Even in death she was beautiful. Her porcelain skin, drained of color, rendered her angelic. Her hair, which was fanned out over black velvet, shone silver beneath the moonlight, reminding him of shimmering silk threads as it dangled over his arm. He lowered his head, inhaling the scent of all that luxurious hair, imagining it gliding along his body, his hands cupping handfuls of curls.
So still she lay that he could not bear it, and slowly he raised his face from her hair to touch the cold alabaster cheeks that were plump, the becoming flush he had seen no longer there. He bent to kiss the lips that were no longer pink. A goodbye. A parting. Their mouths touched, hers cold, his colder. Death’s eternal kiss …
Black awoke in a rush. He was sitting up in bed, the darkness shadowing his walls, a scream burning his throat.
He had dreamed of her. She had been lying dead in his arms, her delicately flushed skin devoid of color and warmth. The pliant body he had felt in his arms was stiff, unyielding. The sparkle in her green eyes gone, replaced with an opaque veil that clouded her eyes.
Dead. He couldn’t bear it.
Breathing heavily, he threw the bedcovers off and stood, reaching for the black velvet dressing gown that lay draped over a chair. Shrugging into it, he belted the sash around his waist, covering his nakedness as he went to the window, resting his forearm on the frame. Flickering light illuminated the window in the mansion across the street and his fingers, which had been lax, curled into a fist. It was her window—Isabella’s.
He still had the scent of her lingering on his fingers. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her as she had been only a few hours before, sitting with him in the maze, her lashes lowering, her lips parting in invitation. She had been a vision there in the dark, in his arms, her softly rounded body melting into his. He had seen desire in her haunting green eyes, had felt it heat the skin he had not been able to resist touching.
The scent of her aroused him, clouded his mind. He’d wanted her. Fiercely.
Damning as the admission was, he could not lie to himself. He would have taken things further tonight if Isabella had not pulled away from him. And what business had he, a man of experience, to pursue an innocent virgin?
For the hundredth time that night, he cursed himself for a fool. Asking her to dance had been a mistake. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. For so long he had hungered for her, keeping his distance. For too long he had stood at this very window, blending in with the shadows, wishing night after long, interminable night that he might see her beyond the glass.
It was strange, this feeling. His body actually warmed at the thought of her. It had been years since he had felt anything but coldness—emptiness. His life had become one of isolation, rumor and speculation. He was cursed. He knew it, had accepted it and used that comprehension to erect the ice that now surrounded his heart. Yet one glimpse of Isabella was enough to begin thawing the thick, frigid layers.
He’d only ever had a job to do, duties to see carried out. It was those obligations that had brought him back to London. It was those duties he should have been seeing to this evening when he was dancing with Miss Isabella Fairmont.
But she had looked too damn lovely and irresistible to avoid. In her lilac gown, which was sparsely adorned, she stood out to him from amongst all the fluffy, overly embellished women who had flocked to his side. She had been elegant standing there, her hair pulled up in a loose cascade of curls. He had liked her hair like that, enjoyed the way it allowed him to see the long column of her throat, which had been adorned with a diamond and amethyst choker. He had wanted to kiss the bounding pulse that beat a furious tattoo beneath the skin she had perfumed. He wanted to feel the delicate beat of her heart against his lips. Her body against his—her flesh, flushed with passion, warming him. But that was madness.
So was standing here in the dark, hidden away in his home, waiting for a glimpse of her. He smiled, thinking of her sitting on a settee, her legs folded beneath her as she wrote feverishly in her journal.
He had seen her that way before, scribbling away while the wind blew her hair and mist hovered around her. But that had been another place—another time. He could not allow her to know of that—how he had watched her.
Hers was a fertile imagination. And a considerable threat. There was no telling what might happen if Isabella discovered anything about him. In truth, she was too perceptive, and he had spoken too freely tonight.
Still, he could not regret those moments in the maze, or the hunger for her that suddenly felt insatiable. She was young—an innocent. He was older, experienced, a connoisseur of all things forbidden. He had no right to even gaze at her, let alone kiss her in a maze. Even as he realized the dangers of doing such a thing, he knew he would go to her again—soon.
“My lord, you’ve been summoned.”
He had not heard the door to his chamber open, a fact that should have disturbed him, but he could not work up the remorse. He’d been too busy reliving his dance with the delectable and highly desirable Isabella Fairmont.
Billings, one of only a handful of servants he employed, padded wraithlike across the Turkish carpet. “I’ve sent round for the carriage. Shall I lay out a fresh suit and cravat, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Billings.” He gazed to the corner where his brindle-colored English mastiff, Lamb, lay snoring by the hearth. “Take him outside, will you, Billings?” A shadow flickered in Isabella’s window, and his gaze was drawn to the spot of movement like a moth to a flame. “No, on second thought, I’ll do it.”
“As you wish, my lord,” his faithful retainer murmured as he backed out of the room.
“I’ve been summoned by the Brethren, then?”
“You have, milord. Sussex’s seal was on the carriage door.”
He snorted, hating to leave his spot by the window and a chance he might see Isabella wearing a transparent nightrail with her hair unbound, spilling about her shoulders. “I suppose the carriage is waiting in the street.”
“It is, my lord.”
“Well then, they shall have to wait, for I have something to see to before I go.”
With a snap of his fingers, he awoke his pet and signaled for him to follow. Dressing quickly in a shirt and trousers, Black moved through the darkness, descending the steps of the winding staircase, and headed for the kitchen, and the door that led to the garden. He knew where he was going and what he wanted.
So did Lamb.
Off into the darkness the mastiff loped, chasing a rabbit that had ventured into the garden. Himself, he made his way down the path to a rosebush. One lone rose bloom wavered on a tall stem that waved back and forth in the chill October breeze.
Carefully he snapped it off and brought the delicate bloom to his nose. It was a heady scent, and he stood there for long minutes with his eyes closed, bringing the sweet aroma into his lungs. Isabella had smelled of roses. The scent had been in his head all night, ever since the moment he had captured her hand during their introduction.
There were few things he was certain of, but of two things he was one hundred percent convinced. He wanted her. And he’d find a way to have her.
“Our greatest fear has come to fruition,” a voice announced behind him.
“We have feared many things since the Brethren Guardians came to rest in our hands,” he replied, savoring the last images of Isabella as they floated away.
“I think you know I’m here on business that cannot be delayed.”
Out of long habit, Black flicked his gaze to each of the darkened corners of his back garden. No place was truly safe. “I will meet you at the lodge and we can discuss it there.”
“I’ve already ensured the garden is secure,” Sussex snapped. “You will meet with me now.”
Irritated by the anger he heard in Sussex’s