by Sara Lindsey
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Praise for Promise Me Tonight
“A sensual yet endearingly tender love story—every romance lover owes herself this book!”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“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
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, June 2010
Copyright © Sara Lindsey, 2010
eISBN : 978-1-101-18782-1
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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
Olivia 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:
Ways in Which I Am Superior to Queenie
1. I can read.
2. I can write.
3. My head is not made of wood.
4. I can breathe.
Hmm, perhaps that last should have been first on her list; it seemed a fairly important distinction. Of course, squirrels also breathed. Maybe she ought to list the ways she was superior to squirrels instead. . . . She stopped herself, wondering if it was possible to go mad from boredom.
Aunt Kate looked up from her book to address her daughter. “Charlotte, I do believe Queenie looks a bit peaked. Perhaps you should both try to rest for a time and let your poor cousin alone.”
Charlotte was disgusted by this suggestion. “Mama, Queenie is a doll. How can she rest when her eyes don’t close?”
Aunt Kate sighed and peered out the window at the passing scenery. “At least we are getting close to the end. We should arrive tomorrow provided the weather doesn’t change—” A choked laugh escaped her. “Dear heavens, that child will be the death of me!”
Livvy glanced at Charlotte, who had apparently decided to take her mother’s advice. She was curled into the corner of the carriage, with her feet drawn up under her and her head pillowed against one hand. Her eyes were closed, a beatific smile on her face. Queenie lay in the crook of her free arm—Olivia smothered a laugh as she realized the reason for her aunt’s proclamation.
As the doll’s eyes did not, as Charlotte had pointed out, close, her enterprising mistress had contrived other means by which Queenie might rest. Raising Queenie’s gown up over her head did shield her face from light, but this also exposed the doll’s lower half. And while Queenie’s ensemble boasted exquisitely detailed garters, stockings, and shoes, it did not apparently run to petticoats.
Ha! Petticoats! There was another way in which she was superior to Queenie and squirrels, too, for Livvy had never encountered a petticoat-wearing squirrel and very much doubted she ever would. The closest she was ever like to come was the stable cat her younger sisters had caught long enough to dress it in a bonnet and christening gown.
Aunt Kate leaned forward and spoke quietly so as not to disturb Charlotte. “I feel I ought to warn you about my stepson.”
“Warn me?” Olivia’s cheeks grew warm. “I hardly think—”
Her aunt waved a hand dismissively. “Heavens, child, I’m not suggesting anything of that nature. No, I only meant to caution you about the welcome we are like to receive.”
“You mentioned Lord Sheldon keeps to himself a great deal of the time. I am not expecting to be met with a grand parade. I wish to inconvenience the marquess as little as possible.”
That wasn’t precisely true.
If all went to plan, she would put the man to a great deal of trouble. . . .
But that was her secret, one she didn’t dare share with present company. Not with Aunt Kate, certainly not with Charlotte, and not even with Queenie, who was by nature most admirably closemouthed.
“Jason,” Aunt Kate began, then sighed. “I know I should call him Sheldon, but I can’t seem to get my mind round it, no matter that he’s held the title for five years now. I suppose his Christian name is rather too familiar for polite conversation, but he has always been Jason to me.”
“Did he not have use of a courtesy title?”
“There is one,” her aunt admitted, “but most of the heirs would rather do without it.” Her eyes sparkled with laughter. “Most understandable, really. Would you like to go through life being addressed as Bramblybum?”
“B-Bramblybum?” Olivia burst out laughing. She caught her aunt’s sharp glance at Charlotte and lowered her voice. “Surely you are joking.”
Aunt Kate shook her head. “The marquisate was created for the ninth Viscount Traherne, who was, I gather, a great personal favorite with James I. The viscount’s son, who went on to become the second Marquess of Sheldon, openly disapproved of his sire’s, ah, special relationship with the king. The Traherne men have never been ones to keep their opinions to themselves, which perhaps accounts for the dearth of ambassadors and politicians in the family. In any case, the young man’s outbursts angered the king, and he might have met a very sorry end had not his father intervened. The viscount begged the king to disregard his son and joked how the boy had been born with nettles stinging his backside. The king’s revenge was to bestow a marquisate and an earldom upon the viscount. While his father was alive, the second marquess was known by his courtesy title.”
“The Earl of Bramblybum,” Livvy whispered, torn between horror and hilarity.
“Earl Bramblybum, actually, but I wouldn’t suggest you let that pass your lips once we reach Castle Arlyss. Jason always gets fussed on hearing it. He certainly doesn’t use the title for Edward. I have told you about Jason’s son, Edward, haven’t I? He’s nearly seven now and such a dear, sweet boy.”
Olivia nodded. She wasn’t sure if Aunt Kate had told her about Edward, but she knew about him all the same. But that was part of her secret.
Unconsciously, she bent forward and smoothed her hands over her skirts, her fingers searching out the almost imperceptible bump of the little fichu pin she wore affixed to her garter. The dainty brooch featured a tiny silhouette set in a gold frame surrounded by garnets. The portrait was no bigger than her thumbnail, but the artist had rendered the gentleman’s profile in great detail, from the slight curl in the hair at his nape to the soft ruffles of his shirt frills. An elegant man, but Livvy reserved final judgment until she met him in the flesh, which, with any luck, would be on the morrow. Finally, she thought, a little sigh escaping her.
“I’ll stop nattering on and let you rest.” Aunt Kate’s eyes twinkled. “You needn’t go take the same drastic measures as poor Queenie and cast your skirts over your face.”
“I wasn’t—I mean, you weren’t—” Livvy stammered out a protest.
A rush of pride swept over Olivia at her aunt’s words. In the eyes of Society she was an adult and had been since her eighteenth birthday close to a year earlier. Girls her age, and even some younger, had already had their come-outs this past Season. She should have come out then as well, but her sojourn in Scotland with Aunt Kate, Charlotte, and Livvy’s newly married (and freshly abandoned) older sister, Isabella, had lasted longer than expected.
Nine months longer, give or take a little.
Olivia hadn’t minded putting off her come-out. She wasn’t overly anxious to put herself on the Marriage Mart, and besides, her sister had needed her. That last trumped everything else as far as Livvy was concerned.
Aunt Kate reached forward and patted Olivia’s knee. “I’ve grown accustomed to having you and Izzie around. I was so pleased when you asked to come along with us to Wales. I would have invited you had I known you were so interested in this part of the country.”
“I must confess, some of my interest stemmed from wanting to avoid traveling home with Mama, spending countless hours trapped in a carriage listening to her expound on some Shakespearean heroine or other.”
For as long as Olivia could remember, her mother had been writing a critical work about Shakespeare’s heroines. Life in the Weston household was all Shakespeare, all the time, at least when her mother was present. The rest of the family bore it with equanimity—mostly because they tended to ignore her—but over the years her mother’s obsession increasingly grated on Livvy’s nerves. She adored her mother, really she did, but she could easily do without hearing, at least once a week, as she had for her entire life: “Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”