Mildred had always been frightfully proper—haughty, even. So unlike Isabella’s mother who shunned society’s rules. Lucy, Isabella thought, very much reminded Isabella of her own mother—both in looks and temperament. She wasn’t the only who had thought so, either. Aunt Mildred had despaired of Lucy becoming just like her “fallen unfortunate sister.” That fear had been so great that upon Lucy’s tenth birthday, Aunt Mildred had refused to come to Yorkshire to visit them. They had been kept separate after that, lest Lucy catch the wanton, wild streak Isabella’s mother had never outgrown.
There hadn’t ever been any fear that Isabella would end up like her mother. She had learned a hard lesson, from a very young age. She would not follow her mother’s footsteps.
“My toes are already pinched,” Lucy hissed into her ear as they stood and watched the swell of dancers waltzing around the overly hot room. “And I fear my forehead is glistening.”
Isabella studied Lucy. “Only a titch. Can you discreetly wipe it?”
“Not likely. I feel like all eyes are on us.”
“Not us, you, sweetie,” Isabella murmured. “I think they’re waiting to see if the Duke of Sussex will come up to scratch tonight.”
“Good Lord, let us hope not,” Lucy moaned as she furiously beat the air with her fan. “I cannot for the life of me imagine His Grace at a séance.”
Hiding her laugh behind her hand, Isabella stood on tiptoes, searching for the duke who had become increasingly more ardent in his pursuit of her cousin. He glanced their way, and immediately his expression changed from feigned politeness to brooding. Sussex certainly could brood, and he looked immensely handsome while doing so. Why her cousin could not see this, Isabella had no idea. The way he stared at Lucy was positively worthy of a dramatic swoon.
“Do you like him, Luce?”
“He’s handsome. Rich. Titled. He has at least four estates spread throughout the kingdom and I hear he’s a bit of philanthropist to boot—belongs to all sorts of charities and committees to better the ordinary man and those less fortunate. A virtual paragon,” Lucy muttered as she glanced away from Sussex’s prolonged stare. “Of course I should like him, but I confess that I do not feel much more than friendliness toward him. He’s too shiny,” she said, her tone turning thoughtful. “Rather like an immaculate archangel. I admit—but only to you—that I have a taste for more of the fallen angel. With those black curls and his beautiful face, you would think him one of the fallen, but no, he’s not the least bit dangerous, but one hundred percent glowing and pure.”
“Dangerous men prove only useful in selling books,” Isabella muttered as she watched Sussex conversing with his friends. “In real life they serve to be more of a handful than what they’re worth. Trust me, I am the product of a dangerous rakehell and a naive, overly passionate woman.”
Lucy let out a most unrefined snort. “Issy, there is no woman on earth who can pen a more compelling, delicious rakehell than you. Pray do not pretend that you do not also covet a bit of danger in your life. Your writing is an extension of your soul. A glimpse deep inside. No,” she said, slapping the tip of her fan over Isabella’s hand. “Do not deny it. Admit it,” Lucy whispered, “there is someplace inside that wishes for a dangerous man to come and sweep you off your careful, proper feet.”
“No. I do not. Of that I can safely say you’re wrong, Lucy. If I were ever to encounter a dangerous man I would run screaming in the opposite direction.”
Lucy laughed, and Isabella scanned the dark-haired man from across the room. Sussex was tall, well formed, extremely well dressed and possessed a light, jovial personality. He enjoyed a laugh, as did her cousin. Isabella had thought it a perfect match when the duke had sought an introduction to her cousin, by way of Isabella’s suitor, Wendell Knighton. Unfortunately, her cousin remained utterly obtuse to the duke’s merits.
At the thought of her suitor, Mr. Knighton suddenly appeared beside the duke. She felt the slight lurch of her heart at the sight of him. Her pulse definitely leaped when his dark brown gaze found hers from across the room. He smiled, and Isabella returned it, along with the delicate beginnings of a flush. “Your Mr. Knighton is obviously smitten, Issy.”
Her flush grew to a full-out blush. “I like him very much.”
Lucy tipped her head and studied her. “And yet I still feel, as I always did, that he’s not the right man for you. You need someone different. Deeper. More complex. Someone who understands who you really are, Issy.”
“Nonsense,” Isabella scoffed as she watched the dancers. “You make me out to be a mystery when I am nothing but a simple Yorkshire country girl.”
But that wasn’t true. After the unfortunate event of last spring, everyone knew she was different. Neither she nor her family talked of it, but it was there, always lurking, threatening to come out.
“Oh, look,” Lucy murmured. “He’s come.”
“Who’s come?” Isabella tried to peer over two ornate feathered headdresses, but could see nothing.
“To the left, on the balcony.”
The crowd quieted, sensing something was about to happen. All heads turned in the direction of the balcony where the butler stood and pronounced, “The Earl of Black.”
The cacophony of music and laughter faded as the guests pressed forward, waiting for a glimpse of the man whose name had just been announced. The room went perfectly quiet as all interest was now focused on the crab-shaped staircase. Like a magus arising from a cloud of smoke he appeared, looking down upon the faces that peered curiously up at him.
Hair as black as night fell in loose waves to his shoulders. Skin, pale and smooth, glinted beneath the blazing chandeliers. Eyes, a haunting shade of turquoise, scanned the crowd with unconcealed interest. Black brows, perfectly arched, enhanced his eyes, which had a slight upward slant.
His fingers, long and elegant, ever so slightly rapped against the balustrade as he surveyed the scene below him. He was very tall and immensely broad in the chest and shoulders. His black dress clothes and white cravat were impeccably tailored. Bow ties were the fashion now, but the elegance of the old-fashioned cravat suited him, giving him an aristocratic allure. So, too, did his black velvet jacket, which was styled in the Eastern fashion—mandarin collar with two rows of gold buttons in the military style.
He looked liked an ancient Romany prince—a warrior boyar—as his head moved slowly from right to left, his gaze spanning the entire room and its occupants.
Here was a man of the world, Isabella thought as she perused him from head to toe. A man who was mysterious and experienced, and utterly captivating. There was an air of danger about the man, a thought that was supported by the fact that a few matrons to her right were quietly but rapidly whispering behind their fans. More than one gentleman stiffened, their eyes wary as they watched the commanding earl. Everyone seemed to move in the smallest of increments—as if they were in slow motion. Was it out of fear that their movements might catch the infamous earl’s attention?
Warmth spread through Isabella’s body as she watched the Earl of Black stroll with negligent ease down the stairs. He was all arrogance and predatorlike grace. Tall and sleek, he resembled the Bengal tiger Wendell had shown her on display in the British Museum. He had the same rapacious look in his eye as she had seen in the tiger’s green eyes. He was on the hunt, that was for certain, but for what, or whom, she feared to guess.
Lord
