Free Promise Me Tonight by Sara Lindsey Page B

only polite to allow a man to declare himself, Izzie was forced to sit through every offer of marriage, and each one was more monotonous and tedious than the last. She was treated to recitations of estate holdings, down to the very last acre, sheep, and silver epergne. She stifled yawns through family histories tracing all the way back to the Conqueror. And then there were the men who took her acceptance for granted and lectured her on her future duties, which, Isabella thought, explained a great deal about why they were not yet wed.
    By the time the Season ended and the Westons returned to the country, Isabella had turned down a duke, the second son of a marquess, an earl, two barons, a Russian prince, three wealthy tradesmen, a preening poet, and a Scottish laird—eleven proposals and not one of them from James Sheffield.
    She hadn’t had so much as a letter from him.
    And that stung.
    She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself believe the attraction had all been one sided, but the fact remained that he had been able to walk away from whatever burned between them.
    He had been able to walk away from her, while she had been ruined for all other men.
    A bitter laugh escaped her.
    Not exactly the sort of progress she had hoped for.
    Not .
    At .
    All .

    Before Isabella knew it, December was upon them and with it the dreadfully tedious undertaking of helping her mother address invitations to their annual Twelfth Night ball. Her mother always liked to work in the library, which had never bothered Isabella before, but she now found it terribly distracting. Her cheeks were perpetually crimson, causing her mother to ask repeatedly whether she needed to sit farther away from the fire.
    And if she did manage to focus, it was only a matter of time before she caught a scent of the rosemary and bay leaves tied to the bunches of mistletoe hanging throughout the house. Thoughts of mistletoe naturally led to thoughts of kissing, and thoughts of kissing led, of course, to thoughts of James, and then Isabella got distracted all over again.
    “Izzie!” Olivia hissed, kicking her under the table.
    “Ow!” Isabella yelped, and jumped, nearly oversetting her inkwell. “What was that for?”
    “Girls?” Lady Weston looked up. “Is everything all right?”
    “Yes,” Olivia said. “I was just warning Izzie that her penmanship was getting a bit sloppy.”
    “You kicked me!” Izzie protested.
    “I was trying to be subtle,” Olivia ground out.
    “Oh dear,” Lady Weston said, and made a clucking noise. She had come over to inspect the damage and was leaning over Isabella’s shoulder. “Oh dear,” she repeated.
    Izzie frowned. True, her mind hadn’t been entirely focused on the invitations she’d been addressing, but it wasn’t exactly what one would call a stimulating activity. It was thoughts of stimulating activities that had distracted her in the first place. . . . With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Izzie glanced down at the paper before her.
    “Oh dear,” she blurted out, echoing her mother’s distress. After copying out Baron Bridgeman’s direction, Izzie had absentmindedly embellished the creamy paper with drawings of interlocking hearts and wreaths of flowers, all containing various permutations of her and James’s names. Another invitation sitting in the finished pile bore no address at all; Izzie had filled the space instead with marriage vows. On yet another she had sketched herself and James locked in a passionate embrace.
    Cheeks flaming, Isabella snatched up that particular envelope just as her mother was reaching for it to take a closer look. Izzie ripped the damning evidence in half and crumpled the pieces into a tight ball as she stood, walked over to the large fireplace, and threw them in.
    “Olivia,” her mother said, “I believe we’ve done enough invitations for today. Why don’t you go upstairs? I am certain Mrs. Daniels could use your help in the schoolroom.”
    “But—”
    “No.” Lady