Promise Me Tonight (15 page)

She bent and picked up the quilt from the floor. She began folding it, her motions methodical as she smoothed out the wrinkles and lined up the corners. Abruptly she stopped, her eyes fixated on a spot on the quilt. Her eyes flickered up in his direction as she let out a shuddering breath. His momentary confusion departed in a rush as he recalled, with almost painful clarity, how at the moment he’d been about to climax, he had grabbed the quilt and spilled his seed against it.

Bloody hell. James strode toward Isabella and yanked the quilt out of her hands. He bundled up the sordid proof of his folly and stuffed it into the bottom of the trunk he’d pulled it from. He would come back later to retrieve it. With the aid of a few heavy stones, he planned on finding the offending article a new home at the bottom of the large reflecting lake in front of Sheffield Park.

Isabella said nary a word, simply watching while he straightened the room and banked the fire. She waited until he was finished and then walked to the door. He followed her out, stopping to glance around one last time for any glaring signs of the multitude of sins he’d committed since entering. Everything looked to be in order, however, so he closed the door. He wished it were as easy to walk away from the knowledge of what he’d done, to shut away the mingled memories of bliss and despair that threatened to swamp him.

James focused instead on walking, on putting one foot in front of the other, step after step after step. The fastest route from the folly over to Weston Manor was through the home woods, which meant there wasn’t any sort of a path, so he concentrated on the wet leaves and grass underfoot. He devoted himself to spotting mushroom rings and not slipping.

He didn’t let himself look ahead, not in theory or in practice, since Isabella was trudging along a bit in front of him. Perhaps it would have been better if he had allowed himself to look, he would later reason, since he might have seen the large tree root sticking out of the ground several feet ahead.

The large tree root several feet ahead that was directly in Isabella’s path.

The large tree root sticking out of the ground that sent Isabella sprawling.

At her choked cry, James jerked his head up. He saw her fly through the air and land hard on the ground. He ran to her side, nearly tripping on the same root, and turned her onto her back. Her eyes fluttered open and she let out a little moan, and he remembered to breathe. Gathering her up in his arms, he began to feel for broken bones.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked.

Isabella shrugged and tears began to seep from beneath her lashes. He supposed that meant she hurt everywhere. Her face was pale, too pale, and there was a nasty scratch along her right cheekbone. She flinched when he touched her left wrist, and her whole body jerked when he probed her right ankle through the thin kid leather of her boot, soaked through with mud and rain. James rose, holding her tightly to him, and began to walk as quickly as he could while remaining sure of his footing.

Isabella wasn’t heavy by any means, but by the time the honey-colored brick walls of Weston Manor came into view, James felt ready to collapse. Isabella was hurt and shivering, his wet garments were chafing him in places he really didn’t want to be chafed, and his guilty conscience had had just about all it could take for one day. Clutching Isabella more firmly to his chest, he bounded up the stone steps leading into the formal garden; moments later, he hurried up a second set of stairs that led to the balcony.

Shifting Isabella’s weight to one arm, he rapped on the glass panes of one of the doors that led from the great hall out to the balcony. Inside, a maid caught sight of James and his burden, and her eyes widened in alarm as she hastened over to let them in.

“She’s all right,” James told the frightened girl, “but she’s had a fall. Have the doctor fetched.”

“James, is that you?” Lady Weston’s voice sounded from the neighboring parlor.

“Yes,” he called out, “but let me just warn you—”

She swept into the room and her face blanched.

“There’s been a bit of an accident.”

“What happened?” she gasped.

“Izzie tripped when we were walking back. She may have broken her wrist, and her ankle twisted when she fell. It’s possible that she hit her head, but I think she’s just fainted from the combination of pain and cold. I’ve already told someone to send for the doctor.”

Lady Weston stepped forward and laid a trembling hand on her daughter’s damp head. Then she composed herself, once more the mistress of the house briskly taking charge. “First, we need to get both of you out of those wet clothes.”

James swallowed hard. Those words, that sentiment, the idea of getting Isabella out of her clothes—that had been the point of no return. He sighed. Hindsight was ever perfect.

“Shall I call a footman to carry her up to her bedchamber?” Lady Weston asked. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’ll take her up.” He was almost certainly never going to hold her in his arms again, and he would be damned if he’d let a footman take these last moments away from him.

“That would probably be best. Her new room is on the third floor, at the opposite end of the corridor from Henry’s room. I’ll be there in a moment. The maids should have already built up the fire in the bedchamber. I must tell Oliver that you’ve returned. He was about to go after you himself.”

“I tried to get her to return with me to the house straight away, but . . .”

Lady Weston’s lips turned up slightly. “I would imagine she was feeling less than receptive to you after”—she waved her hands about—“after what happened.”

He shifted uneasily. “Look, I—”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to explain,” she said. “Not to me.” She gave him a teary smile. “Although I had hoped you would be my son by marriage, I want you to know that, no matter what happens, you will always remain a son in my heart.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Go on with you now. I’ll be up as soon as I’ve spoken with Oliver.”

James’s eyes stung. He had braced himself for anger and recriminations, and instead had been met with understanding and unconditional love, neither of which he particularly felt he deserved. Now he was swamped with even more guilt and regret, and he had been doing magnificently well in accumulating those on his own.

He sighed again and headed for the stairs. As soon as Izzie was settled, he would head back to Sheffield Park and get warm and dry. On the morrow, he would pack for London and get about the business of leaving this all behind him. He would be gone within the week, and given the state of the war, with the bloody Dutch joining the Frogs and the damned Spaniards likely to do the same, he would be lucky to ever again set foot on English soil. Amendment: When he returned to Sheffield Park, he was going to get warm, dry, and roaring drunk.

He opened the door to her room and strode over to the bed, where he eased Isabella out of his arms and gently laid her down. He rubbed his thumb over her cheek and then leaned down to press a soft kiss upon her lips. Her eyes fluttered open just like a princess in a fairy tale. She smiled dreamily, but then looked about in confusion.

“James?”

“You fainted,” he told her, “but you are going to be fine, just fine.” He took a step away from the bed. He needed to get out of there. He couldn’t face Lord Weston—not now, not yet. Hell, with the knowledge of Isabella’s lush body branded on his mind, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to face him. Thank God Henry was away, on a hunting trip in Scotland. “The doctor has been sent for, and your mother will be here any moment and—”

“James?” she said again, fully awake now, her big blue eyes beseeching him, begging him to tell her that it had all been a bad dream. Lord knew, he wished he could. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he bent and placed a last, light kiss on her temple, taking a moment to memorize the softness of her skin against his lips, the way she smelled so sweetly of honeysuckle.

“Good-bye, Izzie,” he said. She closed her eyes, and he knew she had heard the awful note of finality in his voice. He turned and quit the room, heading for the servants’ staircase. Saints be praised, he escaped undetected and made it back to Sheffield Park without further incident. It was, he noted, the first bloody thing that had gone right all day.

The sound of voices trickled into her consciousness, causing Isabella to stir restlessly. As she moved slowly through that dreamy state between sleeping and waking, three things became apparent. The first was that she hurt. Badly. And all over. She had never taken a beating, but Izzie was sure this was what it must feel like. Second, her left hand was rather alarmingly and uncomfortably wet, and she wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to know the reason. Third, at least two of her sisters were in the room.

Izzie opened her eyes, shut them, and opened them again. She blinked rapidly to dispel the double image hovering above her face.

“Is she awake?” one of the faces asked.

“Her eyes are open, aren’t they?” the other face retorted.

“Well, yes, but she doesn’t
look
awake.”

“Have
you
ever slept with
your
eyes open?”

“How would I
know
, if I was
asleep
?”

Izzie groaned as she realized the double image was really the identical faces of her sisters, Cordelia and Imogen. While she was relieved that she was not, in fact, seeing double, the sound of Lia and Genni’s bickering was beginning to make her head throb. She turned her head slightly and found the cause of her wet hand. Portia was seated on the bed beside her, her right hand holding Izzie’s, her left smashed up against her face. Portia enjoyed sucking on the bottom two fingers of her hand, which left the other three jockeying for space on her tiny face.

Izzie watched, in a sort of disgusted resignation, as Portia removed her fingers from her mouth and reached down to lovingly pat Isabella’s hand. It probably meant she was a wretched person, but Isabella was less than comforted by the gesture. As sweet as the intent may have been, the end result still left her hand covered in toddler slobber. Ugh.

“Mama, she’s a-wa-ake!” Lia trilled in the hallway outside of the bedchamber. Izzie groaned again. Her mother tended to be a bit, well, overenthusiastic when it came to the sickroom.

“Darling!” Her mother entered the room and dropped a kiss on Isabella’s forehead. Olivia trailed in behind her. “How are you feeling?”

Izzie groaned. It seemed to be the only thing she was capable of.

Her mother frowned. “That bad? The doctor told us that you had some bruising where you fell, and that your ankle would be painful for a few days, but he seemed to think that once you were warm and dry, you would feel much better.”

“James?” Isabella croaked.

Her mother glanced around, noticing the number of faces gazing up at her expectantly. “Lia, Genni, I’m sure Mrs. Daniels must be wondering where you are. Olivia, why don’t you take Portia up to the nursery?”

A chorus of protests rang out, but under their mother’s unrelenting gaze, they slowly shuffled out of the room.

Her mother closed the door behind them and came to perch beside Isabella on the bed. “We’ll have to speak quietly,” she said softly, “since we both know they’re all huddled out in the hallway, their ears pressed to the door.”

Isabella nodded, smiling a little because she knew it would make her mother feel better. “Where’s James?” she asked. Her voice sounded scratchy, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time and needed oiling to work properly again.

Her mother seemed to read her mind, for she got up and poured a glass of water from the carafe on Isabella’s nightstand. She helped Isabella sit up in bed, clucking sympathetically each time a little gasp of pain escaped from Izzie’s mouth. “My poor baby,” she murmured.

Izzie’s eyes narrowed. Was her mother referring to bodily aches or those of the heart? Both, she supposed. It was too much to hope that her father would have kept the day’s humiliating events to himself. And
where
was James?

She must have voiced the question aloud, for her mother responded, “He sneaked out while I was informing your father that the two of you had returned. I am certain it was only the lure of dry clothing that drew him from your side.” Her mother smiled, trying to infuse the words with a cheerful matter-of-factness, but it rang false.

“He’s gone, then,” Isabella stated woodenly.

“Oh, darling, he’ll be back.”

“No, Mama, he won’t. He—he doesn’t love me. He’s going to join the army. He said he was going to leave as soon as he could. He would—” She swallowed painfully over the knot of unshed tears closing her throat. “He would rather die than marry me.”

Saying the words aloud, acknowledging their truth, sent a wave of grief crashing over her—one strong enough to break the dam. She crawled closer to her mother and wept brokenly, fitting her head against that perfect niche below her mother’s shoulder, the spot that seemed designed to comfort all manner of aches and pains. When Isabella was a child, her mother’s touch had gently soothed scrapes and bruises; her soft kiss had always promised that she would make everything all right.

When she had finally cried herself out, she lay back in her bed, eyes closed, exhausted to her very bones. The hurt in her body paled in comparison to the ache in her heart, a physical, stabbing pain in the center of her chest. Her mother drew the covers up over her, pressed a light kiss to her forehead, and quietly left the room. As she listened to the silence, Isabella realized some wounds were too deep to be healed by a mother’s magic; some situations could not be made right. And the tears she had thought were done began anew.