Promise Me Tonight (16 page)

Chapter 10

I truly cannot see what the fuss is about kissing! Yesterday, as I was waiting for my mare to be saddled, one of the stable hands stole a kiss. I probably should have told Aunt Kate, but in all truth I encouraged him because I wanted to know what it was like. I must say I am sorely disappointed. It seems an unappealing, messy sort of business. It is not the least bit like what Mrs. Deerehart wrote of in
The Downfall of the Devilish Duke.
I declare, I do not know whether to call the woman out as a bald-faced liar, recommend her for Bedlam, or praise her for having such an extraordinarily vivid imagination!

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age fifteen

Letter to her sister, Miss Olivia Weston, on the false information

imparted by a certain authoress of gothic romance,

much to the sender’s disappointment—July 1793

“
I
hope you don’t feel as terrible as you look,” Olivia said when Isabella awoke the next morning.

Izzie turned her head to glare at her sister who had pulled a chair up beside the bed. She grimaced at the bright light streaming in through the windows—windows that would, were it not for her sister, still be covered by heavy drapes.

“Couldn’t you do that”—she gestured to the embroidery in Olivia’s lap—“somewhere else?”

“I could,” her sister agreed, “but it would be difficult for you to talk to me if I were in another room.”

“Since I am not planning on talking to you, there shouldn’t be a problem,” Isabella said through clenched teeth.

“I really think you should reconsider,” Olivia said, bending down to rummage through her sewing basket. She straightened up, a triumphant smile on her face. “I have
news
,” she declared, waving about a piece of green embroidery floss.

“One should really consider getting out more,” Isabella commented, “when one begins to find a new piece of needlework newsworthy.”

Olivia made a sound of pure exasperation. “If I weren’t such a good, loving sister—”

Isabella snorted.

Olivia ignored her. “I would get up and leave.”

“An excellent idea,” Isabella added.

“And then you wouldn’t hear the news I have so patiently waited to tell you.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “The news about your embroidery?”

“The news about
James
.” Olivia smiled smugly as Isabella bolted upright in bed.

“James! Oh, why didn’t you say something sooner?” She held up a hand. “Wait. I know—I didn’t ask, right? Well, come on now, out with it.”

Olivia began to speak, and then paused thoughtfully. Isabella suppressed the urge to climb out of bed and shake the words from her sister’s mouth.

“Livvy!” she barked.

“I’m just trying to figure out the best way to tell you so that you don’t get all in a tizzy. Mother said I was not to upset you.”

“Not to upset—” Isabella’s heart slammed into the wall of her chest and dropped to her stomach. “He’s gone,” she whispered. All the energy, all the life flowing through her body seemed to vanish, and she shakily sank back against the pillows.

“Gone?” Olivia said in a puzzled tone. Then she laughed. “My word, Izzie, he’s not
that
sick. Wait, who told you—”

“He’s
sick
?”

“Not everybody has your hardy constitution.” Olivia gave a delicate sniff.

“He’s sick,” Isabella repeated softly to herself. “How positively perfect!”

Olivia eyed her curiously. “That isn’t the sentiment one usually expresses upon hearing that another has taken ill.”

“But if he is sick,” Isabella explained, “he cannot leave. He
is
ill enough to be confined to his bed, isn’t he?”

Olivia nodded. “I had it from Mother, who had it from Mrs. Kent, who had it from her nephew who is a groom over at Sheffield Park, who had it from one of the house-maids that James is terribly fevered.”

Isabella was tempted to remark that, as of late, “fevered” seemed to be his natural state, but she restrained herself.

“Apparently,” Olivia went on, “he keeps raving about having to drown a quilt.”

At the mention of the quilt, a tiny gasp escaped from Isabella’s mouth. Fortunately, Olivia seemed not to notice.

Her sister continued. “It would be comical if it weren’t so serious. So, what do you know about this quilt?”

Drat. Olivia had always been too observant for her own good.

“What quilt?” Isabella asked innocently, even as she felt her cheeks heat.

“Oooh, you’re blushing!” Olivia gushed. She shoved her embroidery into the basket and climbed onto the bed. “Isabella Anne Weston, you tell me what is going on right this instant or . . .”

“Or what?”

Olivia exhaled through clenched teeth. “Whatever it is, I promise you won’t like it,” she ground out.

As a threat, it fell a bit short, but what her sister lacked in terms of punitive creativity, she more than made up for with tenacity. No dog with his proverbial bone could ever live up to the reality of Olivia Jane Weston when it came to private information. In less than a half hour, her sister had wormed the entire story out of Isabella. Well, not the
entire
story, of course, but rather a judiciously edited version of the story—one that made no mention of certain, er, activities involving quilts and only a very limited mention of library sorts of behavior.

“I still can’t believe he kissed you,” Olivia remarked once Isabella was through.

“Livvy!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“In any case,” Isabella pointed out, “
I
was the one who kissed
him.
”

“Was it enjoyable?”

“Um, er, well . . .”
Enjoyable?
It had been mindnumbingly, earth-shatteringly pleasurable. Just the memory of it was enough to cause her nipples to tighten into small, hard buds, plainly visible through the thin lawn of her nightgown. She shivered and quickly pulled the covers up in front of her chest.

“Did your knees go weak?” Olivia breathed, her sapphire eyes glimmering with excitement. “Did your heart flutter and your insides get all quivery as in novels?”

Izzie grinned widely and nodded. “It was even better.” Olivia clapped her hands in delight, and then abruptly sobered. “What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t just let him leave!”

“What choice do I have?” Isabella asked wearily. “He refuses to marry me, or any other woman, and he is too proud to accept any sort of charity, however well intentioned, so he must find himself a source of income. For gentlemen of his station, the only respectable option is to join the clergy—or the army.”

“The church does seem an unlikely choice,” Olivia agreed, “but if he enlists . . .”

“He could die,” Isabella finished. The thought took the form of icy fingers, wrapping themselves around her heart, squeezing and clawing, freezing her from the inside. She began to shake. “Oh dear God, Livvy, I don’t think I could bear it.”

“Izzie!” Olivia gripped her shoulders. “He is
not
going to die.”

“He might,” she choked out.

“No,” Olivia said forcefully, “he won’t.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Because we are going to eliminate the need for him to join the army in the first place.”

Isabella stared blankly at her.

Olivia sighed. “We are going to make sure he marries you instead. Then his inheritance, and his life, will be safe. Now, what we need is a plan.” She tapped her fingers against her chin. “Do you remember Emilia and Jordan?”

“From
The Mysterious Enchantress of Castle Clermont
? The one where she . . . where he . . . But, Livvy, this is real life. It isn’t a Minerva Press novel.”

“You’re right.” Olivia gave her a sly look and winked. “It’s even
better.
”

As she shimmied down the tree outside her window two days later, Isabella reflected that this just might be the most idiotic thing she had ever done—not climbing down the tree, since she had done that hundreds of times without getting seriously injured or tearing up her clothes, parents and nursemaids none the wiser. She wasn’t concerned about navigating her way down from her second-story window. She wasn’t even worried about getting back up, although that task certainly required more effort than the former. No, trees had nothing to do with the reason Isabella was questioning her sanity. A certain man named James Sheffield and a certain plot devised by a certain sister, on the other hand, had everything to do with it.

It couldn’t be put off any longer, though, since Olivia’s chain of informants had reported that, as of today, James was no longer abed, ignoring the doctor’s recommendation that he stay there for at least a week. How typically and odiously
male
! Even though James wasn’t fully recovered, Isabella had no doubt that he was planning on leaving at the soonest possible opportunity. So here she was, on her way to the seduction.

As she stealthily made her way to the stable and slipped a bridle onto Blossom, her little sorrel mare, Isabella wondered what on earth had possessed her to think that
she
of all people could pull off a seduction? And even if she could pull it off, and that was a very big “if,” why on earth was she doing this?
Because you love James
, she told herself.
And in any case, you certainly don’t want him going off to war and getting killed because of you!

She was doing this for him. To save him. Oh, all right, she was lying to herself—or she wasn’t being totally honest. She wanted to save James Sheffield, but she also wanted to make love with him. Just plain wanted him.

Isabella’s mare stumbled, jarring her out of her reverie. She blinked as she realized she was already on Sheffield land. She shook her head. It was imperative that she keep her wits about her tonight. She had only one chance—one night—in which to succeed. Failure meant the possibility of James perishing on some desolate, bloody battlefield. Failure meant forsaking all of her dreams for the future. Failure meant—no, she wouldn’t let herself think about failure. It simply wasn’t an option.

She located a small copse of trees where she could tether Blossom out of sight and dug some lumps of sugar out of her pocket. She patted the mare’s velvety nose and made for the house, ignoring the occasional twinge in her ankle. She heaved a sigh of relief on seeing that the window to the library had only been partially shut; she truly had no idea how to go about this breaking and entering business.

And really, she thought peevishly, it wasn’t as if she had been given a great deal of time in which to formulate a plan. Of course, in all honesty, it had been Olivia who had devised tonight’s escapade. Isabella had never been much good at making plans. She had always been more bold, more brash, more impulsive—the one who tagged along on the boys’ adventures. But
this
, she thought, grinning ruefully as she hiked her skirts above her knees and clambered over the windowsill, this was outrageous, even for her.

She tiptoed across the room, grateful for the thick Aubusson rugs covering the floor. Isabella held her breath as she slowly eased the door open and silently blessed Mrs. Benton, the housekeeper at Sheffield Park since the dawning of time, for the silence of the well-oiled hinges. Her eyes rapidly adjusting to the darkness, Isabella peered out into the hallway, glancing furtively to her left and right. Once she was satisfied that she was in no immediate danger of being discovered, she hurried down the hallway, heading for the front stairs.

Although they were closer, she didn’t dare go up the back stairs. Mrs. Benton’s room was right next to the top of the servants’ stairs and, despite her advanced age, the woman’s hearing was as acute as ever. And, to use one of her mother’s favorite phrases, it simply wouldn’t do to be discovered skulking about Sheffield Park in the middle of the night. Why, any number of indecent conjectures might be drawn! And most of them would be right, she thought, fighting back a nervous giggle.

Glancing at the wide marble stairs, Isabella gave a sigh and slipped off her shoes and stockings. She bit her lip as her bare feet came in contact with the freezing cold stone, but the marble was too polished and slippery looking to risk keeping her stockings on. Someday, she thought as she hurried up the stairs, she would make James pay for the hardships she was currently suffering on his behalf. She reached the top without incident and hurried toward the east wing, where James’s apartments lay. Finally she stood in front of the door to his bedchamber. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest as the reality of what she was planning finally hit her.

Scenarios began flashing through her mind, each more horrible than the next. Isabella had already accepted that James would be furious with her plan, but what if he was so angry that she couldn’t seduce him? It wasn’t as if she were some great seductress, though the past week had significantly broadened her knowledge. It was crucial for him to deflower her, though. If he took her virginity, he
would
marry her. She and Olivia had agreed on that. It was part of the code of honor he lived by as an English gentleman. But she had to get him to ruin her, and what if . . . What if . . .