Promise Me Tonight (7 page)

But, oh dear God, it felt so heavenly right.

James was nibbling on the spot where the line of her throat met the curve of her shoulder, and his hands . . . his hands were on her breasts, gently squeezing and rubbing, and her nipples were hard as pebbles against his palms.

She had to stop this; really, she did. Her hands slid into his hair, intending to draw him away, but his mouth slid downward, engulfing the tip of her breast. Sanity retreated, her eyes fluttered closed, and the hands that should have been pushing at him were suddenly grasping at him, holding him captive.

He took the silken mound further into his mouth, suckling strongly, and then lightly bit the tip of her breast, a gesture that sent golden sparks bursting behind her closed eyes. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, he moved to lavish the same attention on her other breast.

Isabella gave a soft, keening wail, grabbing and kissing every part of him she could. She knew she was close to something wonderful, but she couldn’t begin to understand all the feelings building up inside her. She let out a frustrated moan.

James lifted her up to sit on the desk and stepped between her thighs, reached underneath her skirts, and ran his fingers up her calf, caressing her through her silk stocking, an action that caused gooseflesh to break out all over her body. She froze, then shivered as his hand moved higher, past her garter, to stroke the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

His other hand came up to cup her cheek, drawing her in for a kiss, and she eagerly opened to him. Her body relaxed as their mouths met and mated in a dance so natural, so perfect, she never wanted it to stop.

Her hips arched up, instinctively rocking to the rhythm established by their thrusting tongues. He took his hand from her face and wound it around her back, supporting her and gathering her closer. His other hand drifted to her center, his questing fingers searching out the place where she ached with some unknown need.

He stroked up and down, feathery caresses that had her squirming and gasping. She clasped her arms around his neck, trying to get closer. He groaned, and those wicked fingers increased their pressure and pace, driving her further, faster.

She clung to him, the air in her lungs rasping in and out, as rapid as his own breathing. She breathed him in, savoring the slightly sweaty smell of him, and braced her forehead against the hard plane of his chest where she could hear the racing beat of his heart.

Listening to that organ pound away—listening to it pound for
her
—filled Isabella with joy, adding to the physical pleasure building inside her.

The words of love she had bottled up for so many years struggled to burst free.

She couldn’t contain them any longer.

“Oh, James, I love you. I love you so much!”

He froze, and then jerked away from her, stumbling back a few steps. He was staring at her as if she’d bewitched him and he’d finally managed to break free of her spell.

“Jesus!” He swore softly and fluently, a string of oaths so colorful and anatomically impossible, it would have made a sailor blush. She wanted to applaud and save up a few choice phrases to shock Henry with, but she couldn’t.

Not now.

Not when her heart was breaking.

Izzie bit back a cry. The words that had exploded from her lips in the heat of passion now sent a chill snaking through her. It was obvious that he didn’t return her feelings.

The cold settled in the region of her heart, turning it to ice, then migrated down to the pit of her stomach. She felt fragile and unsure; one word, one touch could shatter her.

And still she ached for him—body, heart, and soul.

What must he think of her, allowing him such liberties? She’d been so foolish to believe he’d take one look at her and fall in love. That was the stuff of novels and fairy tales.

“I told you long ago that I was incapable of love. A wise woman would have heeded those words.” His voice was hard and distant. She would have thought him entirely unaffected if not for the hands fisted at his sides.

“I can’t help how I feel. I’ve loved you since I was a girl.” Her throat was so tight with unshed tears, and she had to fight to get the words out.

“Well,” he said coldly, “tonight is about growing up.”

Isabella gasped, feeling his words like physical blows. The tears welled over and a choked sob escaped her.

At the sound, James jerked as if he had been shot. His head whipped around, and she felt his eyes on her. Her bodice was still down around her waist and when the heat of his gaze settled on her breasts, she couldn’t help her body’s response.

“Damnation. Cover yourself!” he growled harshly, before turning away again.

She gave a startled cry and began yanking her dress up, fumbling as she tried to tug it back into place. When she realized that it would be impossible to do up her own buttons, and that she would have to ask James for help, Isabella nearly decided to stab herself with the letter opener on the desk and end it all right there. Fortunately for the Aubusson rug beneath her feet, her taste for melodrama ran only so far.

“I need you,” she said softly. She drew in a deep breath, and then let it out, along with her pride. She addressed him, or rather his back, with the little that remained of her dignity. “I need you to do up my gown.”

He didn’t move. In fact, her words seemed to have frozen him to the spot. Izzie glared at him. What was
wrong
with him? She had asked him to help her with her dress, the very least he could do, and he just stood there. He should be on his knees, kissing the ground beneath her feet, that she wasn’t demanding that the banns be read. Many a marriage had gone forward for far less of an indiscretion than she had just participated in.

No, than
they
had just participated in. He had been the one who had undone the bloody gown in the first place, and he could damn well assist her in getting it back on! And it felt bloody marvelous to curse, even if it was only in her head! All urge to cry fled as self- righteous fury seized her, so intense she actually shook from it.

Isabella stamped her foot. Just like that, James tore into motion. He lunged forward, grabbed her shoulders, and spun her around. He was almost savage as he hauled the two halves of the dress together and began fastening the buttons and retying the sash.

Isabella was aware to her toes of the large, angry man at her back. His body fairly vibrated with tension, and she could hear the air racing in and out of his lungs, feel his hot breath against her nape. She shivered, wanting him despite herself, excited by the primitive savage she could sense lurking just beneath his highly civilized veneer.

Chapter 5

Unfortunately, there is no one else I can ask. So, my dearest, wisest, and most loving older brother, I hope you will answer my question and set my mind at rest. Can quarreling and the subsequent exchange of flowers get a woman with child? Every time our parents have a terrible row, Mama gets a huge bouquet and then we end up with a new sibling nine months later. Is this merely a coincidence? I had the most dreadful spat with the parson’s son yesterday, but today he apologized and brought me some wildflowers. Am I fallen?

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age ten

Letter to her brother, Henry Weston, questioning the

probability of an outcome following a certain sequence of

events—October 1788

“
I
need you....” A shock ran through James’s body at hearing those words from her mouth. Emotions warred and clashed within him, battling for supremacy.

Anger, certainly, at her for kissing him at all, but mostly directed toward himself.

Desperation, from the pain of unfulfilled desire. Horror and guilt because, God forgive him, he had nearly taken
Isabella
—who was practically a child, and not just any child, but one he was honor bound to love and protect as a brother—right there on a table in the library.

Self-loathing because, if he was being honest with himself, he still wanted to.

And excitement and hope and something else, some emotion he couldn’t name but that tugged insistently at his heart, thrilled by the notion that she needed him.

“I need you to do up my gown.”

James stared at her.
I need you to do up my gown.
Not
I need you
.

Disappointment rose up in his throat, which was bloody well ridiculous since he should have been down on his bloody knees and kissing the bloody ground; that was all she was asking of him. Unaccountably, it made him angry. Actually, it made him bloody furious! Then she had the gall to stamp her dainty little foot at him, and something inside him snapped.

He grabbed her shoulders, turned her about, and angrily began fastening her gown, erasing, with each inch of flesh that disappeared from his sight, the undoing that had been his undoing. As he slid the top button through its silken loop, his hands brushed the soft skin at her nape. He felt a shudder travel through her body. Just like that, he came undone all over again.

The hands that had wanted to throttle her only moments before gentled; he watched, fascinated, as his thumbs began caressing her petal-soft skin. It was as if his mind had no control over his body. Not that that was surprising. It was a different part of his body altogether that was dictating his behavior with Isabella.

As the thought ran through his head, Isabella let out a soft sigh, and turned into him, her head nestling against his chest. His arms automatically came up and tightened around her, holding her close . . . and then he realized what he was doing.

Bloody hell, it had happened again. She had made him lose control, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way she made him feel. Or rather, he liked it too much, but he had decided long ago not to feel. Because feeling led to loving, and loving was dangerous.

He could not let himself fall in love. That, and only that, was what enabled him to step away from Isabella. It was an act of self-preservation. It was so tempting to take what she so sweetly offered.

Her lips, still swollen and rosy from his kisses, pouted to once again be covered by his own. Her lush body arched against him was the physical embodiment of every erotic fantasy he had ever had, but he cared about her too much already. She was a risk, a complication he couldn’t afford.

She would hurt now, but she would heal. What she felt for him was infatuation, the remnants of a childhood
tendresse
mixed with a good dose of lust.

Lust for Isabella Weston.

It was strange, yet undeniable, and certainly preferable to love. Lust he could dismiss. Love was—

It didn’t bloody matter
what
love was, because she wasn’t in love with him. She couldn’t be. It was some sort of bizarre womanly logic, which meant it had nothing to do with logic at all. He was older and, moreover, he was a man; it was, therefore,
his
assessment of the situation that was correct, and he was dealing with lust, not love.

Not love at all.

So he stepped away from her knowing, as he did, that it was the right thing to do.

“I apologize,” he said. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re apologizing for kissing me?” she asked incredulously.

He nodded. “And for the—” His gaze dropped to her chest, finishing the unspoken thought.

With the events of that evening, Izzie wouldn’t have thought she had a shred of modesty left, but she felt a blush stain her cheeks. She realized the flush was also due in part to the angry flame his words had fanned.

“You’re apologizing for kissing me,” she repeated tightly.

He nodded again, looking a bit wary.

“I don’t accept,” she said.

“You don’t accept what?”

“I don’t accept your apology. I am not at all sorry you kissed me and touched me.” Her tone was soft, but the words were deliberate, sharp arrows, flung to try to topple all his walls and defenses.

“I am not sorry at all, except that you stopped. It was magical, more than I ever could have imagined. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I
need
to say it.”

James shook his head, warning her to stop, but she ignored him. This was too important.

“I
love
you, James. Foolish as it may be, I do. It is more than love, actually. I almost feel as though you are a part of me. From the first time I saw you, I—”

“You were a child!” he protested.

“I
knew
.” She caught his gaze with her own, holding it. “I love you. I always have, and—”

“Izzie, if you loved me at all, it was as an older brother. Come, enough of this nonsense.”

“That is true,” she said slowly.

“That it’s nonsense?” he goaded.

She shook her head, sifting through his words, weighing them. “No, it is true that when we first met, I was too young to have the sort of feelings for you that I have now.”

He moved to speak, but she held up a hand, silencing him.

“I can see that you don’t want to accept what I am telling you right now, but my love for you
is
real. I
do
have these feelings, though, like me, they have changed and matured over time. First, it was the love of a child for the boy who rescued her from trees while her brother stood by laughing. Then it changed to the love of a girl for the young man who sneaked sweets up to her at balls and promised her a dance.”