Chapter One England, 1823 The wife-murderer whirled Isabel Colven around the crowded ballroom while hundreds of candles blazed from sconces on the smoky amber walls. Lord Hayle’s eyes, dark and mysterious, glinted with an emotion she could not name. Was it desire? Was it desire for her body or for her death in his bed—though he would have neither? Despite the cloying heat in the room from the pressed bodies twirling in mindless abandon, she shivered. Lord Hayle clasped her against him and grinned down at her. The cream satin gown with a sheer layer of soft organdy provided no protection from his long, hard frame. “Are you frightened, little bird?” Isabel’s eyes widened. His voice burrowed into her soul to curl into a ball, lodging there to stoke a fire. Unfamiliar warmth expanded in her stomach and buffeted against her previously unassailable defenses. The resonance beckoned the eighteen year old, and she inched closer to whisper her reply, intrigued despite the tales of his past. “Yes. Pardon, no, of course not.” The breathiness was new to her, as well as the flutter of her heart. Scarcely able to reach his broad shoulders, her white-gloved hands trembled. “Do not believe the rumors you hear, dove.” The crisp black tailcoat outlined his masculine form and lent him a civility she wasn’t certain he owned. “Your mother would not have brought you or your sisters if you were in mortal danger from me.” She doubted the assurance but kept that to herself. Even if she were not in danger of bodily harm, his chiseled features and handsome visage threatened her maiden’s virtue. She’d never wanted to touch a man’s face before or to run her palms over the bristly stubble and brush back the silky lengths of hair falling across his charcoal brows. Long enough to curl at the ends, the thick strands invited her fingers to smooth and tunnel through and cling. “Why did you ask me to dance? My sisters are older. They have the entrée into society.” “You do not?” His eyes mocked her. He thought her naïve. Yet, how could he know that her mother had delayed her coming-out for no other reason than oversight? Lady Colven disregarded the duty but still brought her along to functions when it suited her purpose. “I have not had my debut, but you requested Mother bring us all. Or perhaps there has been a mistake?” “No mistake.” The small window of hope slammed shut in her face, but she tried again. “I do not understand why you asked for my attendance.” “It is no matter.” His cryptic remark silenced her. Her heart thudded with fear and the irrational desire that had slipped her bonds. Flustered and unsettled since her mother had received the invitation, Isabel held her heightened anxiety in check by a bare thread. Late to the week-long event, Isabel’s trepidation had turned to dread when they’d left the lushness of Cornwall and crossed into the fog enshrouded lands of Hayle. The manor rose from the stark hills and struggled against the mist clinging to the stone spires and arches. Dark birds dotted the window ledges. Her family carriage had swept past the ornate gates. The drive curved to the grand, wide steps made of dark stone. Once there, they took no time to rest, but rushed into their finery in time for the beginning dance. Shocked when Lord Hayle had chosen her for the first dance at his house party, and, at that, a forbidden waltz, Isabel had hoped he would pick a woman outside her family or, if not, one of her sisters. Shameful to wish them to be on the chopping block, but she dreaded being his chosen. That was their purpose here, to be displayed, lambs to sacrifice. “More’s the pity,” he mumbled. “What do you mean, sir?” Isabel hid her confusion and masked her expression. The few men she knew overlooked her. Happy to be quiet in the corner while fops chose her unreserved, worldly sisters, Isabel remained content on the edges of social gatherings at her brother’s estate. With mysterious midnight eyes the same color as his too-long hair that swept the top of his white shirt collar and cravat, Lord Hayle kept his silence and led her through the dance. His muscular physique held lethal grace, fluid in his movements to the waltz. The music throbbed through her, and her pulse kept time with the dizzying pace. The red lure of his quirked lips became her focal point. This, the only warmth to be found in his face, attracted her like a magnet for her scattered senses. She watched his mouth form the words. “You are beautiful. Innocent, are you not? Would you mind your husband? Be faithful to him and his commands?” The question had the taste of an order, from husband to wife, as if he owned her already. Almost as afraid of her wayward ardor as the rumors that he’d killed his first two wives, she craved his nearness to a fathomless depth. “I would, sir.” He smiled at her, and she found herself staring at his mouth again when his lips moved forward ever so slightly and parted. His tongue flicked over his full bottom lip, and butterflies tumbled through her stomach. Isabel’s mind whirled and her world skewed, but whether from the dancing or her attraction to the dangerous man, she could not determine. At once enjoying herself while suspecting he had some secret power over her or wove a spell to bind her, she abandoned herself to the tumult. The dance ended all too soon, or not soon enough, and he led her back to her mother. Sweat pooled under her stays, and her lungs heaved, desperate for sufficient air. Despite her obvious difficulties, her mother snatched her to the side while beaming up at their host. The woman who spurned Isabel’s repeated overtures for acknowledgement now peered up at the wealthy title standing before her. “Why, Lord Hayle, you do honor us by dancing with our little wallflower.” Isabel inwardly cringed, but she remained stoic, schooled her features into boredom, and ignored the magnetic man who loomed over her. She gave her attention to the magnificent room rather than the man whose existence permeated her skin. Gilded in gold, the ornate ballroom could have housed a battalion in the royal infantry. Cavernous walls held large columns. Buttresses, lost in the waning light from the candelabras, rose to the ceiling. “The pleasure was all mine, I assure you Lady Colven.” His voice pulled at her, but she backed away and bumped into her sister Elizabeth who clucked in her ear. “Watch yourself.” “Would you like the next dance with my oldest?” Isabel’s mother waved May forward. The undisputed favorite of their mother, the devastating beauty left lovesick swains in her wake. To their mother’s consternation, May’s greed to capture the wealthiest of lords left her on the marriage mart, surpassing twenty-one. May batted her lashes and dimpled. Isabel had never cared before that her sister was striking, but tonight she barely overcame the urge to kick the fortune-hunter in the shin and pull the blonde ringlets down from her perfect coiffeur. Not to mention the urge to elbow her middle sister Elizabeth, who puffed out her chest and pushed past Isabel to ogle the lord. What had come over her? Even with May preening for him, the darkly handsome man inspired Isabel’s dress to tighten on her sensitive nerves. Despite the simpering May and Elizabeth, Lord Hayle cast a lingering stare over Isabel, imprinting a trail from her slippered feet to her piled high ebony hair. He missed nothing, if the throbbing from her toes to the tips of her hair gave any indication. He bent over her mother’s hand in quiet acknowledgement while he watched Isabel. Quickly dismissing the rest of the Colven women, Lord Hayle sketched an elegant bow to Isabel. He went back to his host duties and left her to recover from her lightheadedness. His dark coat a beacon among a sea of dresses hued in soft pastels, Lord Hayle moved with a surety, like a man who knew his high status and expected all to pay their due. Tall and straight, he towered above everyone, but the aloofness Isabel expected had been replaced by a hunter’s grace. Moving more like a gamekeeper than an aristocrat, his agile movements mesmerized Isabel, though he guided young woman after young woman onto the dance floor to fawn over him. But in between the flirting, the bantering, the wide turns, he stared at her over the heads of blondes, brunettes, and one coppery redhead. She should have been frightened. She should have run away, but she did not. Could not. Did he have magical powers? Is that how he lured his brides before he killed them? Danger lurked here, she sensed it, but her body didn’t care. She wanted him. She had never wanted another. “Our host is more handsome than the others of his family, don’t you think?” May asked with a breathy heaviness. “I had not noticed,” Isabel replied. “There, that is his nephew Christopher dancing with the girl in the sky-blue. Do you see? He is handsome as well, but not so dreary,” May said. “Lord Hayle is not dreary,” she replied, still drawn to watch the tall man glide across the room. “Why does he dance with all of those others when I am the best catch here?” May broke Isabel’s enchantment by whining in her ear. Isabel did not answer, for she wondered nearly the opposite. How could Isabel, an unpracticed maiden, compete with all of these cultured beauties? And why did she want to do so? May pouted and plumped out her bottom lip. “You don’t understand. You want to be a good little wife to a good little man and live happily ever after with your hands folded in your lap. Do you ever want to kiss a man? Make him long to push up your skirts?” Isabel blushed hotly, likely May’s intention. “My place in life is to be polite, demure, and staid. Passion is not for a wife, nor for her husband. A mistress is for passion, but a wife is to bear children and maintain the house.” May waved her hand in dismissal. Isabel had made her usual reply to May’s baiting, but tonight a stirring altered Isabel’s conceptions, her safety, and skewed her notions of what it meant to be a woman, a wife. “Have you ever had your skirts pushed up?” Isabel asked, surprising her gape-mouthed sister speechless. “Oh, I am aware that a debutante must not express passion. I wonder if your question implies that you yearn to be a wife, or a mistress?” May floundered, shocked at Isabel’s unexpected boldness, but not so much as she. Surely Lord Hayle was a bad influence on her, and they’d only shared one dance. A short acquaintance for such imprudent reactions. What would happen if he kissed her? Would she lift her own skirts? Her heated face was the visual proof of her traitorous body. She excused herself. “I need fresh air or cold punch.” Chafing to leave before she begged a murderer to take her to bride, Isabel floated across the room, paying no heed to the crowd. Despite herself, she anchored her assaulted wits on the man. The lord danced with debutantes while casting heated glances at Isabel. Her heart tumbled in havoc between stirrings of desire and stark jealousy. Two men in bright vests and dark velvet tailcoats spoke over the din. “What is his given name?” asked the man with a freckled pale complexion. “Rukh,” replied his blond companion. “Like the chess piece?” rejoined the first. “I think of it more like rook, the bird.” “Yes, crow would suit him,” started the first before he frowned at Isabel. Prompted by his unvoiced censure, she continued on her quest for punch though she longed to stay and listen. Within herself, she chided her eagerness for gossip. Once awakened, her curiosity overwhelmed, thoroughly heightened by the whispers and the covert conversations around the punch bowl near the curtains of the tall doors. “Did you hear about his first wife?” asked one woman. “No, what happened?” replied another. “She was gorgeous, an accomplished social climber. Smiled when spoken to. She was perfect in dress, style, and speech. Perfect delivering the cut if you were beneath her notice. Rather large dowry, they say. The servants heard screams a week after they were married. Only a week. Shrieking like you wouldn’t believe. Blood-curdling begging and all manner of horrors. Then, the servants were all let go the next day, and his wife was never seen again.” “Really?” The greedy voice ate up the gossip as if it were life-giving manna. These stories mirrored the overheard whispers between the Colven servants, when they’d overlooked her while packing the family for their week long visit to Hayle Manor. Isabel’s middle hollowed and the burn left her face. Cold, now. Ever so cold. She put down her punch and walked the long way around the massive ballroom where the dancers talked and laughed, while on the edges pockets of darkness hid those who watched and took in the revelry. The mirrored shine of the floor scuffed by myriad Hessian boots reflected the green marble of the lower wall. She trailed along the edge with her hand sliding low against the cool stone. Assuredly Lord Hayle could not see Isabel now, for she walked behind the line of people at the tables spread with fine food and drink. Like pigs at a trough, the society matrons stuffed their faces with canapés while their charges strolled the dark paths of the gardens away from their keepers. Isabel imagined kisses and more kisses upon virginal lips between the rose hedges. What was she thinking? She never had such thoughts before. Perhaps the fantasies overflowed now because she wished herself in such shadows with their dark, dangerous host. After hearing of his first wife, she did not aspire to tread that path with him. Or did she? Did the danger of death add to his allure? She was demented, of course. Should be locked away. Another snippet of conversation caught her attention. Its words thrown by two chaperones between bites of food. “And his second wife was just as perfect. What any man of consequence would want. The daughter of a duke, lovely enough to tempt the angels. But, I guess she didn’t keep her angels with her,” said a woman in garish taffeta. Tinged laughter erupted in squeals. These women were pigs. They’d run their snouts in the troughs of cheese next. “Oh, I know, she disappeared like the first, didn’t she?” the second woman responded in a low, hungry voice. “She tried to be smarter than the first. She was here for two weeks while her brothers stayed to protect her. She told them of a forbidden chamber. She wasn’t supposed to open it, or she would die. Her brothers tried to take her away, and she agreed to leave the very next day, but wanted one more night to say goodbye to her husband,” said the first. Her head bobbed with her peacock feathered hat. “Oh, I’d take a night with that brawny man, yes indeed,” the second woman said with a voice turned husky. “Too, true. Too, true. Well, she should have left while she could because her brothers never saw her again. Even searched the entire house, top to bottom. And her brothers were changed. Different men. Claimed they had been attacked and chased away by giant ravens.” With flushed cheeks rounded, the two matrons moved their mouths non-stop while their bright green and blue gowns ruffled around them. Like pastries to tempt, to whet the appetite, the women resembled the morsels they stuffed in their gaping orifices. Perhaps there was something in the punch. What else to expect from a man who’d killed two wives? A man who even now walked her way.