Her Secret Affair (21 page)

“Don’t run off yet,” Kern said. “I should like to know what you intended to do if Dickenson had confessed to the murder.”

She struggled to focus her thoughts. “I’d have reported him to the magistrate, of course. I’d have seen him punished.”

“Ah, but suppose you never reached the magistrate.” He glided his hands higher on her shoulders, and his thumbs rubbed ever so lightly over her throat. “Suppose the killer silenced you first.”

The chill she felt was part fear, part arousal. Her skin prickled, her breasts tingled. Afraid she might disgrace herself by embracing him, she flattened her hot palms against the cool wall. “You’re assuming Dickenson
is
the murderer.”

“Perhaps he is. Or perhaps not. My point is that I won’t allow you to take the risk of meeting these men alone.” His hands lay heavily upon her shoulders. His big hands. She wanted them to move lower … and lower …

“Well, that isn’t for you to decide,” she said. “And Dickenson wouldn’t have dared to harm me. Not in the midst of a big party.”

Kern chuckled, a low, mocking rumble in his chest. As if he were privy to her secret fantasies, his hands descended until they cupped her breasts. The heat of his skin penetrated the thin silk of her bodice. She caught a whiff of his scent, musky and male, and her knees nearly buckled from another warm rush of desire. She wanted to touch him, to feel his pulse beating beneath her thumb.

“How naïve you are, Miss Darling. Surprising for someone who has known the seamier side of life.”

His insult shattered the erotic spell. Isabel gave him a hard shove that caught him off guard. She stalked to the center of the room and wheeled around to face him. “Let me get this straight. You push me up against the wall, fondle my bosom, and then
you
call
me
seamy?”

“I apologize for the slur. I merely meant that your upbringing—”

“I know what you meant. And you never miss an opportunity to remind me of my background, do you? As if being the son of London’s most notorious lecher makes you my superior.”

He stood watching her, the shadows hiding his face. What was he thinking? That she was less than the scrapings off his noble boots?

“Speaking of fathers,” he said blandly, “I’ve been wondering about yours.”

Isabel blinked in numb wariness. Her mouth went dry. “Wondering? About …
my
father?”

“He was a gentleman, a man of society. And your mother called him Apollo.”

His tall, dark shape swam before her eyes, and the whole room seemed to wobble. What else had Kern found out? Did he know she suspected Apollo and Sir John Trimble were one and the same? Surely not. Without reading the memoirs, he couldn’t have seen the clues …

Groping for the back of a chair, she held tightly to it. “Who told you?” she whispered. Then in a sickening flash, she guessed. “Aunt Minnie and Aunt Di. You’ve been to see them.”

Kern shrugged. “Since you refuse to allow me to read the memoirs, it seemed the wisest course. I wanted to find out about the men in your mother’s life. To determine who was around when Aurora was poisoned.”

Isabel’s chest ached with pent-up pain and fury. Only by digging her nails into the back of the chair did she keep from flying at him and clawing his aristocratic face. “I never gave you leave to meddle in my life,” she said, struggling to keep her voice cold and composed. “Nor did I invite you to poke your nose into my private investigation.”

“Only a few minutes ago, you were thanking me for helping you out with Dickenson.”

“Then I withdraw my appreciation. Henceforth, you are to cease interfering.”

He walked slowly forward until he stood in a shaft of moonlight. His unwavering eyes held hers. “No,” he said, rather benignly. “My aim is to uncover the truth behind your mother’s death. The sooner I do so, the sooner you can return to your own world.”

“How admirable of you to drive an undesirable out of the
ton.
You’re a service to your own kind.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “‘Undesirable’ is not quite the word I would use to describe you, Isabel.”

In spite of her anger, she felt a little shiver of pleasure. It was bodily attraction, she told herself, not the desire to know him, to see into his heart, to confess all her fancies to him. Never would she become like her mother, a foolish dreamer who worshipped noblemen. “Arrogant is the word I’d use to describe
you.
You’re nothing but a shallow snob. It’s amazing that you were never taught good manners.”

She started toward the door again. He stepped into her path and caught her by the wrists. A peculiar intensity radiated from him. “
You
were taught manners,” he said. “You were raised by a governess in Oxfordshire. It’s no wonder you’ve been able to fit in so well in society. Apollo paid for your genteel upbringing.”

His fingers shackled her wrists as tightly as the memories that imprisoned her heart. She had known about the quarterly payments from an anonymous patron; her mother had made much of the fact that her dear Apollo cared enough to provide well for his baseborn child. Yet the payments had ceased the moment Aurora died.

The bitter truth was, he had not cared a jot for Isabel. Sir John Trimble had shunned his bastard daughter. She was an embarrassment, a mistake to be swept beneath the rug of respectability. And she couldn’t bear for Kern to find out how cheaply her own father had valued her.

She wrenched ineffectually against Kern’s grip, but succeeded only in freeing the ancient hurt. “Why do you keep talking about him?” she asked. “Are you suggesting I should be properly grateful? That I should venerate a man who never bothered to acknowledge me? A man who never came to visit me, who never told me his name, who only sent money now and then to assuage his guilty conscience? A man who left me to be teased by the village children for being a bastard?” She gave a sharp shake of her head. “He is not my father. I have no father. Don’t speak of him again.”

“Isabel, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized he hurt you so much. But regardless, we must speak of him.”

She couldn’t bear his gentle tone. She didn’t want pity or sympathy from a lord. “Why? So you can have another excuse to belittle me? To molest me while you point out how vastly superior your bloodlines are? Well, I don’t intend to tarry here and endure the pompous opinions of a jackass.” She tried again to twist free, and when he wouldn’t release her wrists, she kicked him. The satin dancing slipper provided scant protection, and she stubbed her toe on his hard shin. “Ouch!”

“For pity’s sake, calm down,” he said, pushing her to arm’s length. “You’ve misread my purpose. If you would heed me a moment, you’d understand that.”

“I’ve heeded you long enough, and you’ve done nothing but attack and insult me. There’s nothing you can say about my father that would interest me. Nothing at all.”

“Unfortunately, there
is
something—perhaps something you haven’t considered.” Kern’s eyes shone darkly in the moonlight, and he lowered his voice to a compassionate murmur. “We must find out who Apollo really is.”

“No!”

“Yes. You see, he had reason to murder your mother.”

His statement paralyzed Isabel. Though she herself feared that very thing, hearing it stated so baldly made sickness rise in her throat. Her mother, slain by the only man she had ever loved. Slain by the man whose blue blood coursed through Isabel’s veins.

That she could be the offspring of such a monster was too hideous to contemplate. It made her feel dirty, degraded, when she had fought all her life to be a worthy person. That was why she didn’t want Kern to find out her father was Sir John Trimble. If Trimble really was the killer, no one but Isabel need know his relation to her.

She shook her head in denial. “Apollo is never identified by his real name in the memoirs. So he had no cause to harm Mama.”

Kern rubbed his thumbs along her inner wrists to calm her. “Are you certain there isn’t a hint to his identity in the memoirs? His rank, perhaps? Or a description of where he lived?”

“There’s nothing. So you see, you’re wrong. You can forget all about him.”

“You can’t be sure of what Aurora said to him in private. He might have had reason to fear she would change her mind and tell the world about their bastard daughter. The scandal would ruin a man of rank.”

Pulling away, Isabel crossed her arms over her breasts. Her throat felt tight and her eyes burned. She wanted only to get him off the treacherous topic of her father. “You’re grasping at straws. I’m sure one of the other men killed her. We just have to find out
who.
”

“Isabel.” Kern gathered her close, tilting her head into the lee of his shoulder. “Forgive me for upsetting you. I never meant to cause you pain.”

She didn’t want to be comforted by him; she wanted to hate him for prying into her secret past. Yet it felt so good to lean against a man for once, to draw strength from him, to relinquish the burden of her fears.

A breath whispering from her, she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his smooth coat. He held her close, folding her into himself, shaping her to his hard form. She welcomed the heat of him, the heady scent of man, the superiority of his size. She was so weary of fighting for the truth, so weary of being alone with no one to protect her. This embrace felt somehow different from that first time, in the deserted bedroom at Lynwood House, when lust had stolen her wits. Now she sensed a need inside herself that was deeper and sharper, a vulnerability of the soul.

She wondered if he felt it, too, and her question was answered when he tilted up her chin and whispered her name and brought his mouth down on hers. He kissed her with tenderness and feeling, and with a sigh she gave herself into his keeping. Never in her life had she imagined she could want a nobleman so much. Awash in pure sensuality, she blocked out the voice of reason and met the bold thrust of his tongue with her own shameless yearning. She moved her hands over him, learning the contours of his body, letting her palms absorb the strong beating of his heart.

He shuddered in response to her touch. His arms tightened and his hands slid downward to clasp her derriere, pressing their hips together so that she could not mistake the proof of his masculinity. The contact awakened her to the scorching desire to be filled by him, only him. She wanted to know his power, his vigor, his passion. She wanted his hands upon her naked flesh. No other man could satisfy her; no other man had ever even tempted her. Surely he was her destiny, the fairy-tale prince she had been waiting for all her life.

“Isabel.” He spoke against her lips, as if he could not bear to release her. “God help me … I swore I wouldn’t make this mistake … ever again.”

She heard him through a fevered haze, and opened her eyes to his dark shape looming over her.
Mistake?
The ardor began to seep away, but she clung desperately to it, as desperately as she clung to his shoulders. “Please, Kern. Kiss me. I need you so.”

She slid her hands around his neck to draw him to her, seeking the oblivion of his warm mouth.

But he might have been carved from granite. The hands that had touched her with tenderness only an instant ago now thrust her away. As if she were a whore he’d sampled and then deemed not worth his while.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “We cannot do this. You know as well as I how wrong this is.”

She did. Yet the forbidden attraction pulsed inside her, undeniable and alluring. “I don’t care,” she said on a moan. “I just want to forget…”

“No.”
He blew out a deep, frustrated breath. “We can’t forget. We were discussing your father. It’s imperative we find out who he is.”

The chill in his voice froze her, as did the ice of reality. Kern wanted to find Apollo. He wanted to unearth all the sordid secrets of her past. He wanted to find the murderer so that he could send Isabel back to her own world. And she had been a fool to think he cared for her.

Gathering her shattered dignity, she stepped back, her fingers bunching the slippery folds of her silk skirt. “I told you, I have no father. And should you seek to prove otherwise, I shall never, ever forgive you.”

To her mortification, her voice broke. Unwilling to let Kern see the tears stinging her eyes, she brushed past him. He called out her name, but she ran for the door, ran back to the gossips in the ballroom.

Back to the safety of her masquerade.

Like the god of myth, Narcissus loved only himself.

That much was apparent from the first time Mr. Terrence D—— came to me, and yet I found him amusing in his own way. Given his preening nature, he liked to gad about in public and thus escorted me to plays and concerts and art galleries. From the beginning of my career as a courtesan, I was determined not to be hidden away like a gentleman’s naughty secret. I yearned to go out into public and experience all the varied amusements of life. So for this purpose, Narcissus proved useful, indeed.

He was a lusty fellow, too, always ready for a tumble, as keen for pleasure as I. We spent many an ardent hour in my bed, and ’twas he who placed the glass at the headboard so that he might admire himself at his play. In truth, had I allowed it, he would have positioned mirrors on the walls as well, so that no matter how we cavorted, he could still view the reflection of his beloved self.

Dear Reader, you might wonder why I tolerated such a coxcomb. You see, he came to me seeking a remedy in his struggle against the Solitary Vice. He might have indulged in this Vice even more often had not his physician warned him that the unnatural practice eventually causes insanity. Narcissus will not like me to reveal his confession. Yet there are those among you who also hide a fondness for this secret Vice, and perhaps will show pity toward him …

—The True Confessions of a Ladybird

Chapter 12

“I see you’ve been allowed to stay,” Kern said.

Pacing before the sunlit windows, he watched as the mongrel paused just within the doorway of the Hathaway drawing room. The pup looked much cleaner than it had the day Isabel had rescued it. The scrawny animal was a peculiar mix of spaniel and terrier, with a spotted gold coat and floppy ears along with short hair and a stubby tail.