Promise Me Tonight (18 page)

Her fingers changed into claws that scratched at any part of his flesh she could reach. He had unleashed a wildcat in heat, and the knowledge was incredibly arousing, almost unbearably so. He was so hard, so achingly close, that every moment he denied himself release he remained precariously balanced on that fine, fine line between pleasure and pain. Delicious as the torture was, he had to agree with her. He didn’t think he could take much more.

He reached up with his left hand to squeeze and knead her breasts, tweaking and tugging at her nipples. He settled his mouth over the apex of her sex and began suckling strongly as, with his right hand, he thrust two fingers into her waiting passage. Her response was instantaneous. She cried out, arching her back in the air and digging her heels into the mattress, as he felt her inner muscles contract rhythmically, clamping down almost painfully as he eased his fingers out of her.

James had meant to bring her down slowly, but he couldn’t wait, not even a second longer. Kissing her with a kind of savage desperation, he spread her thighs and slowly entered her. Although he had readied her as best he could, she was still unbelievably small and tight, though he could feel her body stretching to accommodate him. He caressed her breasts, and she shuddered and convulsed around him. The sensation, exquisite beyond bearing, sent him over the edge. With a primitive cry of triumph and possession, he drove forward, sheathing himself to the hilt.

It was the salty taste of her tears, which had run down her face to mingle with their kiss, that finally jolted James out of his sensual fog. Tears had never played a part in his dreams of Isabella, which meant . . . No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. He blinked slowly, shaking his head in confusion, trying to come to terms with the situation. He hadn’t been dreaming. This wasn’t a damned dream. It was real, and it still reeked of damnation. Isabella, his best friend’s little sister, was in his bedchamber—in his bloody bed, actually—and, dear God, he was still inside her.

The blood that had temporarily returned to his head raced back down south. With it disappeared all thoughts of little sisters, best friends, and the burning fires of hell. All that mattered was the incredible feeling of being gripped by Isabella’s hot, tight passage.

Just like that, James knew it was all over for him. He thrust once, twice, and then he shattered. He threw his head back as he jerked and heaved and poured himself into her. Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of her, struggling to draw air into his lungs, sated and exhausted by the most explosive climax of his life. And then reality intruded. Again.

“Izzie?”

“Yes?” she said hesitantly.

She was right to be hesitant, James thought. In fact, she should be bloody terrified. He took no small amount of pride in his ability to keep his voice to a low roar as he demanded, “Would you care to tell me what the devil is going on here?”

He couldn’t have been any more desperate to get away, thought Isabella, if she had announced she had leprosy. She anxiously bit her lip as James, completely unconcerned by his nudity, leapt out of bed and threw back the covers. The white linen was stained with a spot of crimson, a single red petal against a snowy field. Sacrifice always demanded blood, she recalled. Not that the lovemaking had been a sacrifice, far from it, but the aftermath . . . She had expected that he would be angry—indeed, how could he not be?—but it hurt all the same. Somewhere, deep in her heart of hearts, she had cherished the hope that he secretly loved her. . . .

James turned from the bed and strode into the dressing room attached to his chamber. “Get dressed,” he called out. His voice was emotionless, chillingly so.

Isabella scrambled off the bed, taking the sheet with her, but instead of reaching for her gown, she followed him. She waddled across the room, stopping in the antechamber’s open door frame. He had already put on his breeches and was pulling on his shirt with tight, sharp motions. He certainly didn’t look in the mood to talk, but she had to at least try. She drew in a deep breath and said a silent prayer.

“James, I . . . Let me explain.”

“There is nothing to explain.”

“But—”

“But what?” He turned on her, his blazing eyes revealing the heat of his fury. “You knew how I felt about this, about marriage. You knew, and yet you came here, blatantly disregarding my wishes in service of your own.”

“No, please, it wasn’t like that. I just wanted—”

“Exactly.
You
wanted.
You
. What I wanted meant nothing.” He turned away from her and began to jerk on his boots.

“I couldn’t let you die,” she whispered brokenly.

He straightened and faced her, shaking his head. “Noble intentions, my dear,” he drawled, “but it wasn’t your decision to make. I told you long ago not to try to ‘save’ me.” He gestured toward the bedroom. “I presume you don’t need me to act as your lady’s maid. You seemed to have no trouble getting out of your gown unaided.”

Though every instinct rallied for a fight, Isabella forced herself to retreat. He was too angry to listen to anything she had to say. And he had every right to be angry. She had meddled in his life. She dressed herself quickly—well, as quickly as she could, given that she was attempting to keep herself covered with the quilt. Fortunately, she had herself clothed by the time he emerged from his dressing room. It was most unfair, though, that he was exquisitely attired while she—Isabella glanced down at herself—looked like a rumpled mess.

“Let’s go.” He gestured to the door.

“Are you taking me home? You needn’t. Really. I tethered Blossom just out of sight of the house. I can get back in through the window.”

“We are going to announce our engagement,” he said.

Isabella nodded. “Yes, but we can do that tomorrow. I suppose you should arrange to have the banns read, but I can do it, if you would prefer.”

“You misunderstand me. We are going to announce our engagement
now
.”

“Now? But it is the middle of the night!”

“What a pity, then, that you didn’t sneak into my bedchamber at some more respectable hour.”

He grabbed her arm and steered her out of the room. Once they were in the corridor, his pace increased so that she nearly had to trot to keep up with his long stride.

As James led her out to the stables, Izzie tried desperately to think of some reason why they couldn’t go to the manor, but she doubted he would believe any of the myriad excuses running through her mind. She needed something believable, she thought, as James saddled up Samhain, his big black stallion. She considered, but quickly discarded, the notion of running herself through with the pitchfork leaning against the wall. She had already been skewered and roasted enough, thank you.

She was contemplating a resurgence of the Black Plague when James tossed her up on the horse and mounted behind her. He held himself stiffly, as if reluctant to even touch her. It hurt, but not nearly as much as the silence; the only words that passed between them concerned her mare’s location.

A conversation from the night of her ball echoed in her head:

“
Despite what you say, James Sheffield, you’re not past saving, and nothing you say will change my mind. I refuse to believe it.”

“
Believe it. I’m warning you, Izzie. Don’t try to ‘save’ me. You’ll only get hurt.”

She couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned, she thought sadly. She just hadn’t expected she would hurt this much.

Once she was mounted on Blossom, Izzie was tempted to run—preferably somewhere far, far away. She didn’t know where exactly she would go, but at the moment, any place sounded better than where she was headed. Her cheeks burned with shame as the magnitude of what she had done sank in. Of course, if she had to do it all over again she would, but there was something about the unholy hour that made the entire affair feel so . . . so sordid.

As they rode up the long drive, with only the sound of the horses’ hooves to break the early- morning silence, Isabella’s dread only grew. She felt physically ill at the thought of having to face her parents. She dug in her heels, both literally and metaphorically, and stopped right where she was. It only took a few moments for James to realize that she was no longer behind him. He looked back at her with an eyebrow raised in silent question, but when she didn’t answer and made no move to continue, he wheeled Samhain around and rode back to her.

“Is there a problem?”

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” she muttered.

“You thought it was a grand idea when you stripped off your clothes and—”

“Well, yes, but it is the
middle
of the
night.
I thought we could announce our engagement in the usual way. You would ask my father for my hand. My mother would plan an elegant dinner party with some of the local families and then, after the meal, we would call for a champagne toast and officially announce our decision to wed.”

He frowned at her, but all he said was, “You thought wrong. We will be married with all due haste.” Then he turned and rode up the drive. With a sigh, Isabella followed him to the stables. He wouldn’t actually be safe until she married him, she reminded herself. Once that day came, assuming she lived to see that day,
then
she could flee. Perhaps, given the situation, she ought to give serious consideration to a nunnery. Life would be far simpler without men!

They walked around to the front of the house, and James began pounding on the front door, venting his frustration on the thick wooden panels and making enough noise to awaken every last inhabitant of Weston Manor. The door opened to reveal Caldwell; the elderly butler’s nightcap was comically askew upon his balding pate, but there was nothing funny about his expression. And when he glimpsed Isabella standing behind James, his bushy white eyebrows rose to new heights. Izzie wanted, quite simply, to crumble into a little pile of dust.

“James!”

Isabella peered past James to see her father descending the stairs, belting his robe as he hurried toward them. Her mother followed a few paces behind him.

“What is the matter? Has something happened?” Her mother’s questions started before she hit the bottom step.

James said nothing, just stepped into the foyer, exposing Isabella to two very startled pairs of parental eyes. At that moment, she really wished she had cultivated the feminine art of fainting. It had always struck her as foolish, considering that the cause of distress would presumably still be there when one came to, but Isabella was beginning to realize that a well- timed faint might be a very useful thing, indeed. However, given that a) she had no practice at performing a believable faint, b) the flooring in the entry was marble, and c) in his current mood, James couldn’t be counted on to catch her, Izzie decided she had no choice but to brazen it out.

Unfortunately, all her brazenness seemed to have gotten left behind in James’s bedchamber. She looked over her shoulder and saw with no small amount of longing that the front door was still open. Perhaps she would bolt after all. James’s hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Caldwell hurried to close the door, sealing off her means of escape.

Izzie shuddered.

James pulled her closer and murmured, “Cold, my love?
You?
”

Isabella flinched at his veiled innuendo, his biting sarcasm, but she bit the inside of her cheek and said nothing. It wasn’t easy. Not at all.

She raised her eyes to her parents’ faces. Her mother looked worried. Her father . . . Judging by the red color staining his face, her father was about three seconds away from exploding.

Three, two, one . . .

“What the bloody hell is going on?” her father bellowed.

“Oliver!” her mother hissed, jerking her head toward the upper levels of the house, not that there was really any chance of anyone still being asleep. Sure enough, the faint sound of crying children floated down to them.

“Would someone,” her father ground out, “please explain
this
.” He waved a hand toward Isabella and James.

“We-ell,” Izzie began, but James cut her off.

“What happened tonight is this: Your daughter, by some means, managed to sneak out of
her
bedchamber and into
mine
. What happened then . . . ? Let us just say she employed some rather persuasive tactics. . . . ”

Her mother groaned.

“In any matter, our marriage has become a matter of quite urgent necessity.”

Her father was looking a bit purple now. “You!” he barked at Isabella. “Straight to your room. And you!” He turned on James. “My study. Now.”

Chapter 12

Here is the latest
on dit:
Last week, Lady Chastity Ashworth was found in a compromising position with Sir Edwin Gorsham, a man whose fashion sense leaves much to be desired. I once saw him wearing a mustard-colored waistcoat embroidered with pink polka dots. In any case, the two were found, with Sir Edwin in a most shocking state of undress, though, in my opinion, his undressed state is likely less shocking than his clothed state. I feel quite sorry for Lady Chastity, who, had she been a rose by any other name, might be the subject of far fewer jests.

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age seventeen

Letter to her aunt Katherine, Marchioness of Sheldon, containing