“WHERE ARE YOU taking me?”

“To my library, I thought you might like to see it.” He smiled mischievously. “Don’t all authors love books?”

She ought not to be charmed by him, but it was useless to put up a front. She was captivated and couldn’t help it. She would follow him anywhere, and not just because he acknowledged her as an author, but because she adored books.

She knew she shouldn’t follow him anywhere, and leaving her cousin behind and alone wasn’t something she should do, either. “Lucy,” she asked as she glanced over her shoulder, but Black pulled her along, down the darkened hallway, and around the corner.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered. “Your cousin has the constitution to attend séances, I daresay she can handle herself with Sussex.”

Opening the door, he ushered her through and Isabella forgot all about Lucy and Wendell, and the fact that she had vowed to put Black out of her mind and never again allow herself to be alone with him.

“Oh, look at this,” she whispered in awe. Turning in a small circle, she stood, openmouthed, and looked at the walls that were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, every inch of them housing books with different-covered spines with gilt lettering.

A massive desk with a large leather chair dominated the room, and she ran her fingers over the gleaming veneer thinking how lovely it would be to curl up in that chair and write her book at this very desk.

On the other side of the library were more chairs, all wingback, and a very beautiful black velvet chaise longue with gilt-scrolled edges sat in the middle of the room, with a thick carpet underneath.

The hearth was massive, the mantel constructed of marble with heavy Corinthian columns. The crest of the earls of Black dominated the center of the frontispiece, a Scottish shield with a cross and a dragon curled around it.

Above the fireplace was an enormous portrait of a knight who bore the white mantle and red cross of the Templars. His hair was long and black, his beard the same onyx color as his hair, and his eyes…she stared up at him, and imagined this man a little younger, his hair shorter, his face clean shaven… It was the very likeness of Black.

“Drake Sheldon, the first earl of Black,” he announced as he stood beside her gazing up at the portrait. “He was known as the Dragon because, simply put, he was a beast both in and out of battle. They said that one could see the flames of hell mirrored in the metal of his sword as it came slashing down.”

“You have his eyes. My goodness,” she whispered. “It’s uncanny the resemblance.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, yes, it’s remarkable. He was a Templar.”

“Yes. Before he left on Crusade he was a knight for hire. He’d be considered a mercenary by today’s standards, selling his sword and arm to the highest bidder. But back then, in the twelve hundreds, knights for hire were as common as girls selling oranges in front of theaters.”

“This portrait is over five hundred years old?” she gasped.

“It is. In my country house, in…the north,” he said, “the portrait gallery is lined with my ancestors. There are all sorts of wily Blacks staring down at you as make your way down the hall.”

“In the north?” she asked, not missing how he was purposely being elusive.

“Yes. The north.”

“Where in the north?”

His flickered from the portrait to her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Just outside Helmsley.”

“Why, that is not at all far from Whitby, my lord.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat and swept his arm in a wide arc. “What do you think? An acceptable collection?”

“I think it magnificent,” she said, and meant it. “How many books are here?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“If I were so fortunate as to own a collection so splendid I would know exactly how many books I owned so as not to have anyone come in and steal them from beneath my nose,” she announced.

Books had been a luxury they had never been able to afford. Isabella clutched what few books she possessed closely to her breast.

He saw that he was smiling at her. “This is my sanctuary. Only Billings comes in upon occasion to dust. The books are quite safe from thieves.”

She could see why he called it his sanctuary; it was a dark, masculine domain, with wood paneling and emerald-green velvet curtains. The scent of lemon oil, leather books and Black’s cologne perfumed the air. She could hide away in here for hours and just stare at the walls, and the fireplace, and the portrait of the first earl of Black and let her imagination take root and soar. Drake Sheldon, what a dashing name for a knight. How the ladies must have swooned over him.

“What is your name, my lord?” she asked, suddenly curious. He had ever only been Black to her, and it had always suited him, but now she was consumed with the need to know him in a much more intimate way. Did he have a name that was as debonair as his ancestor’s?

“My family name is Sheldon.”

“And your Christian name?”

He met her gaze, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheek. Behind those lashes his beautiful eyes appeared slightly more green in this light. “Jude.”

“Jude,” she repeated in a soft voice. What a lovely name. It suited him, that one syllable could at once be said in a hard voice, or uttered so softly, a whispered name in passion.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

“Jude.”

She saw that he closed his eyes, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I have not heard my name in so long, and now, to hear your voice say it…it quite undoes me.”

The energy that always seemed to hum between them suddenly crackled, sending Isabella closer to the bookcase, anything to get away from him. Trying to gather her wits, she studied the titles of the books as she calmed her breathing.

Her gaze landed on a black leather volume with gold lettering. Jane Eyre.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Is this a first edition?” It looked old enough to be, and the thought sent her blood pumping wildly.

Black watched her with his mysterious eyes. “Indeed. Do you like the story?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered as her fingers slid down along the spine of the book. “I like it very much. Lucy has a copy that she lent me. I read it in one night. It was so beautiful…so perfect. I could never write anything so…exquisite.”

“I’m quite certain you could, Isabella.”

“No, I couldn’t. But I’ll keep trying, and one day, when I am old and it no longer matters if I am published or not, I will create a masterpiece. Oh, how beautiful it is,” she whispered as her fingers trailed along the wrinkled spine. “It’s hard to believe that this book is nearly thirty years old—it’s older than me.”

“It was my mother’s.”

“A gift?”

“I don’t know. My mother was forever buying books, I can only assume she purchased it. My father was never the sort to take notice of another’s pleasures. I find it highly doubtful that he had purchased it for her.”

“Oh.” There was pain in his voice, and a hint of anger, too.

“Have you no copy of your own?” he asked softly, coming closer to her.

“No, I have not. I…have not used any of my pin money for books.” Books would not feed you. Clothe you. She had spent too many years hungry, wearing wash-thinned clothing that had sometimes been little more than rags. The money her uncle so generously gave her went into a biscuit tin that Cook had allowed her to keep when it was emptied. The tin was hidden away beneath a floorboard under her dressing table. Beneath the mattress had seemed much too obvious to her and she was afraid of the upstairs maids coming into her room and stealing it. She was like a ferret, coveting her treasures. She had teeth; she could bite the hand that would take it from her very easily.

Try as she might, the events of her past would not simply vanish. The fear of being left destitute or a spinster made her very careful. The thought that something horrible might happen to her uncle sent a tremor of fear down her spine. She would be all alone again if Stonebrook were to die. Lucy would be taken care of, but Isabella didn’t dare hope—or believe—the same would happen to her.

No, she was a frugal creature, while Lucy spent lavishly, but then her cousin had never known hardship. Her next meal had promptly arrived with the sounding of the gong. Isabella had never had that surety.

“What have you spent your money on, then?” His question was bold. The expression in his eyes even bolder, and Isabella was momentarily caught off guard by his closeness, by the frisson of awareness that was always, always present between them.

“Nothing,” she confessed in a small whisper.

“A little magpie,” he murmured as he reached out and trailed his finger along hers as they rested reverently against the book’s spine. “You hoard it away,” he whispered, and she realized how close he was, standing right behind her, touching her with his chest, with his fingers that slowly glided down hers in a sensual, almost unbearably erotic touch. She could feel the hardness of his chest, the heat of him, the scent of man and the lingering essence of the red wine.

She swallowed, closed her eyes, no longer able to watch his fingers atop hers, it felt too good, looked much too sinfully improper. And yet, the act seemed even more exciting with her eyes closed, because then she was left with only the sensation of touch, hearing—Black’s slow breaths—and smell. Everything coalesced, and she was left struggling to keep from throwing herself at him.

“You must take this book, Isabella,” he whispered, and she felt the brush of his hair against her cheek, then her neck. It was followed by the subtle sweep of his nose against her skin, and at last, the brush of his lips against the column of her neck. “I want you to have it, to open the pages and reverently turn them, to glide your fingers along the paper, tracing the words, thinking of me as you read.”

“I…I…” Her head tilted to the side, even as she tried to prevent it. It opened her up, allowed Black’s head to press deeper against her, his lips to sweep up and down her neck in a caress that stole her breath. His fingers, featherlight, like the wings of a butterfly, continued to trace across her hand.

“You know I cannot,” she said, her voice cracking, belying the need that suddenly seemed all consuming. Her lips actually parted, seeking his mouth—but she would not follow them, would absolutely not turn her face to Black, and press her lips against his.

“I want to think of you in your room, in bed beneath the covers, reading this book, thinking of me. I want you to close your eyes, and remember this, this moment between us right now, where our desire and need is so palpable neither of us can resist—where we will just fall into each other’s arms without thought or guilt, or fear of repercussions.”

“I cannot,” she rasped. “Not the book, not…what you’re offering.”

“You must, for if you don’t take it, I will go out and buy you a copy and have it sent directly to your house, where everyone will see…and will know.”

“Jude…” His name was broken, a deep sound part fear, but mostly need.

“Say it again,” he ordered, his voice harsh against her throat. His arm wrapped around her waist, his palm, flattened against her belly, slowly slid upward, and his fingers, which had only seconds ago been lax against hers, curled tightly around her hand. “God, yes,” he said, his voice a seductively, velvety caress. “Say it, whisper it, let me hear my name on your lips, let me feel your lips against my skin as you say it.”

“We mustn’t do this,” she pleaded even as her fingers gripped his.

“Why mustn’t we?” he asked as his palm slowly but steadily climbed over her ribs to where it nestled between her breasts. Her eyes flew open and she saw that he traced the outline of one of the rosettes on her bodice with the tip of his index finger. Slowly he circled the fabric rose. Each time the circle became smaller and smaller as he worked toward the middle until he was very slowly, very erotically, circling the very center of the flower. It was a seductive innuendo of what he would do to her areola and nipple, and the image of his hand on her, his finger reaching out and touching her, circling her, made her stomach burn. Between her thighs she felt quivering, wet, aching—she could feel her body opening to him, and she was aroused and frightened by it.

No woman in the world could possess the willpower to withstand such beautiful torment. She was breathing much too fast, her breasts now hurt behind the harsh confines of her corset and the bodice, and despite all this she tried to fight it, the desire to know what it would be like to be held by him—ravished by his mouth and hands, the powerful body she felt crowding her from behind.

She couldn’t continue like this. It was wrong. Deceitful. Dangerous.

“Did you tell him?” she asked on a gasp as he trailed his tongue behind her ear and over the delicate, sensitive shell.

“Tell him what?” He was back to toying with another rosette on her bodice. Behind her, she felt the hardness of him pressing into her backside. “How much I want you? How I haven’t been able to stop looking at you all night in that gown? How now, I’m imagining what your body will look like beneath this red satin.”

“Jude,” she warned, but his name trailed off on a little moan as he slipped the tips of his fingers beneath the bodice and brushed the swells of her breasts with his warm fingertips. “You know what I’m asking. Did you tell him about that afternoon in the carriage? Last night…in the salon?”

“No. If Knighton wishes to know your activities he should keep a better eye on you.”

His fingers left her breast only to move around to her back, and the little buttons that secured her gown. One by one, he slowly undid them. “Please, don’t. This…this can’t go on. You know that.”

“Because of Wendell Knighton?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you waste yourself on a man like that?”

Because he won’t break my heart when he leaves. Because there won’t be this passion with him, and because of that, I won’t be afraid.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“You don’t?” The button came free and the bodice gaped open in the back, the sleeves sliding off her shoulders. He pressed in, and she felt his lips against the bones in her neck, then lower, as he pressed soft, silken kisses along her spine above her corset.

“I want you, Isabella. Heart, body and soul. I want to feel you beneath me, I want to know you—every inch of this beautiful flesh. I want to see it turn pink from my hands, the wicked words I want to whisper in your ear. I want to learn your taste, the sound of your pleasure.”

“Stop.” But it was not a refusal that carried any weight. It was a breathless sound, and he moaned, pressed his forehead against her shoulder blade as he lowered her bodice to her waist and returned his hand to the fleshy mounds of her breasts that strained over her corset.

“Stop?” The word was pained. “That is like asking me to hold back a new day, or the tide from rushing in. It is like asking a starving man to sit at the table of a king and watch as others around him feast. It is a feat that is impossible, Isabella. I can’t do it.” The words were breathed against her, and she felt the hardness of him, now as hard as ever, pressing relentlessly into her as he held on to her hand. With his free hand, he began to pull at her corset strings, and she kept her eyes shut in hopes it would settle her, but it only made it worse. In her mind were unbidden images, she heard the words—hers, and what she would later write in her book.

“Would you deny a starving man a little scrap?” he asked as the corset came undone in his hand. He turned her around, caging her body with the front of his. His arms were above her head, his fingers gripping the bookshelf as he peered down into her eyes. His gaze was devouring every inch of her.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He pressed against her, let his head drop to her shoulder where he nuzzled his mouth against her throat and ear. “Tell me you haven’t thought of this, wished for more than just kisses.”

“Yes,” she said, relenting. “I’ve thought of more. I’ve thought of your hands on me. My lips on you, learning how your skin will taste.”

He groaned, cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. They fell into each other without thought, both meeting each other halfway, then melting into one as Black’s lips took hers.

She had prepared herself for a physical assault, but was pleasingly, achingly aroused by his gentle kiss. It was slow, thoughtful, almost as if he was savoring her. His long fingers threaded tightly with hers while his other hand stroked the side of her face, down to her chin. His lips pressed once more against hers, then gently covered them, coaxing her to return his kiss.

It felt as though she were drugged, disembodied somehow. She was conscious of the moan that escaped her when he slanted his mouth against hers, encouraging her to open for him.

“Your tongue,” he said against her lips. “I want to feel it.”

She gasped at the same moment she felt his tongue slide along her lower lip. He parted her lips and slid his tongue into her mouth. She was left with the feel and taste of him as his tongue boldly swirled inside, mingling with hers.

It seemed like an eternity before he drew away. “You make me ache,” he whispered, resting his face into the crook of her neck. She stilled her rapid breathing as his index finger slid down her throat to tickle the tops of her breasts. His breath came in short pants, whispering along her neck as he nuzzled the skin beneath her ear. “So soft,” he murmured, burying his face farther against her neck. “So beautiful. Let me see you.”

Her legs gave out as his long tapered finger circled her nipple through her corset. Her resolve was slipping, she knew it and was helpless to stop it. Every sensible thought was blown away on the breeze, despite the years and extensive experience of controlling her desires, of constantly reminding herself of her mother’s hardships—which all stemmed from passion. A passionate nature that Isabella had inherited.

Moving barely an inch away, Black allowed the corset to fall to the floor, landing at his feet. She was naked to the waist. He did not lower his gaze, but looked her in the eye, watching her, and she was undone by what she saw. Stark need. Masculine arousal. He wanted her. She had never been wanted or desired by anyone and the feeling was euphoric, addictive.

Reaching for one of her hands, he brought it up over her head, held it with his other hand. Then reached for the other arm, made her fingers curl into each other as he held both her arms up with one hand. Her back was arched, her breasts lifted high toward him, and then his gaze slowly burned a path down her face, to her lips, to the bounding pulse in her throat, and then to her breast.

She felt that gaze instantly, and her nipples puckered, lengthened for him.

She waited for him to touch her, but he stood still, just looking, and she couldn’t stand it, the pain, the need she felt to be touched—kissed—to be wanted. Just once, she wanted to feel someone’s desire for her. To feel touch that was meant only to please and arouse, a touch meant only for her.

Please, she silently pleaded. Oh, please, just love me…

“JUDE!” IT WAS A HUSKY reply that did strange things to his brain, making him think of nothing other than hearing his name on her lips as he slid inside her. She would be hot and wet, and tight…so tight. She would be his.

Her breasts were arched forward, a perfect offering, and he could not resist just staring, letting the tempest of lust swirl inside him.

He wanted to touch, to cup and watch her breasts spilling out of his hands. He wanted to put the tip of his tongue to her pebbled nipples and taste the pink buds. He wanted to tease and toy with her, just as he had to the fabric rose on her bodice.

“You want this,” he rasped. “Admit it, tell me, Isabella. Just this once. Give me the words.”

“Yes,” she gasped, breathless. She struggled in his hold, but he held her tighter. He wanted her like this, a supplicant for his pleasure. He would not hurt her, harm her, but he would awaken her slowly. To bewitch her with pleasure, to bind him to her. Wendell Knighton would be long forgotten by the time he fitted himself inside Isabella’s body.

Pressing forward, he rubbed his cheek against the full swells, inhaled her perfumed skin. He could hear her heart beating hard, and he kissed her where her heart hammered against his lips.

“Little magpie,” he whispered. “You clutch everything to you, trying to keep it close, so afraid to lose it. But there is no fear with me. I’ll stay close, and you can clutch me forever. I’ll never let you go.”

She said nothing, only gasped as he lowered his mouth and circled her areola, which was shell pink, with the tip of his tongue.

Her moan nearly unmanned him, and he pressed forward, seeking relief between her thighs. She felt so soft against him, so right. Her breasts were full and high and made for his mouth and hands, and her thighs, good God, they hugged and molded his erection as if she had been designed for him. Everything about her was perfect. But he wanted more. Needed more. To feel the heat between her legs, the honey of her on his fingers.

Carefully he tongued her once more, let the tip of his tongue press against her nipple as he reached for her skirts and pulled them slowly up her thigh. The sound of satin sliding upward was an erotic charge. The panting breaths—both hers and his mingled together. Her little whimper as she felt his fingers trace her garter only made him more crazed.

Their eyes met, and he watched her, then turned to her breast, kissing her, positioning her, and then, he took her nipple into his mouth, and simultaneously snuck his finger into her folds.

One long moan echoed in the quiet. It was both of theirs, and Black closed his eyes, feeling Isabella’s body clamping down on his finger.

“Jude,” she whispered, and he looked up, straightened, demanded that she look at him. How beautiful she was to him, her arms held high, her fingers clasping his, her green eyes ablaze with desire.

Carefully he stroked her, watched her mouth part, her tongue sneak out and wet her lips. She was cresting, building, and she tried to close her eyes, to shield him from watching her, but he stopped, toyed with her until she obeyed his whispered commands.

When she was looking at him, and he could see her, could watch her fall apart, and come in his arms, he pleasured her with slow intimate strokes of his fingers. He built her up, then set his fingers on her, circled the little bud of flesh and nerves, and watched her eyes go wide.

“I can make you feel this way when I’m inside you,” he said as their gazes locked. “I can touch you, make you cry out, make you fall apart as I’m buried deep, loving you.”

He had no idea she would respond as such. She was innocent, and this was her first taste of pleasure. So, when she cried out and began to tremble and shake in his arms, he was helpless to do anything but watch her, memorizing her, knowing she was going to look even more arousing when she was beneath him, his body deeply inside hers.

When the tremors subsided, she collapsed in his arms, and he went to the floor, taking her with him so that she sat in his lap. He held her, kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, feeling her in his arms.

“The first time I saw you I wanted you this way.”

“At the ball?” she asked, rubbing her face against his chest like a well-fed kitten.

Sighing, he held her close, wondering how much of the truth he should give her. Would she run from him if he told her that he’d first seen her almost two years before, in Whitby? She seemed a nervous creature when it came to her past, and the things she didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want this moment to end, to disrupt the intimacy that was now between them. She was softening, allowing herself to indulge, and he was afraid that honesty would ruin it all.

“Jude?”

“Yes,” he lied. “At the ball.”

The way she felt in his arms was sheer perfection. He still ached with unspent desire, still wanted so much more, but holding her like this, having her curl into him for safety and comfort, was just as pleasant for now.

“My lord?” The sharp rap on the door made Isabella go stiff in his arms, as if she had forgotten everything outside this room.

“Shh,” he whispered while he rubbed his hand up her naked back. “It is only my butler and he would never dare enter until I gave him leave.”

Nodding, she kept her face pressed against his cravat, and her fingers buried in the back of his shirt. God, he couldn’t give her up. Not now, not ever and especially not tonight. He wanted to sit here on the floor of his library all night long and just hold and caress her. He wanted to talk, to learn everything about her. He wanted to hear about her life, her book, her dreams.

“I’ve readied the carriage, my lord. It’s nearly eleven. I thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you, Billings. I shall be there momentarily.”

Tipping up her chin, he took in her face, her ruined hair that looked utterly captivating and her kiss-swollen lips. She had never looked more beautiful to him, a picture of ravishment, and he was the ravisher.

Smiling tenderly, he clutched her face in his palms and stroked his thumb over her lips. “How will I sleep tonight?” he asked. “When my arms will ache for you, and behind my closed eyes I will see you, shattering in my arms, a picture so beautiful and arousing, I will have to play it over and over.”

She was shy, and she closed her eyes, avoiding him, but he placed a gentle kiss on each eyelid.

“Let me get you safely home.”

“Yes, we’ve been in here much too long.”

Tipping her chin up, he gazed into her eyes, losing himself. “Not nearly long enough, Bella.”