Promise Me Tonight (14 page)

“You’re so tight,” he groaned against her lips. He began to work a second finger inside her, stretching her as he rubbed his thumb in circles over the delicate spot where exquisite pleasure blossomed. It was too much; her body felt like a spring wound much too tightly. It was all so new, so fast, so very, very intense. She whimpered and dug her fingers into his shoulders, trying to convey her desperation.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, kissing her softly upon her temple. “Just trust me.”

She did. Foolish though it might be, she trusted him with every part of herself, even her heart. He would probably break it, but it was his all the same—it had been for as many years as she could remember. Just like that, she relaxed, and with one more soft caress, he had her flying over the edge, crying out in pleasure, drowning in bliss.

For one long moment, her breath caught, her heart stopped, and time itself seemed suspended. It was an instant of exquisite peace and utter turmoil, of everything being perfectly right and oh so wrong.

She opened her eyes slowly. Dazed and dreamy, she gazed up at James. Her love. Her lover. A satisfied smile curved her mouth, but it faded when she saw the harsh set of his jaw, the tight line of his mouth. He was kneeling beside her, his palms splayed on his muscular thighs. His eyes were closed tightly and he was breathing hard; it actually looked as if he might be in pain. Concern for him chased away the sleepy languor stealing over her mind and body.

Gathering the quilt back around her, Izzie came up on her knees beside him. She reached out and tentatively rested a hand on one of his. His eyes flew open and he inhaled sharply. She drew back, startled by his fierce expression.

“James? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “Sorry,” he grunted. “Just . . . give me a minute.”

“Oh dear,” she fussed.

“I’m not hurt,” he ground out.

“You’re not?”

“No. At least not in the way you mean.”

She bit her lower lip and frowned. “I don’t understand.”

James drew in a deep breath, obviously preparing to tell her something unpleasant. Tears pricked at her eyes. She had done something wrong, she just knew it. What had been the most beautiful experience of her life had been so distasteful to him that he even hesitated to speak of it.

Her distress must have shown on her face, for he reached out and cupped her cheek in one of his large hands. “You know the way you just felt?” he said. She nodded. “Do you remember how you felt just before that?” She nodded again. “That’s how I am feeling right now.”

Izzie’s eyes dropped to the large bulge tenting his breeches. It certainly looked uncomfortable. She remembered the frantic, nearly painful feelings that had coursed through her right before she had shattered. She wanted to give him that same release, to bind him to her with pleasure, just as he had bound her.

A thought occurred to her, so daring an idea that she felt her cheeks heat. Maybe she could touch him as he had touched her. Before common sense or some latent sense of modesty could intervene, she lunged for the buttons at the front of his breeches.

“Wha—what are you doing?” James choked out, his hands rising to grip her shoulders, effectively stilling her movements.

Izzie focused her gaze somewhere over his right shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “I thought that, well, maybe I could . . .” She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I wanted to touch you the way you touched me,” she said in a rush.

“Oh God,” James groaned. His hands fell away from her arms and rose to cradle his head. “Oh God!”

Was that a note of eagerness she detected in his voice? The same desperation that had echoed in her pleading cries? Her curiosity had already gotten her into trouble once today. Surely that should be enough of a warning to make her snatch her hands back to her sides. Apparently not, she thought wryly as she watched her hands move, seemingly of their own accord, to slip the buttons from their holes.

His eyes closed and his breathing deepened, quickened, but he made no move to stop her. She felt bold and powerful and wicked, a pirate queen once again. She touched her fingers to his hot flesh, marveling at the way his sex jerked and moved in response. He moaned, a delightful sound, and she stroked him, learning and memorizing the intriguing combination of silk and steel.

“Izzie,” he grunted, his head falling back, his arms dropping to brace his palms on the floor.

“Do you like this?” she asked in a sultry tone. At least, she hoped it was a sultry tone. The heroines in the Minerva Press novels always teased men in a sultry tone, and it always brought them to their knees.

Then again, she
had
brought James to his knees, Izzie realized, and she had to fight to suppress a giggle.

He still hadn’t answered her question, so she lifted her hand away from him. “I guess you don’t like it,” she mused innocently.

“No. Yes. I do. Like it. Oh God. Please. Your hands. Touch me again.”

She smiled and lightly curled her fingers around him. “What now?”

He didn’t answer her, just covered her hand with his and began moving it up and down in a slow rhythm. He spread his knees apart to give her better access and clamped his hands down hard on his thighs. He was entirely in her power,
literally
in her hands.

And she loved it.

Loved that she could pleasure him.

Loved that he was helpless to resist her.

Simply loved him.

His skin was flushed, sweat glistening on his brow as she continued her slow torture. The strangled groans emanating from his throat only fed her excitement. She realized with a start that not all of the sounds were coming from him. The hot flames of his arousal had fed her internal fires, which though recently sated and banked, had come roaring back to life. His hips bucked erratically, thrusting his shaft through the circle of her hands.

His head fell forward as he covered her hand once again with his own, rougher, faster, showing her what he wanted. His face was drawn tight, contorted with pure, harsh need. His knuckles were white where his fingers dug into his thighs, and the corded muscles in his arms bulged with tension.

She felt the primal rhythm echo low in her belly, in the private place where he’d touched her so intimately. Her inner muscles contracted in time with his movements. The small bud he’d caressed began to throb. Her breathing hitched. She was close to that magical place he’d taken her. She could sense it, just out of her reach. She wanted, no
needed
to go there again. She couldn’t bear this hovering on the brink, this desperate desire.

Still stroking James, Isabella slipped the fingers of her free hand down between her thighs. Softly, shyly, she touched herself, marveling in the pleasurable sensations that shot through her body. Her hand moved faster, matching his pace, and her urgency grew. Golden streamers of warmth burst and unfurled, racing through her blood, setting her whole body awash with heat. Her eyes closed as, with a little cry, she reached the paradise she’d been striving for.

At her cry, James’s entire body went rigid. He knocked her hand away and grabbed a handful of the quilt she was wrapped in. He was up on his knees now, his hips bucking quickly. Izzie gazed in rapt fascination as he covered his sex with the fabric, and then shuddered and thrust once, twice, thrice, before collapsing down on his knees, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs.

His sex was smaller now, she saw with interest. How vulnerable it looked, she thought, lying dormant against his thigh, as though trying to hide in its nest of curly, golden hair. James seemed vulnerable, too. He had come undone, lost control, and she felt a surge of protective tenderness well up in her chest.

She loved him so much, it scared her. He had been quite angry when she had said the words before. But that was before. Surely it would be different this time. It had to be. The words, the emotions, were expanding in her chest, threatening to choke and overwhelm her if she didn’t say them.

So she did.

Chapter 9

I
overheard my parents arguing about the don’s threat to send Henry down from Oxford if his improper behavior does not cease. Sadly, no specifics were mentioned. My father said boys were bound to commit youthful indiscretions. Why, I wonder, does not the same hold true for girls? I daresay the female sex makes up the better half of most of these so-called indiscretions. I find it altogether vexing that I must be a model of discretion, while Henry, by virtue (or lack thereof) of being a male, may do what he likes. I hereby vow (pray do not tell my parents) to indulge in at least one youthful indiscretion to even the score for all womankind!

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age fourteen

Letter to her aunt Katherine, Marchioness of Sheldon, on

the grave inequalities of gender—April 1792

I
love you.
How could three small words make him feel so wonderfully alive and yet strike such dread into his heart? She was waiting expectantly and, damn him for the bastard he was, he couldn’t give her the words in return. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, James raked a hand through his hair. Dear God, how had things gotten so out of hand? Or rather, how in bloody hell had his thing ended up in her hand?

He felt a slight stirring in his groin and quickly shepherded his thoughts to safer pastures. He didn’t want to think about what he’d just done, ever, which was depressing, because it was easily the most damned erotic experience of his entire damned life. But it had been with Isabella, and it had been very, very wrong.

He was surely going to regret it later, once his body had stopped singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” It wasn’t lost on him that despite his unwillingness and his flat-out refusal to marry her, he was certainly doing his bloody best to compromise her every chance he got.

He wanted her; that much was certain. But he didn’t want to marry her. He didn’t want to want her. “Want” wasn’t the right word. He couldn’t want her. And he couldn’t marry her. He was already having enough trouble fighting off the feelings she roused in him, feelings he had buried and sworn off long ago, and marriage would surely send him hurtling over the edge of that cliff. The fall would kill them both.

So he forced himself to ignore the way her bottom lip trembled, to turn away from the sad reproach in her eyes. He said nothing, but rose to his feet and began buttoning his breeches. He listened for a moment and noted with no small bit of relief that the blasted rain had finally stopped.

He strode over to where he had placed their garments before the fire and felt the cloth. His shirt was still slightly damp. James shrugged and pulled it over his head. His jacket and waistcoat were still wet through, but he put them on. Her clothes were in much the same state, and he certainly wasn’t taking her back to the house wearing only an old quilt, so he figured he should suffer right along with her. It seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. On further reflection, though, the time and place for gentlemanly behavior was long past.

He held out her gown and undergarments, and then watched in amusement as Isabella, holding the quilt about her as best she could, waddled over and snatched them from his grasp. He turned his back to give her some privacy, also more than a little too late, given what had just transpired. He occupied himself with the miserable business of putting his wet, muddied boots back on, and then stood before the fire. He stared into the swirling orange flames; the logs crackling in the grate provided the only sound in the room—well, aside from the rustling noises of Isabella dressing, but he was trying his damnedest to ignore that.

“Are you still planning on enlisting?”

Her voice seemed unnaturally loud after the long silence, and it startled him. He heard the unasked question: Would you still rather die than marry me?

James hardened his heart against the pain he was about to inflict. She would hate him for this, he knew. He hated himself for what he was about to do, but he had no choice. She deserved more than he could give her. She deserved to be loved with more than just his body, but that wasn’t in his power.

“Yes,” he said softly, infusing a lifetime of regret into the single syllable. She remained silent. He turned to face her. Her chin was high, her face composed, but he could see her entire body trembling.

“I’m sorry, Izzie. I can’t marry you. I wish . . .” He stopped himself. Wishes were futile. “I’ll leave as soon as arrangements can be made.” He refrained from telling her that she would meet someone else, or that she would forget him, though the former, at least, would most certainly come to pass. Of course, if he weren’t already dead by that point, James might just have to kill the bounder. He wanted her so damned much. And, selfishly, he didn’t want anyone else to have her.

She began to nod so slowly and evenly that he was reminded of an automaton he had once seen on display. Its movements had been similarly precise; its face, equally devoid of expression, had possessed those same haunting eyes that looked but did not see. Damn, damn, damn. He had come to the cottage hoping to make things right with Isabella. Instead, he had all but taken her innocence and, as if that weren’t bad enough, he’d had to go and destroy her spirit as well. Perhaps he just ought to admit all that had gone on and let her father and Henry draw straws to shoot him. At the moment, a lead ball seemed less painful than having to watch Izzie move about like a broken doll.