not make it a habit to be out in society, I am able to dance with some degree of efficiency, Miss Fairmont. There’s no need to be afraid that I may step on your toes.”
All her nervousness was vanquished with the sight of his charming grin. Her writer’s imagination had run away with her when she thought he had said something altogether different.
What nonsense, she chastised. She was being silly, believing that his looks, and in fact, this dance, was reminiscent of her own book opening. Good heavens, she had to get a hold of herself and her impetuous imagination.
Lord Black was a distinguished earl from a titled family that went back to the earliest of times. While a recluse, he was only just a man. Not … death.
Besides, death by all accounts smelled sickly sweet, and Lord Black’s pleasing scent was a mysterious and exotic blend of spice. Eastern spice if she was correct.
“You dance very well, Miss Fairmont.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She could not hide her smile at his compliment. She’d had a devil of a time learning the waltz. She was quite proficient at country dances, having grown up dancing them, but the waltz was entirely another matter. Appearing as though she knew what she was doing while remaining elegant and light on her feet wasn’t easy.
“I believe you grew up in Whitby, on the coast?” Lord Black asked as he deftly maneuvered them away from the throng of couples. They were dancing on the peripheries now, where it was quieter and much more conducive to conversation, which the earl seemed inclined to encourage.
“I did,” she replied, not giving any further particulars than what he had asked. Her uncle had cautioned her not to give out too many details of her life. The marquis had paid a great deal of money to bury her mother’s scandal.
“You came to London only last year to live with your uncle and cousin, is that not right?”
“It is, my lord.”
“And this is your first season out in society.”
“Again, you are correct.” For a recluse he was remarkably well informed.
“And how have you found the season, Miss Fairmont?”
Insufferably long and trying. “Glorious,” she lied.
He chuckled and the sound wrapped around her. “As a person who detests society most of the time, you would not injure my sensibilities if you were to tell me the truth. You’ve found your first season to be tedious at best.”
Isabella felt her eyes flare wide with shock. How was it Black could read her so well?
“Your mother was your uncle’s wife’s sister, I believe.”
She swallowed hard at this new line of questioning. “Yes, my lord.”
“You look very much like your mother, Miss Fairmont.”
She caught her breath in surprise. “You knew my mother?”
“I was a young boy when your mother left London for Whitby.”
A very polite and discreet way of informing her that he knew of her mother’s scandalous past, and the wicked rogue who was her father.
“Your aunt and mother lived just down the street from here, I believe.”
“Yes, they did,” she answered, feeling much too unsettled. Just how much did he know about her?
“I used to see them go out for walks. My schoolroom window faced the street, you see, and I found myself staring out of that window more often than I should have.”
“Ah.” She glanced away from his gaze, which was focused deeply upon her.
“You have your mother’s curls and pale hair.”
Yes, she did. She also possessed her mother’s inclination toward romantic adventures. But unlike her mother, she would only write about them, not indulge in them.
“You were all alone when your uncle came to Whitby to bring you back to London.”
Yes. But how had he known that? That fact, and the unfortunate event surrounding it was a secret no one save Lucy and Stonebrook knew about. It was impossible that Black would know. Unless, of course, he’d been there that night …
Impossible. She was allowing her fertile imagination to ride roughshod over her sensibilities.
“We are playing quid pro quo, Miss Fairmont. It is your turn to ask me anything you’d like.”
“All right,” she murmured, her mind racing for something to say. “What brings you to London?”
He pulled her closer to avoid another couple who had decided to quit the dance. She felt her breath leave her body as her bodice brushed up against his jacket. “I’m here on business,” he answered.
It was on the tip of her tongue to inquire about what sort of business, but she held her curiosity in check. She did not wish to have others prying into her life, so she extended the same courtesy to Lord Black, whom she assumed guarded his privacy fiercely. Perhaps now he would indulge her with the same civility, and refrain from asking further questions about her past and her family.
“I hope you will visit the museum while you are here, my lord. Mr. Knighton is opening a new exhibit. It’s bound to be a smashing success.”
“Knighton,” he murmured, and Isabella saw Black’s gaze find Mr. Knighton through the dancing couples.
“Yes, he’s a very good friend of mine, and while on a dig in—”
“He’s your suitor, Miss Fairmont.”
She missed a step, and slammed up against Black’s broad chest. He steadied her, pretending she had not made a faux pas.
“You said he was your friend, but I have been told he’s courting you.”
She blinked rapidly as she met his gaze. “Yes, well …” She flushed, off balance and not knowing what she should say. Suddenly, the scent of spice was all around her. It toyed with her mind, making her dizzy. He smelled so good …
“You said he was on a dig?”
Isabella tried to rein in her reeling senses. How had Black known about Wendell Knighton? It had been only a month since Wendell had starting courting her.
“Yes, a dig,” she murmured, finding her footing at last, “in the holy city. He’s bringing back medieval treasures, and amongst them are some belonging to the Templars. It’s going to be an extraordinary exhibit. Do you enjoy antiquities, my lord?”
His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “You could say that, Miss Fairmont. I have been to many places and have had many opportunities to collect antiques. Even your lovely frock will one day be found on display in a museum.”
She laughed and brushed aside his comment. “Nonsense. It is only lilac silk.”
“It is a Worth gown, is it not?” Heat infused her cheeks as well as her décolletage when his seemingly expert gaze lingered on the tight bodice and the flesh that was displayed above the deep lace flounce. “Worth will be famous well into the next century for his ability to dress the female form as it should be.”
“A gown can hardly compare to a medieval artifact, my lord.”
“It can when worn by you, Miss Fairmont.”
Butterflies circled like mad in her belly. Wendell had never said anything that caused this mad fluttering. Fighting the urge to fan herself with her hand, Isabella said, “Well, I do hope you will stop by the museum, it is a must-see for anyone who visits London, as I’m certain you are already aware, my lord.”
“And will you be there, Miss Fairmont?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Knighton has promised that when the boat docks, which he believes will be tomorrow, I shall