Free Promise Me Tonight by Sara Lindsey

progress when Henry returned from Ireland one month later without James in tow. It was the orphanage, she assured herself, and she would be lower than dirt if she were jealous of the poor little souls James was helping.
    After two months, Isabella realized she might just be lower than dirt. She missed James like mad, so much she started speculating whether it would be possible to adopt every last orphan in Ireland. How could she make progress when they were in two different kingdoms? The situation was beyond vexing, and although the Season offered plenty in the way of amusements, it was not proving an adequate distraction.
    It was nearly enough to make a person hate London, but it simply wasn’t possible to hate the city where one could go to Gunter’s for a white coffee cream ice every day of the week. White coffee cream ices, she had found, were good consolation for a lonely heart.
    Oh, she had more than her fair share of suitors, but the mere thought of James made her heart race faster than it did in their presence. She had even let Lord Stimpson draw her into an alcove to steal a kiss to test whether her reaction to James would have been the same with any man.
    That experiment had proven disastrous, and by disastrous she meant a kiss so wet and nauseating that when he called the next morning to propose, Izzie had to run from the room to avoid being physically ill. Since the incident with Stimpson could not in all fairness be compared with her interlude with James, Izzie realized she needed a reputable rake, someone she was certain had comparable skill in the amatory arts. Fortunately, she knew just the man for the job; if Marcus Debenton couldn’t make her see stars, no one save James ever would.
    She couldn’t ask him straight out, though, since she was sure he would refuse. For all his misdeeds, Marcus was an honorable rogue, which meant he wouldn’t kiss his mother’s friend’s daughter if his life depended on it. Actually, his life probably did depend on it. If Lady Ardsmore ever learned that her son had kissed Izzie, she would march him down the aisle of St. Paul’s with a pistol at his back. In the end he would be either married or dead, which amounted to the same thing for a rake.
    So subterfuge it would have to be, and Lady Galloway’s annual masquerade ball presented the perfect opportunity. She knew Marcus would attend if only because hidden identities offered such potential in the way of seduction. She also knew she would be able to locate him as he reputedly dressed as a satyr every year; Izzie had heard more than one lady remark that it wasn’t much in the way of a disguise.
    Isabella chose her costume accordingly. A Grecian-style gown of white silk hugged the curves of her breasts and hips, then flowed sinuously down to the gold slippers on her feet. A matching gold domino covered the top half of her face, and a sparkling diamond brooch secured the gown over one shoulder, leaving the other daringly bare. She wore her hair loose, a riot of honey blond curls, topped by a coronet of wildflowers that transformed her into the perfect woodland nymph. As a satyr, Marcus should be unable to resist pursuing her. And he was. She hadn’t been in the ballroom for a half hour when she felt a large, warm hand descend on her bare shoulder.
    “My lady nymph,” said the deep voice at her back.
    Isabella turned to face him. “My lord satyr,” she replied in a husky murmur, sinking into a curtsy.
    He raised her up and peered more closely at her face. “Do I know you?”
    “Not tonight,” she purred, hoping the answer would satisfy him.
    Apparently it did, for he whisked her into a boisterous country dance without another word. She was breathless and laughing by the time it was over and, she noted, Marcus had maneuvered them so that they were right by the balcony doors when the music ended.
    He gently tugged on her arm, urging her to give up the safe confines of the well-lit ballroom for the danger and