She took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment. A raindrop moved slowly down her neck; he watched as it turned down the slope of her breast to disappear inside the collar of her shirt.

He was seriously contemplating becoming jealous of a droplet of water. Yorkshire was obviously damaging to his sanity.

“I had not expected to be so …” she tried again, meeting his gaze before her words trailed off.

He took a step closer; they were scant inches from each other. “So … ?” He knew he should not push her, but he could not help himself.

She sighed, resigned. “So … drawn to you.”

Another step. “You are drawn to me? ”

He’d never known a lady to admit such a thing. There was something overwhelming in the honesty of her confession.

She backed up then, and he watched embarrassment flood her cheeks, fierce and red. She spoke, the words coming fast. “I am sure it is just a passing phase. I think it best for you to leave. I shall find another way to sell the collection—”

Her nervousness was intoxicating.

He reached out, his fingertips brushing the soft skin at her temple, stemming the flow of her words. He pushed one long, wet lock back from her face, tucking it behind her ear before running the backs of his fingers down her cheek, soothing the heated flesh they left with his thumb.

Her eyes went wide at the touch, and he smiled, briefly, at her surprise. His free hand lifted, and his hands were cupping her face, tilting it upward to afford him a better look at her in the quiet, dimly lit space.

He should not kiss her. He knew it.

But she was like no woman he had ever known—and he wanted to know her secrets. More than that, he wanted her.

He settled his lips to hers, and she was his.

As was the case with the rest of the man, there was nothing tentative about Nicholas St. John’s kisses. One moment, Isabel was battling a series of strange, unsettling emotions about the arrogant man, and the next, he had claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, robbing her of breath and thought and sanity.

She froze for a moment, savoring the feel of his lips on hers, of his hands cradling her face, of his fingers trailing down to her neck as his thumbs stroked the skin of her cheeks, setting her aflame. He held her firmly against him, his mouth playing over hers, sending wave after wave of sensation rocketing through her. The caress gentled. He lifted his mouth until it was just barely touching hers and licked her bottom lip, his tongue warm and rough against the soft skin there, and she gasped at the sensation, so foreign, so wicked.

So magnificent.

He captured her mouth once more, stroking until she opened for him, uncertain. She wasn’t sure what to do—she was afraid to touch him, to move, to do anything that might end the caress and the pleasure that it brought.

He seemed to read her thoughts, and with a soft slide, his lips chased the path of one thumb across her cheek to her ear, where he caught the lobe between his teeth, sending a shiver of pleasure through her. “Touch me, Isabel.”

This was why women turned silly for men. This heady mix of power … and powerlessness.

She shouldn’t touch him. She knew that. But the words, combined with the sensual caress at the curve of her ear, unlocked her, and she set her hands to his chest, running them up and over his shoulders. The movement spurred him on, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to his firmness, his heat. He pulled back, met her heavy-lidded gaze as if to confirm that she wanted it as much as he, and claimed her mouth once more.

Isabel was overwhelmed with sensation, with the stroke of his tongue, the press of his body, the scent of him. She met his caresses with her own, returning the kiss with an innocent passion that only encouraged him. She tangled her fingers in the damp hair at his neck and stood up on her toes to gain better access to his mouth. He let her explore, increasing the intensity of the kiss, then pulling back to allow her to take the lead. She ran the tip of her tongue over his full bottom lip tentatively, and his groan gave her a sense of satisfaction like nothing she’d ever felt.

He broke off the kiss then, regaining control, trailing his lips down the column of her throat and inhaling deeply at the place where her neck and shoulder met before he nipped lightly at the skin there, sending another ripple of pleasure through her. She gasped at the sensation and felt the curve of his lips against her skin in a smile that she did not have to see to know was filled with wicked promise.

He lifted his head, his blue eyes dark with heat. His mouth opened slightly and she was transfixed by it, waiting for his next move.

“Isabel?”

The sound of her name was foreign to her, and for a fleeting moment, she was not certain from where it had come. She was too focused on the fact that Nick had released her and stepped back, away from her, putting as much distance between them as he could. She felt cold all of a sudden, the missing heat of him an intense loss. One hand flew to her lips as if to confirm that they had, in fact, been in an embrace mere seconds earlier.

“Isabel!”

The second time James called her name, realization came crashing down around her. She became acutely aware of their location, their situation, their actions, and she was overcome with an intense desire to escape back out the window to the roof. And to live there. For some time.

At least until Lord Nicholas left.

Instead, she looked to him, wide-eyed, and whispered, “It’s my brother!”

“I gathered as much,” he said dryly. “Don’t you think you should answer?”

“I …” He was right, of course. “James!” she called, hurrying to the top of the stairs. “I am up here!”