Promise Me Tonight (17 page)

What if the door was locked? She hadn’t considered that scenario. If his door was locked, there wasn’t really anything she could do. She was fairly sure she couldn’t break down the thick oak door, and even if she could, she certainly couldn’t do it silently. And, she rationalized, even if his window
was
open, it wasn’t as if she could reach it. Not unless she suddenly sprouted wings or a magic beanstalk appeared, both of which she thought highly unlikely. No, it all depended on the door, on whether or not it was locked.

She drew in a deep breath and stared at the brass knob. There was only one way to find out, she supposed, and there was no time like the present. She wiped her sweaty palm against her skirts and grasped the cool metal in her hand. It was now or never. As if fate had decided it long ago, the knob turned effortlessly and the door swung inward.

Isabella crept forward into the room, lit only by the softly flickering flames of the dying fire. And there, on the bed, she beheld such a sight that her heart, which had been racing and pounding all evening, seemed to stop in her chest. Her entire body sighed, causing her shoes and stockings to slip from her hands.

James was sprawled on his stomach, the sheet tangled and twisted down by his feet, the amber glow of the fire gilding every glorious nude inch of him. Isabella thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life. He looked like a Greek statue, but those were marble, cold, and untouchable. In contrast, the man before her was alive and warm and oh so touchable.

She wanted to hurl herself on top of him, feel his body pressed against hers, see if he was really as delicious as he looked. James, delicious? She wasn’t sure where the thought had come from, but yes, yes, yes, she wanted to kiss him all over, not just his wonderful mouth, and maybe, just maybe, she wanted to bite the spot where the strong column of his neck met the muscled curve of his shoulder. She wanted to
bite
him? A nervous giggle escaped her. Oh dear, she had shocked herself a bit with that one.

She moved closer to the bed and was struck by the sweet, golden smell of brandy lingering in the air. She glanced at the bedside table, noting with displeasure the mostly empty decanter. Apparently someone had been self-medicating.

Come to think of it, perhaps the brandy wasn’t a bad idea. In the novels, men always fortified themselves with spirits before engaging in activities that risked life and limb. Not that she was risking either, but then again, a woman’s reputation was worth at least as much as a gentleman’s limbs. With that logic, Isabella went forward and picked up the crystal decanter, but there didn’t appear to be any sort of glass around. Shrugging her shoulders, she lifted the decanter and took a large swallow.

It was, without question, the vilest thing she had ever tasted. She spit about half the liquid down the front of her gown, and gagged and choked on the rest. Her eyes watering, she carefully set the brandy back on the table before sinking to the floor, clutching her stomach. She looked over at James, relieved to see that he was still sleeping soundly. Heavens above, how did gentlemen manage to consume such vast quantities of that devil’s brew? Although, she had to admit it wasn’t so bad now that the brandy’s fiery trail was heating her from the inside out.

Perhaps she ought to try another small sip. She reached out, snagged the decanter off the table, and tilted her head back for a second attempt. It wasn’t half bad, she realized, resting the decanter in her lap. It still made her eyes tear up, but it was a small price to pay for the lovely, tingling warmth spreading through her body. How much brandy did one need to drink before one’s nerves were fortified? Isabella wondered. She took another little sip and learned that if she held her breath, she could hardly taste it. Much better.

An unknown number of sips later, Isabella set the decanter aside. For one thing, it was empty, though, for the life of her, she could not figure out where it had all gone. For another thing, the room had become unbearably hot. She clambered to her feet, pausing as the room swayed before her, and fanned at her cheeks. It really was overly warm, she thought. And suddenly it seemed the best idea in the world to take her gown off. Then she wouldn’t be so wretchedly overheated and, she realized with great glee, it would be an excellent way to begin her seduction.

Olivia had advised her to wear a simple gown that was easy to remove, a statement which, coming from the lips of a younger sister, had made Isabella hideously embarrassed, but it turned out to be a very wise decision since her fingers didn’t seem to be working at all properly. After spending the better portion of five minutes fumbling with the three buttons marching down the front of her bodice, Isabella was finally able to wriggle the gown off. As she had eschewed wearing a corset, her chemise was next to come off. She tossed it to join her gown on the floor, leaving her most shockingly unclothed and most shockingly unconcerned about being so.

Loosening her hair from its plait, Isabella danced her way over to the bed. She climbed up and slid herself under the sheets James had pushed aside, delighting in the slide of the cool linens against her naked limbs. Seduction, she decided, felt marvelously decadent. And there was so much more to come. . . .

Chapter 11

At the theater last night, Lord Voxley’s antics proved the more interesting performance. The man was so drunk, he clambered out of his box and swung from the curtains, bellowing and beating at his chest like a baboon. Sadly, however, Lord Voxley’s rather substantial weight overpowered the poor curtains, and all went tumbling into the crowd below. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but I have realized that people act most ridiculously when intoxicated. By people I mean men, of course, for women are either too sensible to imbibe heavily or wise enough to do so in private. Whatever larks you get up to, I hope you drink in moderation and thus avoid such simian behavior.

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age sixteen

Letter to her brother, Henry Weston, on the importance of

temperance with regard to alcoholic beverages—May 1794

J
ames Sheffield was foxed. Truth be told, he was more than foxed. Courtesy of the decanter of brandy he’d had the excellent foresight to stash in the bottom drawer of his armoire, he was three sheets to the wind, higher than a fiddler’s fist, thumped over the head with Sampson’s jawbone—in short, stinking drunk. He was not so drunk, however, that he didn’t hear Isabella’s voice softly calling his name.

Nor was he so drunk that the sound of her husky whisper failed to bring him to aching, instant attention. He
was
drunk enough that he didn’t really question her being in his bedroom, in the middle of the night. Ever since the night of her ball, Isabella visited him nightly in his dreams and indulged him in every hot-blooded, erotic fantasy his degenerate mind could conjure up.

He pushed himself up, propping his head in the palm of his hand, the simple motion enough to make him dizzy. When his sight cleared, he beheld the breathtaking sight of Isabella lying beside him in the bed—an excellent beginning to what promised to be an even more excellent dream.

He stretched out his free arm and wrapped a finger in one of the silky curls draped over her bare shoulder. “I was waiting for you,” he murmured.

“You were?” Her pale brows drew together, making her look quite adorably befuddled.

“Sometimes it feels as though I have been waiting for you my entire life.”

She sighed and her eyes grew teary. “You must know I have loved you forever,” she whispered.

James nodded, able to accept in dreams the truths far too troublesome to be examined in the light of day. He gazed at her, willing himself to memorize her as she was in that moment, soft and loving and
his
. A fantasy she might be, but this exquisite product of his frustrated imagination was all he had to sustain him through a lifetime of lonely nights. A wiser man would refuse her. Why torture himself with these teasing visions that could never come true? But when it came to Isabella Weston, James wasn’t particularly wise. Not even in his dreams. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—completely give her up. Not now, not ever.

“I want to love you
now
,” he told her, sliding his fingers down her shoulder to tug at the sheet she had tucked beneath her arms. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and for a moment she looked as if she would refuse. How fortunate then, that this was
his
dream. As if on cue, Isabella’s arms relaxed, allowing the sheet to slither down below her ribs. His hand glided down, the backs of his fingers trailing over the soft curve of her breast. She trembled at his touch, and the knowledge sent a primitive thrill coursing through his veins. But he needed more.

“Come closer,” he urged. Although she looked a bit wary, his dream Isabella complied again, scooting over in the bed, closer and closer, until the honeysuckle smell of her hair tickled his nose. As soon as she was within reach, James snaked an arm about her rib cage, pulling her down until she was flat on her back in the bed. The movement, he noted with delight, had also pulled the sheet down to just below her navel. It was a pity she hadn’t lost it completely, but perhaps that was all for the best. He wasn’t ready to take her yet, not nearly ready to end the fantasy, but it was becoming difficult to control his body’s demands.

Need spurred him, urged him to dispense with the bloody sheet and bury himself inside her. To take her hard and fast, then slow and gentle. To lick his way down her body, claim her with his mouth, and drink the musky sweetness of her. He drew in an unsteady breath, reminding himself that there was no rush. She was his until dawn, and he didn’t plan on squandering a single moment.

Bracing himself on one forearm, James slid his other hand behind her nape, holding her captive for his kiss. He delved hungrily into the hot cavern of her mouth, recklessly plundering, enthralled and enflamed by her immediate, ardent response. He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to swallow her whole, to make her a part of himself, to fuse and merge with her in every way possible for a man and a woman. . . . But he was getting ahead of himself again.

Closing his eyes, James began to nibble his way slowly down her neck, savoring the sound of her breathy pants, the salty-sweet softness of her skin, the way she hummed in her throat, purring like a cat, to convey her pleasure. His hand moved, seemingly of its own accord, to settle over one of her breasts. He didn’t do anything, but simply held his hand there, letting the heat from his skin transfer to hers and enjoying the feel of her. Her nipple rose up against his palm, and his hand closed reflexively, squeezing gently, wringing a gasp from her lips.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes, grinning wickedly up at her. Then his gaze lowered and his smile fell away, banished by a sweeping surge of lust. He swallowed hard. Truly, she had the most magnificent breasts. They were glorious, even more beautiful than he remembered, and he was sure he had memorized these particular breasts in exquisite, exacting detail—their shape, their weight, their taste—but perhaps he needed reminding.

James lowered his head to her breast. He blew a cool stream of air over the tip, watching the already-puckered nipple draw itself into a tighter, rosy bud.

“James,” she pleaded, arching her back, offering herself to him.

“Is this what you want, Izzie?” He drew her breast into his mouth, suckling lightly, then harder, faster at the sound of her moans. Her hands clenched in his hair, holding his head against her—an unnecessary gesture given that he had no particular inclination to move, except to lavish the same attention on her other breast.

He bit and licked and sucked, harnessing his own desire, determined to tease her until she was suffering as he was. Her hands moved down to clutch at his shoulders, trying to draw him over her. He chuckled, sliding his mouth down over her ribs. He wasn’t finished tormenting her—not even close.

He reached underneath the sheet, seeking out the soft thatch of hair nestled between her thighs. Her hips jerked as his fingers sifted through her hot, damp folds. Knowing that she was wet and ready for him nearly sent him over the edge. The urge to simply sink into her and thrust himself home had him gritting his teeth, but he knew he wouldn’t be totally satisfied until he gave her pleasure—soul-shattering pleasure that would chain her to him forever, ruin her for any other man. That was another nice thing about dreams—a man could be incredibly selfish and not feel the slightest bit of remorse.

Grinning, James felt out the little nubbin of pleasure at the top of her sex and was rewarded with a long, low moan, and he would be damned if that wasn’t the sexiest, most erotic sound he had ever heard. He kept his hand there, teasing her with occasional feathery strokes as he worked his way down her body with his mouth, paying homage to every pale freckle, worshipping every inch of her flesh with agonizing slowness. She writhed beneath him when he swirled his tongue into the delicate indentation of her navel, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

When he finally replaced his hand with his mouth, her whole body tensed. She began to protest, but the words turned into breathy cries and throaty pleas.
She wanted more. She couldn’t possibly take any more. She never wanted him to stop. He had to stop, or she would die.
Then she was heaving and panting, beyond words, but he continued to hold her hips steady—continued to lick her, to lap up her sweet essence, to thrust his tongue inside her as a hint of pleasures to come.