Wonderfully right.
He felt right, too.
Kissing him?Yes.Making love with him?Yes.Marrying him?
Yes, said her heart.
Hush, she told her heart.
She kissed him harder, taking out all the confusion swirling within her upon his lips. He did not seem to mind. His hands went to her waist, grasping her in a possessive grip, anchoring her to him. It was not enough. She traced the seam of his mouth with her tongue.
He opened for her on a groan, and she took advantage, sliding her tongue into his mouth. Which one of them was winning this battle? She could not be certain. One moment, she had been determined to refuse his suit. The next, she was the aggressor.
What was wrong with her?
Oh, yes.She loved him.
And love was a cruel, callous beast. It made her want that which she should not, could not, have.
Or could she? Did she dare?
She kissed him furiously, punishing him with all the tumult roiling within her. And still, he held her tightly and kissed her back, as if he needed her every bit as much as she needed him.
He broke the kiss, his ragged breaths falling upon her swollen mouth in a tantalizing tease. “One day.”
“Three,” she countered instantly.
“Two,” he relented.
Their gazes locked.
“Two,” she agreed.
What in heaven’s name was she thinking, to contemplate nuptials with this man? And yet, another part of her wondered how she could not.
He kissed her swiftly. “Two days, my darling.”
Chapter Seventeen
The hours passedat a torpid pace. One day turned into the next. Isabella’s time to decide whether or not she would accept Benedict’s proposal waned, and still she remained undecided. Hopelessly torn.
She sat in the library at the Bainbridge townhouse, miserable in a window seat, forehead pressed to the icy, leaden pane as she clutched the volume of poetry he had sent her in her lap. She had not seen him since the day before when he had rendered all her defenses nothing more than crumpled piles of dust at his beautiful feet.
His absence should have made her decision easier, but instead, he had sent her small reminders. Flowers. Notes. The first had been a list of reasons why she should marry him. Some of them had made her flush, others had made her chuckle, and all of them had made her heart ache.
The day beyond the window was not aiding her mood. It was dull, foggy, and gray, with the barest glimmers of sun occasionally bursting through, as indecisive as she felt. How could she tell him yes? But how could she tell him no?
She glanced back down at the book of poetry, flipping it open to the first page and his inscription.
My Love, my own—
Perhaps you may be inclined to replace the volume currently in your possession with this one?
Yours,
B
She smiled in spite of herself as she traced her forefinger over his bold, slashing scrawl. Not only had he remembered the exact volume of poetry Lambert had gifted her, finding this replacement, but he had also used words from an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. Which told her the man who did not care for poetry had been reading poems.
