A Perfect Scandal (19 page)

The brandy did not help. Stuck between a nightmare and consciousness, Isabel tossed and turned, but restful sleep eluded her. Images of mutilated bodies, bloodstained floors, and a knife-wielding monster tormented her mind. Rain slashed out of the night to pummel her window. Flashes of lightning streaked the walls in what looked like ghostly paintings and a pair of evil sunken eyes. Perspiration pasted her nightgown to her flesh.

Throwing off her covers, she sat on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling and her chest heaving.

What was the matter with her?

Marcus’s words came to her:
You are by far the strongest woman I have ever known.

She did pride herself on her strength, on never following society’s rigid rules even as a debutante. Hadn’t she taken matters into her own hands and boldly extricated herself from Lord Walling’s clutches? She knew countless other women who had not been as determined and had ended up married to men whom they disliked, detested, or even worse, feared.

But that was not the same as tripping over a man whose throat had been slashed wide open or brushing up against his killer.

Nothing she had dared in the past had prepared her for such horror.

She punched her pillow in frustration, certain she wasn’t going to get a minute’s sleep in her state of mind. Pushing her feet into her satin slippers, she pulled on a matching wrapper of the same diaphanous material as her nightgown. She picked up a candle from the nightstand and opened the door.

She crept along the second-floor balcony and down the stairs to the main floor. Other than the rain beating down on the roof and the occasional crack of thunder, the house was quiet. The staff had retired for the night.

A few lamps glowed faintly, and combined with her candle, she headed for her art studio. Halfway down the hall she saw light shining from beneath the library door.

For an instant, she wondered if Marcus was having the same difficulty sleeping, but then she recalled that he worked long and unconventional hours. He had been undisturbed by the confrontation with Lord Gavinport at the Carrington ball, and he had shown notable calm in the carriage ride home. Remarkably, the only concern that had been etched on his handsome face had been for her well-being.

The library was opposite her studio. Not wanting to disturb his work, she slipped inside the studio and quietly shut the door.

The room was located in the rear of the house overlooking a small garden. Heavy drapes were pulled back, uncovering the prized wide windows which would capture the sunlight when she painted. Her candle gave little light, but a half-moon cut a swath through the room and across the hardwood floor.

Isabel leaned against the door, entranced by the power of the moon and the raging storm outside. Two trunks rested in the corner. She flitted to them, her wrapper flowing behind her, and put her candle down on the floor. She lifted the lid of the bigger trunk, and smiled when she spotted a porcelain pan holding over a dozen hard cakes of soluble watercolors.

She sighed, confident coming here was a good choice. She could spend an hour sifting through her trunks, clearing her mind, and then return to her bedchamber and sleep soundly. Thunder and lightning had never scared her, and somehow in this room,
her room,
she now found the violent weather outside oddly comforting.

Perhaps Marcus did as well?

Jenkins had brought in a chair and a throw rug before the fireplace. She pushed the smaller trunk beside the empty hearth, moved her candle close by, and chose to sit on the rug as she pulled out jars and brushes. Ghosts and specters cleared from her mind as she focused on her task. After a half hour, she rose to start on the remaining trunk.

A streak of lightning, followed by thunder and a loud crack, drew her attention. She flew to the window as a giant oak tree sparked and a thick branch crashed to the sodden ground. Her eyes widened at the ferocious power wielded by the storm. She leaned forward and placed a hand over the breath-fogged glass. Sheets of rain pounded the house. The oak sizzled like an angry dragon as the flames were drenched and extinguished.

Lightning struck again, and she blinked as the bright white light pierced her eyes. Outside, the bushes formed huddled shapes in the howling wind, and an odd premonition ran through her. Thunder crashed, and the window panes shook. The shapes outside moved, blending like demons into one dark figure. Her stomach knotted, and her breath stalled in her throat. She ran her hand over the clouded window, clearing the glass, looking closer. A bolt struck the sky. Thunder jolted the floor. Then the figure grew, formed a man, outlined by lightning, standing in the garden, staring in the window, staring at
her
.

Rain plastered ropes of black hair to a skeleton-thin face. Shrunken eyes, evil eyes glared at her…

She screamed.

He grinned and raised his hand, aiming a shiny black pistol at her head.

Marcus burst through the door.

Isabel jumped and turned with a start, her large blue eyes shining wide with terror.

“He’s here, Marcus!” she cried out and ran to the door, her sheer wrap flowing behind her like a specter.

Marcus caught her arm or she would have run by him. “Who’s here?”

“That man,” she stammered. “Dante’s murderer…he’s here…outside the window.”

She was shaking so badly she could barely stand. Alarm ran through him. “Calm down, Isabel.”

She gasped, panting in terror, and made to pull away. “We have to get out of this room. He has a pistol!”

Marcus’s gaze snapped to the window. All he could see was a torrent of rain hammering the glass. The weather was miserable, not conducive to a man lurking about.

But still…

He pulled her into the hallway, hesitant to release her trembling body.

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and Jenkins turned the corner. A male servant was behind him, carrying a candle. Both wore nightshirts.

“We heard a scream,” Jenkins explained.

“Isabel says she saw someone outside in the gardens. A man with a gun.”

Jenkins and the servant exchanged a look of alarm.

“I’m going out to look,” Marcus said.

Isabel whimpered, and her nails dug into his hand. “No! He could still be out there.”

Her face was deathly pale and he feared she would faint, despite all her earlier protestations that she was immune to the condition.

“I want you to wait in the library.” He guided her across the hall into his library office and sat her in the oversized leather chair behind his desk. He closed the curtains, blocking the storm from her view. Returning to her side, he coaxed her to meet his gaze. “I must go outside, but I will take precautions. I will return shortly.”

She whimpered again, but nodded. He felt impaled by the stark panic in her wild blue eyes. She was completely different from the impetuous, bold Isabel to whom he had grown accustomed. The spurt of anxiety that stabbed through him was as foreign as it was uncomfortable.

He left the room, and Jenkins was waiting for him in the vestibule with his cloak and hat. The butler and other servant were both dressed as well.

Without a word, Jenkins handed Marcus his pistol.

“We go together,” Marcus said. “Isabel saw the man outside the window, so we travel from front to back.”

Marcus led the group, and in less than a minute after they stepped outside the front door, they were soaked to their skin. Jenkins carried a lantern that sputtered as they walked. Marcus’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight, knowing the lantern would provide little light in the storm. He crept around the side of the town house, the weight of the pistol comfortable in his hand. When he came to the garden, he spotted the old oak tree, its thick branch split in half.

No man was hiding out. Whatever footprints he may have left had long been washed away.

Had Isabel imagined the criminal?

She was not the kind of woman prone to hysterics. She had a strong disposition and had proven herself by not fainting, vomiting, or screeching after landing on top of Dante’s corpse. Most women of his acquaintance would have been incapacitated after such a gory discovery.

No, if Isabel said she saw the criminal, then he was here.

But why had he shown up? And armed?

Had the murderer learned that they had discovered Dante’s body? Did Gavinport suspect they were aware of his involvement and, as a result, had sought to eliminate Isabel or him? Or did the deviant man seek to send a warning to scare them off?

“There’s no one here,” Marcus shouted to Jenkins to be heard above the storm.

Jenkins nodded, and they made their way back into the house and stripped off their sopping cloaks and boots.

“Secure the house and go to bed,” Marcus instructed. “I shall see to Isabel.”

He opened the library door to find Isabel in the exact same position he had left her. She sat still as a statue on the chair. Her face was pale, her long, dark hair curling around her shoulders, her hands clutching her thin wrapper tightly about her waist. Sitting behind his massive desk, she looked like a little lost girl waiting to be saved.

A strange wave of possessiveness and protectiveness surged through him.

He went to her side and dropped to his knee. “Isabel, we searched outside and found no evidence of an intruder.”

She raised pale blue eyes. “Do you believe that I saw him?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I do. Please tell me exactly what happened.”

“I couldn’t sleep so I went to my studio. I saw your light on, but I didn’t want to disturb your work. I knew unpacking my art supplies would calm me, and it did, until I looked outside and saw a bolt of lightning strike a tree in the garden. That’s when I saw him…standing in the rain…staring at me.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “He had a gun. He laughed when I screamed and then disappeared in the shadows. I think he sought to frighten me, not kill me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If he wanted to kill me, he could have done so during the half hour I sat blissfully unaware sorting through my trunks.”

She was right, but the thought galled him.

He suspected the answer, but he asked anyway. “Why couldn’t you sleep tonight?”

“What?”

“You said you couldn’t sleep so you came down to your studio. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

She bit her bottom lip. “I was having nightmares…about Dante.”

He cursed softly beneath his breath. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I want to shield you from everything. Perhaps you should leave now for Paris. I won’t have you in danger or tormented on my behalf.”

Her head snapped up, and her eyes held a fierce clarity. “No. We had an understanding. We stay together for six months, during which time I help you with your investigation, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “Will you hold me?”

He stiffened. “Isabel—”

“Just hold me, Marcus. I need…I need comfort.”

He looked down at her slender hand touching his. “My clothes are soaked. I’ll summon your maid.”

“No. I need you, not Kate.”

The urgency in her voice struck a deep-seated chord in his chest. That such a beautiful, brave woman should want him to hold and comfort her was incomprehensible. No woman had wanted him, other than for pleasure in the bedroom, for a long, long time.

Oblivious to the sopping condition of his clothes, her hands went about his neck and urged him close. He leaned forward, still on his knees, inhaling her subtle perfume like a dying man sucking in his last breath. His arms rose of their own accord.

Two perfectly full breasts seared his chest through his wet shirt. He stifled a groan and instantly grew rigid. Her diaphanous nightgown failed to offer even the slightest barrier, and it felt like she was naked.

His arms tightened; she slid closer, and the chair creaked at her precarious angle.

His hand rested against the small of her back, the other buried in the silken hair at her nape. He was drowning in lust. It was a wonder his drenched shirt didn’t steam against his hot skin. Never before had he desired a woman so vehemently. He fantasized of dragging her off the chair, throwing her on top of his desk, and making passionate love to her.

As her soft curves molded to his hard body, he struggled to remember that she was in shock, that she only sought comfort and reassurance, not a sexual encounter with her new husband. He tried to control his ragged breathing, the hammering of his heart, and reminded himself of their agreement.

Then she buried her face against his throat, brushed her lips against his neck, and whispered, “Please kiss me, Marcus.”

He pulled back an inch. “What?”

She dropped from the chair to her knees before him and looked him in the eye. “Kiss me,” she urged.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I need you to erase the images from my mind.”

Her plea was so urgent, his heart briefly sank. “Kissing me will not change what happened today. You seek intimacy because of your fear. You will later regret it when you calm.”

She shook her head, her dark tresses tumbling over her shoulders. “I’m only asking for a kiss.”

“I know better. It won’t help, Isabel.”

“Then we have nothing to lose by trying, do we?” She licked her lips, and his heated gaze lowered to her mouth.

“Just one,” he ground out. “For comfort.”

He brushed her lips once…and again…then gently covered her mouth. He began to sweat with the effort it took to restrain himself.

Comfort,
he thought.
This is only to ease her fears, not devour her. If she knew my thoughts, she would run from the room screaming like a madwoman.

She sighed and parted her lips, inviting…urging him to deepen the kiss. The hunger within him was an all-consuming fire, and every fiber in his body wanted her so badly he could taste it.

Her hands moved to his chest, but instead of pushing him away as he anticipated, she reached for the top button of his shirt. Her deft fingers unfastened three buttons before he realized her intent.

He grasped her hands. “What are you—”

Her brilliant blue eyes clung to his. “Please take off your shirt, Marcus.”

A muscle tightened at his jaw. “I’m a man, Isabel. I can only withstand so much.”

“I’m not asking you to withstand anything.”

“I should leave. You’re not thinking straight.”

She shook her head. “What happened today opened my eyes. That horrible man…that criminal could have killed me, and you know what I most feared when he aimed the pistol at my head? I feared never experiencing intimacy, never becoming a woman, and most importantly, never experiencing
you
. I want to be with
you
, Marcus, no other. Life is too short not to live to its fullest.”

He froze and dared not breathe lest the fantasy be broken. She didn’t look or sound like a panicked, irrational woman, but one who knew exactly what she desired—which was him…she wanted
him
to make love to
her
.

Then miraculously she leaned forward, brushed her lips against his, and his restraint shattered into a million pieces.

He responded with fierce desire, fully claiming her lips, crushing her to him. There was no mistaking his meaning. He kissed her like the starved man he was, like the man he had been ever since she propositioned him in Lord Westley’s room of erotic art.

She reached out to unfasten the next button on his shirt, and this time, he did not stop her. Her fingers skimmed his hot flesh, and he groaned. He had never been so painfully aroused in his life. She came dangerously close to his waistband, and when she grazed his swollen groin in his trousers, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Let me,” he said, his voice harsh. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it behind him.

Her eyes shone with wonder. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always wanted to touch you.” Her finger traced his pectoral muscle and grazed his nipple. “May I?”

His groan filled the library. “You’ll drive me mad.”

Her lips curved sensually. “Is there any other way?”