Promise Me Tonight (4 page)

A rapping at the door startled her into the present.
Now
it was time. With one last loving glance, she folded up the miniatures, closed the clasp, and placed the necklace back into its velvet home. She set the box down on her dressing table since she was already wearing her pearls. They were more fitting. The pearls were a symbol of adulthood, and though her family would always be with her, would always be part of her, tonight was a step she had to take alone.

Izzie followed the footman to the gallery and stood just out of sight of the top of the stairs. The murmuring of the guests greeted her ears, a steady, low sound punctuated every so often by a lady’s high-pitched twitter or a gentleman’s gravelly laugh. She took a deep breath, and then nodded to their butler, Caldwell, who was serving as the majordomo. He rapped his staff against the oak banister until the crowd quieted.

“The Honorable Miss Isabella Anne Weston,” Caldwell proclaimed, his voice booming out.

Pirate queens never trip
, Isabella told herself as, smile in place, she moved into position at the top of the stairs and looked out over the guests. The sight that met her eyes was comfortingly familiar: a bright, colorful array of rich satins and silks set off against the darker, jewel tones of the men’s formal dress. This lush background was ornamented by the flutter of feathered headpieces and the flashing glitter of sparkling gems and shiny buttons, highlighted when the candlelight reflected off them. And somewhere down there was James.

Chapter 3

I am sorry I tried to get out of lessons by pretending to be sick. I know it was wrong, but doing sums is so very boring. I should not have lied, though, because now I am sick and I would rather be doing sums. Nurse says I have got my just deserts, but she is wrong. I have not had any cake or even a cup of chocolate; only willow bark, which is very bitter and not at all sweet.

From the correspondence of Miss Isabella Weston,

age eight

Letter to her governess, Mrs. Daniels, apologizing for a

feigned illness, which soon turned uncomfortably real—

April 1786

J
ames was standing with his back to the stairs, talking with some old friends, when Caldwell made the announcement. Thus he had a perfect view of several grown men’s jaws dropping in unison.
What on earth?
he thought, turning around, and then he felt his own jaw drop as the air whooshed out of him and he beheld a vision. The loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes on was floating down the stairs like an angel, but no angel had a mouth like that, and he was tempted to lay far more than eyes on her.

Dear God!
Was it possible
that
was actually
Isabella
? He shook his head, trying to reconcile his memories with the stunning woman before him. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He took an involuntary step forward, needing to see her more clearly. She was more than beautiful. She was bloody gorgeous, though not in the classical sense. Her long-lashed aquamarine eyes were almost too big for her face, giving her an air of wonder. Above them were highly arched brows, the same rich gold color as the curls piled atop her head. It wasn’t just her hair that shone, either; she was radiant, glowing with innocence and promise.

But there was nothing innocent about her mouth, a perfect peach rosebud. Her bottom lip was slightly fuller than the perfectly bowed top one, giving her a perpetual, irresistible pout. That pout was complemented by the slight point to her chin that hinted of stubbornness and mischief and gave a vaguely elfin cast to her countenance. She was, in a word, enchanting. She certainly had all the men in the ballroom under her spell.

When Isabella reached the bottom stair, her father took her hand and led her into the opening dance, drawing a collective sigh of admiration and envy from every male present. They leaned forward to watch her whenever the dance brought her close, drawn to her like moths to a flame.

Or dogs to a bone, he thought, looking at the faces of the men around him. Morgan resembled nothing so much as an enamored puppy dog. And Stimpson was practically slavering; James followed his line of vision to where Isabella’s breasts threatened to spill from her bodice.

Dear God, Isabella had breasts. She had changed, grown up.

She had
breasts
.

The realization jolted him, struck him, left him reeling. He felt rather as he did upon leaving Gentleman Jackson’s after a particularly grueling session in the ring—outsmarted, battered, and not quite steady on his feet.

He didn’t like it.

Not one whit.

“My God,” he overheard Stimpson say laughingly to the men around him. “Even without the dowry, it’d be worth getting leg-shackled to have
that
waiting in your bed.”

James saw red. He wanted nothing more than to smash that bastard’s face in and beat him to a bloody pulp. He didn’t even realize he had drawn back his clenched fist in preparation, when he felt a hand tugging insistently on his sleeve.

He whirled around, ready to vent his anger on whoever had dared to interfere, and was shocked to see it was Henry. He was so shocked, he let himself be dragged to the opposite end of the ballroom before he dug in his heels.

“Bloody hell, Hal, did you hear what he—”

“I heard.” Henry nodded grimly. “I heard and, like you, I would like nothing better than to rearrange his face, but you can’t start a fight. My mother would kill us.”

James felt some of the tension seep out of his shoulders. “You are right, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You weren’t,” Henry stated bluntly, winning a smile from James. “And neither was Stimpson.” James’s smile faded. “But then again, to give her credit, Izzie
does
seem to have that effect on men.”

James looked over at Isabella, who had just finished the opening minuet and was now surrounded by a crowd of gentlemen jostling to get to her dance card before it filled up.

Henry rolled his eyes. “Thank God as her brother,
I
, at least, am immune to it.”

James’s face grew positively grim. “What the devil are you about? Surely you are not suggesting
my
reaction is anything other than brotherly?”

“Oh no. Of course not,” Henry said quickly.

Too quickly
.

“Look, Hal, I have known Izzie since she was in pinafores, and—”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Henry interjected.

“What does?”

“Supper.”

James didn’t bother wondering how Henry had made the mental leap from pinafores and James’s brotherly feelings, or lack thereof, to the upcoming meal. With Henry, any and all thoughts eventually led to food, one way or another.

Henry went on. “I remembered that Izzie asked me to pass along a message. She’s saving the dance just before supper for you. And now I am going to see if Miss Merriwether has saved a dance for me.”

“Why would you dance with Miss Merriwether?”

Henry shot him a look of pure exasperation. “Didn’t you know? I’ve fallen madly and passionately in love with her. We’re planning on eloping to Gretna Green tonight.” He threw his hands in the air. “My mother put me up to it! She likes the chit for some reason and, as always, made
me
promise to dance with her.”

He sounded so put-upon, so abused, that James had to laugh. “Better a mousy old maid than a wanton widow,” he contended. “During our dance, Lady Ellwood slipped me a note proposing an assignation during the ball.”

“Lucky bastard. Why don’t
you
go make nice with Miss Merriwether while
I
see to the other lady’s needs?”

“Rumor has it she’s on the hunt for a husband,” James cautioned.

“She’s all yours,” Henry said quickly.

“That’s what I thought.” James smirked. “But should you change your mind, the lady will be waiting in the conservatory at midnight.”

Henry blinked owlishly. “But the town house doesn’t
have
a conservatory.”

“Precisely,” James said. “Enough of that, though. We mustn’t keep Miss Merriwether waiting.”

Henry glared at him and then stalked off toward the wall where the chaperones and spinsters were holding court.

As his dearest friend departed in search of his wallflower, James’s eyes involuntarily sought out Isabella on the ballroom floor. His countenance darkened when he found her gaily dancing a cotillion with Marcus Debenton, Earl of Brantley, heir to the Marquess of Ardsmore . . . and one of the most determined rakehells in England. Damnation, hadn’t Henry warned her away from such men?

James looked around for Isabella’s father. Surely he would put an end to such an improper acquaintance. He found Lady Weston first, or rather, she found him.

“James!” She hugged him tightly. “Oh, it’s so good to finally have you home!”

He nodded distractedly, still focused on the dance floor. Brantley held Isabella’s hands a touch too long, he noted with a grimace. And his gaze was straying from her face down to—

That was it. He was going to pound the blighter into the ground.

“Ah, don’t they make a striking pair?” Lady Weston sighed.

“He is not a fitting person for her to know,” James ground out.

“Do you mean Brantley?” She laughed. “I have known him since he was in short coats; his mother and I have been friends since we were girls. We always wondered if they might suit . . .”

“Trust me,” he said through clenched teeth, “they won’t.”

“Of course not.” She grinned knowingly and patted his arm.

Bloody hell, she couldn’t think
he
was jealous. First Henry, now Lady Weston? Had everyone in the family gone mad?

“Don’t you mind about Brantley. I assure you, he is as harmless as a kitten.”

James gave an incredulous snort.

She ignored him. “In any case,
he
is not the reason I sought you out.”

“Let me guess. You were going to remind me that, as a gentleman, I have a duty to make sure that even the plainest wallflower gets to dance.”

“Exactly.” She beamed at him, looking for a moment more like Isabella’s older sister than her mother. “Don’t fret. You will get to dance with Izzie later.”

James scowled, but when the time came to claim his dance with Isabella, he found himself unexpectedly eager. She was surrounded by a horde of fawning fops, one of whom was improvising an ode to her “bright orbs hued like placid seas, and lips as red as ripe cherries.”

James didn’t know what the poor fool was about, spouting such trite drivel. And it was inaccurate to boot, since there was nothing the least bit placid about Isabella, and her lips weren’t really red at all, but more of a soft coral.

James shouldered his way through the crowd of men, making sure his elbow “accidentally” connected with the ribs of the amateur poet, until he reached Isabella. He half expected her to throw her arms around him in a crushing hug, the way she had always greeted him as a girl, but she simply said his name and held out her hands to him. The smile lighting her face was all the invitation he needed; his name on her lips was a homecoming.

All the other occupants of the room disappeared as he grasped her dainty hands in his much larger ones. The action sent a jolt of intense awareness rippling through him; it snatched at his breath and raced along his body, leaving him light-headed. He felt as if there were millions of tiny champagne bubbles shimmering and dancing in his blood, and he had to call upon every last ounce of self-control to keep his face neutral and repress the outward signs of his overwhelmed senses.

And then he felt her tremble and knew she felt the connection, too. That knowledge nearly sent him over the edge. Triumph swept through him, along with a powerful surge of possessiveness, surely the vestige of some primitive, masculine instinct. Her hands shook slightly, as if in unconscious question; he tightened his grip, his body answering what his mind had yet to accept.

He bent his head and gazed down at her upturned face.

Time suspended as their eyes met and held.

His eyes roamed over her face, searching each feature, learning her all over again.

He looked away first, frightened by the nameless feelings coursing through him.

“I believe this is my dance,” he finally said, his voice oddly rusty to his own ears. Her hands still rested in his, and he could feel the pulse at her wrist hammering away.

His body responded, his blood pounding in long, slow thuds. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, causing parts of her anatomy to bounce around, and the sight was wreaking havoc on parts of
his
anatomy that had no business responding at this particular time and place, especially to this particular female.

He had definitely been too long without a woman. That was the only explanation for such behavior, although, when he thought back, it hadn’t really been all that long. But why else would he suddenly believe that Isabella, who was like a sister to him, had the most perfect bosom in the world?

In the time he’d been away, Isabella had managed to grow glorious breasts that were very notable, especially on her slender frame. He almost wished they weren’t quite so noteworthy—
almost
, mind you—since he hadn’t liked the leering glances some of the men had given her. Not, he was sure, that their leering glances looked much different from the one he himself was currently directing at her chest.