Seduction & Scandal (19 page)

“Because of Wendell Knighton?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you waste yourself on a man like that?”

Because he won't break my heart when he leaves. Because there won't be this passion with him, and because of that, I won't be afraid.

“I don't know what you want from me.”

“You don't?” The button came free and the bodice gaped open in the back, the sleeves sliding off her shoulders. He pressed in, and she felt his lips against the bones in her neck, then lower, as he pressed soft, silken kisses along her spine above her corset.

“I want you, Isabella. Heart, body and soul. I want to feel you beneath me, I want to know you—every inch of this beautiful flesh. I want to see it turn pink from my hands, the wicked words I want to whisper in your ear. I want to learn your taste, the sound of your pleasure.”

“Stop.” But it was not a refusal that carried any weight. It was a breathless sound, and he moaned, pressed his forehead against her shoulder blade as he lowered her bodice to her waist and returned his hand to the fleshy mounds of her breasts that strained over her corset.

“Stop?” The word was pained. “That is like asking me to hold back a new day, or the tide from rushing in. It is like asking a starving man to sit at the table of a king and watch as others around him feast. It is a feat that is impossible, Isabella. I can't do it.” The words were breathed against her, and she felt the hardness of him, now as hard
as ever, pressing relentlessly into her as he held on to her hand. With his free hand, he began to pull at her corset strings, and she kept her eyes shut in hopes it would settle her, but it only made it worse. In her mind were unbidden images, she heard the words—hers, and what she would later write in her book.

“Would you deny a starving man a little scrap?” he asked as the corset came undone in his hand. He turned her around, caging her body with the front of his. His arms were above her head, his fingers gripping the bookshelf as he peered down into her eyes. His gaze was devouring every inch of her.

“Tell me you don't want this.” He pressed against her, let his head drop to her shoulder where he nuzzled his mouth against her throat and ear. “Tell me you haven't thought of this, wished for more than just kisses.”

“Yes,” she said, relenting. “I've thought of more. I've thought of your hands on me. My lips on you, learning how your skin will taste.”

He groaned, cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. They fell into each other without thought, both meeting each other halfway, then melting into one as Black's lips took hers.

She had prepared herself for a physical assault, but was pleasingly, achingly aroused by his gentle kiss. It was slow, thoughtful, almost as if he was savoring her. His long fingers threaded tightly with hers while his other hand stroked the side of her face, down to her chin. His lips pressed once more against hers, then gently covered them, coaxing her to return his kiss.

It felt as though she were drugged, disembodied somehow. She was conscious of the moan that escaped her when he slanted his mouth against hers, encouraging her to open for him.

“Your tongue,” he said against her lips. “I want to feel it.”

She gasped at the same moment she felt his tongue slide along her lower lip. He parted her lips and slid his tongue into her mouth. She was left with the feel and taste of him as his tongue boldly swirled inside, mingling with hers.

It seemed like an eternity before he drew away. “You make me ache,” he whispered, resting his face into the crook of her neck. She stilled her rapid breathing as his index finger slid down her throat to tickle the tops of her breasts. His breath came in short pants, whispering along her neck as he nuzzled the skin beneath her ear. “So soft,” he murmured, burying his face farther against her neck. “So beautiful. Let me see you.”

Her legs gave out as his long tapered finger circled her nipple through her corset. Her resolve was slipping, she knew it and was helpless to stop it. Every sensible thought was blown away on the breeze, despite the years and extensive experience of controlling her desires, of constantly reminding herself of her mother's hardships—which all stemmed from passion. A passionate nature that Isabella had inherited.

Moving barely an inch away, Black allowed the corset to fall to the floor, landing at his feet. She was naked to the waist. He did not lower his gaze, but looked her in the eye, watching her, and she was undone by what she saw. Stark need. Masculine arousal. He wanted her. She had never been wanted or desired by anyone and the feeling was euphoric, addictive.

Reaching for one of her hands, he brought it up over her head, held it with his other hand. Then reached for the other arm, made her fingers curl into each other as he held both her arms up with one hand. Her back was arched, her breasts lifted high toward him, and then his gaze slowly burned a path down her face, to her lips, to the bounding pulse in her throat, and then to her breast.

She felt that gaze instantly, and her nipples puckered, lengthened for him.

She waited for him to touch her, but he stood still, just looking, and she couldn't stand it, the pain, the need she felt to be touched—kissed—to be wanted. Just once, she wanted to feel someone's desire for her. To feel touch that was meant only to please and arouse, a touch meant only for her.

Please,
she silently pleaded.
Oh, please, just love me…

 

“J
UDE
!” I
T WAS A HUSKY
reply that did strange things to his brain, making him think of nothing other than hearing his name on her lips as he slid inside her. She would be hot and wet, and tight…so tight. She would be his.

Her breasts were arched forward, a perfect offering, and he could not resist just staring, letting the tempest of lust swirl inside him.

He wanted to touch, to cup and watch her breasts spilling out of his hands. He wanted to put the tip of his tongue to her pebbled nipples and taste the pink buds. He wanted to tease and toy with her, just as he had to the fabric rose on her bodice.

“You want this,” he rasped. “Admit it, tell me, Isabella. Just this once. Give me the words.”

“Yes,” she gasped, breathless. She struggled in his hold, but he held her tighter. He wanted her like this, a supplicant for his pleasure. He would not hurt her, harm her, but he would awaken her slowly. To bewitch her with pleasure, to bind him to her. Wendell Knighton would be long forgotten by the time he fitted himself inside Isabella's body.

Pressing forward, he rubbed his cheek against the full swells, inhaled her perfumed skin. He could hear her heart beating hard, and he kissed her where her heart hammered against his lips.

“Little magpie,” he whispered. “You clutch everything
to you, trying to keep it close, so afraid to lose it. But there is no fear with me. I'll stay close, and you can clutch me forever. I'll never let you go.”

She said nothing, only gasped as he lowered his mouth and circled her areola, which was shell pink, with the tip of his tongue.

Her moan nearly unmanned him, and he pressed forward, seeking relief between her thighs. She felt so soft against him, so right. Her breasts were full and high and made for his mouth and hands, and her thighs, good God, they hugged and molded his erection as if she had been designed for him. Everything about her was perfect. But he wanted more. Needed more. To feel the heat between her legs, the honey of her on his fingers.

Carefully he tongued her once more, let the tip of his tongue press against her nipple as he reached for her skirts and pulled them slowly up her thigh. The sound of satin sliding upward was an erotic charge. The panting breaths—both hers and his mingled together. Her little whimper as she felt his fingers trace her garter only made him more crazed.

Their eyes met, and he watched her, then turned to her breast, kissing her, positioning her, and then, he took her nipple into his mouth, and simultaneously snuck his finger into her folds.

One long moan echoed in the quiet. It was both of theirs, and Black closed his eyes, feeling Isabella's body clamping down on his finger.

“Jude,” she whispered, and he looked up, straightened, demanded that she look at him. How beautiful she was to him, her arms held high, her fingers clasping his, her green eyes ablaze with desire.

Carefully he stroked her, watched her mouth part, her tongue sneak out and wet her lips. She was cresting, building, and she tried to close her eyes, to shield him from
watching her, but he stopped, toyed with her until she obeyed his whispered commands.

When she was looking at him, and he could see her, could watch her fall apart, and come in his arms, he pleasured her with slow intimate strokes of his fingers. He built her up, then set his fingers on her, circled the little bud of flesh and nerves, and watched her eyes go wide.

“I can make you feel this way when I'm inside you,” he said as their gazes locked. “I can touch you, make you cry out, make you fall apart as I'm buried deep, loving you.”

He had no idea she would respond as such. She was innocent, and this was her first taste of pleasure. So, when she cried out and began to tremble and shake in his arms, he was helpless to do anything but watch her, memorizing her, knowing she was going to look even more arousing when she was beneath him, his body deeply inside hers.

When the tremors subsided, she collapsed in his arms, and he went to the floor, taking her with him so that she sat in his lap. He held her, kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, feeling her in his arms.

“The first time I saw you I wanted you this way.”

“At the ball?” she asked, rubbing her face against his chest like a well-fed kitten.

Sighing, he held her close, wondering how much of the truth he should give her. Would she run from him if he told her that he'd first seen her almost two years before, in Whitby? She seemed a nervous creature when it came to her past, and the things she didn't want anyone to know. He didn't want this moment to end, to disrupt the intimacy that was now between them. She was softening, allowing herself to indulge, and he was afraid that honesty would ruin it all.

“Jude?”

“Yes,” he lied. “At the ball.”

The way she felt in his arms was sheer perfection.
He still ached with unspent desire, still wanted so much more, but holding her like this, having her curl into him for safety and comfort, was just as pleasant for now.

“My lord?” The sharp rap on the door made Isabella go stiff in his arms, as if she had forgotten everything outside this room.

“Shh,” he whispered while he rubbed his hand up her naked back. “It is only my butler and he would never dare enter until I gave him leave.”

Nodding, she kept her face pressed against his cravat, and her fingers buried in the back of his shirt. God, he couldn't give her up. Not now, not ever and especially not tonight. He wanted to sit here on the floor of his library all night long and just hold and caress her. He wanted to talk, to learn everything about her. He wanted to hear about her life, her book, her dreams.

“I've readied the carriage, my lord. It's nearly eleven. I thought you'd like to know.”

“Thank you, Billings. I shall be there momentarily.”

Tipping up her chin, he took in her face, her ruined hair that looked utterly captivating and her kiss-swollen lips. She had never looked more beautiful to him, a picture of ravishment, and he was the ravisher.

Smiling tenderly, he clutched her face in his palms and stroked his thumb over her lips. “How will I sleep tonight?” he asked. “When my arms will ache for you, and behind my closed eyes I will see you, shattering in my arms, a picture so beautiful and arousing, I will have to play it over and over.”

She was shy, and she closed her eyes, avoiding him, but he placed a gentle kiss on each eyelid.

“Let me get you safely home.”

“Yes, we've been in here much too long.”

Tipping her chin up, he gazed into her eyes, losing himself. “Not nearly long enough, Bella.”

“W
ELL THAT WAS THE MOST
exciting dinner of my life!”

Climbing the huge winding staircase that led to their rooms, Isabella held on to the banister, her legs still shaking and her mind swirling with the memories of what she had done with Black not more than ten minutes before.

“Imagine, talking of such things! There was absolutely no discretion at the table, and how I loved it! I never knew it could be so liberating to be freed of social constraints. I thought Papa would have paroxysms, though, when Knighton and Black challenged him about the lower orders.”

Content to let Lucy carry the conversation, Isabella stayed inside her mind, reliving those moments of sheer bliss in Black's arms. The way he had touched her, suckled her breasts. It was…rapturous. She should never have allowed it, of course, but she had been at the mercy of her own desires. One taste, the taunting demon inside her coaxed. She had thought it would be enough, just a little glimpse of what she would find in Black's arms if she allowed herself to fall. But like a sweet from the candy shop, she could not stop at just one.

“Wasn't Sussex's sister delightful? Imagine, his sister!” Lucy shook her head and smiled. “I was perfectly horrid to her, and I did find a moment to apologize to her in private. I…I don't know what came over me.”

Isabella did. Lucy may not understand it, but she was, on some level, attracted to the duke. Seeing him there
with a woman brought those feelings to the forefront, and she hadn't been able to control the swift sense of jealousy she was experiencing.

Isabella was happy for her cousin. The duke was an excellent choice. Perfect for Lucy, in fact. Unlike Black, who was the exact opposite. Where the duke represented safety, Black was danger. The duke would temper Lucy's sometimes flighty nature. Where Black brought out the absolute worst in her.

She had acted like a wanton in his arms. Everything she had told herself she must not allow was flown away with his touch.

“Elizabeth is so cultured, so very adept at conversation. I wonder why she doesn't come out into society?”

“Perhaps her blindness inhibits her,” Isabella suggested. She more than anyone knew how harsh the ton could be to those whom they felt were inferior. While Elizabeth appeared to be well adjusted and content with her lot in life, Isabella knew that a woman wore two faces—the face she knew everyone wanted to see—and the face she hid—the one that was her true self.

“Elizabeth and I are going shopping tomorrow,” Lucy prattled on. “You'll come, won't you?”

“Of course.” She would love to see Elizabeth again, and the outing would keep her mind off Black and what had happened in his library.

The door opened to Isabella's chamber, and Lucy followed her in. Isabella had to admit that she was somewhat irked by her cousin's presence. She was not up for entertaining Lucy tonight. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. As she lay in Black's lap, held in his arms, his scent and body heat enveloping her, she had wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Wanted to awaken in his arms. Whatever he had done to her made her feel lazy and languid, a boneless heap of quivering flesh. And his butler had knocked on the door, making the sensation
of euphoria slip away, replaced by horror. What had she done?

“Lady Elizabeth's blindness does not bother me one whit, Issy.” Lucy sighed as she flopped down onto Isabella's bed. “What of you?”

Perhaps spending a few minutes talking with Lucy was the tonic she needed to get her mind off Black and the feelings in her body. She was restless, and her body, now that it seemed awakened to passion, wanted more.

“No, of course her blindness is of no bother to me. I find her quite brave, in fact, and very beautiful.”

“Yes, her eyes, how lovely they are, so gray and mysterious, like a steel-laden winter sky. I would never have guessed she was blind, for her eyes…well, you know what I mean.”

“She wasn't born blind, I do recall that.”

“Yes, well,” Lucy said as she lay onto the pillows, “it doesn't matter to me. For I'm certain that Elizabeth will make us a most agreeable companion, and a wonderful friend. I don't have many friends,” Lucy murmured.

Neither of them did. They were each other's best friend. And that had always seemed enough for Isabella. But suddenly she was thinking of her cousin, looking at her lying in the middle of the bed—so beautiful and fashionable. Rich, titled. She should be the belle of the ball, the favorite of the ton. She should have a hundred friends, and yet she didn't. There were few girls their age that could be described as acquaintances, but nothing more than that.

“And what of the duke?” she found herself asking. “Does he improve upon closer inspection?”

Lucy's face flamed as red as her hair. “The Duke of Delicious,” she drawled, using the sobriquet the women of the ton had given the duke. “There is no denying he is a handsome man, but he is not what I want.” Frowning, Lucy looked away. “He's too bland. Staid. I want someone more elemental. Someone at the mercy of his own
desires, who would do anything, risk anything, to be with me. Like your Lord Black, Issy.”

“He isn't
my
Lord Black,” she muttered irritably.

“Isn't he? He certainly seemed like he was yours when you exited the library. Were you aware that your hair was not quite right, and that Black's hand was intimately and possessively pressed against your back? No, Issy, I fear he is yours, whether you want him or not. And, you'd be a damn fool if you didn't.”

“How can you say that? You know nothing of Black!
I
know nothing of
him!
”

“What is there to know? He's an earl, he's rich and he's utterly besotted with you. And he desires you. His every look speaks of it. He can't keep his gaze off you. He was practically devouring you with his stare during supper.”

“I don't know him, Luce. Not his past, his future, what his dreams are. I don't know what sort of man he really is. There is nothing between us but a strange, and rather alarming, flare of desire,” she said while biting her lip. She was pacing. She couldn't help it. Lucy watched her from the bed, her head tilted with curiosity.

“Issy, I think you had better tell me what happened in the library.”

Never! Oh, she could never admit to another living soul how brazen she'd been—she had not even pretended to rebuff his advance. He had touched her
there,
and she had never protested, just asked for more—encouraged him with her moans and the way she'd panted like a common dockside harlot.

He had gone slowly, the raising of her skirts had been gradual and seductive. He'd given her plenty of time to protest, but she hadn't thought of it. Not once. By the time he turned her to face him, her mental admonishments had ceased and the dangerous and unseemly behavior was being encouraged with the voice of desire. She'd wanted it. What he gave her, and that much more.

It had been liberating. She had loved the feel of being desired so fiercely by another living soul. But now, in the aftermath, she was mortified by her easy fall. But more than that she was afraid. Afraid of what she had become. Afraid that, like her mother, she was thinking of the next time she would see him, touch him.

“Oh, Issy,” Lucy said irritably. “Look at you, wearing a path into the carpet. For heaven's sake, you're not going to hell because of a little kiss and caress.”

Lucy's irreverence annoyed her. How could she make so little of the turmoil of what was eating away at her?

“Oh, do not look at me like that,” Lucy said as she sat up, watching her. “You're allowed to be attracted to Lord Black. He's a beautiful, mysterious man. I daresay any woman's dream. And he wants you. How can you deny it? How can you refuse it? If I had a man desiring me with such passion,” she continued, “I would not hesitate to take what was offered.”

“Well, you and your kind have that ability. Others do not.”

“What do you mean me and my kind?” Lucy demanded as she flew off the bed. “What an absolute insult!”

“It is the defect of the aristocracy, isn't it, to take whatever they want with little consequence. But an ordinary person like me cannot do so, not without consequence.”

“Oh, do not use that excuse with me, Isabella. You've been living the life of an aristocrat and taking to it quite nicely. You cannot now look down your nose at us. Besides, this has nothing to do with me, but Black, and what he does to you. You're a frightened little mouse, afraid to reach out for what you want. I wouldn't be, not in a million years.”

“That is because you are spoiled!” Isabella countered, unsure of just where this sudden rage was springing from. She only knew that it bubbled up, erupted like the force of the ocean pounding relentlessly against the rocks. “You
care only for yourself, your own pleasures. You don't care what happens, or who gets hurt just as long as you get whatever it is you want!”

“Oh, how could you!” Lucy cried. “Is that what you think of me? You chastise me because I would follow my heart? You think I'm blind about Sussex? Well, you should have a look in the mirror, Isabella, because you're being just as blind. Black wants you, and you want him! You're just too frightened to allow yourself to take him. You're still that waif from Yorkshire, cowering in fear, making excuses to not enjoy life because of what your mother chose to do with her life!”

“And then what?” she demanded as they stood toe to toe baring themselves to one another. “I shall surrender to him, and he will tire of me and cast me aside. And then I will be soiled goods. No, I will not allow it. I don't want what he's offering. I'd rather be the cowardly waif from Yorkshire. At least I know her. I don't know this person you want to make me into—this creature who lives for pleasure. Who would offer herself to a man she barely knows.”

“So, what Wendell Knighton is offering is something much better? He could not even be bothered to greet you properly or escort you in to dinner. You're wasting yourself on a man who only wants you because you further his social position and open doors to him that might have forever remained closed.”

That stung. Even as it stabbed at her heart, Isabella knew it for the truth. In a sense, they were both using each other.

“Why would you throw away your life in such a way? God,” Lucy raged, “you have been given what few others in this world have. You've been given a second chance at life, and you're going to toss it away for something cold and calculated and safe!”

“There is nothing wrong with longing for safety.”

“There is everything wrong with settling,” Lucy countered. “And selling your soul for comfort, instead of giving it freely to the man you want.”

“You may think that way, Lucy, because you have never had to worry over anything more substantial than when your pin money will be increased so you can buy anything and everything you see. You can give your soul and body to whoever you damn well please because deep down you know your father has power and influence. He can make any man yours. But it is not like that for me.”

“It is, you just stubbornly refuse to see it. You'd rather hide like a coward than to live. You almost died, and here you are, given a second chance and still you refuse to live. Your fears of your past rule you.”

“Perhaps if you understood hardship, if you knew what it was like to be denied anything, instead of having everything handed to you on a silver platter, you would understand my feelings. But as is so typical of you, this conversation has turned into what you would do, what you would feel if you were me. Well, you aren't, and you can never, ever know what it was like to grow up as I did. What it is like to be me.”

“And this is what you think of me, that I am a spoiled, indulged, pleasure-seeking ingrate.”

“Yes,” she gasped, then immediately wished to take it back. “No, Lucy, not exactly—”

The ravaged expression on her cousin's face made her reach out to her, but Lucy's green eyes suddenly blazed, and she brushed past her, running to the door. “Do you know something, Isabella, you don't know me, either. You're much more indulged and spoiled than I, because the one thing I've longed for my whole life is what Black is giving you. And do you know, I could almost hate you for tossing it aside for some lukewarm respect and barely feigned attraction from Wendell Knighton. You have been given the one gift that money cannot buy—true desire,
and I daresay love. Dearest Papa,” she spat, “won't be able to buy that for me.”

Her body jolted as the door slammed behind Lucy. In a fit of despair, Isabella slid to the floor and gave in to a flood of tears.

Lucy was wrong. She didn't understand anything, most especially Black, and her fears of unbridled passion. They would ruin a woman who had nothing. She had seen it. Lived it. Lucy had been tucked away, richly clothed and fed. If she was cold, a servant was summoned to stoke the fire. When she had been cold, Isabella had had no choice but to huddle beneath threadbare blankets. Stoking the fire had not been an option, because more times that not, they had been saving the last piece of coal or two.

No, Lucy did not know what it was to suffer, to long. But as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, Isabella thought of her cousin, the hurt, the devastation in her green eyes. And then she realized that behind the haughty indignation was the look of a young woman who had suffered. It had always been there, although vague, and fleeting, she had seen it, on more than one occasion—but more of late.

Lucy knew what it was to be sad. To hurt. To long for something she could never have.

 

T
HEY GATHERED
in the upper balcony where the candlelight could not reach, and where the shadows reigned. Ceremonial incense wafted in curling tendrils, the scent of frankincense cloying the air, coating their clothes and hair. Below them, members of the lodge surrounded the candidate who was applying to be initiated in the first degree.