Her Secret Affair (9 page)

Keeping her gaze focused ahead on the misty row of town houses, she marched along with her chin held high. There, that should satisfy the earl. If he had any sense in that haughty head of his, he would abandon her to her fate.

He swore viciously under his breath. Then his big dark shape swooped at the edge of her vision. She started to turn, but his muscled arm clamped around her waist as he hauled her up into the saddle.

She found herself wedged sideways in front of him, her legs dangling high above the ground and her bottom squashed between him and the pommel. The twisting of her cloak lashed her in place within the circle of his arms. Any attempt to move only nestled her more intimately against his hard body.

Her rage at his audacity burned deeply, sizzling low in her belly. She tilted her head back, intending to demand her freedom. But the caustic words died in her throat. His face was stark and compelling in the shadows. Against her shoulder, his heart beat a strong rhythm. With every breath, she drew in his male scent: leather and musk, darkness and danger. She felt consumed by the impulse to lift her arms and draw his face down to hers, to touch his smooth-shaven cheek, to taste his masculine lips …

She stopped herself in dismay. This was sexual desire, the carnal longings she had heard her aunts discuss when they thought she wasn’t listening, the secret ache she’d felt alone in her bed in the dark of night. She had sworn not to follow her mother’s path, sworn not to give herself indiscriminately. She had vowed to save her passion for the man who earned her respect and trust.

So how could she desire this blue-blooded brute?

Isabel punched his arm. “Let me down.”

His embrace tightened to the verge of pain. The horse pranced along, jolting her forward against the pommel. “Stop your squirming,” Kern snapped. “You’ll frighten my mount.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Back to Hathaway’s. So you won’t bring shame onto him or Lady Helen.”

She thought of Persephone, weak with illness, calling for her. “Wait! You don’t understand.”

“If you’re worried about Mobrey, I doubt he’ll give up on you so easily. He’ll be groveling at your feet come morning, bringing you posies and begging for your favors.”

“If you must know,” she said through gritted teeth, “I’m not off to meet him. So release me.”

Kern reined the horse to a halt. The palatial facade of Hathaway’s town house appeared through the mist. Other than a faint, flickering light in her own second-story window, the house loomed like a dark and silent sentinel. But it was not so imposing as the man who held her hostage.

The very real danger of her situation gripped Isabel. If he knew the memoirs lay only inches from his grasp, he would wrest up her skirts and seize the book. She caught her breath at the image of his hand sliding over her thigh …

His gloved fingers tilted her chin up. His eyes glittered through the gloom. Again, she felt that heated quivering inside her, the shocking desire to melt against him, to turn in the saddle and wrap her legs around his waist.

“You’re lying,” he said flatly.

She had to think a moment before remembering he referred to her meeting Charles Mobrey. “I’m not.”

“I can prove it by seeking out Mobrey’s carriage right now.”

“Then do so if you like. You won’t find him.”

“So where were you going, then? And don’t repeat that nonsense about taking a stroll.”

Desperate to be shed of him, she blurted out, “It’s my Aunt Persy. She’s taken ill and she needs me.”

“Where does she live?”

“At the brothel—with my other aunts.”

“Ah, your
aunts.
”

“Yes.
You
might scorn them, but they’re all the family I have.” To her chagrin, a telltale heat stung her eyes. Jerking around before he could notice, she strained against the iron fetters of his arms. “Now let me down so I can be on my way. There’s no time to waste.”

“For God’s sake, sit still.” He snapped the reins and the roan gelding set off at a trot. “I’ll take you there.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You’re getting it, anyway. So quit arguing.”

He shouldn’t believe her, Kern told himself as he guided his mount through the foggy streets. Isabel Darling was a liar, an extortionist, a fortune hunter. But no matter how immoral her character, he couldn’t let a woman strike off alone in the middle of the night.

Curse his sense of decency.

And his soft heart. For a moment there, he could have sworn she’d had tears in her eyes.
Tears.

Her close proximity dissolved his powers of reasoning. Even though she sat as stiffly as a tailor’s mannequin, her feminine form drove him mad … the cradle of her hips … the lushness of her bosom … the friction of her soft bottom rubbing against him. For once, just once, he wanted to be free of scruples. He wanted to whisk her off to an inn and make violent love to her. He wanted to take her again and again until she ceased to plague him, mind and body.

It is better to give in to passion than to deny its existence.

Devil take it. He didn’t deny the existence of passion. How could he, when his loins burned like the fires of hell? But if he let his animal urges rule him, he would become like his father.

His breath made harsh plumes into the chilly air. His palms were sweating inside his thin riding gloves. It had been far too long since he had tasted the forbidden ecstasies of the flesh, that was all. He needed a wife, and soon. He needed gentle, innocent Helen. Then he could rid himself of these dark fantasies. Fantasies filled with the witchy Miss Darling.

By the time they reached the town house in a quiet neighborhood west of Regent Park, Kern had worked up more of a lather than his horse. He lifted Isabel down to the ground, and she went dashing away even before he dismounted. With a twitch of her midnight-blue cloak, she opened the front door and disappeared inside the house.

With no groom available, Kern walked the horse in the darkness, seeking to cool himself down as well. “There now, what do you think of that?” he growled, rubbing the horse’s neck. “She’s run off without so much as a thank you for my pains.”

The roan blinked its dark eyes and snuffled as if in sympathy.

“No doubt she expects us to wait out here in the cold for half the night. As if we’ve nothing better to do.”

The horse shook its silky mane.

Kern secured the reins to the iron fence rail. “Deuced females,” he muttered. “You’re lucky you’re gelded.”

This time, the horse stamped a hoof and snorted.

After giving the animal one final pat on the neck, Kern strode up the front steps and rapped on the door. He paced the small porch until the latch rattled and the white-painted panel opened a crack.

A tall, willowy woman in dishabille glared out at him. A waterfall of red hair curled down to her silk wrapper, and her brown eyes snapped with hostility. “Who are you?”

“I’ve come for Miss Darling.”

“Haven’t you heard? Miss Darling is dead.”

For an instant, his mouth went dry with horror. Then he caught her meaning. “The younger Miss Darling.”

“She’s busy.”

The redhead started to slam the door, but he blocked it with his foot. “I brought her here just now. Let me in at once.”

The woman sullenly obeyed, admitting him into the gloomy foyer. By the light of the candle in her manicured hand, she glowered as if he were the devil himself. “Minnie won’t like you being here. This house is closed to rakehells.”

It struck him as amusing, to be mistaken for a libertine. If only she knew, he wanted to howl out his frustration at the moon. “You’re Diana, aren’t you?”

“Who gave you my name?”

On his first visit here, the person he’d paid to leave the door unlocked had told him all about the women who lived in this house. “Never mind. Tell Miss Darling that Lord Kern awaits her.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s up there.” Diana shrugged her shoulder in the direction of the stairway. “Just don’t get underfoot—we’ve a sick woman in the house.” Taking the candlestick with her, she mounted the stairs, her hips undulating in an exaggerated sway.

Kern paced the dark foyer. He had no intention of invading a strange woman’s bedchamber. Of course, such qualms hadn’t stopped him the last time he’d been here, when he had confronted Isabel in the boudoir.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he felt restless, charged with energy. He glanced upstairs, but saw no sign of life in the gloom. An indistinct murmuring of voices came from the upper floor. Hands on his hips, he roamed into the darkened parlor.

No coals glowed on the hearth, and the grate had been swept clean. Although night shadowed the room, he could see that it was decorated with the same gaudy lack of taste as the rest of the house: statues of half-clad gods and goddesses, pink and gold draperies on the windows, chaises arranged in coy groupings—for orgies, no doubt. His mind conjured the image of himself reclining there beneath Isabel. Her skirts would be drawn to her waist, her slim white legs straddling him, her skin silken to his exploring touch …

Muttering a curse, he threw himself into a gilt chair and stretched out his legs, crossing his boots and loosening his cravat. On the mantelpiece the clock tick-ticked into the silence. By strength of will, he subdued his inner beast. He would not torture himself with carnal reverie. He would not imagine the lecherous pleasures indulged in this house. He would discipline his mind, concentrate on nothing at all …

*   *   *

“Asleep at last,” Isabel whispered.

Weary, she gazed down at the woman lying in the bed. Aunt Persy looked shockingly old, her pale cheeks sunken and her closed eyelids laced by spidery blue veins. A nightcap half swallowed her thinning gray hair. Her shallow breathing barely stirred the quilted counterpane.

Aunt Minnie beckoned Isabel toward the door. Picking up the candlestick and an empty teacup, Isabel tiptoed out of the room and joined Minnie in the gloomy corridor.

The plump, middle-aged woman shook her head. “The first rest she’s had in two days, the poor dear. And all the while calling for you.”

“You should have sent word sooner,” Isabel murmured, fighting a deep-seated guilt. “I would have come immediately.”

“What, and leave your fancy friends while you cared for a shopworn ladybird? I thought you’d forgotten all about them who helped to raise you.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten. I’ve been gone for only a fortnight.”

Minnie took the teacup from her and set it on a small table beneath a painting of Cupid and Psyche. “Hmph. And not a single visit in all that time. Methinks you’ve tasted the good life and now you’re getting ideas far above your station.”

“I want to find the man who killed my mother.” She swallowed hard, wondering if Trimble’s kind temperament masked a soul as ugly as his face. “I want to make him pay.”

“Now there’s a foolish notion. How many times must I tell you so?”

“It isn’t foolish. You yourself said you saw the murderer enter Mama’s bedchamber.”

“I saw a man, that’s all. I would never have told you so if I’d known you’d go haring off like this, chasing after shadows.” Minnie tugged disapprovingly on the fringes of her black shawl. “Supposing some nob really did do her in. Would he confess to the crime just because you asked? ’Tis more likely he’ll murder you, too.”

Isabel defied a shiver. “I must find out the truth,” she said.

“Mother of God, show some sense. No court of law will take
your
word over the Quality. And don’t think to fool anyone, either. You are who you are, a trollop’s daughter, and no fashionable lady’s gown will change that.”

The words stabbed into Isabel’s unguarded heart. For a moment, she could not speak. She would expect such a denunciation from Lord Kern, but not from Minnie, who had often visited Isabel in the country, when Aurora was too caught up in pursuing her own dreams. Steadily, trying not to resent Minnie, Isabel replied, “I know who I am, Aunt.”

“Do you, dearie?” Minnie embraced her, imparting a faintly musty scent. “Oh my sweet girl, forgive me for being so blunt, but I worry about you. I want to protect you from the cruelties of the world, that’s all.”

Resisting comfort, Isabel pulled away. “I’m a woman now. I can look after myself.”

“Can you? I think you’d best come home, back where you belong.” Minnie sighed. “I’ve been thinking about those memoirs. If you’re bent on collecting a little blackmail, I’ll turn my head the other way. We could use a bit of money to buy us that house in the country. It might be your Aunt Persy’s only hope for recovery.”

That knowledge sat like a stone in Isabel’s stomach. “I’ll get the funds somehow. But first I must find Mama’s murderer.”

“As stubborn as Aurora you’ve become.” Her hazel eyes narrowed with displeasure again, Minnie looked Isabel up and down. “You’ll be wanting to return to Hathaway’s. I’ll fetch that laggard Diana to sit a turn with Persy.”

“No. I-I’ll stay a bit longer.”

“Do as you like, then. I pray we’ll be seeing you again ere another fortnight passes.” Minnie marched down the darkened passageway and vanished into, her chamber.

Isabel wanted to call her back, to make amends for leaving again. But why should she apologize? Her purpose was commendable. She wanted justice done; she would not let an evil nobleman get away with murder. With Trimble gone for a while, she would focus her investigation on the Reverend Lord Raymond Jeffries, the Duke of Lynwood, and one other likely suspect.

Going back into the bedroom, Isabel placed the candlestick on the bedside table. She smoothed her palms over the jade silk ballgown, now sadly rumpled. Somewhere, she’d lost a few pins from her upswept hair, and curls dangled down her back.
You are who you are, a trollop’s daughter …

Kern never let her forget her past, either. He had taunted her about walking the streets alone; he had accused her of meeting Mobrey on the sly. And when he had taken her up on his horse, she had hungered for the devil, hungered to know the feel of his hands and the taste of his mouth.

Desire burned like a steady flame deep within her. She refused to believe her flesh was as weak as her mother’s. At least she could be grateful Kern had left her off here and had gone back to his insulated world.