templars. It’s going to be an extraordinary exhibit. Do you enjoy antiquities, my lord?”

His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “You could say that, Miss Fairmont. I have been to many places and have had many opportunities to collect antiques. Even your lovely frock will one day be found on display in a museum.”

She laughed and brushed aside his comment. “Nonsense. It is only lilac silk.”

“It is a Worth gown, is it not?” Heat infused her cheeks as well as her décolletage when his seemingly expert gaze lingered on the tight bodice and the flesh that was displayed above the deep lace flounce. “Worth will be famous well into the next century for his ability to dress the female form as it should be.”

“A gown can hardly compare to a medieval artifact, my lord.”

“It can when worn by you, Miss Fairmont.”

Butterflies circled like mad in her belly. Wendell had never said anything that caused this mad fluttering. Fighting the urge to fan herself with her hand, Isabella said, “Well, I do hope you will stop by the museum, it is a must-see for anyone who visits London, as I’m certain you are already aware, my lord.”

“And will you be there, Miss Fairmont?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Knighton has promised that when the boat docks, which he believes will be tomorrow, I shall have an exclusive peek into the crates.”

“It is not my place to tell you what you should do, but I feel very strongly that you should allow Mr. Knighton to carry on about his business—without you. The docks are no place for a lady.” She felt his hand squeeze tightly around hers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I would be most angry if anything happened to you, Miss Fairmont.”

“What could possibly—”

“Not all treasure is glowing and pure. Remember that.”

Black pulled her to a stop, and she saw that his gaze followed that of a young lord whose name escaped her. She had seen him before, recalled that he was an acquaintance of the Duke of Sussex. Black’s gaze seemed to darken, and his pupils dilated to large, black spheres.

“You will forgive me, Miss Fairmont, but I see someone I am expected to meet.”

He pulled away, and Isabella’s hand caught in his. As well, her purse tangled with the button of his jacket, opening the reticule. Before she could right it, her journal fell to the floor, opened to her writing. Blast! She always kept her journal locked—it contained her secrets and dreams, not to mention the outline for her book. She never wanted anyone to glimpse inside, but tonight she’d been distracted by Lucy’s glowing compliments for her story, not to mention their discussion of Black.

Had she had her wits about her, she would have locked the journal, or better yet not put it in her reticule and carried it down to the ball in the first place.

Both of them bent to retrieve the book. Black was quicker, and reached for it. She knew without a doubt that he was reading what was there, despite how rude it was for him to be reading her private words.

A gentleman would have closed the cover immediately and handed it to her. But Black continued to gaze at it as he reached for her hand and raised her up. The book snapped closed, and Isabella jumped at the sound, and the queer intensity she saw in Black’s gaze.

“Thank you for the waltz, Miss Fairmont.”

And then he left, leaving her with the distinct impression that she had offended him.

“GRACIOUS,” LUCY EXCLAIMED as she hauled Isabella off to the ladies’ retreating room. “Tell me all about it. Was it divine, dancing with the earl?”

Isabella could hardly think as she dashed off with Lucy to the privacy of the room that had been set up for the ladies to see to their personal needs. Instead of going inside, Lucy hauled her into another room that was lit with only one gas lamp. They were alone, but still, Isabella felt a presence. Her gaze danced to every corner, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized they were devoid of any disturbing shadows. But then, she felt a familiar tremor snake its way down her spine, and she rubbed her arms with her palms in an attempt to stave off the sudden chill. She hated the dark—and the shadows.

“Well?” Lucy demanded.

Isabella nodded. “It was indeed divine.”

“I knew it,” Lucy gushed. “From the very second he found you, he kept his eyes on you. Oh, it was so romantic the way he looked at you. And the picture the two of you made, dancing around the ballroom—”

“You make too much of it, Luce.”

“I certainly do not,” Lucy grunted. “An earl! Issy, this is a coup for you!”

“I know nothing about him.”

“That’s what a courtship is for.”

“I am already being courted by Mr. Knighton.”

Lucy’s pretty face puckered into a frown. “Issy, be reasonable. I saw the way Lord Black looked at you, and furthermore, I saw the way you looked at him.”

“I did no such thing,” she shrieked, mortified by the thought her emotions had been so transparent. She had been taken by him, but to discover that everyone knew it as well was beyond humiliating.

“Admit it, Issy, there’s something about the earl that intrigues you.”

Of course there was. What woman wouldn’t be intrigued by his mysteriousness, or lured to his handsome face? There was an air of danger about Black that was impossible to ignore—or not be drawn to. It was only natural, wasn’t it, for a woman to be fascinated by a man as commanding as Lord Black? He was older than her. Experienced. A man of the world. It was expected that his worldly aura called to her. For heaven’s sake, until last year she had been nothing but a rag-taggle country girl in Yorkshire.

This … attraction to Black. It was nothing but innocent female curiosity, that was all. And nothing more would come of it. She had experienced her moment of exhilaration and danger, and that would be all. She would not allow her overly imaginative, impulsive nature to be her ruination.

“Issy,” Lucy warned, “you aren’t going to deny that you find the earl charming?”

“If I did, we would both know it for a lie. The truth is, I find him very charismatic.”

“And handsome.”

“Yes.”

“And rich.” Isabella inclined her head in acknowledgment. “And clearly besotted with you.”

“I do not believe the earl capable of being besotted, that is for young men. The earl is a man, Lucy.”

“And that scares you, doesn’t it?”

Heavens, when had Lucy become so bold? Isabella refused to answer that question despite the truth of it. The earl did frighten her. She had never felt her body respond in such a way. It was terrifying yet exciting. Every cell tingled with awareness, and it made her want to run and hide. Her father had been a charmer. Her mother had told her the stories. She did not want to wind up like her mother, she reminded herself, ruined and alone, barely able to scrape out a living. Passion had its place, and for Isabella, that place was one of control and moderation. Imprudent recklessness was the kiss of death.

“Do you know what I think? You’ve realized that it is rather easy to keep Mr. Knighton at bay. But in one dance, you’ve discovered that it would be quite impossible to sway Lord Black. Black would take what he wanted, not by force, of course, but just the same, he would find a way to obtain what he desired. He wouldn’t be deterred like Knighton.”

“I do not keep Mr. Knighton at bay, Lucy.”

“No, you do not have to. Knighton does that for himself, and you find relief in that because it makes it easier for you to keep your vow of not making the same mistakes your mother did.”

Isabella didn’t know what to say. Lucy was right. Knighton was not an ardent suitor. He was kind and his affection was all very proper. But Black … Isabella shivered. Black would not be chaste or proper in his pursuit of anything if he wanted it enough. Of that she was certain.

“Mr. Knighton is the sort of life companion I desire, Lucy. I do not require a town house in Mayfair, or a title, or heaps of money. What I wish for is constancy, security and perhaps a little affection.”

Squeezing her hands, Lucy smiled. “Dearest Isabella, when will you see that Mr. Knighton’s first love is work?”

“I will see it when you finally decide that the Duke of Sussex is worthy of your time.”

Lucy arched her brows. “You aim your arrows well, Issy.”

“I know you mean well, but I know what I’m doing, and pining after the unreachable Lord Black is not something I’m going to do. He isn’t the sort I’d want as a husband. Besides, it was one dance, not a vow of marriage, or anything of the sort. You make too much of it.”

Lucy gazed at her knowingly. “I wonder if I do. Time, of course, shall tell us.”

“Really, Lucy,” she admonished. “You’ve become far too bold.”

“Have I? I do apologize. Well, then, I hear another waltz beginning, and I believe you promised the third waltz to your Mr. Knighton. But I am not done with you yet,” Lucy said with a smile, before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Tonight, I want every little detail of your dance with the handsome Lord Black.”

With a reluctant nod, Isabella looped her arm through Lucy’s as they left the room and reentered the ballroom, which felt warm and stuffy. Instantly she wished for a reprieve. She was not in the mood for idle chitchat. What she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts, and her memories of that wonderful dance in Lord Black’s arms.

“Good evening, Isabella.”

She stopped and smiled at Wendell, who looked very handsome in his black dress clothes, except for the bit of dust marring the cuff of his jacket. He followed her gaze and stiffened.

“Damnation!” he cried, wiping it off. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t help myself, I had to stop by the museum on my way here this evening.”

Lucy shot her a pointed look that Isabella chose to ignore. “There is nothing to worry about. I assume you were checking on the preparations for the unveiling of the new exhibit?”

“I was. And …” Wendell flushed as he met her gaze. “I was wondering if you might consider letting me out of this dance. I know it’s bad form, but one of the patrons of the museum is here tonight, and I wished to speak with him. Funds, of course. If I don’t see to the donations …” He trailed off expectantly, his brown eyes full of hope that she understood his plight.

“Of course. You must go and meet him.”

“Thank you. I will endeavor to make it up to you.”

“Don’t even say it,” Isabella ordered her cousin when Wendell had taken his leave. “You of all people should know that I’m not the least bit crestfallen to have to sit out a dance.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“But you wanted to.”

“Sorely,” Lucy said around a grin. “But I love you too much. And I’m too much the lady to say I told you so!”

“Ha! This from the lady who keeps pestering me to write naughty scenes in my novels.”

“I’m merely living vicariously through you.”

“Ah, Lucy, there you are. I do believe you promised me this dance.”

Lucy pressed her eyes shut at the sound of the duke’s voice. “First names are far too personal, Your Grace,” she admonished as Sussex came to them. “It isn’t at all proper.”

“Neither is standing up a gentleman to whom you promised a dance.” Sussex’s smile could only be described as mischievous as he held out his hand to Lucy. “You will excuse us, Miss Fairmont?” he asked, but he didn’t take his gaze off Lucy. “I’m afraid I’ve been waiting all night for this dance.”

Isabella laughed as the duke steered her cousin to the floor. After watching Lucy step into the proper dance frame with the duke, Isabella realized that this might very well be her one and only opportunity to escape. It was hot and stuffy, and she would give anything for a chance to go out onto the terrace and smell the crisp fall leaves.

Careful not to garner any notice, she made her way to the terrace and the French doors. Opening the glass door, she stepped outside, breathing deep of the damp night air. The fog was rolling in from the Thames, blanketing the earth with gray mist. Moroccan lanterns hung from the branches of the trees, the candlelight shining with a muted, hazy glow through the mist. Beyond the terrace and the trees lay a rose arbor whose leaves had begun to turn brown. Beyond the arbor was a maze. There she would find privacy and quiet.

Lifting her skirts, she ran down the steps, thankful that the chilly night had deterred guests from going outside. No one would see her slip into the maze.

Growing up in Whitby, on the sea, had inured her to the dampness. There was nothing like the crisp air to clear one’s head. And her head most certainly needed to be cleared. All she seemed capable of thinking about was the enigmatic Earl of Black.

Rounding the corner, she walked deeper into the maze, where the stone bench would lay waiting for her. It was her favorite place, and tonight she needed its familiar comfort.

“Oh,” she cried as she saw someone sitting there. That someone looked up and Isabella stopped, her breath frozen in her throat. “Lord Black.”

He uncurled his tall frame from the bench and slowly rose. “Miss Fairmont.”

“I … I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy. I had no idea—”

“Do not concern yourself. I only needed a moment’s reprieve from the stuffiness in the ballroom. And you?”

“The same, I’m afraid.”

“Will you join me?”

Inanely she looked to either side of her. There was no one outside. It was black as pitch. It could ruin her reputation if they were to be discovered alone and in the dark. And the orchestra was loud. Even out here she could hear the violins. Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

“I realize it’s all rather untoward to be out here alone—with a man you’ve just met, but I am loath to give up this spot. Rather ungentlemanly of me, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is, my lord.”

He smiled at her honesty, and she saw that he had dimples. For some reason she could not stop staring at them—at him. “I’m willing to share this spot. Will that suffice?”

She was sure she could not hide the wariness in her eyes, or the watchful stiffness in her body. She should say no. But her lips could not seem to form the word.

“I will not hurt you, Isabella.”

The intimacy of her name, said in his deep voice, made her shiver. How had he known it? But then again, it seemed that Lord Black knew a good deal about her.

“Will you not join me?”

She was being silly. Besides, she could not seem to deny him when he looked at her like that. Like what? she asked herself as she walked to the bench. Like a fox after a hare, was the answer.

“Are you cold?” he asked as she sat down next to him. Her train bunched up, the lilac silk spilling onto his thigh. She went to move it, but he stilled her hand, and instead smoothed the silk over his knee. “Shall I lend you my jacket?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shivering. Curious, she wasn’t at all cold.

He moved away from her and began shrugging out of his velvet jacket. “No, I insist,” he said, covering her naked shoulders. “You might catch your death out here.”

She stilled, their gazes collided and he moved, inched closer to her.

“That was not in the best of taste, was it?”

“That depends, were you making a jest of what you read in my journal?”

His gaze flickered over her face, coming to rest on her mouth. “No. I was not referring to your writing. Forgive me, Isabella?”

She looked away, unable to think as once again the butterflies began to circle. The way he said her name was so soft, so lulling. There was something about him that pulled at her, made her will no longer her own.

He captured her chin with his fingers and forced her to look back at him. “I should not have read your journal, but I confess I could not stop.”

“Was it so engrossing then?” she asked, trying to make light. But there was nothing light and frivolous about Black. He was purposeful, intense and the way he was gazing down upon her made her shiver.

“I … want to know you. Everything about you.”

Her lips parted, yet nothing came out. She was shocked. Mesmerized.

“Would you let me, Isabella?” His voice dropped as he pressed closer, the moment intimate and wildly exciting. “Would you let me learn everything about you? Discover you as I want?”

His gaze, blistering with intensity, burned through her skin, warming her to the very core of her being. Inside, her body seemed to bloom, to open like the petals of a rose in the sunlight. She knew what he wanted, the innuendo of his words. And she admitted that somewhere deep inside her, she wanted to know him, too.

There was a strange, almost magnetic pull between them. They were strangers, yet he spoke to her familiarly—not at all gentlemanly. She should be shocked, outraged. They had just been introduced, yet Isabella felt as though she had known him forever. As if her soul recognized him from another time and place.

Gathering the edges of his jacket around her shoulders, she luxuriated in his scent, which wafted up from the fabric, mingling with her perfume. It made her think very dangerous thoughts—thoughts that did not entail running from him.

This was much too dangerous. She should put an end to it, and opened her mouth, but the words still would not come. Instead, she said, “Quid pro quo, then?”

His smile was slow and sensual, and she saw the glint of victory shining in his eyes. “Very well, you go first.”

“What is the real reason you are out here?”

His gaze flickered to hers. “As I said earlier, I needed to clear my head.”

“You don’t seem the sort to run away from something, which I think was what you were trying to accomplish by coming out here.”

His eyes lit with something like admiration. “How in tune we are. Indeed, I was running. I detest society, and much prefer my life as an enigmatic recluse. Is that the answer you desire?”

“I believe it more to the truth than your original answer.”

“And what of you, Miss Fairmont, what is your true motive for being here?”

To escape you, and the effect you have upon me. “The same, I’m afraid. I am new to society and have not yet learned to give up the craving for solitude. I am used to being on my own and sometimes the crush of the ballroom is just too much.”

He nodded and she saw that he was running his fingertips lightly over the grain of satin. He was watching as his fingers traversed her skirts, and she found the gesture the most romantic thing she could ever imagine.

“My turn.” He tipped his head and looked down at her. “How do you do it, suffer through it, the monotony of balls and all the insipid, shallow conversation that reveals nothing of a person’s soul but the fact they are vacuous, spiritless followers?”

She smiled and lifted her gaze to a sky that was filled with stars. “I write.” Closing her eyes, Isabella inhaled deeply of the damp grass, listening to the sway of the crisp leaves as they rustled in the trees and smelling the acrid odor of coal burning in the chimney. “I pretend I’m elsewhere—anywhere else.”

She felt him move, his thigh brushing against hers. “Where do you go?” he whispered, and she felt it as a caress along her body. She savored it, that haunting, alluring voice, and the queer sensation it gave her.

“A place where I can be myself. Where no one cares who my parents were, or the circumstances of my past. Where even I can forget.”

Her eyes opened as she felt the thrilling shiver of his fingers trace the contour of her cheek. He was looking at her so deeply that she felt the need to put space between them, but she couldn’t move, she was immobile, lost in his lovely pale eyes. “You never have to be anyone else than who you are, Isabella. Especially with me.”

She swallowed and he rubbed his thumb along her chin, tilting her head, studying her in the moonlight. “If someone doesn’t want you as you are, then they aren’t worth the time.”

He was far too perceptive, and familiar, and she was falling much too eagerly to his experienced, silky tongue.

“I think you are perfect, Isabella.”

“My lord—” she warned as he angled his head, lowering his mouth to hers.

“Black,” he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek. “Just call me Black.”

His breath caressed the shell of her ear; her body went languid and hot all over. She felt his nose against her temple, followed by the satiny smoothness of his lips. Oh, this was temptation!

“Black,” she whispered, but didn’t know if was a plea to continue or stop.

“Tell me, what do you write about, Isabella?”

Her lashes fluttered closed as she swayed closer to him. “I … I do not care to share my writing with others, my lord.”

“You can trust me. I would never betray your confidence.”

She sensed that she could, indeed, trust him. “I am a lady novelist.”

“Fiction,” he murmured, his voice deepening. “For women?”

“Yes,” she answered, her cheeks heating with warmth. What must he think of her? First her writing, and now this, sitting here in the dark, allowing him to brush his mouth against her cheek. He would think her fast and immoral. A harlot to enjoy in a dark garden. And why not? She was acting as such.

“An escape from the world so full of rules and restrictions,” he whispered, “to a world where you are free to think and feel as you will, regardless of your sex and the convention put upon you.”

“Black,” she murmured, but this time it sounded like a plea. But a plea for what, she could not tell.

“Tales of love,” he drawled as his lips moved along her jaw. Her head tipped back of its own accord, and his fingertips smoothed down the column of her throat, to her necklace, which he traced with the tips of his cool fingers. “Stories of passion, desire …”

She exhaled through her parted lips, her heart hammering heavy in her breast. She could not answer that. To do so would be too damning. She could not admit it, even though it was the truth.

“Will you tell me a story, Isabella?” He pulled her closer, till her bodice was against his chest, and his breath rasped against her ear. “A story of burning passion and forbidden desire.”