No, the quiet was far too intimate, and her thoughts much too reckless.
His leg moved, his booted foot brushed against the hem of her day gown, and she swallowed—averting her gaze, allowing it to roam the carriage—anywhere, as long as it was not lingering on him, or the imagery her mind wished her to acknowledge.
She was a sinful creature to be thinking such thoughts! She had been given the opportunity that many of her sort never had. She’d been gifted with the chance to live as a lady, and here she was, thinking base, depraved thoughts and succumbing to the lure of pleasure just like her reckless parents.
She must put an end to this. Unable to withstand the silence—and her own wayward thoughts—Isabella said the first thing that came to mind.
“I received your note this morning.” He glanced at her sharply, but said nothing. It was a dim-witted thing to have said. She should never have opened up this conversation, but it was done, and she was committed now. “Thomas Moore’s poem is one of my favorites. I can recite it from memory.”
“Can you?”
“The last verse of Moore’s poem is, in my opinion, the best. ‘So soon may I follow when friendships decay, from love’s shining circle the gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, Oh! Who would inhabit this bleak world alone?’”
Slowly he turned to look at her. “You’re a romantic.”
Isabella felt her cheeks flame scarlet. “Yes. But what woman is not, my lord? I think you’re a romantic as well.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“You removed the thorns from the rose you picked for me.”
He inclined his head, then averted his gaze on the window, fixing on the scenery that was passing slowly by. He declined further comment, and it made Isabella wonder if he had grown uncomfortable with the familiarity of their conversation. For certain, his quiet contemplation unnerved her. They were back to silence, and the intimacy was a living breathing thing—a pulsation—that throbbed with each of their breaths, their heartbeats.
Isabella could hardly stand it. But Black appeared to be unaware of the rippling current that simmered between them.
Hands trembling, Isabella could stand the torture no longer. She would keep up a one-sided conversation because talking was the only thing that kept her thoughts away from the image of Black holding her hand … kissing her.
“Mr. Knighton came by this morning.”
“Did he? Did you not inform him that etiquette states that calls are not made till the afternoon?”
“He couldn’t wait to tell me that you had offered to sponsor him as a Mason. It has been his fondest wish for some time. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Again he inclined his head, but refused to answer. Damn the man. She was unsettled, at a disadvantage, and she didn’t like it. She felt herself growing reckless, the calm she had striven for having long abandoned her.
“You seem to know a great deal about me—a rather disconcerting amount, some would say.”
His gaze continued to stay focused on the window. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, but his voice in the silence was like a velvet caress that Isabella felt along her spine. “I would not have you disconcerted, Isabella.”
That was it? All he would say? Indeed, she was very disturbed by the fact he knew so much about her—and the man who was courting her. But Black … his inexplicable knowledge of her past made her nervous. Nerves were not a healthy thing for those who possessed an active imagination. All sorts of notions could run rampant through one’s head. Isabella couldn’t allow herself to even think of the possible ways Black had discovered so much about her.
It really was rather unfair. His lordship seemed to know her rather well, and yet she, and everyone else in London, knew basically nothing of him. He shielded his privacy well, and no one got beyond the cool indifference, or the iron gates that protected his realm.
What was he hiding? she wondered. Who was he really? Was he playing some sort of dark game with her? He seemed the type of man—worldly and intelligent—who could easily become jaded and bored by his life of privilege. Maybe it was a case of ennui, and he was amusing himself by toying with her?
These thoughts again made her quite agitated. How in the world had the earl learned so much about her—she, a penniless, fatherless urchin from the crumbling Yorkshire coast? How was forefront, but why quietly whispered in the back of her mind. Why would a man like Black, powerful, wealthy, sophisticated, wish to know about someone like her?
The only way to ease her questing thoughts was to have answers. Although she doubted the earl would grant them. He seemed content to sit quietly, staring out the window, keeping his own counsel while blanketing himself in his cloak of mystery.
“How is it you knew where to find me today?” she demanded. “And about Herr Von Schraeder? And why did you go to the docks to find Mr. Knighton this morning? Why could you not wait to see him at the museum or at a ball to offer your sponsorship of him? What was so urgent that it needed to be done then, at the crack of dawn?”
“So many questions,” he murmured, trying to make light, but Isabella saw the intense scrutiny in his eyes as he slowly slid his gaze to her face. “And for one not feeling well.”
“My head pounds even more, my lord, wondering about the answers.”
“Quid pro quo, Isabella?” he asked, his eyes flashing beneath long onyx lashes. “Do you wish to play? It is not a game for one, but two. It is hardly fair that you get to ask all the questions, and I am not allowed the same luxury.”
She met his stare, willing, for now, to play by his rules. “How did you know about Von Schraeder?”
“He was an old man, and reported to be ill. Minutes before you arrived at the apothecary I witnessed him in his traveling cart. He appeared weak and frail, and not long for the mortal realm. He was clutching his chest, as one does when suffering a heart seizure.” He looked her over—slowly, methodically, and she did not doubt that one thing escaped his notice. She could never hide anything from him—she knew that, deep in her belly. Black was a man that let nothing slip by him. “Tell me about your headaches, Isabella.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I started having them when I was twelve. They grew worse last year. Mr. Knighton.” She asked, her fingers curling in agitation, “Why did you look for him on the docks?”
“It’s no secret Knighton’s been anxiously awaiting the boat’s arrival. I knew he wouldn’t wait patiently at the museum for it to be delivered.”
“So you waited for him on the docks?”
“I did.”
“But why?”
He smiled and pressed forward, capturing her cheek in his palm. “It’s not your turn.” His grin turned wolfish, and she trembled. Good Lord, he was mesmerizing in his masculinity. There was something about him that made her feel very safe and protected, and … womanly. For so long she had relied on her own wits to get her through, it was rather novel to feel like a damsel in distress being saved by a knight in shining armor.
“I wonder,” he asked, “do you dream of things with your headaches?”
Gasping, Isabella pulled away, but he followed her to her bench, and forced her to look at him. He stared at her—deeply—and Isabella was shocked by the sensation of having him so close, his full attention