Promise Me Tonight

Promise Me Tonight

Sara Lindsey

Prologue

S
econds always seem inconsequential. After all, sixty of them exist in a single minute. But then, minutes are equally fleeting when considered in terms of all the hours in a day. Days, too, fly past, turning into weeks, then months, each small, each insignificant, really, in the sum of years that make up a lifetime.

But a single second can change everything. A tiny moment in a vast web of time can forever alter the fabric of a life. At ten years old, James Sheffield knew this to be true. It had taken only a second for the last breath of life to leave his mother’s body after hours of fruitless labor with a still-born child and for Death to stake his claim. The gloomy pall that lingered over the house after his mother’s passing had lasted for months, but just a moment was necessary for James to ascertain that the fall down the stairs, whether by accident or design, had broken his father’s neck.

And, as he stood and watched his father’s coffin lowered into the ground to rest alongside the one containing his mother and infant sister, a second was all James needed to decide he would never again risk the hurt of losing someone he loved. Even at his young age, James knew there was only one way to protect himself, and that was never to love again. So he wrapped up the remaining shards of his shattered heart and buried them somewhere so deep and dark that no one, including him, would ever be able to find them.

Chapter 1

Dear Mama,

I amgoing to marry James. It will be

nice. We will live near you. I amhappy. I love

you.

Love, Isabella

(Mises Danyels helpd me with the speling.)

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age six

Letter to her mother, Mary, Viscountess Weston, expounding

on the benefits to be found in marrying the boy next

door—August 1784

Weston Manor, Essex

July 1792

Perched precariously on the banister of the long portrait gallery so as to better observe the party in progress one floor below, fourteen-year-old Isabella Weston was faced with the devastating sight of her true love dancing with another woman. She turned her head to look at one of her younger sisters, Olivia, who, safely seated on the floor, was craning her head to peer through the carved marble balusters.

“Can you believe how that—that
hussy
is dancing with
James
?” Izzie demanded. “Honestly, she should be ashamed, dancing like that with a man who is not her husband.”

Izzie, of course, fully planned on dancing with James Sheffield that way, but she would be married to him when she did—or engaged, at the very least. Of course, since she’d been planning the wedding since the day they’d met, Isabella felt they
were
practically engaged.

She’d been only six when they’d met, but one smile from James had been all it took for her to tumble head over heels in love. Of course, she hadn’t really known at the time that it was
love
—just that she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything before. She wanted to take care of him, to share her family with him, to fill his world with laughter and brightness, and to banish the shadows from his eyes. And though she’d been young, Izzie had been nothing if not determined, and she’d determined right then and there that someday when she was all grown-up, James Sheffield would be hers. Now she
was
all grown-up, or
almost
, and the sight of James with another woman made that “almost”
almost
unbearable.

“Oh, Izzie.” Livvy sighed, sounding far older than her twelve years. “Not James
again
!”

Isabella shrugged. “I can’t help it. I love him.”

“I know. Believe me,
I know
. I would get far more sleep if you didn’t. But he, well—” Olivia bit her lip and tugged at a lock of golden brown hair. “He’s older.”

“James is
not
old. He just turned twenty in May. Hal”—she waved a hand at the crowd below that included the girls’ older brother, Henry—“will be twenty in September, and he certainly isn’t old.”

“I didn’t say James was old. I said he was
older
. And he’s Hal’s best friend . . . and our neighbor. To him you’re nothing more than a little sister, and even if he
is
aware of your feelings, I’m worried that—”

“Aargh! I just saw
that woman
touch his—” Izzie waved a hand in the vicinity of her backside, nearly toppling over the railing as she did so. As much as she wanted to squash
that woman
like a bug, she had imagined doing so in a more metaphorical sense. And, of course, such a fall might well break her neck and, if it didn’t, her mother might kill her anyway for appearing
en déshabillé
in front of the guests. Not that her thick flannel nightgown and wrapper didn’t cover every inch of her from the neck down, because they did, but it wouldn’t be
proper
.

Along with snakes, spiders, and apricot jam, Izzie loathed the word “proper.” Henry tormented her with the former; her mother with the latter. But it was her mother’s sort of torture that made her quake in her boots; propriety and Izzie had never gone together.

Izzie hopped down from the banister and plopped herself beside her sister. “Now, what were you worried about?”

“Nothing,” Livvy muttered.

“Do you know who she is?”

Olivia rolled her eyes, and without bothering to ask for clarification as to the “she” in question, replied, “I believe the woman dancing with James is the rather notorious widow who finally convinced Lord Finkley to walk down the aisle again.”

“Oh dear,” Isabella whispered, torn between fascination and dismay.

After his wife had passed away some fifty years earlier, Lord Finkley had spent his time with a parade of young mistresses and society widows, each of whom had hoped to seduce the wealthy elderly man into matrimony. None had succeeded . . . until now. This meant that James was in the hands of the most cunning female England had seen in a half century or of an evil sorceress—or both. Either way, Izzie didn’t like it one bit!

“I had expected something more of the woman who finally trapped Lord Finkley.”

Olivia shook her head. “You’re just jealous, and you know it.”

“The way she’s acting is disgraceful,” Izzie huffed. “Do you
see
the way she’s throwing herself at him? Why doesn’t her husband
do
something?”

“Because he’s in the corner, snoring his head off, and has been for the last hour?” Livvy suggested. “Truly, I don’t think James minds. She
is
quite beautiful,” she added, rather unnecessarily in Izzie’s opinion.

“I suppose. If you like the tall, skinny, far-too-much-bosom-on-display sort.”

Of course, even though she would have liked to, Izzie couldn’t blame the woman for throwing herself at James. He was too handsome for his own good. She could spend—drat it,
had spent
—countless hours cataloging his physical perfections, the first of which had to be his hair.

It was the color of vintage brandy, highlighted with gold where the sun had kissed it. He wore it just a bit longer than the current fashion, and it curled up at the ends where it met his collar.

Then there were his eyes, beautiful green eyes fringed by lashes that were most unfairly longer and darker than hers.
Her
lashes were a scant shade darker than the straw-colored hair on her head, and didn’t that just figure. Vanity, thy name is Isabella Weston.

He had a nicer nose than she did, too. Aquiline, she believed was the word, and it made him look quite fierce and arrogant in a way she secretly found thrilling. Her nose was very average in comparison. It wasn’t even fashionably
retroussé
like Olivia’s. And wasn’t that the height of unfairness? Isabella felt that as the first daughter born in the Weston family, she ought to have had first pick of nice noses.

Lady Finkley had a rather elegant nose, Isabella noted unhappily. It was a trifle on the long side, though, she decided as Lady Finkley leaned close to James and whispered something in his ear that caused him to throw his head back with laughter.

Isabella ground her teeth as the clock in the gallery sounded half-past eleven. James and Henry had promised to bring sweets up to her and Livvy before midnight since the girls were too young to be allowed downstairs for the ball.

Olivia yawned. “I’m sorry, Izzie, but I can’t stay awake any longer. They’ve probably forgotten about us in any case. I’m for bed. Good night.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Isabella mumbled, never taking her eyes off the scene below.

“Common courtesy demands that you wish me good night in return.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

Olivia gave a loud huff. “The things I have to put up with,” she muttered under her breath. Izzie heard her, but she was too preoccupied to give her sister a worthy parting shot. Livvy heaved a disgusted sigh as she stood and padded off toward the bedchamber they shared.

The things I have to put up with, indeed
, Isabella thought as she watched James walk with Lady Finkley around the perimeter of the ballroom, her arm wrapped about his and his hand resting on the small of her back. Izzie grimaced. She knew exactly how powerful that touch was. It was so magical that from the very first time she had held his hand, she’d never wanted to let go. She did, however, want Lady Finkley to let go. In fact, she just plain wanted her to
go
. Finally, after two immeasurably long turns about the room, Izzie’s wish came at least partly true when James escorted Lady Finkley over to her comatose spouse.

Izzie tracked James as he moved through the throng of guests, pausing when she caught sight of her parents dancing together, gazing at each other as if they were the only people in the room. It was sweet, she supposed, that they were still so much in love, but it was also rather embarrassing. It was a trifle discomfiting, too, given that Isabella’s baby brother, Richard, had been christened just that morning—thus the reason for the celebration downstairs—and her mother had said, with a pointed look toward Isabella’s father, that she did
not
plan on there being any more christenings at Weston Manor until she was a grandmother. However, the looks she was currently giving her husband told an entirely different story!

Not really wanting to follow where that train of thought led, Isabella’s eyes sought out James once more and found him with Henry, who was standing in the crush of people by the refreshments. She should have known. Her mother often said her eldest child had been born with a bottomless pit in place of a stomach. Unfortunately the same could be said of Lord Blathersby, whose sole interest in life—besides food, of course—was his sheep, which meant that Henry often got stuck speaking with the ovine-loving gentleman. From the pained look on her brother’s face, he’d been trapped for some time now.
Poor Hal. But
, she thought in true sisterly fashion,
better him than me!

James Sheffield had always considered himself a good person, but he spent several moments savoring his best friend’s suffering expression before going in to rescue him from the most boring man in Christendom.

“Took you bloody long enough,” Henry grumbled as they made their escape. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages, but you were too wrapped up in the luscious Lady Finkley to pay any notice. Not that I blame you. Had similar thoughts myself. Bloody unfair, though, that you got to play Casanova while I was stuck with old Blathersby and his sheep.”

“Blathersby and his sheep.” James laughed. “Never fear; I’ve heard it all before and on multiple occasions.” He shook his head. “Come, it’s nearly midnight, and we promised Izzie and Livvy we’d bring them some sweets.”

Henry grimaced. “Lord, it completely slipped my mind. Good thing you remembered. You know how Izzie gets when she’s angry.”

James nodded and hustled Henry over to the crowd waiting to get at the dessert table.

“What a devilishly dull affair,” Henry remarked as they waited in line. “First the christening this morning, and now this. It was good of you to come. You could have been off weeks ago.”

“Of course I came,” James replied, a gruff note creeping into his voice. “Neither of us would have been comfortable leaving until your mother was safely delivered, and delaying our trip for another month made no real difference. The Colosseum isn’t going anywhere, and it was important to your mother that you be here for Richard’s christening.”

“And you,” Henry insisted.

“Only to make sure I keep you out of trouble,” James teased, but his chest was tight with emotion. The Westons were the closest thing he had to a family since he’d been orphaned at age ten and sent to live with his grandfather, the Earl of Dunston. The best that could be said of the earl was that his main property, Sheffield Park, neighbored Weston Manor, home to Viscount Weston and his family.

They had taken him in as another son; their warm, bustling home had been his refuge. When he and Henry had gone off to Eton, Lady Weston had kissed and clucked and wept over both of them, a performance she had repeated when they’d headed to Oxford.