Читать книгу Seduction & Scandal - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 8

“I BEG YOUR PARDON, my lord, but what did you say?” Isabella demanded. But the earl ignored her imprudence, and softly turned her once again. Her hand trembled in his, and he squeezed, ever so softly in an attempt to ease her.

“You are nervous, Miss Fairmont.”

“I … yes. My apologies.”

“I believe you were asking me something.”

“Oh, yes. Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you were saying about being afraid when we began our dance?”

Black’s pale gaze lowered, and Isabella was positive she saw it linger at the base of her throat where her pulse beat wildly. She swallowed, hard, and her hand began to tremble again.

“Ah, yes, now I recall. Although I do 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 have an exclusive peek into the crates.”

“It is not my place to tell you what you should do, but I feel very strongly that you should allow Mr. Knighton to carry on about his business—without you. The docks are no place for a lady.” She felt his hand squeeze tightly around hers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I would be most angry if anything happened to you, Miss Fairmont.”

“What could possibly—”

“Not all treasure is glowing and pure. Remember that.”

Black pulled her to a stop, and she saw that his gaze followed that of a young lord whose name escaped her. She had seen him before, recalled that he was an acquaintance of the Duke of Sussex. Black’s gaze seemed to darken, and his pupils dilated to large, black spheres.

“You will forgive me, Miss Fairmont, but I see someone I am expected to meet.”

He pulled away, and Isabella’s hand caught in his. As well, her purse tangled with the button of his jacket, opening the reticule. Before she could right it, her journal fell to the floor, opened to her writing. Blast! She always kept her journal locked—it contained her secrets and dreams, not to mention the outline for her book. She never wanted anyone to glimpse inside, but tonight she’d been distracted by Lucy’s glowing compliments for her story, not to mention their discussion of Black.

Had she had her wits about her, she would have locked the journal, or better yet not put it in her reticule and carried it down to the ball in the first place.

Both of them bent to retrieve the book. Black was quicker, and reached for it. She knew without a doubt that he was reading what was there, despite how rude it was for him to be reading her private words.

A gentleman would have closed the cover immediately and handed it to her. But Black continued to gaze at it as he reached for her hand and raised her up. The book snapped closed, and Isabella jumped at the sound, and the queer intensity she saw in Black’s gaze.

“Thank you for the waltz, Miss Fairmont.”

And then he left, leaving her with the distinct impression that she had offended him.

“GRACIOUS,” LUCY EXCLAIMED as she hauled Isabella off to the ladies’ retreating room. “Tell me all about it. Was it divine, dancing with the earl?”

Isabella could hardly think as she dashed off with Lucy to the privacy of the room that had been set up for the ladies to see to their personal needs. Instead of going inside, Lucy hauled her into another room that was lit with only one gas lamp. They were alone, but still, Isabella felt a presence. Her gaze danced to every corner, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized they were devoid of any disturbing shadows. But then, she felt a familiar tremor snake its way down her spine, and she rubbed her arms with her palms in an attempt to stave off the sudden chill. She hated the dark—and the shadows.

“Well?” Lucy demanded.

Isabella nodded. “It was indeed divine.”

“I knew it,” Lucy gushed. “From the very second he found you, he kept his eyes on you. Oh, it was so romantic the way he looked at you. And the picture the two of you made, dancing around the ballroom—”

“You make too much of it, Luce.”

“I certainly do not,” Lucy grunted. “An earl! Issy, this is a coup for you!”

“I know nothing about him.”

“That’s what a courtship is for.”

“I am already being courted by Mr. Knighton.”

Lucy’s pretty face puckered into a frown. “Issy, be reasonable. I saw the way Lord Black looked at you, and furthermore, I saw the way you looked at him.”

“I did no such thing,” she shrieked, mortified by the thought her emotions had been so transparent. She had been taken by him, but to discover that everyone knew it as well was beyond humiliating.

“Admit it, Issy, there’s something about the earl that intrigues you.”

Of course there was. What woman wouldn’t be intrigued by his mysteriousness, or lured to his handsome face? There was an air of danger about Black that was impossible to ignore—or not be drawn to. It was only natural, wasn’t it, for a woman to be fascinated by a man as commanding as Lord Black? He was older than her. Experienced. A man of the world. It was expected that his worldly aura called to her. For heaven’s sake, until last year she had been nothing but a rag-taggle country girl in Yorkshire.

This … attraction to Black. It was nothing but innocent female curiosity, that was all. And nothing more would come of it. She had experienced her moment of exhilaration and danger, and that would be all. She would not allow her overly imaginative, impulsive nature to be her ruination.

“Issy,” Lucy warned, “you aren’t going to deny that you find the earl charming?”

“If I did, we would both know it for a lie. The truth is, I find him very charismatic.”

“And handsome.”

“Yes.”

“And rich.” Isabella inclined her head in acknowledgment. “And clearly besotted with you.”

“I do not believe the earl capable of being besotted, that is for young men. The earl is a man, Lucy.”

“And that scares you, doesn’t it?”

Heavens, when had Lucy become so bold? Isabella refused to answer that question despite the truth of it. The earl did frighten her. She had never felt her body respond in such a way. It was terrifying yet exciting. Every cell tingled with awareness, and it made her want to run and hide. Her father had been a charmer. Her mother had told her the stories. She did not want to wind up like her mother, she reminded herself, ruined and alone, barely able to scrape out a living. Passion had its place, and for Isabella, that place was one of control and moderation. Imprudent recklessness was the kiss of death.

“Do you know what I think? You’ve realized that it is rather easy to keep Mr. Knighton at bay. But in one dance, you’ve discovered that it would be quite impossible to sway Lord Black. Black would take what he wanted, not by force, of course, but just the same, he would find a way to obtain what he desired. He wouldn’t be deterred like Knighton.”

“I do not keep Mr. Knighton at bay, Lucy.”

“No, you do not have to. Knighton does that for himself, and you find relief in that because it makes it easier for you to keep your vow of not making the same mistakes your mother did.”

Isabella didn’t know what to say. Lucy was right. Knighton was not an ardent suitor. He was kind and his affection was all very proper. But Black … Isabella shivered. Black would not be chaste or proper in his pursuit of anything if he wanted it enough. Of that she was certain.

“Mr. Knighton is the sort of life companion I desire, Lucy. I do not require a town house in Mayfair, or a title, or heaps of money. What I wish for is constancy, security and perhaps a little affection.”

Squeezing her hands, Lucy smiled. “Dearest Isabella, when will you see that Mr. Knighton’s first love is work?”

“I will see it when you finally decide that the Duke of Sussex is worthy of your time.”

Lucy arched her brows. “You aim your arrows well, Issy.”

“I know you mean well, but I know what I’m doing, and pining after the unreachable Lord Black is not something I’m going to do. He isn’t the sort I’d want as a husband. Besides, it was one dance, not a vow of marriage, or anything of the sort. You make too much of it.”

Lucy gazed at her knowingly. “I wonder if I do. Time, of course, shall tell us.”

“Really, Lucy,” she admonished. “You’ve become far too bold.”

“Have I? I do apologize. Well, then, I hear another waltz beginning, and I believe you promised the third waltz to your Mr. Knighton. But I am not done with you yet,” Lucy said with a smile, before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Tonight, I want every little detail of your dance with the handsome Lord Black.”

With a reluctant nod, Isabella looped her arm through Lucy’s as they left the room and reentered the ballroom, which felt warm and stuffy. Instantly she wished for a reprieve. She was not in the mood for idle chitchat. What she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts, and her memories of that wonderful dance in Lord Black’s arms.

“Good evening, Isabella.”

She stopped and smiled at Wendell, who looked very handsome in his black dress clothes, except for the bit of dust marring the cuff of his jacket. He followed her gaze and stiffened.

“Damnation!” he cried, wiping it off. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t help myself, I had to stop by the museum on my way here this evening.”

Lucy shot her a pointed look that Isabella chose to ignore. “There is nothing to worry about. I assume you were checking on the preparations for the unveiling of the new exhibit?”

“I was. And …” Wendell flushed as he met her gaze. “I was wondering if you might consider letting me out of this dance. I know it’s bad form, but one of the patrons of the museum is here tonight, and I wished to speak with him. Funds, of course. If I don’t see to the donations …” He trailed off expectantly, his brown eyes full of hope that she understood his plight.

“Of course. You must go and meet him.”

“Thank you. I will endeavor to make it up to you.”

“Don’t even say it,” Isabella ordered her cousin when Wendell had taken his leave. “You of all people should know that I’m not the least bit crestfallen to have to sit out a dance.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“But you wanted to.”

“Sorely,” Lucy said around a grin. “But I love you too much. And I’m too much the lady to say I told you so!”

“Ha! This from the lady who keeps pestering me to write naughty scenes in my novels.”

“I’m merely living vicariously through you.”

“Ah, Lucy, there you are. I do believe you promised me this dance.”

Lucy pressed her eyes shut at the sound of the duke’s voice. “First names are far too personal, Your Grace,” she admonished as Sussex came to them. “It isn’t at all proper.”

“Neither is standing up a gentleman to whom you promised a dance.” Sussex’s smile could only be described as mischievous as he held out his hand to Lucy. “You will excuse us, Miss Fairmont?” he asked, but he didn’t take his gaze off Lucy. “I’m afraid I’ve been waiting all night for this dance.”

Isabella laughed as the duke steered her cousin to the floor. After watching Lucy step into the proper dance frame with the duke, Isabella realized that this might very well be her one and only opportunity to escape. It was hot and stuffy, and she would give anything for a chance to go out onto the terrace and smell the crisp fall leaves.

Careful not to garner any notice, she made her way to the terrace and the French doors. Opening the glass door, she stepped outside, breathing deep of the damp night air. The fog was rolling in from the Thames, blanketing the earth with gray mist. Moroccan lanterns hung from the branches of the trees, the candlelight shining with a muted, hazy glow through the mist. Beyond the terrace and the trees lay a rose arbor whose leaves had begun to turn brown. Beyond the arbor was a maze. There she would find privacy and quiet.

Lifting her skirts, she ran down the steps, thankful that the chilly night had deterred guests from going outside. No one would see her slip into the maze.

Growing up in Whitby, on the sea, had inured her to the dampness. There was nothing like the crisp air to clear one’s head. And her head most certainly needed to be cleared. All she seemed capable of thinking about was the enigmatic Earl of Black.

Rounding the corner, she walked deeper into the maze, where the stone bench would lay waiting for her. It was her favorite place, and tonight she needed its familiar comfort.

“Oh,” she cried as she saw someone sitting there. That someone looked up and Isabella stopped, her breath frozen in her throat. “Lord Black.”

He uncurled his tall frame from the bench and slowly rose. “Miss Fairmont.”

“I … I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy. I had no idea—”

“Do not concern yourself. I only needed a moment’s reprieve from the stuffiness in the ballroom. And you?”

“The same, I’m afraid.”

“Will you join me?”

Inanely she looked to either side of her. There was no one outside. It was black as pitch. It could ruin her reputation if they were to be discovered alone and in the dark. And the orchestra was loud. Even out here she could hear the violins. Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

“I realize it’s all rather untoward to be out here alone—with a man you’ve just met, but I am loath to give up this spot. Rather ungentlemanly of me, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is, my lord.”

He smiled at her honesty, and she saw that he had dimples. For some reason she could not stop staring at them—at him. “I’m willing to share this spot. Will that suffice?”

She was sure she could not hide the wariness in her eyes, or the watchful stiffness in her body. She should say no. But her lips could not seem to form the word.

“I will not hurt you, Isabella.”

The intimacy of her name, said in his deep voice, made her shiver. How had he known it? But then again, it seemed that Lord Black knew a good deal about her.

“Will you not join me?”

She was being silly. Besides, she could not seem to deny him when he looked at her like that. Like what? she asked herself as she walked to the bench. Like a fox after a hare, was the answer.

“Are you cold?” he asked as she sat down next to him. Her train bunched up, the lilac silk spilling onto his thigh. She went to move it, but he stilled her hand, and instead smoothed the silk over his knee. “Shall I lend you my jacket?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shivering. Curious, she wasn’t at all cold.

He moved away from her and began shrugging out of his velvet jacket. “No, I insist,” he said, covering her naked shoulders. “You might catch your death out here.”

She stilled, their gazes collided and he moved, inched closer to her.

“That was not in the best of taste, was it?”

“That depends, were you making a jest of what you read in my journal?”

His gaze flickered over her face, coming to rest on her mouth. “No. I was not referring to your writing. Forgive me, Isabella?”

She looked away, unable to think as once again the butterflies began to circle. The way he said her name was so soft, so lulling. There was something about him that pulled at her, made her will no longer her own.

He captured her chin with his fingers and forced her to look back at him. “I should not have read your journal, but I confess I could not stop.”

“Was it so engrossing then?” she asked, trying to make light. But there was nothing light and frivolous about Black. He was purposeful, intense and the way he was gazing down upon her made her shiver.

“I … want to know you. Everything about you.”

Her lips parted, yet nothing came out. She was shocked. Mesmerized.

“Would you let me, Isabella?” His voice dropped as he pressed closer, the moment intimate and wildly exciting. “Would you let me learn everything about you? Discover you as I want?”

His gaze, blistering with intensity, burned through her skin, warming her to the very core of her being. Inside, her body seemed to bloom, to open like the petals of a rose in the sunlight. She knew what he wanted, the innuendo of his words. And she admitted that somewhere deep inside her, she wanted to know him, too.

There was a strange, almost magnetic pull between them. They were strangers, yet he spoke to her familiarly—not at all gentlemanly. She should be shocked, outraged. They had just been introduced, yet Isabella felt as though she had known him forever. As if her soul recognized him from another time and place.

Gathering the edges of his jacket around her shoulders, she luxuriated in his scent, which wafted up from the fabric, mingling with her perfume. It made her think very dangerous thoughts—thoughts that did not entail running from him.

This was much too dangerous. She should put an end to it, and opened her mouth, but the words still would not come. Instead, she said, “Quid pro quo, then?”

His smile was slow and sensual, and she saw the glint of victory shining in his eyes. “Very well, you go first.”

“What is the real reason you are out here?”

His gaze flickered to hers. “As I said earlier, I needed to clear my head.”

“You don’t seem the sort to run away from something, which I think was what you were trying to accomplish by coming out here.”

His eyes lit with something like admiration. “How in tune we are. Indeed, I was running. I detest society, and much prefer my life as an enigmatic recluse. Is that the answer you desire?”

“I believe it more to the truth than your original answer.”

“And what of you, Miss Fairmont, what is your true motive for being here?”

To escape you, and the effect you have upon me. “The same, I’m afraid. I am new to society and have not yet learned to give up the craving for solitude. I am used to being on my own and sometimes the crush of the ballroom is just too much.”

He nodded and she saw that he was running his fingertips lightly over the grain of satin. He was watching as his fingers traversed her skirts, and she found the gesture the most romantic thing she could ever imagine.

“My turn.” He tipped his head and looked down at her. “How do you do it, suffer through it, the monotony of balls and all the insipid, shallow conversation that reveals nothing of a person’s soul but the fact they are vacuous, spiritless followers?”

She smiled and lifted her gaze to a sky that was filled with stars. “I write.” Closing her eyes, Isabella inhaled deeply of the damp grass, listening to the sway of the crisp leaves as they rustled in the trees and smelling the acrid odor of coal burning in the chimney. “I pretend I’m elsewhere—anywhere else.”

She felt him move, his thigh brushing against hers. “Where do you go?” he whispered, and she felt it as a caress along her body. She savored it, that haunting, alluring voice, and the queer sensation it gave her.

“A place where I can be myself. Where no one cares who my parents were, or the circumstances of my past. Where even I can forget.”

Her eyes opened as she felt the thrilling shiver of his fingers trace the contour of her cheek. He was looking at her so deeply that she felt the need to put space between them, but she couldn’t move, she was immobile, lost in his lovely pale eyes. “You never have to be anyone else than who you are, Isabella. Especially with me.”

She swallowed and he rubbed his thumb along her chin, tilting her head, studying her in the moonlight. “If someone doesn’t want you as you are, then they aren’t worth the time.”

He was far too perceptive, and familiar, and she was falling much too eagerly to his experienced, silky tongue.

“I think you are perfect, Isabella.”

“My lord—” she warned as he angled his head, lowering his mouth to hers.

“Black,” he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek. “Just call me Black.”

His breath caressed the shell of her ear; her body went languid and hot all over. She felt his nose against her temple, followed by the satiny smoothness of his lips. Oh, this was temptation!

“Black,” she whispered, but didn’t know if was a plea to continue or stop.

“Tell me, what do you write about, Isabella?”

Her lashes fluttered closed as she swayed closer to him. “I … I do not care to share my writing with others, my lord.”

“You can trust me. I would never betray your confidence.”

She sensed that she could, indeed, trust him. “I am a lady novelist.”

“Fiction,” he murmured, his voice deepening. “For women?”

“Yes,” she answered, her cheeks heating with warmth. What must he think of her? First her writing, and now this, sitting here in the dark, allowing him to brush his mouth against her cheek. He would think her fast and immoral. A harlot to enjoy in a dark garden. And why not? She was acting as such.

“An escape from the world so full of rules and restrictions,” he whispered, “to a world where you are free to think and feel as you will, regardless of your sex and the convention put upon you.”

“Black,” she murmured, but this time it sounded like a plea. But a plea for what, she could not tell.

“Tales of love,” he drawled as his lips moved along her jaw. Her head tipped back of its own accord, and his fingertips smoothed down the column of her throat, to her necklace, which he traced with the tips of his cool fingers. “Stories of passion, desire …”

She exhaled through her parted lips, her heart hammering heavy in her breast. She could not answer that. To do so would be too damning. She could not admit it, even though it was the truth.

“Will you tell me a story, Isabella?” He pulled her closer, till her bodice was against his chest, and his breath rasped against her ear. “A story of burning passion and forbidden desire.”

“Please. I …”

“I know.” His fingers toyed with the curls that had begun to cling to her neck. “You mustn’t tarry here—with me.”

“N-no,” she stuttered, reaching for the starched pleats of his crisp white shirt. “I shouldn’t.”

“I’ve never been very good at resisting things I know I should,” he murmured as he inched his mouth to hers. “What of you, Isabella?”

She had always been good. Always fearful of ending up like her mother.

“Bella?” He brushed his lips, featherlight, against hers. “Can you resist?”

Her lashes fluttered closed. “I must,” she said, and moved away. His jacket slipped from her shoulders and puddled onto the bench. “Good night, Lord Black.”

He watched her rise from the bench, tracking her progression. The wind rose, weaving through the branches. An owl hooted, and she chanced a glance back over her shoulder only to find him standing where they had seconds ago sat.

Their gazes locked, and a voice, beckoning and seductive, whispered to her. The first time I met Death, it was at a ball and we danced a waltz, and I feared him, feared the things he made me feel, made me want. That night I ran from him, but Death was right behind me, chasing me and I wanted him to catch me.