Promise Me Tonight (12 page)

“My lord,” Mr. Palmer cautioned.

“What, does my
poor
choice of words offend you, sir?”

“There is a lady present, my lord.”

“You’re right.” James tapped his forefinger against his chin as if in thought. “And this is one lady I certainly cannot
afford
to offend, as I am soon to be her charity case.”

“My lord, please, there is a solution, if you will but listen.”

“What, did my loving grandfather also leave me a loaded pistol?”

“James!” Isabella exclaimed in horror.

“Marriage,” Lord Weston said suddenly, breaking his long silence.

The solicitor inclined his head. “You are very perceptive, my lord.”

“Marriage?” Isabella repeated in a trembling voice. She sank down on the settee beside her father, her face grown quite pale. She stared down at her lap. “He would need an heiress of—of considerable fortune, would he not?”

“He needs you, my dear,” Lord Weston said, placing an arm about Isabella’s shoulders. “Marriage to you effectively cancels out the terms of the will, does it not, Mr. Palmer?”

“Indeed, my lord.” The solicitor bobbed his head in agreement. “In fact, it was the late earl’s wish that the two wed. He told me that he had long desired an alliance between your families and, though I am not precisely sure what he meant, he felt that marriage to Miss Weston would ensure that the present earl didn’t make the same mistake that his father—”

“I believe I have heard enough, Mr. Palmer.”

There it was, the real reason his grandfather hated him. The earl’s words from that first meeting in this very study had been branded on James’s mind.

“Listen well,” his grandfather had said, “for I shall only say this once. You are the heir to the Dunston title. You are, of course, completely unworthy, given that your mother was an Irish slut, but, since she trapped my weak sod of a son into marriage, I have no other choice. It is my responsibility to see to it that you are in every way fit to assume the title when the time comes. That, and only that, is the reason your presence is tolerated here.”

James had gaped at him, wondering if he could possibly have misheard the ugly words that fell so easily from his grandsire’s mouth.

“It seems you have inherited your father’s dimwittedness as well. I shall have my work cut out for me. At least you
look
English. I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies.”

It was at that moment that James had decided he hated his grandfather. A black rage had filled him, replacing the suffocating grief of the past weeks. He had clung to the anger, relished it. After all, it was all he’d had left.

He had cried himself to sleep that night, muffling the sound of his sobs in his pillow so that no one could hear. He had never felt more alone. That small spark he had cherished had been brutally extinguished, and all his hopes for the future had been savagely snuffed out, plunging him into darkness and despair.

And now despair loomed again. Despite his control, James had been shocked by the contents of the will, though he wasn’t sure why he was surprised. His grandfather had tried to control every aspect of his life from the day he had moved in at Sheffield Park. The earl had dictated everything from what books James could read to how much dessert he was allowed to eat. Hell, James wouldn’t have been surprised to learn there had been a limit to the number of times he could use the privy each day. Even six feet underground, his grandfather was still trying to rule him. The old man was tenacious, even in death.

James’s voice was steely with determination as he said, “I will not play his games. As far as I am concerned, the title is dead. Do you understand? I will never,
never
marry.”

James heard a gasp of dismay from Isabella, but he forced himself to ignore it.

The solicitor was not so inclined. “Please, Miss Weston, do not distress yourself. His lordship is overwrought. He doesn’t know what he is saying.”

“You presume too much, Mr. Palmer. I know
exactly
what I am saying. Upon my death, the Sheffield line will end and the earldom will become extinct.”

“What will you live on in the meantime?” the solicitor countered. “I must tell you that your quarterly allowance will not prove adequate, and you seem ill disposed to ask Lord Weston or me for funds.”

“There are men born into the world without rank and privilege, Mr. Palmer. Those men work, receive an honest wage, and rise or fall on their own merits. I have always thought a career in the army would suit me admirably.”

“The Earl of Dunston in the army?” the solicitor exclaimed in shock. “Why, that’s preposterous.”

“I have made my decision,” James stated firmly.

“Come, you can’t mean to tell me you would prefer to risk death over assuming your rightful position and marrying this delightful young—”

“However cruelly you choose to phrase it, Mr. Palmer, my answer is still the same.”

With a piteous sound like a wounded animal, somewhere between a moan and a cry, Isabella bolted for the French windows that led out onto a stone terrace and down into the formal garden.

An uncomfortable silence gripped the three men. They stared, hypnotized by the sight of Isabella’s retreating figure, watching as she passed through the garden into the wooded acreage that lay beyond.

A loud crack of thunder jolted them back to the present. Lightning flashed and the heavens opened, loosening a torrent of rain. Once the rain started pouring down, James had fully expected Isabella to turn around and make for the house. As she kept moving deeper into the home woods, he swore.

“Damnation, what in bloody hell does she think she’s doing?” James muttered, and then turned to the other men. “Mr. Palmer, no doubt we shall be in touch sooner than either of us would like, but I believe you have said more than enough at present. If you will pack your bags, I will see to it that a carriage is made ready to take you back to London.”

James faced Lord Weston. “I am sorrier than I can tell you that this happened. I’ll go after her and try to . . . to explain,” he finished lamely.

“Do you know where she’s headed?”

“The folly, I think. I’ll bring her back to the manor as quickly as I can. You might ask Lady Weston to see that there’s a hot bath waiting.”

“Foolish girl.” Lord Weston shook his head. “Always so impulsive and headstrong. She may refuse to come back with you.”

“I know.” James sighed. “Right now I’m just hoping she hasn’t the presence of mind to lock the door.” And with that, he strode out the open doors into the freezing rain, calling himself ten kinds of fool.

Chapter 8

Why, why,
why
do I always blurt out the wrong thing at just the wrong time? I don’t think Mama minds that Mrs. Snopes will no longer be calling upon us, and her pet monkey truly did bear a remarkable resemblance to her late husband, and I did think having his likeness around would be a comfort. Papa says that someday this tendency to speak before I think is going to get me into real trouble!

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age thirteen

Letter to her aunt Katherine, Marchioness of Sheldon, on

the gross impropriety of telling a woman her deceased husband

bore a strong likeness to the family pet—June 1791

T
he folly, a small thatched cottage built by James’s great-grandfather when such structures were all the rage, was situated in a small, wooded copse behind the walled garden. When James, Henry, and Isabella were children, the small room had served them as medieval castle, pirate ship, and African jungle. It was the place where they stored all their treasures and a safe haven from cross governesses, angry parents, and irate tutors. Later, James recalled, he and Henry had used the place for trysting with the village girls.

James was so caught up in his thoughts, he paid no mind to his footing and slipped on a patch of wet grass, just barely managing to keep his balance. He was wet and cold and feeling terribly guilty and angry, and he was
not
looking forward to being alone in such a small space with Isabella, especially since she must be as soaked as he was, and her garments would be clinging to—

He slipped again, and this time he couldn’t catch himself. Bloody hell, he thought, wiping at the mud on his breeches. It was a reminder, and apparently a much- needed one, that lusting after Isabella Weston was dangerous—dangerous to his health, his heart, and his very soul. It was too bad, he reflected, as the folly came into view, that he seemed to have such a damned hard time remembering it.

Isabella was so wrapped up in her misery, she didn’t even hear when he opened the door, which luckily for him, she had not thought to latch. She was huddled up against the far wall, her head down on her knees.

“Izzie,” he trailed off, not really knowing what to say. She didn’t lift her head, but he could tell by the sudden tension in her shoulders that she had heard him. He took a step closer.

“Go away,” she said. “Just go away.” When he made no move to leave, she uttered the one word that destroyed him. “Please.”

He crossed the remaining distance between them and sank down beside her. He pulled her unwilling body into his arms, holding her on his lap as he had done so many times to comfort her when she was little.

Only she wasn’t little anymore, and his body instantly reacted to her nearness. He willed himself back into control, strangely grateful for his chilled garments. He tightened his arms around her, murmuring into her wet hair, “God, Izzie, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

He felt her shaking in his arms and lifted his hand to her cheek. Her skin was icy cold against his fingers, and her teeth had begun to chatter. James realized he had to get her back to the house before she became seriously ill. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said as he rose to his feet, Isabella still in his arms.

The endearment, so thoughtlessly uttered on his part, seemed to shake Isabella out of her private anguish. She twisted about in his arms until he set her on her feet. She backed away toward the wall, her gaze at once longing and accusatory. She stared at him until it seemed she could no longer bear it and, with a shuddering sigh, she turned and rested her head against the wall, clearly exhausted by the day’s trials.

James placed his hands on his hips and glared at Isabella’s back. Damn it all to hell, he was tired, too, and wet and cold. He was also feeling incredibly guilty and all sorts of other emotions he didn’t care to further investigate but knew he didn’t want to be feeling. He walked over to her and placed a hand on her sodden shoulder. He felt her flinch at his touch but steeled himself against the pain that knowledge brought.

“Izzie, you’re drenched. Look, I know you don’t like me much right now, but you must let me take you home.” She said nothing, and James’s jaw hardened. “Fine then, if that’s what it takes, I will carry you back to the bloody house.” He made to pick her up, but Isabella whirled away.

“No. No! I am not going anywhere with you.” Her voice was shrill, verging on hysterical.

“For God’s sake, Isabella, you are chilled to the bone, and your teeth are rattling like Spanish castanets. You are going to make yourself ill, and I refuse to have that on my conscience. Come now, let’s go back to the house where—”

“Your conscience?” Angry eyes the color of a stormy sea blazed up at him. “
Your conscience?
You don’t have a conscience. You don’t have a
heart
.” She spat at him.

“Enough,” he barked, but she was too far gone to listen.

“You don’t have a heart, because people with hearts want other people, need other people,
love
other people. But not
you
. Not James Sheffield.” He made a move toward her, but she backed away, swiping at the tears now coursing freely down her cheeks.

“No, you are independent. Self-sufficient. A
man
. I
need
you,” she choked out, “but you don’t need or want anything, do you? You just—”

“I said that’s enough, damn you!” He lunged for her and hauled her into his arms. His fingers clenched in her tangled, wet hair, holding her face immobile. He pressed his cheek against her temple, and he could feel her breath coming in warm, harsh spurts against his throat. “You think I don’t want you?” he asked incredulously. “You think I don’t
want
you!” His voice was a deep rumble in her ear.

“Then, why?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. She wanted to know why he wouldn’t marry her.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow, clearly less than impressed with his confession. He would have to tell her, then. He should have known. With her, it would always be all or nothing.

“Can we at least talk about this once we are warm and dry?” he asked.

There went the eyebrow again. He supposed that meant no. Damn. Luckily there was a fireplace in the folly, stocked with dry kindling, thank heavens, since he wouldn’t have been able to gather so much as a dry leaf in the current downpour. He sighed and began searching for a piece of flint and a tinderbox. A few minutes of silent searching yielded them, and he set about making a fire; a cheery blaze was soon going in the fireplace. James had shed his jacket and waistcoat while building the fire. Now he began unbuttoning his shirt.