Tempting the Marquess

“
Promise Me Tonight
by Sara Lindsey made me sigh with delight! This is one of the most charming debuts I’ve read in years. If you love Julia Quinn, you’ll love Sara Lindsey!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

“
Promise Me Tonight
is an exquisitely enchanting debut by a dynamic new author who will instantly secure a place in romance readers’ hearts. This novel is charming beyond belief, with vibrant characters, polished and fresh writing, and one of the most adorable heroines you’ll ever meet. Read
Promise Me Tonight
, and get ready to fall in love!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

Other Weston Novels
by Sara Lindsey
Promise Me Tonight

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First Printing, June 2010

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For my mother.
I love you even bigger than the sky.

Acknowledgments

Like the proverbial village needed to raise a child, there are a number of people who helped this book grow from a dream to reality. Thank you to: my editor, Kerry Donovan; my agent, Kimberly Witherspoon; Dana France and the NAL art department (for another beautiful cover); Kathryn Tumen (for her publicity savvy); the Vanettes (for being with me through all the ups and downs, responding day and night to my often frantic e-mails, and somehow knowing when I needed help staying grounded and when I needed the extra lift to fly); Lindsey Faber, Courtney Milan, and Janice Rholetter (for their thoughtful and detailed critiques); Jennifer Goodman and Elyssa Papa (for reading chapters at a moment’s notice and cheering me on to the finish line); Stacey Agdern (for discussing this book over and over and over, and then coming back to do it again the next week); Kristin (for being remarkably understanding of a deadline-crazed bridesmaid); Alexandra, Jenny, Kara, and Lindsay (for being my Scripps sisters); Lizy (for always bringing sunshine into my life); and the biggest thank-you of all has to go to my family (for your endless love, your constant support, and yes, even for your nagging).

The Weston Family Tree

Chapter 1

“If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.”

Twelfth Night
, Act III, Scene 4

O
livia stood before the castle’s thick wooden portal, inwardly bracing herself against what lay in wait on the other side. Freezing rain had plastered her shabby traveling gown to her body, and the biting wind whipped at her sodden locks. She thought wistfully of her blue velvet pelisse with the ermine trim, but she had left the garment—and the elegant, easy life it represented—behind when she had chosen to run away rather than marry the lecherous Duke of Devonbridge. And now she was a lowly governess, dependent on the kindness and goodwill of her employer . . . and her new master was purported to have little of either.

A lone wolf howled somewhere out on the misty, moonlit moors that stretched for miles around the isolated edifice. She shivered with cold and fright, wondering if she might not be safer with the wolves than inside the castle’s walls. A different sort of beast lay within that impenetrable stone fortress. A caged beast, confined not by chains but by his own despair.

The villagers called him the Mad Marquess, for he had been crazed with grief since the death of his wife some four years past. He eschewed all company . . . not that there were many eager to subject themselves to his foul humor. In the past year alone no fewer than eleven maids had resigned their posts at Castle Arlyss. She’d heard rumors, too, of a centuries-old curse. . . .

Olivia raised her face to the heavens, searching for a sign that this was indeed the path she was meant to travel—that she was meant to save this tormented soul and show his son a mother’s love. Lightning flashed and crackled through the night sky, setting her hair on end. The angry rumble of thunder followed close behind.

Stiffening her spine, Olivia raised her fist to knock. Then, all of a sudden, a strong gust of wind snatched at her sleeve, as if trying to stop her. The air swirled around her, rustling through the dead leaves underfoot.

It seemed to whisper a name.

Her name.

Livvy, it murmured. Livvy . . .

December 1798

A Carriage Bound for Castle Arlyss

Pembrokeshire, Wales

“Livvy!”

Olivia opened her eyes and stared unseeing out the coach window. She blinked at the few rays of sunlight that dared penetrate the winter gloom lingering over the southwest of England. She shook her head. The wild, stormy night had vanished, and she was back in her aunt’s well-sprung carriage.

A wistful sigh escaped her. The dream had been so real. . . . And now she was back to being ordinary Olivia Weston.

She turned her head to look at her young cousin, Charlotte, who was tugging rather insistently at her sleeve.

“Livvy!”

“What is it?” Livvy asked in as understanding a tone as she could muster. The journey from Scotland to Wales had already taken close to a fortnight, and though she loved Charlotte dearly, the boundless energy of a five-year-old was ill-suited to the close confines of a carriage. Not that Olivia was any stranger to small children. As the third of seven siblings, she knew all about them.

The little girl frowned, tugging at one of her glossy, dark ringlets, then shrugged. “I forget.”

Livvy bit back a groan and stifled the urge to tear at her hair, which, to her everlasting disappointment, was neither curly nor dark. Neither was it blond and straight. Olivia’s hair was a very ordinary, indeterminate shade of brown, and it had just enough of a wave to always escape its pins and make her look unkempt.

“Livvy?”

“What, Char?”

“I remembered. I had a secret to tell you.” Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest and flopped back against the plush squabs with a satisfied smile.

“And?” Olivia prompted. She waited for further elucidation, but none was forthcoming. “Did you wish to tell me this secret you remembered?”

Charlotte thought a moment before shaking her head. “I’ll tell Queenie instead.”

Queen Anne, a doll in lavish court dress, was Charlotte’s most prized possession, a distinction it had held since being unwrapped a few weeks past. Yes, Livvy thought, she had been replaced in her cousin’s affections by an inanimate object. How distressing! She consoled herself with the knowledge that her conversational skills far surpassed those of Queenie. Then again, so did a squirrel’s. As was her wont, she began composing a list in her head:

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