Promise Me Tonight (8 page)

“I never thought I’d have to keep that promise,” James muttered, tugging at his cravat.

“But you did, just as I knew you would, because you are honorable and thoughtful.”

“Don’t make me out to be some sort of saint, Isabella. I have as many faults and transgressions as the next man. Probably more.”

“I don’t expect you to be perfect. Heaven knows I’m not. But I do believe you’re perfect for me.” Her voice grew husky and dropped to a near whisper. “So now my love is that of a woman for the man she knows she is meant to be with.”

He was so silent, so still, that she could barely see the rise and fall of his chest. She took a cautious step toward him, treating him as she would an unpredictable wild animal. Another step brought her within inches of him. He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t done so much as blink. Isabella found it rather unnerving.

She leaned into him, looked up at his beloved face, and did the one thing she had sworn she would never do. She begged. “Please, James. Love me. Let me love you.”

She held her breath, waiting, wondering what he would say, what he might do. She was hoping he would just sweep her back up into his arms and start kissing her all over again.

“We should be getting back,” James said after a long moment. “Supper will be ending, and people will begin to wonder where the guest of honor is.” He held out his arm to her.

Feeling terribly numb, Isabella accepted it. A sense of unreality enveloped her. She had laid her heart bare. She had asked—no, she had
begged
—for his love,
pleaded
to be allowed to love him. Her lips were still tingling from his kisses and her heart was still pounding; yet he was ready to take her back to the party and wash his hands of her. How utterly depressing!

Still, Isabella reflected, she had made progress. The thought buoyed her flagging spirits. As wonderful as it would have been to have him fall on his knees and pledge his undying love for her, Isabella had known in her heart of hearts that it wouldn’t be that easy. He was going to fight what was between them. Let him try. After only a few hours in her presence he had nearly made love to her in the library!

The remembrance of the shocking things he had done to her, the wonderful way he had made her feel, summoned all those urgent feelings again. An uncontrollable shiver sped through her. His entire body stiffened in response, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. She had
definitely
made progress.

Isabella smiled brightly up at James, throwing him off balance. “Despite what you say, James Sheffield, you’re not past saving, and nothing you say will change my mind. I refuse to believe it.”

“Believe it.” His voice was harsh. “I’m warning you, Izzie. Don’t try to ‘save’ me. You’ll only get hurt.”

They stood at the entrance to the ballroom, and Isabella pressed closer to his side, rising up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “You should know from what transpired tonight that I am willing to take risks when the reward is so very . . . touching. I must thank you, my lord, for your attentions. I am feeling very much recovered, quite ready to dance, in fact. I do wish Mother would allow the waltz; I am certain that dancing it with you would prove quite stimulating.”

She watched with satisfaction as his eyes nearly crossed once again. He looked ready to drag her back into the library, and while there was nothing she would like more, perhaps some good old-fashioned jealousy would prove more effective than simply falling into his arms. In the Minerva Press novels she had read, the heroines were always making the heroes jealous, and it seemed to work for them.

She tugged excitedly at his sleeve. “Look, James. Over there.” She pointed and waved at someone on the opposite side of the ballroom. “It’s Marcus. Oops, I mean Lord Brantley.” She giggled. Actually it was more of a twitter. She hadn’t known she’d had it in her. “I believe he is my next partner.”

James shook his head. “You already danced with him once this evening.”

“Oh, but Mother said it would be all right for him to partner me twice tonight, on account of our families’ being so friendly. Don’t be anxious. I am only holding you to one dance, just as you promised.”

James scowled, but he reluctantly escorted her across the room, and Izzie forced herself to keep up a constant stream of chatter, telling him how nice Marcus was, how handsome, how intelligent, how cultured.

“He actually quoted poetry to me,” she said delightedly. “Can you believe it?”

James’s expression clearly stated that he could believe it all right. In fact, he looked as if he wanted to pound the man into the ground.

“And he is a marvelous dancer,” she confided, when they were only a couple feet away from the man. “Mayhap even better than you.”

Isabella didn’t wait to see the smoke pour out of his ears. She just flitted over to take her new partner’s arm and let him sweep her into the dance. She avoided James for the rest of the night, but she saw him hovering, felt his eyes on her the whole time, his gaze warming her from across the room. She couldn’t wait to kiss him again, to feel all those amazing sensations he aroused in her, to make more progress. Progress, she decided, really was an excellent thing.

Chapter 6

My dear brother, I don’t know why you persist in asking the question, “Or else what?” Or else a little bird will tell our mother about a certain book you have in your possession. A certain book of engravings that fell into the hands of your innocent, impressionable little sister. It is thrilling to know I shall be able to hold this over your head for the rest of your life! A life that would be shorter should our mother learn what treasures you keep hidden beneath your mattress . . .

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age eleven

Letter to her brother Henry, reminding him that sisters are

not above blackmail but, in fact, embrace it—March 1789

I
sabella was forced to reassess her supposed progress when Henry returned from Ireland one month later without James in tow. It was the orphanage, she assured herself, and she would be lower than dirt if she were jealous of the poor little souls James was helping.

After two months, Isabella realized she might just be lower than dirt. She missed James like mad, so much she started speculating whether it would be possible to adopt every last orphan in Ireland. How could she make
progress
when they were in two different kingdoms? The situation was beyond vexing, and although the Season offered plenty in the way of amusements, it was
not
proving an adequate distraction.

It was nearly enough to make a person hate London, but it simply wasn’t possible to hate the city where one could go to Gunter’s for a white coffee cream ice every day of the week. White coffee cream ices, she had found, were good consolation for a lonely heart.

Oh, she had more than her fair share of suitors, but the mere thought of James made her heart race faster than it did in their presence. She had even let Lord Stimpson draw her into an alcove to steal a kiss to test whether her reaction to James would have been the same with any man.

That experiment had proven disastrous, and by disastrous she meant a kiss so wet and nauseating that when he called the next morning to propose, Izzie had to run from the room to avoid being physically ill. Since the incident with Stimpson could not in all fairness be compared with her interlude with James, Izzie realized she needed a reputable rake, someone she was certain had comparable skill in the amatory arts. Fortunately, she knew just the man for the job; if Marcus Debenton couldn’t make her see stars, no one save James ever would.

She couldn’t ask him straight out, though, since she was sure he would refuse. For all his misdeeds, Marcus was an honorable rogue, which meant he wouldn’t kiss his mother’s friend’s daughter if his life depended on it. Actually, his life probably did depend on it. If Lady Ardsmore ever learned that her son had kissed Izzie, she would march him down the aisle of St. Paul’s with a pistol at his back. In the end he would be either married or dead, which amounted to the same thing for a rake.

So subterfuge it would have to be, and Lady Galloway’s annual masquerade ball presented the perfect opportunity. She knew Marcus would attend if only because hidden identities offered such potential in the way of seduction. She also knew she would be able to locate him as he reputedly dressed as a satyr every year; Izzie had heard more than one lady remark that it wasn’t much in the way of a disguise.

Isabella chose her costume accordingly. A Grecian-style gown of white silk hugged the curves of her breasts and hips, then flowed sinuously down to the gold slippers on her feet. A matching gold domino covered the top half of her face, and a sparkling diamond brooch secured the gown over one shoulder, leaving the other daringly bare. She wore her hair loose, a riot of honey blond curls, topped by a coronet of wildflowers that transformed her into the perfect woodland nymph. As a satyr, Marcus should be unable to resist pursuing her. And he was. She hadn’t been in the ballroom for a half hour when she felt a large, warm hand descend on her bare shoulder.

“My lady nymph,” said the deep voice at her back.

Isabella turned to face him. “My lord satyr,” she replied in a husky murmur, sinking into a curtsy.

He raised her up and peered more closely at her face. “Do I know you?”

“Not tonight,” she purred, hoping the answer would satisfy him.

Apparently it did, for he whisked her into a boisterous country dance without another word. She was breathless and laughing by the time it was over and, she noted, Marcus had maneuvered them so that they were right by the balcony doors when the music ended.

He gently tugged on her arm, urging her to give up the safe confines of the well-lit ballroom for the danger and adventure of the night. She followed, though her eyes grew wide when she heard the languid sighs and low moans emanating from the dark corners of the balcony.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

As he led her down the balcony steps into the formal garden, she wondered if it had actually been a very bad idea. Going out on the balcony with a gentleman was slightly scandalous; the garden was, well ... Izzie was beginning to think Marcus had more in mind than just a kiss, a suspicion that seemed to be confirmed when he whisked her around a tall hedge and drew her up against him.

She was at the point of no return, on the verge of crossing over. She could tell Marcus who she was and he would have her back inside in a flash, hopefully before anyone—especially either of their mothers—was the wiser. No doubt she would be soundly scolded, but her reputation wouldn’t suffer. The longer she stayed in the garden, the more she played with fire . . . and the more she risked getting burned.

But she had to know.

She had to know if the feelings she had for James were real or just a habit. A habit could be broken. It wouldn’t be easy, but she could do it—
if
her love for him was a habit. If it wasn’t . . .

“You are awfully quiet, sweet nymph,” he murmured against her ear.

There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. She had to know.

She pasted a sultry smile on her face and gazed up in what she hoped was an alluring manner. “I was unaware that talking was what you had in mind.”

He laughed. “Beautiful
and
bold. I am a lucky fellow, indeed.”

Isabella inclined her head in acceptance of his flattery.

“But,” he continued, “as you say, speech was not foremost on my mind when I lured you out here. Satyrs and nymphs are known for communicating in another language entirely.”

“Greek?” Izzie squeaked in the split second before his mouth came down on hers.

His chuckle reverberated through her body, but that was as close to tingling as her extremities were feeling. Actually, her toes were a little numb, but that had more to do with her modiste accidentally ordering the gold satin dancing slippers a size too small.

Oh dear. One of England’s most accomplished rakes was kissing her, and she couldn’t think about anything but her pinched feet. That she was thinking at all didn’t bode well. When James had kissed her, Izzie had barely been able to remember to breathe, let alone think.

She forced herself to concentrate on Marcus and the kiss. It was pleasant, she supposed, and certainly preferable to slobbering Stimpson, but there was no magic.

Not even a little bit.

One of Marcus’s hands squeezed her breast.

How dare he?

Her slap took him off guard; he stumbled back, tripped, and landed on his bottom in the grass. He rubbed his cheek and stared at her in utter disbelief.

Isabella gave a disgusted huff and flounced back to the house, her shoes pinching her every step of the way. Fortunately, the ballroom was such a crush, she was easily able to persuade her mother that she had been dancing the entire time. Her reputation was intact, although the same could not be said of her feet. But the poor dears made an excellent excuse for a hasty departure, and Isabella was safely home before the unmasking.

After her second failed experiment, Izzie assiduously avoided any situations where kisses might be proffered. She stuck so close to whoever was chaperoning her, other matrons were heard imploring their charges to display such proper conduct. Much to Isabella’s relief, when it became clear she was a model of decorum, the rakes and young bucks got bored and let her alone.