Promise Me Tonight (6 page)

“She wanted to save this entire section,” Izzie continued, “but my father contested that having more than three shelves full of one’s own book in one’s own library was somewhat self-aggrandizing.”

She set aside her ice and came up beside him, her nearness further fraying the tangled ribbons of his senses. Then she leaned in to point at the books below the empty shelves, and her hand brushed against his stomach. He stifled a groan.

“This set of the
Complete Works
was my father’s wedding gift to my mother.”

She trailed her fingertips lovingly over the fine leather and gold bindings, a gesture he felt on every oversensitized inch of his body.

“This set,” she said, reaching to the shelf below and pulling out a crimson volume, “was his present to her when Henry was born.” Her arm grazed his midsection again, a bit lower this time, and he let out a gasp. He thought he saw the corner of her mouth quirk into a smile, but it disappeared so quickly he decided he must have imagined it.

“It really is exquisite, isn’t it?” she murmured, gently fanning out the leaves of the book.

He gaped at her, then frowned. Was it possible the chit was deliberately teasing him?

“Have you never seen a fore-edge painting before? Look, now you see it. . . .”

James forced himself to focus on the delicate image revealed on the exposed edges of the pages.

“And now you don’t.” She closed the book and the scene vanished, replaced by ordinary gilt edging. She replaced the volume on the shelf, tormenting him with yet another whisper of a caress. “Now this set . . .”

James followed her gaze down to what was sure to be yet another collection of Shakespeare’s works. Then he imagined where her next touch would land and hurriedly stepped back, raking a hand through his hair.

“Really!” he huffed in exasperation, more for his inability to control his own body than for any dislike of book-bindings or the Bard. “How many
Complete Works
could a person possibly need?”

“Ah,” Isabella interjected, “but we’re not talking about a person. We’re talking about my mother. Some women like jewels, but—”

“Your mother likes books,” he finished for her. Then, unable to help himself, he reached out and brushed an errant curl back behind her ear. He’d removed his gloves when he’d gone to fetch supper, and now he was touching her, skin to skin. A little sigh of contentment escaped her lips, and it hit James like a fist to the gut. He quickly pulled his hand away. Damnation, this was
Isabella
!

The problem, James thought, was that she didn’t look like herself. Well, she did, but she didn’t look like the Isabella he had carried in his head during the past years. That Isabella had been a child, which this Isabella most definitely was not.

This Isabella was a goddess, and if he remembered his mythology correctly, goddesses were always dangerous to mortal men. He needed to put things back on proper footing, but how?

“So . . . ” He searched for something—
anything—
to say. “Did you miss me?”

The moment the words left his mouth, James could have kicked himself.
Did you miss me?
What kind of asinine question was that? Could he sound any more like a bloody idiot? And why did he care?

“Yes, I missed you.” The words emerged as a choked whisper.

James felt something sweet and unexpected bloom in his chest, all because this little slip of a girl, a girl he had known since she was in pinafores, had missed him.

“D-did you miss
me
?” She tried to keep the question light and teasing, but James heard the wobble in her voice, saw her beautiful eyes glistening too brightly.

“I didn’t want to.” He realized the truth in the words as he spoke them. “I didn’t want to,” he said again, taking an involuntary step toward her, then another, and another, until he was face-to-face with her. He knew he should back up, return her to the dining room, and then make his farewells and leave—leave until this madness had passed.

She was a child, and younger sister of his best friend, for Christ’s sake. The only feelings he should have toward her were those of a protective older brother. Anything else was inappropriate and dangerous. Yes, James knew he should walk away, but he had an awful suspicion he wasn’t going to.

“Y-you didn’t want to . . .” Her voice shook as she watched him.

James swallowed hard, and then nodded once.

“B-but you did?” It was half question, half statement.

He stared down into her aquamarine eyes, dewy with tears. They were at once the eyes of the woman she had become—the most beautiful, most desirable woman he had ever encountered—and of the adorable, irascible girl she had been. He had never been able to lie to the child, and he found it just as impossible now.

He
had
missed her. He had missed her wit, and her sunny smiles, and her delight in the absurd. He had missed their conversations, and the looks they shared when Henry said something particularly daft, and the way she had always shown up no matter how hard he and Henry had tried to hide from her.

More than all of that, though, he had missed her—some indefinable quality that was
Isabella
.

Dear Lord, he was becoming a half-wit. Yes, he had missed Isabella. He had also missed Henry, Lady Weston, and the rest of the family. There were a lot of people he had missed, including his tailor, his boot maker, and Lucy, the lovely little ballet dancer who had been his mistress before he’d left.

Of course he had missed Isabella; she was practically his little sister. It would have been strange if he
hadn’t
missed her, James rationalized.

Isabella was still looking up at him expectantly, anxiety and hope written clearly on her face.

“Yes,” James said easily, now that he had figured out his feelings. He smiled down at her benevolently. “Of course I missed you.”

The expression of pure joy that burst across her face was dazzling. Her happiness wrapped itself about him and yanked hard at his insides.

“Oh, James,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. Then she pressed her mouth to his and he froze. Her eyes had fluttered closed, and she was kissing him without a whit of skill, frantically rubbing her lips against his, and he, James Sheffield, acknowledged rake, was instantly harder than the oak bookcases lining the room.

Some part of his brain, surely the rational part, sounded alarm bells at the staggering
rightness
he felt at having her in his arms, her mouth pressed to his. God, she was sweet!

No!

No, no, no!

This was
Isabella
!

He pushed her away, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs, and struggled for control.

Think of Henry
, he told himself.

Think of—

He groaned when she slipped herself right back into his arms, pressing kisses all over his face. He was trying to find the strength to pull away again, when Isabella returned to his mouth. He couldn’t stand it. He was only a man, and he couldn’t resist her any longer. One kiss, he told himself. One good kiss, and then he would stop. Resolved, he angled her head back, deepening the kiss.

Isabella made a noise at the back of her throat, and just like that, the rational part of James’s brain ceased to function. All his noble intentions of gently ending the kiss and escorting her back inside crumbled and were swept aside by an overwhelming flood of lust. One of his hands skimmed down her back to cup her bottom.

Her lips parted in shock, and he seized the moment to slide his tongue into her mouth. He sensed her surprise as he teased her tongue with the tip of his, tasting champagne and strawberries and something perfectly, uniquely Isabella.

He memorized the tantalizing combination, knowing the kiss was all he would ever have of her. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting her, though, in all fairness, he couldn’t imagine a man alive who wouldn’t want her, but he would never have her. Of that he was certain. Because he had missed her and because he did care about her—as much as he allowed himself to care about anybody—there could never be anything more.

Aside from her being his best friend’s little sister, Isabella was a woman who deserved to be loved, and James had no intention of ever loving, of ever being that vulnerable. . . . Love meant trusting another person entirely. Love meant the possibility of loss. And James had already suffered enough loss for one lifetime. He wasn’t willing to risk hurting that way again.

And as for marriage and children, they played no part in his future. The Sheffield line and as far as he knew, the earldom, would end with him. It was a fitting retribution against the man who had taken him in solely to ensure the continuation of the earldom, a proper payback for all the times his grandsire had berated and belittled him.

Revenge tasted sweet.

As sweet as the soft warmth of Isabella’s mouth.

He couldn’t have both, and his choice was already made.

But he couldn’t pull himself away from her.

He was a selfish ass, and he wasn’t going to give up this little glimpse of heaven.

Heaven.

Isabella was in heaven.

On second thought, she doubted even heaven could feel as perfect as this.

Surrounded by the heat and strength radiating from James’s body, she felt safe and cherished. Here was the man she had loved practically forever, and he was kissing her, sending feelings she had never even imagined coursing through her.

Good heavens, his tongue was in her mouth and his hand was fondling her bottom! She knew that these were liberties she should not allow any gentleman to take, but she didn’t care.

This was James—
her James
—and she was his. She tentatively, instinctively touched her tongue to his, savoring the spicy male taste of him. He groaned against her mouth and kissed her passionately, without restraint, as he kneaded her bottom, holding her firmly against him.

Isabella moaned at the feel of his hardness pressing against her belly. She was out of control, past any sense of decency. Her hands fisted in his hair as his mouth did wicked things to hers. As if from a great distance, she heard little mewling animal sounds and was shocked to realize they were emanating from her.

An urgent, tingling warmth pooled deep in her belly, then radiated outward, making every inch of her body yearn for something that seemed just out of reach. She pressed closer, rubbing her breasts against the hardness of his chest, trying to assuage the ache.

James broke the kiss with a strangled growl. She could feel his breathing, heavy and hot against her cheek. His chest rose and fell as he drew in deep gulps of air, fighting to regain some control. She didn’t want him in control. She wanted him as wild and undone as she was. Her hands tightened in his hair as she let out a distressed whimper.

“Shhhh.” He soothed her, sliding his hands up to massage her nape. Her head rolled back, and James lowered his lips to the silky spot beneath her chin. She gave a hum of approval, and he continued to nibble and lick his way down her neck to the swell of her breasts.

The ache in her breasts intensified, and Isabella arched her back, feeling restless and unsatisfied. The air in her lungs seemed to expand, making breathing difficult.

“James?” His name was a question and a plea.

He answered by trailing his hands down from her neck to cup the ripe bounty she offered. She started at the first light touch of his hands, but he brushed his lips softly against hers in reassurance. The tension drained from her body as his knowing fingers began to learn her shape through the barrier of her gown. The gentle caress was too much and not enough.

A flash of sanity intruded when she felt the sash on her dress loosen around her ribs, then slither to the floor, but she was distracted when he took her mouth again, his tongue thrusting deeply in a way that had her squirming against him.

“Sweet,” he murmured, running his tongue around the sensitive shell of her ear. “Sweet, let me touch you. I
need
to touch you.”

Isabella could barely comprehend the words, lost as she was in a swirling, sensual fog. “Yes,” she panted. “Yes.”

She didn’t know what she was agreeing to—and she didn’t particularly care, just as long as he didn’t stop. She would die if he stopped. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined the feelings he would evoke in her, the flames he would ignite.

It was the feeling of cool air whispering across her shoulder blades that jolted her back to reality, penetrating the sultry haze that had enveloped her. She opened her eyes, realizing with mounting horror that she was standing in the library, her dress falling down around her waist, with the party guests mere rooms away.

Oh dear.

She was fairly sure this would rank highly on her mother’s endless list of situations that well-brought-up young ladies should never, ever find themselves in. It might even place in the top three. Being found naked in a gentleman’s bed would be worse, she supposed. Or standing in the packed ballroom and announcing at the top of her lungs that she was insane and barren. But this was bad.

Very bad.

Not at all proper.

This was wrong, she told herself.