Promise Me Tonight (20 page)

This time, James was alone, and he was a grown man. Confused, he went through the motions he had always gone through in past dreams, reaching down and gathering a handful of muddy dirt in his fist, then stepping forward to the edge of the grave. As he readied himself to toss the fistful of dirt into the grave, he glanced down. There was no lid upon the coffin, which wasn’t right at all, so he got down on his knees and peered closer. It wasn’t his mother and sister who were being buried, he realized. It was Isabella, pale and cold in death, and a tiny form swathed in white—their babe—was nestled by her side.

In that heart-stopping moment, everything became clear. He didn’t know how he knew or where, precisely, the knowledge had come from, but he knew with absolute certainty that if he were to get Isabella with child, it would kill her. And that would kill him. The panic he had held at bay since first discovering her in his bed returned in full force. His heart skipped a beat, two beats, and then began to race. Oh God, no. No, no, no.

Isabella looked up at him, still holding the gentle curve of her stomach, her face filled at once with hope and guilt. Although he had never been particularly devout, James sent up a fervent prayer that no child would result from their lovemaking. He wouldn’t ever touch her again, he promised. He would give her the protection of his name, and then he would leave.

James struggled to breathe against the vise squeezing his lungs. He
had
to leave. He had to
leave
. He could still enlist, he reminded himself. He didn’t have to anymore, but he could. He
would
. His own death, he could handle. Hers would destroy him. He quit the room without a backward glance. It was much too late for looking back.

Aside from the small number of guests, no one would be able to tell that it was a hastily contrived affair, Isabella thought two days hence, as her father escorted her down the aisle of the Weston Manor chapel. Not that she had ever really questioned her mother’s close relationship with the Almighty, but the miracles that had been worked confirmed it beyond all doubt.

The chapel was filled with so many roses, there probably wasn’t a single bloom left in the hothouse at either Weston Manor
or
Sheffield Park, for once Mrs. Benton, the housekeeper at the neighboring estate, heard that there was to be a wedding, messages began flying between the two houses as fast as the poor stable lads could carry them.

The soft late-morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful shadows that shimmered and shifted with the changing light. Surreal, Isabella thought. That was the word for it. Everything felt like a dream.

Last night . . .

This morning . . .

The wedding.

Oh dear God in heaven, she was getting married. To James Sheffield. In the Weston Manor chapel.

It was everything she had ever hoped for, and yet it resembled nothing she had planned. Not that she’d had it planned, per se, but she had expected that people would be smiling. Instead, her mother and Olivia were sniffling into their handkerchiefs, her father was glowering at the groom, who had the definite air of a man facing the gallows, and the vicar’s lips were fixed in their usual sanctimonious frown.

She had also expected that her brother would be present, that Henry would stand up with James, but he was off in Scotland. After promising to be on their best behavior, Lia and Genni had been allowed to attend the ceremony but, perhaps taking their cue from the adults, they were most unnaturally subdued.

If she had known her wedding was going to be so gloomy, she would have worn black, Isabella thought peevishly, fighting a desire to stamp her way up the aisle. The sunny yellow gown she had chosen seemed distinctly out of place. She defiantly pasted a bright smile upon her face, but it faltered when the vicar asked James, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

She turned toward James. In his navy superfine, snowy white shirt and fawn-colored breeches, he was looking far more handsome than any man had a right to. The thought that he would soon be hers left her breathless. Oh, she knew that the laws of church and state dictated that it was the woman who became her husband’s property. By that reasoning, she would belong to her lord and master just the same as his horses and hounds belonged to him.

She had never cared much for rules, though, especially ones she couldn’t use to her benefit, and when James Sheffield said his vows, he would be hers. Whatever he was in the eyes of God and of man, in her heart she would know he belonged to her just as surely as she had always belonged to him. After an interminable moment of silence, when the awful thought crossed her mind that he might shake his head and walk away, his voice was strong and deep as he finally said, “I will.”

Although she cringed when the vicar read the “obey him and serve him” bit, Isabella said, “I will,” without hesitation. She tried to convince herself the vows were meaningless, especially as her groom had no intention of adhering to his, but Izzie realized she meant every word. She would be his always and in all ways, forever and ever, until death did them part, amen.

Or, she would be if her father would see fit to release her. The vicar had asked, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” at least twice, and though her father had supplied the proper response, his grip on her arm hadn’t loosened. She was beginning to wonder if she was going to have to pry her father’s fingers off, when James turned and gently, but firmly took her hand. Her father reluctantly relaxed his hold, but before he took his place next to her mother, he whispered into her ear, “No matter what, your mother and I will always love you, and this will always be your home.”

That was when she began to bawl. No delicate sniffles or teary eyes—she was fine one moment, then hysterically weeping the next. And she wasn’t even sad, not really. It must be the stress, she thought, weeping all the while. Her father’s words had broken some sort of dam, releasing this flood of tears. She had to stop. This was
her wedding
. She shouldn’t be wailing like this at
her wedding
. Nonsensically, the thought only made her cry harder.

“Izzie?” Her father’s voice was worried and also faintly . . . bemused?

“I”—hiccup—“am”—hiccup—“fine!” she sobbed, the last word emerging as something between a moan and a shriek.

Apparently the ridiculousness of the situation struck the groom as well as the bride, because James began to laugh—huge, bellowing guffaws that had Izzie, the vicar, and all of the guests questioning his sanity. He laughed until he was bent over, with tears running down his cheeks.

“Now we—now—now we’re both crying,” he wheezed.

The vicar was not amused. “Marriage is a sacrament,” he intoned, “a holy estate. It is not to be entered into lightly or wantonly to satisfy carnal lusts and appetites, but soberly and in the fear of God.”

“Mama, what is carnal lust?” Genni whispered loudly.

“It’s why Mama and Papa started locking their door at night so that you couldn’t go in and sleep with them,” Lia responded in an equally carrying tone.

“But Mrs. Daniels said they were playing an important game of backgammon,” Genni insisted.

“B-backgammon?” James howled.

A strangled groan sounded from the front pew. Isabella couldn’t tell if it came from her mother or her father. And just like that, Isabella began to laugh. It started as a tentative smile, and then grew to a giggle before blossoming into a lovely, freeing, joyous chuckle that warmed her soul and soothed the ragged, bruised areas of her heart. As long as there was laughter, there was hope.

Eventually they quieted down—except for Genni, that was. She kept demanding to know why everyone was laughing until Lia, with a weary sigh that made her seem far older than her twin, took her hand and led her out of the chapel. The vicar cleared his throat and began to read loudly from his prayer book.

They each solemnly repeated their vows, but when James twisted to remove the ring from the pocket of his coat, Isabella saw the telltale wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that meant he was fighting laughter. Mirth bubbled up in her own chest in response, but it died when James slipped the ring on her finger. Neither of them was wearing gloves, and the sensation of his bare flesh on hers sent waves of heat rocketing through her body. From the hitch in James’s breathing, Isabella was certain he had felt something similar.

James snatched back his hand as though he had been burned, and Isabella paused to admire her ring, a deep blue sapphire surrounded by a circle of sparkling diamonds. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

He muttered something incomprehensible and male, which she interpreted as “You’re welcome,” and then they were kneeling to receive the vicar’s blessing. Before she knew it, she was married and the vicar was giving James permission to kiss her. Isabella thought she heard her father growl, but then James’s lips descended on hers, a brief, firm pressure that had her leaning in for more, but he pulled away.

Very proper, she told her disappointed self. It wouldn’t do to give in to temptation in a house of God with her parents and siblings looking on. Dredging up a smile, she took James’s arm and walked down the aisle and out of the chapel, where Genni was still badgering Lia, to the Blue Parlor, where her mother had arranged a light, celebratory repast. Once they were out of sight of the chapel, James’s pace increased so that she nearly had to trot to keep up with him.

“When the vicar spoke of appetites, I don’t believe he meant food,” Isabella panted.

Her new husband said nothing.

She tried again. “I am excessively hungry as well,” she remarked. “I was far too nervous to eat this morning.”

James remained silent, but by that point they had reached the Blue Parlor, and he ushered her inside. As he shut the door, he said, “I wanted to speak with you before the others arrived.”

“Oh?” she asked, fanning her hot cheeks.

“I’m leaving,” he said, offering no explanations, proffering no apologies.

“Oh.” She hadn’t known how much misery and dejection a person could pack into a single syllable.

“My man of business will know how to contact me should the need arise.” His gaze dropped meaningfully to her stomach.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, startled once again by the thought that she might, even now, be carrying his child.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he teased gently. “I hope marriage has not robbed you of your powers of speech.”

“Oh no,” she protested, then blushed.

He gave her a sad smile. “Good-bye, Izzie,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

It was so similar to their previous parting—had it really been only days before?—but there was nothing she could do this time. She had done all the saving she could. Or had she?

“James, you aren’t still planning on joining the army, are you?”

His silence was her answer.

She threw her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest where she could hear the strong beat of his heart. Tears seeped from her eyes as she asked him for one last thing. She was nearly frantic as she pleaded. “Promise me you won’t enlist in the army. Promise me. I won’t let you go unless you promise me.”

“Damnation, what
is
that?” he asked, setting her away from him and lifting up the heavy gold ball that hung from the chain around her neck.

“It was Henry’s birthday present to me.” She took the locket from him and flipped the catch, revealing the row of tiny portraits. She watched as his gaze roamed over the smiling faces of her parents and her siblings, observed the flash of grief and longing that crossed his features, felt his loneliness.

“You have me,” she whispered. “We could make a family. We—”

“I can’t. I—I have to go.” He sounded panicked.

She grabbed his coat. “Not until you promise me.”

“
Izzie
,” he growled, his tone brooking no argument.

That was too bad. “Promise me,” she demanded with a choked sob.

“Fine. I promise,” he said gruffly, then pulled out of her grasp and left the room.

Isabella left also, first walking, and then running to her room where she could lock herself away and lick her wounds and cry herself dry. James might have missed it, but Izzie had seen the two cakes set out in the room, each bearing an iced message. One had read “Congratulations.” The other, the one that gave her pause, read “Happy Birthday.”

It was her twentieth birthday, Izzie realized, as well as her wedding day. And she had nothing to celebrate. It was enough to make the strongest heart weep, and Isabella was discovering the hard way that hers was very fragile, indeed.

Chapter 13

I must confess, I do not understand the appeal of taking the waters in Bath. The city itself is quite pretty, the people quite lovely, and the amusements quite satisfactory . . . but the water is beyond foul. It must truly have miraculous restorative properties for people to stomach drinking it in such quantities. Of course, the most common complaint of those journeying here—the elderly, the infirm, even the young, marriage-minded miss—is one of the heart: loneliness. And the only cure I can think of for that affliction is cheery company, and perhaps a cozy shoulder to cry upon. Fortunately, with our ever-growing family, I don’t suppose I or any of my siblings shall suffer from it.