Promise Me Tonight (33 page)

Isabella shook her head. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Chapter 20

I realized I forgot to impart a most important piece of sisterly advice: Whatever else you do, make certain you never find yourself alone in a closed equipage with Lord Sheldon. It is difficult to believe, I know, but I have been told—you do
not
wish to know by whom—that any number of improprieties, including the most improper of them all, can be committed in a carriage. Pray remember this is meant to warn and inform,
not
to inspire!

From the correspondence of Isabella, Lady Dunston,

age twenty

Letter to her sister, Olivia Weston, slipped to the recipient

at the breakfast table, on what may be set in motion once

one is, in fact, in motion—November 1798

T
he morning they were to leave, James stood outside and watched the trunks being loaded onto the carriages. “Does everything look to be in good shape?” James asked his manservant, Davies, who was supervising the process.

“Indeed, my lord. It won’t be an easy journey, seeing as it’s November in Scotland, but we’ll get through.”

It wasn’t going to be an easy journey in more ways than one, James thought, recalling Isabella’s expression at the breakfast table. She had pasted a pleasant smile on her face, but it was clear to anyone who knew her that she was seething inside.

“Davies, please, tell me you were able to get the books.”

When James had gathered his troops to plot Isabella’s courtship, Olivia had declared that her sister would love nothing so much as having the latest gothic novels to read on the long journey back from Scotland. She’d even told him the titles, but he hadn’t bothered to write them down.

When he’d sent Davies to hire the traveling coaches, James had asked him to stop in at one of the booksellers in Edinburgh to purchase the books, but he hadn’t been able to remember the titles. “I know at least one of them had something to do with ghosts and ruins,” he’d told his manservant. “Or perhaps it’s ghosts and ruination.”

“I got the books, but I don’t know whether they’re the ones you wanted. When I asked for gothic novels as you told me, I was shown huge stacks of these books. I tried looking at a few, but every last one seemed to be about ghosts and ruins
and
ruination.”

Lots of ruination, eh? No wonder women devoured them, James thought. He might have to read one himself.

“You told me to get as many as I could, and once I gave them your card . . .” He sighed and motioned to a large crate.

“Good God!” James exclaimed, just as Olivia flew out the front door.

“Is that entire box from Creech’s Bookshop?” she asked excitedly, dancing her way over to where the grooms were lifting down the wooden container.

“What’s going on?” Isabella called out from the front door.

“Come see!” Livvy yelled back. She pulled at the top board, straining with all of her might, but it refused to budge. Irritated, she kicked the side of the crate, which promptly split apart. A pile of books poured forth like gems from a broken treasure chest. The sight certainly seemed to evoke a marauding instinct in the women.

Isabella lifted her skirts and rushed over to Olivia, who had already begun piling books in her arms.

“What is all this?” Izzie asked James, waving an arm in her sister’s direction. “Why are there books spilled all over the ground, and why is Livvy pecking away at them like some sort of demented chicken?”

“In answer to your first question, I thought you might like some reading material for the journey. As to the second, there are books all over the ground because your sister was too impatient to allow someone to properly open the crate and therefore decided to demolish it. As to Olivia’s farmyard antics . . .” He shrugged. “Ask her yourself.”

Isabella turned to her sister, who had set aside one towering stack of books and had begun gathering more. “Livvy,” she said sweetly, “what do you think you’re doing with my books?”

“Even if you spend every hour in that coach between here and Sheffield Park reading, you still won’t be able to finish all these books. I see no reason why I shouldn’t help myself, especially since they wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t suggested it.”

“Yes, you are the epitome of modesty and selflessness.”

Izzie faced James again, ducking her head as if embarrassed. Was it possible his wife was softening toward him? By damn, he’d buy Olivia her own bookstore.

“I want . . . That is . . .”

She flushed, looking every bit as delectable as a ripe peach.

“Thank you. While a tad extravagant, this was very thoughtful.”

“Why are you thanking him?” Olivia looked up from her book hunting. “If anyone was thoughtful, it was me. He was just the blunt.
I
was the brains!”

“Olivia,” James warned, “if you wish to take those books you’ve set aside—you know, the ones purchased with my blunt—I would advise you to take them and go. Now.”

That demented chicken was not getting a bookstore from him. She did, however, take the hint and retreated to the house with her spoils. Saucy chit—she’d be some man’s downfall, poor sot. His downfall stood before him, fresh and fair in the clear, crisp morning air. He reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers against one soft, rosy cheek.

“You’re cold,” he murmured. “There are heated bricks and blankets in the carriage. We should say our farewells and be on our way.”

James watched as Isabella kissed her aunt, sister, and cousin a fond good-bye, and then they went together to make certain Bride was settled in the second coach with his wife’s maid and Thora, the nursemaid who had been hired to look after Bride, whose services James had managed to retain with the offer to triple her salary. Thora was a smart lass; she loved Scotland, but she loved sterling more and, most important, she seemed genuinely fond of his daughter. As he’d said, she was a smart lass.

Finally James assisted Isabella into his carriage and seated himself next to her.

She looked pointedly at him, then at the vacant bench opposite.

“I dislike riding backward,” he claimed.

“Then it is fortunate I have no such problem,” Izzie responded, moving to the empty seat.

James sighed. “We would be warmer sitting together.”

“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you.”

And with that, she buried her face in one of the novels he’d bought her. Perhaps they hadn’t been such a wise purchase after all. He wanted Isabella focused on him, not on some ruined castle wherein ruinations took place. Well, the ruination bit was all right. He considered picking up a book himself, but he didn’t particularly want to read. He wanted his wife.

After five long, torturous minutes of silence, James could stand it no longer. “What book are you reading?”

Without looking up she replied, “The third installment of
The Orphan of the Rhine
.”

“Oh.”

He let another small eternity pass.

“What’s it about?”

Her face tightened with annoyance. “The plot is quite complicated. I’m certain the first and second installments are around if you wish to read them.”

“Is there ruination? I won’t bother unless you assure me the novel contains some truly good ruination.”

“Is there such a thing as ‘good ruination’?”

“If memory serves, you enjoyed yours thoroughly. As did I.”

James let Isabella brood on that until they reached their first stop. While the horses were being changed out, he arranged for a private parlor so Izzie could nurse Bride and, remembering how his wife had picked at her breakfast, he had food sent up as well. The party was back on the road in just over an hour, which he considered making fairly good time, considering the number of females involved.

Again, nearly as soon as the wheels on the coach began to turn, Isabella stuck her nose back in a book ... and again, James found he couldn’t let her alone.

“Are you still reading
The Orange in the Rind
?”

“Something like that.”

“And has our poor, dear orange been ruined lately?”

Isabella slammed the book closed. “Yes. It was painfully eviscerated and ingested by the
orphan
of the
Rhine
.”

“Quite right, quite right. Have you given any further thought to your own ruination, my dear?”

“I don’t wish to speak on it.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk. I want to
read
!”

Lord, but it was fun twitting his wife. Besides, an exasperated response was better than no response at all.

“Why don’t you read aloud to me?” he suggested. “Then you can talk
and
read.”

Oh, if looks could kill . . .

“I am actually rather sleepy.” Isabella made a great show of stretching and yawning. “I believe I shall take a nap. You should do the same. You must be tired after all those nights spent plotting against me with my family.” She let down the shades, nestled against the plush squabs, and closed her eyes.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” James chided.

She pretended not to hear him.

“Isabella, there is no way you could have possibly fallen asleep so soon.”

She attempted a snoring sound, but the noise she produced sounded more like a wild boar snuffling for truffles.

James grinned. “Was that a growl I just heard? My, you must be having some interesting dreams!”

Isabella’s jaw was clenched so tightly that James had to fight to keep from laughing. His wife had many talents, but acting was certainly not among them.

“Come, Isabella, enough of this farce. We both know you’re not sleeping.”

She squeezed her eyes closed more tightly in response, and James had to wonder whether she had ever actually observed a sleeping person before.

“Perhaps I was wrong, my dear, and you truly are asleep,” he murmured.

Her body relaxed against the squabs. Did she really think he was going to give in that easily?

“But,” he continued, “as the sound of my voice doesn’t seem to bother you, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why I shouldn’t continue amusing myself.”

She tensed right back up, stiff as a board again.

“I guess it would be selfish to entertain only myself, though,” he went on. “Perhaps you can hear me in your dreams. In that case, I should try to make your dreams as pleasurable as possible. It is my duty as your husband. Ah, I know just the thing! I will recount one of my dreams—one of my very pleasurable dreams—to you, my dear, sleeping wife. Now, how does it begin? Oh, yes, it starts out with the two of us alone in a carriage—a carriage much like this one, in fact—but rather than sitting opposite each other as we are now, you are next to me, no—not next to me—you are perched upon my lap.”

From the utter stillness of his wife’s body, James could tell she was listening intently. How far would she let him take this little fantasy?

“You can feel me beneath you, and know exactly how much I want you, so you wiggle your bottom just to tease me. I pull you close for a kiss, but it’s not enough. I need to be able to touch you all over. To taste you all over.”

James noted that Isabella’s breathing had grown shallow; her hands were fisting restlessly by her sides.

“I kiss my way down your neck and fondle your breasts through the fabric of your gown. You arch your back, silently asking for more, and I can tell you want my mouth on you.”

A little whimper escaped from Isabella, and the sound shot straight to his already-aching cock. He’d meant to torment her with his words, but he’d gotten tangled in the web he was spinning—hoisted with his own petard, as Lady Weston would say. James stopped himself. He was fairly certain that thoughts of one’s mother-in-law did not belong where seduction was in play. So, back to the game . . .

“Fortunately you are wearing a gown with a drop- front bodice, so it is a simple matter to undo the buttons. Your petticoat is easily pushed aside, and the front-lacing stays that are in fashion right now suit my purposes admirably. I have your breasts bared to my gaze in less time than it would take you to object.

“You don’t object, of course, but cup your breasts together and lift them up like an offering of some divine, exotic fruit that I am all too eager to taste. As my lips close over one taut nipple, I shift your body and hike up your skirts so you’re sitting astride me. I feel your damp heat through the barrier of my breeches, and the knowledge that you want me as badly as I want you drives me mad.”

His voice was rough with desire and longing. Every muscle in his body was tensed and primed for action. His body thought the time for words had long passed, that it was time to pillage and conquer and plunder until Isabella belonged to him. But he had to tread carefully. . . .

“I take your mouth again, wondering how you always taste faintly of berries—sweet as sugar, but with a hint of tartness that keeps me wanting more. Each time I taste you, I know a lifetime of kisses won’t be enough to satisfy me. And all the while the swaying motion of the coach is rocking us together, pressing your soft flesh up against my hardness, again and again.”