Promise Me Tonight (35 page)

Her mood was improved in the early afternoon when Davies arrived bearing gifts. It was difficult to remain down in the mouth when there were presents to be opened, and even harder to stay sullen when a glittering diamond and aquamarine necklace entered the picture. Enclosed in the velvet case was a letter from James requesting her company at dinner that evening.

“May I take back your reply, my lady?” Davies queried.

“You may tell him I would be delighted to dine with him tonight.”

Isabella dressed with care, choosing a pale blue silk gown that complemented her new jewels. She entered the drawing room promptly at seven and found James waiting for her, looking splendid in his formal evening wear.

Before her courage deserted her, Izzie quickly kissed his cheek. “Thank you for the necklace. It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Izzie blushed, feeling more like a maiden than a married lady. Then again, she reflected as James led her into the dining room, in many ways she was closer to being a virginal miss than a woman of experience.

They enjoyed an elegant repast, and James proved a most diverting companion. He kept up an easy conversation throughout the meal, skirting any potentially uncomfortable subjects. They reminisced about childhood adventures, and James kept her amused with tales about the scrapes he and Henry had got up to at Oxford. She, in turn, regaled him with anecdotes from her time in London and Bath, until he was roaring with laughter. She stayed at the table while he drank his port, their conversation having dwindled to an easy silence. When one of the candles sputtered and burned out, Isabella forced herself to stand. The evening had been so pleasant, she wished it wouldn’t end.

James rose when she did. He took her hand and walked back to the drawing room. Without warning he drew her close and took her lips in a kiss so tender, her knees nearly buckled.

“Invite me to your chambers,” he urged, playfully nipping her lower lip.

Isabella reluctantly drew away. “Not yet. Not tonight.”

He sighed. “Pleasant dreams, then, Izzie. Until to morrow.”

“Good night,” she replied, hurrying off to her room before she changed her mind.

That night established a pattern. James kept to his wing of the estate during the day, and Izzie spent her mornings playing with Bride and overseeing the household. Every afternoon, Davies arrived with some sort of present: a bonnet trimmed with yellow and white silk roses; beautiful, enameled trinket boxes; tortoiseshell hair combs; an exquisitely painted fan; a pair of lovebirds; delicately scented soaps and bath oils. . . . And accompanying each gift was a note from James inviting her to dine with him.

Each occasion proved more pleasurable than the last. Isabella learned more about her husband, reveled in his company, and began to crave his presence during the day. Every night he walked her to the drawing room and kissed her. Sometimes he was slow and gentle; other times he was rough and demanding, but each kiss fueled the fire he had carefully built within her.

He always asked to be invited back to her room, but Izzie remembered her mother’s advice. They had yet to discuss any of the serious issues at hand, and until they did, she would keep him from her bed. It was increasingly difficult, though, and she felt her resistance weakening.

She tossed and turned every night, and when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of James. Needless to say, the dreams were not restful. She always awoke sweaty and aroused, with the quilts tangled in a heap at her feet. She tried touching herself, but that joyful release hovered just out of reach, as elusive as her dream lover.

After a fortnight had passed, Izzie’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. James consumed her every waking thought, and most of her sleeping ones. She knew she would have to be the one to bring up any touchy subjects, but dinner had turned into a perfect, magical time of day, and she was loath to break the spell.

That night, James didn’t stop at kisses. He cupped her breasts through her gown, and with the fever that raged through her blood, that simple caress nearly caused her to explode. He pulled her close, cupping her behind and pressing her against his erection. She was dizzy with desire, and he knew it.

“Let me take you to your room,” he said, in between hot, openmouthed kisses down her neck. “Tonight, Izzie, before we both go insane.”

How was she supposed to think when he kept touching her like that?

“I—” Her brain refused to function. All the blood that belonged there had raced to the spots where James’s lips met her bare flesh.

“I—”

“
Yes
,” he said, encouraging her. “Say
yes
.”

“I can’t.” She wrenched herself away from him and saw the disappointment in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then fled.

Back in her lonely room, Isabella wondered if she had made the right decision. Would it have really been so terrible if she’d given in and said yes? What was she gaining by denying him—and herself—the pleasure they both craved?

Nothing
, her body screamed.
Go to him
. She contemplated the thought for a moment. She knew he would welcome her into his bed, but she couldn’t break the rules she’d been the one to insist on in the first place.

She called Becky to help her undress, but once she was in bed, she couldn’t sleep. She needed some distraction to keep her from running to James’s chamber and ravishing him. . . .

Ravishment—that was it!

Even with all the gothic novels she had given to the twins for their birthday—much to her mother’s horror—there were still a great many Minerva Press books left over. She donned her wrapper and padded off toward the library. If her own ruination was out of reach, she would settle for living vicariously through an enterprising heroine . . . and perhaps she’d even pick up some pointers along the way!

When she reached the library, Isabella found she was not the only one who couldn’t sleep. She stared at the man silhouetted by the light of the dying fire. He was her husband; he was
James
, and yet in some ways he was a perfect stranger. She needed to know what he was doing there, not in that particular room, but in her life.
Why had he come back?
Everything would have been so much simpler had he stayed away.

“Because I need you,” he said, and she realized she had voiced her thoughts aloud. It was amazing, really, how he could devastate her with three simple words. How long had she waited, how many times over how many years had she prayed to hear him say those words? But hearing them now, rather than any sort of triumph or exultation, all she felt was a vast emptiness.

She had needed him once. She wasn’t sure if she still did, and the fact of the matter was, she didn’t really
want
to know. It would mean looking into places in her heart and sections of her soul that she had closed off and locked up. She had learned to cope without him, had found a measure of contentment that she didn’t want to risk. Besides, she had Bride to fill her heart.

That organ began to thump erratically as he got to his feet and walked over to her. He reached out a hand and tenderly traced one of the curls at her temple. It was too much. She turned her head away from him, but not before she saw the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“Don’t you need me even a little bit, Izzie?” he asked softly.

“Don’t. Please, don’t,” she begged him, hating the wobble in her voice. Then again, she had cried so many tears over this man, what were a few more?

“Do you know what I was thinking about before you came in? I was thinking about that morning in Scotland when I found you and Bride asleep together in the nursery. You looked like an angel, so beautiful and good, and Bride looked just as heaven-sent. I wish I had been here when she was born.”

Isabella gave a watery sniffle. “Mrs. Drummond would probably have sent you off with a bottle of brandy and instructions to stay away.”

“I would have stayed with you the whole time,” he promised solemnly, brushing away the tears as he turned her face toward him.

The genuine regret she saw in his eyes was impossible to ignore. “You were with me,” she whispered. She brought her hand up for a moment to cover his, wordlessly imploring him to maintain the contact of his palm pressed to her cheek. “When I had lost the will to push, I heard your voice, felt your arms around me, lending me your strength.”

“When I was shot, when I thought I was going to die, I felt you with me, easing my pain, and all I could think about was how I had never told you how much I love you. You must understand—”

“You love me?” she exclaimed, totally dumbfounded.

James was so startled by her shocked outcry that he stumbled backward, tripped over an ottoman, and landed heavily on his behind. He smiled up at her sheepishly. “Do you honestly mean that I still haven’t told you?”

She shook her head, her heart beating wildly in her chest, filled with a hope so wondrous, so gorgeous, she was scared to breathe.

“Oh dear. How terribly remiss of me,” he clucked.

Her breath whooshed out of her, and she fell to her knees beside him. “James Sheffield, if you don’t tell me right now . . .”

He pulled her into his lap and held her tightly in his arms. “I love you,” he said roughly into her hair. He pulled back so that he could look into her eyes. The depth of emotion she saw there staggered her. “I love you,” he repeated. “I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. More than I thought it was possible to love someone.”

“And Bride?” she asked.

“I won’t deny that it has taken some getting used to, this notion of being a father, but how could I not love her?”

Isabella pulled away and sank down on her heels. “What if she had been a boy? Would you still feel the same way?”

“I cannot imagine not loving any child of ours, but perhaps we should test it out to be sure. Bride ought to have a little brother to play with, don’t you think?”

“But what about your determination that the Sheffield line end with you?”

“My love, my grandfather ruled my life for far too long. Even from the grave he’s kept his claws in me, and I will not give him that power any longer.” He rose and took hold of her hands, pulling her to her feet. “Seeing you again, holding our daughter in my arms, everything has become clear.”

Isabella snatched her hands away from him so quickly that he toppled back onto the floor.

“What in God’s name was
that
for?” he demanded, picking himself up and rubbing his sore backside.

And a mighty fine backside it was. No, no, no. She had to focus.

“Am I honestly to believe that you have had some sort of miraculous revelation? That you no longer care about your plans for revenge and the end of the earldom?”

“Er, uh, well . . . yes?”

She glared at him.

“Do you know why I left?”

Isabella sighed. She thought they had moved past that. “You were angry at me for tricking you into marriage, and also for forcing you to bend to your grandfather’s plans.”

“That isn’t why I left. Well, that was part of it, but that wasn’t the real reason.”

“Which was?”

“I was scared. Partly for myself, but mostly I was scared for you.”

That
definitely was not what she had expected to hear. Her legs felt wobbly, so she stumbled over to the nearest settee. “You were scared for
me
?”

He nodded and began to move restlessly about the room. “When I explained to you about how a woman gets pregnant, I had a vision. I don’t know if that is truly what it was, but it no longer matters since, thank God, it didn’t come to pass. But at the time, I truly thought it was a premonition, and there’s enough superstitious Irish blood in me that I believed it.”

“What did you see?”

He turned and stared at her, the pain and sorrow in his eyes almost more than she could bear. She patted her hand beside her, motioning him to sit. She moved over to make space for him, taking comfort in his nearness and hoping he would do the same.

Slowly, haltingly, he began to explain his fears, and then it all began to spill out of him, the words tumbling over one another in their haste to get out. “I thought I would lose you,” he choked out, “and I was so scared. Scared of loving, and scared of losing. I told myself that it was only lust, and that all you felt was infatuation. I thought that if I could just stay away from you, I could keep myself from falling in love, and then I wouldn’t be hurt again. Everything was tied up together, all the anger and the fear and the sadness intertwined, and I didn’t want to unravel it. It was easier, safer, that way.

“After my father died, when I was on the ship coming to England, even in my darkest hours I retained some spark of hope. After not two minutes in my grandfather’s presence, hope turned to hate. I was so angry with everyone—not only with my grandfather, but also with my mother for dying and even more with my father for not loving me enough to have the courage to live. But then, when I had that vision, I finally understood my father. How he felt that life without my mother wasn’t worth living. Because that was how I was beginning to feel about you. It terrified me. And I was certain you would die if I got you with child. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you if I stayed. . . . So I left. I could bear being away from you, I could bear your hatred, but your death would destroy me.”