Promise Me Tonight (2 page)

She had cried when they’d graduated earlier that year, but James figured that was primarily because Henry had spent more time “rusticating” than he had at school. James had taken a first in literature, partly to please Lady Weston, who was more than a little enamored of a certain Elizabethan playwright. Henry had joked that morning that if his father had not had some say in the naming of his children, the family’s newest addition might well have been christened Hamlet or Falstaff. Yes, the Weston children were fortunate to have such a father. James had once thought himself lucky in his own sire, but—

He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it. Not tonight. Not ever, really. Far better to focus on the present, and—

“Put it back on the plate, Hal. These are for Izzie and Livvy,” James scolded as they filed past the refreshments table.

“When did you grow eyes in the back of your head?” Henry grumbled through a mouthful of cake.

“I’ve known you since we were ten. Don’t you think a decade of friendship gives me some insight? Besides, you eat everything within reach.”

“I’m a growing lad,” Henry retorted.

James chuckled. He was tall at six feet, but his best friend had at least three inches on him and was built like a brawny prizefighter.

“If you grow any bigger, I am going to sell you to a traveling Gypsy circus.”

“Remind me once more why we are friends.”

“Aside from the fact that no one else is going to put up with you?” James joked, turning to look back at Henry. “For one thing, you would never have graduated without my help.”

Henry laughed. “I still can’t puzzle out how you went to all those boring lectures.”

“Self-control?” James suggested.

Henry grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt it would have made a difference. I was never much good at lessons.”

James couldn’t argue with that. Intellectual pursuits were not, admittedly, Henry’s forte. Bedroom games—actually, games and sports in general—were where he excelled. Still, James was certain Henry was smarter than he let on; his best friend certainly wasn’t lacking in imagination, he reflected, remembering all of the scrapes Henry had gotten them into.

He was smiling as he made his way up to the gallery, Henry right behind him, but his amusement faded when he saw Isabella standing at the top of the stairs, one foot tapping impatiently, her arms crossed.

“Finally!” she exclaimed. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Standing as she was, the braces of candles flanking the staircase illuminated her from behind, casting a golden glow all about her and gilding her unruly blond curls into a halo. She looked like an irate angel.

“What happened to Livvy?” Henry asked.

Izzie gave them both a pointed look. “
She
got tired of waiting, figured you had forgotten us, and decided to go to bed.”

Henry looked down at the plate and glass in his hands as the clock chimed the quarter hour. “I’m sure she’s still up. I’ll go take this to her. Wouldn’t want her to think we forgot. She can be nearly as bad as you.” And with that said, he took off down the hallway.

“What does he mean, ‘She can be nearly as bad as you’ ? ” Izzie muttered, sitting down.

“Er, have some cake,” James said quickly, shoving the plate of sweets at her. He waited until she’d downed three gingersnaps and a piece of cake before deeming her mood restored enough for him to safely sit beside her.

“So, did you enjoy the dancing?” he asked.

“Not as much as you seemed to,” she said, a hint of bitterness shading her words.

“Beg pardon?” James leaned closer to her, certain he’d misheard her.

“I simply remarked that you seemed to be having a grand time dancing with Lady Finkley.” She stared down at her plate. “Is she your lover?”

“W-what?” James sputtered. “Izzie! That—that is totally inappropriate. You shouldn’t even
know
about—”

“Lovers?” she supplied, gazing up impishly at him as she licked her fingers.

“Yes, blast it! You shouldn’t know about those sorts of things, and you certainly shouldn’t ever speak of them.”

“Then she isn’t?” Isabella queried.

“No!” James exploded, and then lowered his voice. “Dash it all, this isn’t proper. And it certainly isn’t any of your business.”

“Oh.”

The softly uttered syllable contained a definite note of dejection. She looked away, and James thought he saw her shoulders tremble. He instantly gentled his tone. “Izzie, look at me. Come on.
Izzie
.”

She kept her eyes glued to the plate in her hands. He took it from her and set it aside, then placed a finger under her chin, raising her head until he could look into her eyes.

“My God, you’re
jealous
,” he said incredulously. She swung her head away but made no attempt to deny it. James cupped his hand around her cheek, turning her face back to his, and felt wetness on the silky, soft flesh pressed to his palm. He watched a single tear trickle down her pale cheek, then another and another, turning her lashes into dark golden spikes.

“Sweetheart,” he pleaded, though he hadn’t a clue what he was pleading for. Direction, he supposed. And he had learned from past experience that uttering an endearment was the safest way to break the silence in situations like these. Of course, he had never been in this particular position before, and he hoped never to be in it again. It was damned uncomfortable!

Bloody hell. Isabella had always dogged his heels when she was younger, but he’d had no idea she fancied him in that way. She looked miserable and defeated, so unlike her usual sunny self, and it killed him to be the cause of it. He slung his arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. She burrowed her face into his shoulder, soaking his jacket with her tears.

“Don’t cry, Izzie,” James begged. “Please, don’t cry.”

“I-it’s j-just that you were s-smiling and laughing with her, and I just w-wished so badly that I was older and could wear a beautiful gown and be the one dancing with you.” The words were muffled as they poured out against the soft, black wool of his coat. He murmured nonsense into her hair, soothing her as he would an upset child, but it only made her cry harder.

“Hush, now.” James cupped her face in his hands and wiped her tears away. “I am not nearly so good a dancer as to be worth all this fuss.”

The small smile she gave him made James feel like the king of England—utterly grand and slightly mad. As James stared into her watery eyes, for a moment, it seemed as if he saw his soul gazing back at him; the thought terrified him, and he pulled his hands away as if burned.

“Someday,” he said gruffly, “when you’re older and have that beautiful dress, there will be so many men wanting to dance with you, you’ll wonder why you wanted to dance with
me
.”

“That is
not
true!” Isabella protested fervently. “I will want to dance with you for the rest of my life. Only you. I know it. I
know
, and I won’t change my mind. I
won’t
.”

“You
will
,” James insisted.

“Never.” She sniffed and shook her head mutinously. “I lo—”

“I hope you are not so foolish as to think yourself in love with me.”

She flinched at his tone.

He hated that he was hurting her, but it was best to end this infatuation now. “What you feel for me isn’t love—affection, admiration even, but not love. And if you’re smart, you will save your love for some lucky man who deserves it and will love you back. I am not capable of love.”

“But surely, when you were younger . . .”

“That was a long time ago. I have had some years, and no small amount of help from my grandsire, in which to conquer that weakness.”

Isabella shot to her feet. “Love is
not
a weakness—”

“For God’s sake, lower your voice.” He stood and looked down at her. “So young and innocent,” he murmured. “Izzie, I hope you will never find love to be a weakness.” His voice was weary and bleak. “But I promise you it can be.”

She shook her head mutinously and jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I promise you I will still want that dance.”

James sighed.

Izzie glowered, her bottom lip thrust out and quivering, and he knew the fight was up. “All right, don’t glare at me so. If you still wish it, when the time is right, I will certainly claim that dance.”

Isabella’s face brightened, and her eyes lit with sudden hope.

James felt a moment of trepidation, but he told himself it was foolish. Izzie would likely fix her attention on some other gentleman and forget this entire exchange within a fortnight. And if she didn’t, it wasn’t as though a dance with her would change anything.

“Do you promise?” Isabella demanded.

“Promise what?” Henry asked, his sudden presence startling them both.

“James was just going to promise to dance with me at my come-out ball,” Isabella replied.

He hadn’t been about to do any such thing, James wanted to protest, but he didn’t want Henry to know what had transpired. For one thing, it would embarrass Izzie. For another, he wasn’t certain how Hal would react.

He might take it as a great joke; Henry was generally an easygoing fellow. When it came to his family, though, Henry was all seriousness—fierce, protective, pistols-at-dawn seriousness. Of course, James had done nothing to encourage Izzie, but Henry might not care. And James really didn’t want to get laid flat because of some innocent fancy. From their sparring sessions at Gentleman Jackson’s, James was painfully aware that Henry had a bruising right hook.

“Izzie, your come-out ball?” Henry frowned. “That’s years from now and—”

“I promise,” James said quietly, his eyes never leaving Isabella’s.

“Good.” Isabella gave James a smile that had him wondering if a dance was truly all he had agreed to. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the eerie feeling that he had just given himself into the custody of a girl with eyes the color of a summer sky and a smile that filled his heart in a way that scared him down to his toes.

Chapter 2

If you will please let me come to Eton, I promise to be very good. I will be quiet as a mouse. I will invite you to all my tea parties. Or just send James Sheffield home. I miss him. A lot. But Henry Weston, my brother, can stay there. Thank you.

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age seven

Letter to Jonathan Davies, headmaster of Eton College,

which, as the sender learned some years later, had never

been posted, thus clearly explaining why no admittance letter

was ever forthcoming—September 1785

White’s Gentleman’s Club, London

May 1797

“
Y
ou really want to know what brought me back to England, Hal? Guilt, pure and simple.”

James pulled a creased piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket and reached across the table to hand it to his best friend.

Henry glanced at it, then looked up, puzzled. “It’s the invitation to my sister’s come-out ball.”

“Exactly.” James sighed.

Henry shot his friend a bemused look and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s damned fine to see you, of course, and my mother will be over the moon that you’re home, but it really wasn’t necessary for you to come to Izzie’s ball.”

“Oh, but it was.” James grinned as he reached over to flip the invitation to the back where Isabella had scrawled the words “You promised” followed by a multitude of exclamation points. Henry’s expression slowly changed from bafflement to amusement.

“Lord, I had forgotten about that completely.”

“I would your sister had your memory.”

Henry laughed. “I wouldn’t be overly concerned. It will be difficult for Izzie to make sheep’s eyes at you through a crowd of her admirers.”

At James’s confused look, Henry burst out laughing. “Have you not heard? My sister has been named the next Incomparable. She didn’t come out last Season because my mother was confined again, but Izzie spent the winter in Bath with my aunt and caused quite a storm. All those matchmaking mamas with their turbans tied too tight were up in arms because a girl not officially out got more notice than their milksop daughters.” He gave an annoyed snort.

A succession of images danced through James’s mind as he remembered the hoydenish girl: Isabella galloping astride in Henry’s old shirt and breeches, crying when she got stuck at the top of a particularly tall tree, her face covered with light freckles and sticky blackberry juice after an especially fruitful day of berry gathering.

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Henry.

“I’m not hoaxing you, I swear.” Henry laid a hand over his heart. “Morgan even offered to sell me his grays if I would introduce him to Izzie! Can you believe it? He swore he would never part with them. And Stimpson!
He
said he would give me all his time in the ring with Jackson if I could get him on Izzie’s dance card! Wait a tick—I could give him
your
dance and split the time with you.”

James felt something suspiciously like a growl building in his throat and quickly took a large gulp of brandy. What had happened to Henry’s protective instincts? This was ridiculous. It wasn’t that he was jealous, of course. He was simply feeling protective. A good thing, too, since Henry seemed inclined to sell his sister to the highest bidder!