Promise Me Tonight (5 page)

Bloody hell, he was ogling, even fantasizing about Isabella Weston’s breasts, and he wasn’t sure he could stop.

Worse, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

James forced himself to take a step back, both mentally and physically. He released her hands and held out his arm to escort her over to the dance floor. He eyed her up and down, taking in her dress and hairstyle, and couldn’t find fault anywhere. Well, he
did
wish her neckline were higher since it really was too low, but in all honesty, she looked exquisite.

As he led her onto the dance floor, James was aware of the envious glances thrown his way. He laughed inwardly, delighted to be the chosen one and thrilled to be stealing her away from all the besotted idiots and incompetent poets. Isabella must have felt the reverberations of his chest against her arm, for she stopped suddenly and looked up at him.

“What?” she asked suspiciously. “Oh dear. Is it my hair?” She reached up and patted around her head. Her efforts released a few unruly curls from her coiffure and sent her scent wafting through the air. She smelled like honeysuckle, and he ached to take her mouth, to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

Dear God in heaven, where had
that
thought come from? He felt uncertain and off balance, as if something elemental had changed, but he didn’t know what it was or how to right it. He had read once about a desert phenomenon where, all of a sudden, a man’s footing could give way, disappearing without a second’s notice, sucking him farther and farther down into the sand.

That was what this felt like. He hadn’t been given time to prepare, had been taken unawares, and now he was drowning in Isabella: the sight, the scent—the very feel of her.

“James?”

He shook his head, knowing even as he did that it wouldn’t be enough; with Isabella beside him, his mind would never be entirely clear.

“James!”

“What?”

She glared at him and gesticulated wildly about her head.

“Oh, no. Your hair is fine. You look lovely. Actually, more than lovely.” His voice quieted, deepened. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” The words tripped off his tongue before he realized what he was saying.

Isabella smiled at him, her face aglow with pure delight, and she looked even more beautiful than she had just a moment before.
Bloody hell
. He was in serious trouble.

Then she suddenly straightened, seeming to come to some sort of resolution. The natural glow dimmed and was replaced by a calculated, seductive smile and a flirtatious bat of her lashes. “I would wager you say that to all the young ladies.”

Nary a one
, he silently corrected her, breathing a sigh of relief he had gotten off so easily. “Only the pretty ones,” he replied with a devilish grin, bowing as the music began.

“Heartless bounder.”

She curtsied, gazing up at him coquettishly.

“Impertinent baggage.”

The subtle flirtation, the give and take, became part of the dance. The delicious anticipation built each time they came together, only to break apart and then reunite again.

Gazing down at Isabella while attempting to concentrate on the dance, James was perturbed by how totally different he felt with her. There were remnants of the easy, teasing camaraderie of old, but there was a new, heightened awareness that James knew was born of desire.

As their hands touched, intense heat leapt through the layers of gloves; he wondered if they would scald each other if they touched skin to skin. This pulse, this living energy between them, had been growing steadily from the moment he had taken her hands in his.

James couldn’t tell whether he was more exhilarated or terrified, because although he was at a ball dancing with a girl just out of the schoolroom, a girl whom he had always regarded as a little sister, he couldn’t remember a time when he had been so happy or had wanted a woman more.

As Izzie had so carefully plotted, when the dance ended, James escorted her into supper. He was the perfect companion, making sure she was seated comfortably before solicitously gathering a plate of tempting morsels for her to eat . . . and then he brought her a glass of lemonade when all the ladies around her were drinking champagne. She thought he had been aware of her as a woman during their dance, but he couldn’t have made it plainer that he still saw her as a child. Her stomach, and her hopes, plummeted.

In her quest to get James alone, Izzie had planned to feign some sort of illness, figuring that he would gallantly escort her from the crowded, overheated dining room. With her stomach in knots, though, there was no need for pretense; as soon as Isabella tried to eat, her stomach rebelled and her head spun. She began to sway in her chair and felt James’s hand grip her shoulder, steadying her from behind.

She twisted in her seat to look up at him. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she blurted out, horrified by the admission.

James looked horrified as well, and the ladies seated on either side of her quickly edged away with alarmed, faintly pitying expressions. Fortunately, the cacophony in the room prevented Isabella’s announcement from spreading any farther.

James assisted her up from her chair and quickly steered her out of the dining room. Actually, he half carried, half dragged her, as Izzie was too busy concentrating on not casting up her accounts in front of the cream of London society.

As they made their way from the dining room, she was grateful for the strength of his arm beneath hers. James was like a pillar in her life, she mused, always there to support her, steady and strong. In truth, he was more like her cornerstone; her love for him was the foundation on which she’d built herself. Now all she needed was for him to feel the same way about her.

Despite her stomach staging a very angry revolt, Isabella reflected it was a good thing it was James hauling her out of the dining room and not some other gentleman. No one would think twice about her being with James; he was practically a member of the family. Little did they know that Izzie fully intended to make the gentleman in question a family member in truth and that she harbored some rather salacious fantasies about being dragged off somewhere by him!

James deposited her onto a bench in the hallway and pushed her head down.

“Breathe in and out,” he commanded. “Slowly, now. In and out. Just like that. Good girl.”

Izzie focused on the sound of his voice, the deep rumble soothing her even as it seduced her. The nausea faded away and was replaced by flutters of anticipation. She slowly sat up.

“I think I’m all right now,” she said with a sigh of relief.

“You
think
you’re all right now,” James muttered. “You think you’re
all right
? You nearly fainted—something we both know you have never done in your precious life—but you’re all right?” He raked a hand through his hair, setting it on end.

“Please, you needn’t shout. Truly, I feel much better.”

He sagged down onto the seat next to her. “You scared the devil out of me.”

Izzie had to look away to hide her smile; it felt lovely to be the subject of so much infuriated anxiety. “I apologize,” she replied solemnly. “It certainly wasn’t something I planned.” Well, she hadn’t planned on
actually
getting sick.

James turned an accusing eye on her. “You haven’t turned into one of those vain, simpering misses who has her laces drawn so tight she can’t breathe properly?”

He looked so appalled that Izzie had to laugh. “No, and I pray I never shall. I fear I didn’t have all that much to eat today, what with the preparations and all.” And with your proximity wreaking havoc on my nerves, she added silently.

“Well, that should be easily remedied.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come, I’ll take you back to the dining room and you can stuff yourself to your heart’s content.”

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said glumly.

“You can’t eat? Why in God’s name not?” he demanded.

Izzie bit her lip in annoyance and then explained. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but everyone will be watching me. Young ladies are not supposed to display hearty appetites.”

He thought for a moment, then grinned and snapped his fingers. “I know just what to do. I can sneak a plate of food out here to you.”

“I suppose that might work,” Isabella mused. “But I can’t eat in the hallway.”

James frowned, obviously vexed that there was a flaw in his plan. “All right,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I will meet you in the library in five minutes.”

“Bless you! Some champagne would also be welcome,” Izzie said as she stood and trailed a hand down the sleeve of his coat, watching in amusement as he stumbled back a step. He turned to leave, shaking his head as if to clear it, and Izzie wanted to cheer.

“James?”

His expression was wary as he pivoted to face her. “Yes?”

“Please tell my mother that, should anyone ask, I tore the hem on my gown and will rejoin the party shortly.”

He nodded and moved to go.

“Oh, and James?”

He halted and raised one brow in silent question, clearly torn between amusement and apprehension.

Isabella flashed him her most seductive smile, the one she’d practiced for hours in front of a mirror. “This gown doesn’t allow for a corset.”

His eyes nearly crossed as he muttered something under his breath and set off for the dining room. As soon as he was out of sight, Izzie leapt up and danced her way to the library, her entire body thrumming with excitement.

Soon it would be just the two of them.

Alone.

In a room with a lock on the door.

A lock she meant to employ.

The evening was shaping up quite nicely, if she did say so herself.

Chapter 4

Mrs. Daniels tells me I am doing very well in my music lessons. This is her way of saying I am better than Olivia. When I told this to Mama, all she said was, “Pride always comes before a fall.” I think having another baby is making her very confused. Who ever fell playing the pianoforte?

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age nine

Letter to her aunt Katherine, Marchioness of Sheldon, detailing

the hazardous effect being
enceinte
has on the brain—

November 1787

A
ttempting to open the library door while simultaneously balancing two overladen plates of food and a flute of champagne was as difficult as one would expect from a task associated with Isabella, James thought peevishly. It was a good thing he knew there was brandy on the other side. A man liked to be rewarded for overcoming a challenge.

After a bit more juggling, he managed to open the door . . . and nearly dropped everything.

Isabella was perched on the long table in the center of the room, swinging her legs back and forth and, God help him, he would swear the neckline of her gown had dropped another inch.

James swallowed hard, trying desperately to think of something other than throwing the bloody food and champagne aside, leaning her back on that table, and tossing up her skirts.

He took an unconscious step forward and she hopped down off the table, putting an end to that momentarily disturbing and uncomfortably arousing fantasy.

Thank God!

Isabella hurried forward, took the plates from him, and went to set them on the table. Then she came back toward him, but rather than taking the glass of champagne, she brushed past him, heading for the door.

James pivoted, wondering if—hoping, even—she had read his mind and was fleeing the scene with her virtue intact.

Instead, he watched with growing helplessness as she locked the door; the dull thud of the bolt sliding home twisted his stomach into a tighter knot. The traitorous organ a foot above it—the heart he had thought was dead—clenched when she turned back and smiled at him.

“I shouldn’t like someone to stumble upon us while I am—” She paused.

Being ravished?
James’s disloyal mind supplied.

“Stuffing myself to my heart’s content,” she finished, relieving him of the champagne. She sashayed back to the table, and James couldn’t tear his eyes from the gentle sway of her hips.

He licked his dry lips and forced himself to look away and head over to the sideboard; if ever there was a time to drink, James felt certain this was it.

He tossed back a snifter of brandy without even tasting it, then poured another and walked over to Isabella, who was seated once more on that blasted table eating a strawberry ice—trust Izzie to skip straight to dessert—her eyes closed in an expression of bliss that did nothing for his composure.

He needed to put some distance between them. Fast.

He walked over to the bookcases, so befuddled that it took him a moment to realize the shelves directly in front of him were empty.

“They’re reserved for my mother’s book,” Isabella supplied, then shrugged. “If she ever finishes it.”

James nodded. Second only to her husband and children, Lady Weston’s grand passion was writing a collection of critical essays on Shakespeare’s female characters.