Promise Me Tonight (11 page)

He had never imagined this cold nothingness.

He must be in shock. . . . It was hardly surprising, given that his entire life had suddenly been turned on its head.
He
was the Earl of Dunston now.

Christ
.

James sagged against the nearest bookcase, the enormity of the situation beginning to seep into his brain. In all the times he’d imagined his grandfather’s demise, somehow he hadn’t taken that extra mental step wherein
he
inherited the title. Then again, he had never truly been able to imagine a world without his grandfather.

The earl was—
had been
—such a tyrant, James almost felt a bit adrift knowing he was finally gone. It was as if his life had been a giant game of chess and his opponent had suddenly disappeared. He had won, but it was a hollow victory, and he didn’t know what to do now that there was no next move to be made.

Baffled by his dark thoughts, for surely he should be calling for a case of champagne, James focused once more on the letter. The reading of the will was to be held at his earliest convenience, Lady Weston informed him, and she expected that his grandfather’s solicitor, a Mr. Palmer if memory served, would await his arrival at Sheffield Park.

His arrival at Sheffield Park
.

Sheffield Park meant seeing the Westons.

Sheffield Park meant seeing
Isabella
.

His chest seized. Oh God, he couldn’t breathe. Cursing, he stumbled to the window and pried it open, desperate for air.

“Are you all right, my lord?”

“Fine,” James gasped. “Bloody marvelous.”

He took hold of himself. Straightening, he asked, “Do you know what date the funeral was set for?”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I believe it’s to be held on the morrow. You’ll never make it, I’m afraid, but that was the latest it could be pushed back. I came as quickly as I could, but our crossing was delayed and—”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” James interrupted. “I wouldn’t have attended in any case.”

When James arrived at Sheffield Park, he was not in the best of moods. He had spent many long days traveling to the place he had the very least desire to be, and he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. It was dusk when he finally dismounted and gave the reins over to one of the grooms. All he wanted was a meal, a bath, and his bed—and a drink. A stay at Sheffield Park definitely merited a drink.

He was not pleased, therefore, to learn that Lady Weston’s expectation that Mr. Palmer would await James’s arrival had proven quite correct . . . and quite literal. The man had taken up residence “as if he’d just inherited the title,” a disgruntled Mrs. Benton bemoaned.

James calmed the agitated housekeeper, assuring her that he would have the will read as early as possible the following morning and, with any luck, the man would be gone before noon. However, when he awoke the following morning, which seemed to come all too soon, James realized that judging by the angle of the sun sneaking past the curtains, it was closer to midday. Poor Mrs. Benton would have to feed the solicitor luncheon after all.

“Mr. Palmer is waiting for you in the study, my lord,” the butler informed James when he came downstairs.

The study.

It was the logical place for a settling of legal matters, but the mere thought of the room left him entirely unsettled. His heart was pounding in his chest as he opened the heavy oak door, and every muscle in his body was painfully tense, poised for a fight. All the ugly memories of the day he had arrived at Sheffield Park came flooding back to him.

Even after all these years, it remained the worst day of his life. Worse than the day when he had stood beside his father and watched as his mother and baby sister were laid to rest. Worse, even, than the day of his father’s funeral, only months after burying his mother. It was worse than the days of the horrible crossing from Ireland to England when he had cast up his accounts almost constantly; if the choppy waters weren’t wreaking havoc on his innards, then it was his anxiety over leaving everything he had ever known. He had arrived torn between trepidation and excitement, his stomach all tangled and twisted up with knots, which only grew worse when the sprawling house came into sight.

A huge edifice of golden stone, Sheffield Park dominated the landscape. A large reflecting pond, actually closer to the size of a small lake, stretched the length of the main facade, doubling the immense structure. From a distance the house was intimidating; up close, its size was staggering. James looked up and up and up—the pale yellow brick just kept reaching on as if it were responsible for holding up the sky itself.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had volunteered to escort him on the voyage, was equally impressed. “ ’ Tis a fine grand house ta be sure.” She gave him a bright smile. “An’ jest think, there’ll come a day an’ ye’ll be laird of it all.”

A surge of pride and excitement shot through James. He was finally going to meet his grandfather. His father had not spoken of the earl often, and never in glowing terms, but he
was
James’s grandfather, and he
had
arranged for James to come live with him. In fact, he had demanded that his grandson be sent to him immediately and that he be treated with all the care and respect due to a future English earl.

The knowledge that his grandfather wanted him and was concerned about him had lit a spark in James’s breast. Throughout the journey he had kindled it, coaxed it into a steady flame of hope that helped stave off the encroaching darkness.

The sound of a throat being cleared recalled him abruptly to the present, and James realized that Mr. Palmer had gotten to his feet and had been holding out his hand for the Lord only knew how long.

“Forgive me, Mr. Palmer.” James shook the man’s hand. “This room holds rather strong memories. . . .”

“Say no more, my lord. Returning to Sheffield Park so soon after losing your grandfather—”

“James!” A large hand clamped down on his shoulder as, almost before he could identify the voice, Oliver Weston pulled him into a brief, hard embrace.

“How are you, lad?” Lord Weston asked softly, looking intently at James.

James shrugged and prayed devoutly that eyes were not in fact the windows to one’s soul, because if they were, he was about to be dismantled for all the dark desires of Isabella he harbored there.

He was about to ask why Lord Weston was present, for surely he was past the age of needing a trustee, when he spied a second visitor and forgot how to breathe. As if he had conjured her up with his thoughts, Isabella rose and curtsied.

“My lord.”

“Miss Weston.”

James bowed and swallowed hard. Christ, his dreams hadn’t done her justice. He’d hoped—God how he’d hoped—that if he saw her again, when he saw her again, the longing would have vanished. If anything, it was twice as strong. Need clawed at his gut and stirred his loins . . . and James decided that it would be prudent to quickly seat himself behind his grandfather’s massive desk.

That
cooled his ardor. All he needed was a paper in his hands and the scene would be set for that first meeting. He remembered thinking it odd that his grandfather hadn’t risen to greet him when he had entered the room. He’d wondered if perhaps the earl had gout. James hadn’t been quite sure what gout was, but there had been a neighbor in Ireland who had always remained seated, mumbling about his gout acting up whenever ladies entered the room.

Although James had been able to see his grandfather only from the torso up, the man hadn’t looked to be suffering from any sort of affliction, gout or otherwise. For a man then in his sixth decade of life, the silver- haired earl had appeared remarkably fit. His grandfather’s thin, angular face resembled nothing so much as a bird of prey, mostly because of the beaklike nose that dominated it. Below that protruding feature were lips permanently compressed into a hard, disapproving white line.

James remembered it as if it had only just happened, how his grandfather had looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, his piercing, icy blue eyes sharp and alert, like a hawk scanning the ground for his next meal. Then, with an air of complete dismissal, the earl had transferred his attention to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

“Are you
Irish
?” he’d asked, the word laced with disgust.

“Aye, milor’.”

“Then you will go. My butler will see to it that you have the means to return from whence you came.”

James had regarded his grandfather in dismayed shock. His mother had told him that some Englishmen didn’t like the Irish, but he’d never expected to see such outward hatred. He’d assumed his mother had meant some Englishmen did not like the Irish in the way that he, for example, did not like green beans.

Everyone had their own preferences after all, and if one was presented with green beans at a house not one’s own, one put on a good face and ate them anyway. His grandfather hadn’t seemed inclined to put on a good face and eat his green beans.

James had looked up at his old nurse and seen the distress written across her face. He’d bravely squeezed her hand and nodded, trying to assure her that he would be all right, though he had been far from certain himself.

“You may go,” stated the earl.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick had hesitated.

“Now.” The word had sounded like a clap of thunder, reverberating throughout the large room. James’s nurse had sent him an apologetic look, kissed his temple, and fled the room, taking with her his last link with home.

James bit his cheek and reminded himself that he was no longer that scared little boy. Every inch the lord of the manor, he rose to his feet.

“Lord Weston, Isabella, it is very kind of you to call, but as much as I would like to sit and visit with you, I am afraid Mr. Palmer and I have important business—”

“My lord,” the solicitor interjected, “it was I who requested his lordship and Miss Weston come for the reading of the will. Their presence will soon be explained, and all will become clear.”

James arched one dark brow. “How wonderfully mysterious of you, sir,” he responded with blatant sarcasm. “I am all agog with curiosity. Let us commence.” He sat down again and leaned back, crossing his feet on the desk.

Mr. Palmer frowned, but he adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and began to read. He droned on through a seemingly endless list of bequests and pensions for various ancient servants and retainers who had loyally served the Sheffield family, and then stopped and began to tug at his cravat.

“I am afraid . . . ,” he began. “That is, this is a very difficult situation. . . .” He took a deep breath, and then said in a rush,

“The former earl has left all properties, possessions, and monies not specifically entailed to his successor, that would be you, my lord, to Miss Weston. I shall act as trustee and executor for all the Sheffield houses, possessions, properties, and monies, and Lord Weston will serve as joint trustee until Miss Weston marries or reaches her majority.”

A moment of heavy silence settled over the room as its occupants, aside from Mr. Palmer, slowly absorbed the momentous implications of the solicitor’s pronouncement.

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Palmer,” Isabella whispered, her face drawn and pale. “There is no reason the earl should leave anything to me.” She was trembling as she stood and faced James. “This is some kind of farce you have concocted, and I don’t wish to hear another word.”

“Miss Weston, please . . . ,” the solicitor began.

“Did you know about this?” Isabella demanded, turning hurt, bewildered eyes first on her father, then on James.

Lord Weston sat as still as a statue, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face.

“I knew he hated me,” James said. His voice was calm, conversational even, giving no hint of his racing thoughts. “I knew he never wanted me to inherit, but I had no idea he was so imaginative.”

“It isn’t imagination!” Isabella’s voice rose as she stomped her foot in frustration. “Did you understand what Mr. Palmer said?”

“Yes,” James replied coolly. “I understood. I have inherited a grand title and magnificent properties, but I am really nothing more than a poor relation, a humble supplicant. I must beg from your father and Mr. Palmer for every farthing I require to maintain the estates. I must obtain their approval every time a tenant’s roof needs repair or Mrs. Benton feels the footmen are in need of new livery.”

He gave a bitter laugh.

“And someday I shall doubtless have to prostrate myself before you, Isabella, and hold out my hands for whatever groats you are beneficent enough to toss my way. Will you be tight with the purse strings, do you think?”

“Stop!” Isabella cried, clapping her hands over her ears. “I won’t hear any more. This is madness!”

“No, Miss Weston,” the solicitor responded. “Although I most strongly disagreed with the late earl’s choices, he
was
in his right mind when he made them. A claim of mental incompetence will not hold up in court. Your grandfather took the precaution of having several respected London physicians witness the will.”

“How farsighted of him,” James drawled.

“My lord, at my urging, the former earl did agree to give you a quarterly allowance for your personal use.”

“A quarterly allowance?” James barked. “By God, that’s bloody rich. Or not, as is now the case with me. A quarterly allowance.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I suppose he didn’t want the Earl of Dunston dressed like some damned vagrant.”