Authors: Judith McNaught
Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #England, #Historical Fiction, #Americans - England, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Americans, #Amnesia, #Historical, #English Fiction, #General, #Love Stories
Until You (10 page)
That long, flowery speech won a hesitant, confused smile from Sherry, who had crouched down to adjust the bulky bandage on the little boy's arm. "What Mr. Damson means," Colfax, the butler, translated with a disgusted look at the valet, "is that we all enjoyed this evening very much, miss, and that we would be deeply appreciative if you might extend it just a little."
The little boy rolled his eyes at the butler and the valet, then beamed at Sherry, who was at his eye level, frowning at whatever she saw beneath the bandage. "They mean, may we sing another song, please, miss?"
"Oh." Sheridan laughed, and Stephen saw her wink conspiratorially at the butler and valet as she straightened and said, "Is
that
what you meant?"
"Indeed," said the valet, glowering huffily at the butler.
"I know it is what
I
meant," the butler retorted.
"Well, can we?" the little boy said.
"Yes," she said, sitting down at the kitchen table and drawing him onto her lap, "but I'll listen to you this time, so that I can learn another of your songs." She looked at Hodgkin, who was beaming at her and waiting for further suggestion. "I think that first song, Mr. Hodgkin—the one you all sang for me about 'a snowy Christmas night with a Yule log burning bright.' "
Hodgkin nodded, held up his thin hands for silence, waved his arms dramatically, and the servants instantly burst into exuberant song. Stephen scarcely noticed. He was watching Sherry smile at the little boy in her lap and whisper something to him, then she lifted her hand to his cheek, gently cradling his smudged face to the bodice of her gown. The picture they made together was one of such eloquent maternal tenderness that it snapped Stephen out of his distraction, and he stepped forward, inexplicably anxious to banish the image from his mind. "Is it Christmas already?" he said, strolling into the midst of the cozy scenario.
If he'd been holding loaded guns in both hands, his presence couldn't have had a more dampening, galvanizing effect on the merry occupants of the room. Fifty servants stopped singing and began backing out of the room, bumping into each other in their haste to scatter. Even the child in Sherry's lap wriggled away before she could catch him. Only Colfax, Damson, and Hodgkin made a more dignified—but very cautious—retreat and bowed their way out of the room.
"They are quite terrified of you, aren't they?" Sherry asked, so happy that he'd returned early that she was beaming at him.
"Not enough to stay at their posts, evidently," Stephen retorted, then he smiled in spite of himself because she looked so guilty.
"That was my doing."
"I assumed it was."
"How did you know?"
"My magnificent powers of deduction," he said with an exaggerated bow. "I have never heard them sing, or ever come home to an empty house until tonight."
"I felt at loose ends and decided to explore a little. When I wandered in here, Ernest—the little boy—had just put his arm against one of those kettles and burned it."
"And so you decided to cheer him by organizing all the servants into a choir?"
"No, I did that because everyone seemed to be as much in need of a little cheering as I was."
"Were you feeling ill?" Stephen asked worriedly, scanning her face. She looked fine. Very fine. Lovely and vibrant—and embarrassed.
"No. I was…"
"Yes?" he prompted when she hesitated.
"I was sorry you were gone."
Her candid answer made his heart lurch in surprise… and something else, some other feeling he couldn't identify. And didn't want to try. On the other hand, for the moment she was his fiancée, and so it seemed both appropriate, and pleasurable, to lean down and press a kiss to her flushed cheek, despite the fact that he had vowed in that same hour to maintain a completely platonic relationship from that moment on. And if the kiss drifted to her lips, and his hands caught her shoulders, drawing her closer for a moment, then that, too, seemed harmless enough. What was not appropriate or harmless was the instantaneous response of his sated body when she pressed lightly against him and put her hand against his chest or the tender thought that suddenly sprang to his mind…
I missed you tonight
.
Stephen released her as if his hands were burned and stepped back, but he kept his expression bland so that his confused annoyance wouldn't show. He was so preoccupied that he automatically complied when she suggested he wait while she fixed them something to drink.
When she had the cups and pot arranged on a tray, Sheridan returned to the table and sat down across from him.
She propped her chin in her hands and studied him with a slight smile while Stephen watched the way the firelight glinted on her hair and made her cheeks glow. "It must be exhausting work being an earl," she remarked. "How did you become one?"
"An earl?"
She nodded, glanced at the pot and got up quickly. "The other night, after supper, you mentioned that you have an older brother who is a duke, and then you said you inherited your titles by default."
"I was being glib," Stephen answered idly, his attention pulled inevitably to her quick, graceful movements as she readied whatever she was preparing. "My brother inherited the ducal title and several others through our father. Mine came to me from an uncle. Under the terms of a Letters Patent and a special remainder granted to one of my ancestors generations ago, the earls of Langford were allowed to designate the heir to their titles if they were childless."
She gave him a distracted smile and nodded, and Stephen realized with a jolt that she wasn't particularly interested in a topic that was normally a matter of avid fascination to every unwed female of his acquaintance.
"The chocolate is ready," she said, picking up a heavy tray laden with a pot, cups, spoons, and several delicate pastries she'd evidently discovered in a cupboard.
"I hope you like it. I seem to know exactly how to make it," she said, putting the tray into his hands as if it were perfectly natural for him to march about bearing it. "Only I don't know whether I make it well or not." She looked thoroughly pleased that she remembered how to make the drink, but it struck Stephen as a little odd that she would know how to perform a task that was always relegated to the servants. On the other hand, she was American, and perhaps American women were more familiar with kitchens than their English counterparts.
"I hope you like it," she repeated dubiously as they headed toward the front of the house.
"I'm sure I will," Stephen replied dishonestly. The last time he'd drunk hot chocolate, he'd been in leading strings. These days, his preferences ran toward a glass of aged brandy at this hour. Afraid she'd somehow read his thoughts, he added for emphasis, "It smells delicious. All that singing about snow and Yule logs must have whetted my appetite for it."
S
tephen carried the ornate silver tray down the hall, past three gaping footmen, to the drawing room. Colfax was at his regular station near the front door, and he rushed forward with the obvious intent of prying the tray loose from him, but Stephen stopped him with a mocking remark to the effect that they had already fended for themselves without any help and he saw no reason to change that, now that most of the work was already done.
They were halfway into the drawing room when the door knocker was raised and lowered with emphatic regularity. Stephen had given instructions that all callers were to be informed he was not in, and he paid the sound no heed, but an instant later, he heard a chorus of cheerful voices that made him groan inwardly.
"He most certainly
is
at home, Colfax," Stephen's mother was telling the butler. "When we arrived in London two hours ago, there was a note from him announcing his intention to remove to the country. If we had not arrived several days early, he would have been gone. Now, where is he hiding himself?"
Swearing under his breath, Stephen turned just as his brother, his brother's wife, and a friend of hers accompanied his mother into the drawing room—a fleet of ships sailing determinedly into battle against what they perceived as his antisocial behavior.
"I won't have it, darling!" his mother announced, marching forward to press a kiss on his cheek. "You are too much…" Her eyes riveted on Sherry, and her voice trailed off lamely, "… alone."
"Entirely too much!" Whitney Westmoreland announced, her back to the room as she allowed Colfax to divest her of her cape. "Clayton and I intend to see that you attend every important ball and route for the next six weeks," she continued as she linked her arm through her husband's and started forward. Two steps into the drawing room, they stopped.
Stephen glanced apologetically at Sherry, who looked completely disoriented and panicky, and whispered, "Don't worry. They will like you once they recover from their surprise." In the space of a few tense seconds, Stephen rapidly considered every plausible, and implausible, way of handling what looked to be impending disaster; but without ordering Sherry to leave so that he could explain—which would only humiliate and distress her—he had no choice but to improvise and to play out the farce in his family's presence and then explain the truth to them after Sherry went up to bed.
In keeping with that plan, Stephen sent a warning look to his older brother that insisted on his unquestioning cooperation, but Clayton's amused attention was on Sherry and the forgotten tea tray in Stephen's hands. "Very domestic, Stephen," Clayton remarked dryly.
Impatiently putting the tray down, Stephen looked at the doorway, where Colfax was waiting for instructions about refreshments, and nodded emphatically to produce them at once. Then he turned to the waiting group and began the introductions. "Mother, may I present Miss Charise Lancaster."
Sherry looked at her future mother-in-law, realized she was being introduced to a dowager duchess and promptly panicked because she couldn't think what to say. She threw an agonized look at Stephen and said in a whisper that seemed to shriek through the silent, waiting room, "Will an ordinary curtsy suffice?"
Stephen put his hand beneath her elbow, partly for support and partly to urge her forward, and gave her a reassuring smile. "Yes."
Sherry sank into a curtsy and felt her knees wobble, then she drew on courage she didn't know she possessed and straightened. Meeting the older woman's piercing gaze, she said courteously, "I am very happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am, I mean,
Your Grace
." Turning, she waited as Stephen introduced her to his sister-in-law, a stunning brunette he referred to as Whitney, whose green eyes were regarding Charise with veiled puzzlement. Another duchess! Sherry thought frantically, older than she, but not a great deal. To curtsy or not to curtsy? As if the other woman sensed her uncertainty, she held out her hand and said with a hesitant smile, "How do you do, Miss Lancaster?"
Sherry was grateful for the hint, and after shaking the young woman's hand she turned to be introduced to the duke, a very tall, dark-haired man who bore a distinct resemblance to her fiancé in his facial features, height, and broad-shouldered physique. "Your Grace," she murmured, curtsying again.
The fourth member of the group, a handsome man in his mid-thirties whose name was Nicholas DuVille, pressed a gallant kiss to the back of her hand and told her that he was "enchanted" to meet her, then he smiled into her eyes in a way that made her feel as if she'd just received a very great compliment.
Finished with the introductions, she waited for one of Stephen's relatives to welcome her to the family or to at least wish her happiness, but no one seemed able to speak. "Miss Lancaster has been ill," her fiancé said, and three pairs of eyes turned to her, as if concerned that she might swoon, which she felt very much as if she might actually do.
"Not ill, actually," Sherry amended. "It was an injury—a blow to the head."
"Why don't we all sit down," Stephen suggested; cursing perverse fate for making what had already been a difficult situation into one that was bound to worsen. Sherry obviously didn't understand what his family was thinking, but Stephen did. They had walked in on him while he was entertaining an unchaperoned female in his home, which meant that her morality was in serious question, not to mention his own judgment for bringing such a woman into his home, particularly at an hour when callers might arrive. Furthermore, if she were some doxy with whom he was dallying, then he'd committed an unforgivable breach of decency by introducing her to his female relatives. Rather than believe he would descend to that, they were now waiting patiently for some sort of explanation as to who she was… or where her chaperone was… or where his mind was. Stalling for time, Stephen stood up as the butler came forward bearing a tray of decanters and glasses. "Ah, here is Colfax right now!" he said with grim desperation. "Mother, what will you have to drink?"
His tone won a startled glance from his mother, but she sensed his desire for her unquestioning cooperation and complied at once. With a polite smile, she shook her head at the tray the butler was placing on the table in front of the sofa and looked instead at the one Stephen had already put there. "Is that hot chocolate I smell?" she asked brightly, and without waiting for a reply, she said to the butler, "I believe I prefer the chocolate, Colfax."
"I'd have the sherry if I were you," Stephen advised with feeling.
"No, I think I'd prefer the chocolate," his mother said firmly, then she demonstrated her legendary grace under pressure by turning to Sherry. "I noticed you have an American accent, Miss Lancaster," she said politely. "How long have you been in England?"
"A little over a sennight," Sherry said, her voice tense with confusion and uncertainty. No one in that room seemed to know anything at all about her, even though she was betrothed to a member of their own family. Something was odd—dreadfully odd.
"Is this your first visit?"
"Yes," Sherry managed, looking desperately at Stephen, her chest tightening with anxiety and irrational foreboding.
"And what brings you here?"
"Miss Lancaster came to England because she is betrothed to an Englishman," Stephen said, coming to Sherry's rescue and praying that his mother's heart was strong.
The dowager duchess's entire body seemed to relax and her expression to warm. "How delightful," she said, pausing to frown at the butler, who had poured sherry into a glass and was holding it toward her, despite her stated preference for the chocolate. "Colfax, do stop waving that wine under my nose. I'd prefer hot chocolate." She smiled at Sherry as Colfax distributed glasses of wine to the remaining guests. "To whom are you betrothed, Miss Lancaster?" she inquired brightly, reaching forward and helping herself to a cup of the chocolate.
"She is betrothed to me," Stephen said flatly.
Silence exploded in the room. If the situation hadn't been so grave, Stephen would have laughed at the myriad reactions to his announcement. "To… you?" his mother said dazedly. Without another word, she put the cup of chocolate down and plucked a glass of wine from Colfax's tray on the table. Off to Stephen's right, his brother was regarding him with fascinated disbelief, and his sister-in-law had gone perfectly still, a forgotten glass of sherry uplifted in her outstretched hand, as if she'd been about to offer someone a toast. Colfax was dividing his anguished sympathy between Stephen's mother and Sherry, while Nicholas DuVille was studying the edge of his coat sleeve, undoubtedly wishing he were somewhere else.
Ignoring their plight for the moment, Stephen looked at Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her head bent with mortification at what surely struck her as an insulting lack of enthusiasm from her future in-laws. Reaching for her hand, Stephen clasped it reassuringly and gave her the first feasible explanation that sprang to mind: "You wanted to wait until my family met you before we told them we are betrothed," he lied, with what he hoped was a convincing smile. "And that is why they seem so surprised."
"We seem surprised because we
are
surprised," his mother said sternly, looking at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "When did you meet?
Where
did you meet? You haven't been to—"
"I'll answer all your questions in a few minutes."
Stephen interrupted in a terse voice that silenced his mother before she could blurt out that he hadn't been to America in years. Turning to Sherry, he said gently, "You look very pale. Would you like to go upstairs and lie down?"
Sherry wanted very much to flee from that room with all its tension and undercurrents, but there was something so very strange about everything that she was half afraid to be absent. "No, I—I think I'd prefer to stay."
Stephen gazed into her wounded, silvery eyes and thought how this moment would have been for her if he had not killed her real fiancé. True, Burleton wasn't much of a matrimonial prize, but they had cared for each other, and she certainly wouldn't have been subjected to such a degrading lack of enthusiasm from Burleton's family, if he'd had one. "If you would rather stay," he teased, "then
I'll
go upstairs and lie down and
you
stay here to explain to my family that I was such a… a sentimental idiot… that I let you twist me around your finger and convince me that they ought not to be told of our betrothal until
after
they'd met you and had an opportunity to know you."
Sherry felt as if an enormous weight had just fallen off her shoulders. "Oh," she said with an embarrassed laugh, as she looked around at the occupants of the room. "Is
that
what happened?"
"Don't
you
know?" the dowager burst out in what was, to Stephen's recollection, her first total loss of composure in her entire life.
"No—you see, I've lost my memory," Sherry replied with such sweetness and courage that Stephen's chest ached with admiration. "It is a dreadful inconvenience right now, but at least I can assure you it isn't a hereditary madness. It's merely the result of a silly accident that occurred on the dock beside the ship…"
Her voice trailed off, and Stephen forestalled another embarrassing barrage of questions by taking matters into his own hands and standing up, forcing her to follow suit. "You're tiring, and Hugh Whitticomb will have my head if you aren't rosy and healthy when he arrives tomorrow morning," he told her gently. "Let me walk you to your bedchamber. Say good-night to everyone. I insist."
"Good-night, everyone," Sherry echoed with a disconcerted smile. "As I'm certain you know, Lord Westmoreland is terribly protective." As she turned away, she noticed that while everyone else seemed to find her very odd, Nicholas DuVille was watching her with a faint smile, as if he found her more interesting than hopelessly peculiar. Sherry clung to the memory of his encouraging glance as she closed the door to her bedchamber and sat down on her bed, her mind whirling with frightening doubts and hopeless questions.
W
hen Stephen walked back into the drawing room a few moments later, four pairs of eyes tracked his progress across the room, but his family waited until he was seated before they launched their questions. The instant he touched the chair, however, the two women spoke simultaneously.
His mother said, "What accident?"
His sister-in-law said, "What ship?"
Stephen looked to his brother for his first question, but Clayton merely regarded him with raised brows and said dryly, "I can't seem to get past the staggering discovery that you are not only a 'sentimental idiot' but 'terribly protective' as well."
Nicholas DuVille politely refrained from saying anything at all, though Stephen had the distinct feeling the Frenchman was rather amused by his predicament. He considered rudely volunteering to provide DuVille with a coach so that he could leave, but the man was a longtime friend of Whitney's, and, besides, his presence would deter Stephen's dignified mother from indulging in what would have been her first bout of hysterics.
Satisfied that the group was as ready as they were ever likely to be to hear the truth, Stephen leaned his head against the back of his chair and addressed the ceiling in a terse, composed voice. "The scene you just witnessed between Charise Lancaster and myself is actually a giant farce. The entire debacle began with a carriage accident over a week ago, an accident for which I was responsible and which has resulted in a chain of events that I am about to describe to you. The young woman whom you have just met is as much a victim of those events as her deceased fiancé, a young baron by the name of Arthur Burleton."
From the other side of the room, Whitney said in an appalled voice, "Arthur Burleton is—was a complete scapegrace."
"Be that as it may," Stephen replied with a ragged sigh, "they cared for each other and were going to be wed. As you're about to discover from my tale, Charise Lancaster, whom you all suspect of being either a complete birdwit or else a scheming fortune-hunter who has somehow enticed me into offering her marriage, is actually a completely innocent, and very pitiable, victim of my own negligence and dishonesty…"
When Stephen had completed his tale and answered everyone's questions, a long silence fell over the room's occupants as everyone tried to gather their thoughts. Lifting his wineglass, Stephen took a long drink, as if the wine could somehow wash away the bitterness and regret he felt. His brother spoke first. "If Burleton was inebriated enough to run in front of a team of horses on a public street in the fog, then surely he is responsible for his own death."
"The responsibility is mine," Stephen replied curtly, dismissing Clayton's well-meaning attempt to absolve him. "I was driving a raw team. I should have been able to keep my horses under control."
"And following that logic, I gather you feel equally responsible for the loaded cargo net that injured Charise Lancaster?"
"Of course I do," Stephen bit out. "She would not have been standing in harm's way, nor would I have let her, if we hadn't both been preoccupied with Burleton's death. If it had not been for my carelessness on two occasions, Charise Lancaster would be a healthy, married woman tonight with an English baron for a husband and the life she wanted stretching before her."
"Now that you've convicted yourself," Clayton countered, momentarily forgetting DuVille's presence, "have you decided on your penalty yet?"
Everyone in the room knew Clayton was merely frustrated and alarmed by the bitter self-recrimination that had permeated Stephen's voice, but it was Nicholas DuVille who defused the charged atmosphere by interrupting in a humorous drawl, "In the interest of avoiding a nasty duel between the two of you at dawn, which would force me to arise at a very inconvenient and uncivilized hour in order to act as your joint second, may I respectfully suggest you turn your excellent minds to possible solutions to the problems, rather than dwelling on the cause?"
"Nicholas is quite right," the dowager duchess murmured to her empty glass, her expression somber and preoccupied. Lifting her gaze to his, she added, "Though it's unfair to embroil you in our family problems, it is obvious that you are better able to think clearly because you are not so deeply involved."
"Thank you, your grace. In that case, may I offer you my thoughts on the matter?" When both women nodded emphatically and neither man voiced an objection, Nicki said, "If I understood everything correctly, it appears that Miss Lancaster was betrothed to a penniless ne'er-do-well, for whom she harbored tender feelings, but who had nothing to offer her other than a noble title. Do I have it right so far?"
Stephen nodded, his expression carefully neutral.
"And," Nicki continued, "because of two accidents for which Stephen feels responsible, Miss Lancaster now has no fiancé and no memory. Correct?"
"Correct," Stephen said.
"As I understood it, her physician believes her memory will return in its own good time, is that also correct?"
When Stephen nodded, Nicki said, "Therefore, the only permanent loss she has suffered—for which you can possibly feel responsible—is the loss of a fiancé who possessed a meaningless title and several very unsavory habits. In which case"—he lifted his glass in a mocking toast to his own powers of reason—"it appears to me that you could discharge your debt to her by simply finding her another fiancé to take Burleton's place. And if the fiancé you select also happens to be a decent fellow, capable of supporting her in a respectable style, then you could not only soothe your guilt, but you might rightly feel as if you've saved her from a life of torment and degradation." He glanced at Whitney and then at Stephen. "How am I doing so far?"
"I'd say you're doing rather well," Stephen replied with a slight smile. "I'd given some thought to a similar idea. But," he added, "the idea is far easier to contemplate than to execute."
"Oh, but I know we could pull it off if we put our heads to it!" Whitney exclaimed, anxious to pursue any solution at all that would derail his guilt and give them all a direction. "All we need do is see that she's introduced to a few of the hundreds of eligible men who will be here for the Season." She looked at her mother-in-law for support and received an overbright smile that belied unspoken worries.
"Actually, there are one or two minor problems associated with that plan," Stephen said dryly, but he couldn't bring himself to dampen her enthusiasm. Besides, the plan seemed far more feasible now, with the women in his family ready to lend their enthusiasm and assistance, than it had in the past days. "Why don't you give the entire project some careful thought, and we'll discuss the various aspects of it on the morrow—at one o'clock here?" he suggested. When everyone agreed, he cautioned, "For Sherry's sake, it is important that we foresee problems and avert them in advance. Remember that, when you are thinking about all this. I'll send a note to Hugh Whitticomb and ask him to come round and join the discussion, so that we are certain we aren't imperiling her recovery in any way."
As the group arose, he looked at his mother and Whitney and said, "Unless I miss my guess, Sherry is wide awake and torturing herself with questions she cant possibly answer about everyone's reaction to her tonight." He didn't have to complete the request. Both women were already heading for the door, anxious to atone for any unhappiness they'd caused his temporary fiancée.
S
tanding at the windows, gazing out into a night as dark and blank as her memory, Sherry whirled around at the soft knock on the door of her bedchamber and called for her visitors to enter. "We've come to beg your forgiveness," Stephen's mother said as she walked over to the windows. "We didn't understand—about your betrothal, or your accident, or all the rest—until Stephen explained to us."
"I'm so glad you're still awake," Stephen's beautiful sister-in-law said, her green eyes filled with an odd kind of regret as they searched Sherry's. "I don't think I could have slept, after the way we behaved to you downstairs."
Momentarily mired down in the social technicalities of how she ought properly to respond to an apology from two regal duchesses, Sherry gave up worrying about protocol and did what she could to soothe their obvious unease. "Please don't trouble yourselves about it," she said with soft sincerity. "I don't know what could have possessed me to want to keep the betrothal a secret, but I wonder sometimes if, when I am quite myself, I am perhaps a little… eccentric."
"I think," Whitney Westmoreland said, looking as if she were trying to smile when she felt rather sad, "that you are very brave, Miss Lancaster." And then as if she'd belatedly thought of it, she held out her hands and exclaimed with a bright smile, "Oh—and, welcome to the family. I—I've always wanted a sister!"
Something about that forced, desperate cheer in her voice set off the alarm bells in Sherry's brain, and she felt her hands tremble as she held them out to her future sister-in-law. "Thank you." That sounded so inadequate that an awkward pause followed, and Sherry stifled a hysterical laugh as she explained, "I haven't the
slightest
idea if I've always wanted a sister… but I'm perfectly certain that I must have and that I would have wished for her to be as lovely as you are."
"What an utterly charming thing for you to say," the dowager duchess said with a catch in her voice as she enfolded Sherry in a brief, almost protective hug and then ordered her to "go straight to sleep," as if Sherry were a child.
They left, promising to come to see her tomorrow, and Sherry gazed in stupefaction at the door when it closed behind them. Her future husband's relatives were as unpredictable as he was—one minute cool and distant and unreachable, and then warm and affectionate and kind. Sherry sank down onto the bed, her brow furrowed in puzzlement as she searched for some explanation for their range of behavior.
Based on various statements she'd read in the
Post
and the
Times
in the past week, Americans were often regarded by the British in a variety of unflattering ways—from amusingly ill-bred Colonists to uncouth barbarians. No doubt, both duchesses had wondered what could have possessed Lord Westmoreland to want to marry one of them—that would explain their negative reaction to her when they first arrived. Evidently, Lord Westmoreland had told them something to reassure them, but what… Weary of the endless questions that revolved in her mind during every waking moment, Sherry raked her hair off her forehead and flopped down on her back, staring at the canopy above the bed.
The Duchess of Claymore rolled onto her side, studying her husband's rugged features in the light of a single candle beside their bed, but her troubled thoughts were on Stephen's "fiancée."
"Clayton?" she whispered, absently trailing her fingertip down his arm. "Are you awake?"
His eyes remained closed, but his lips quirked in a lazy half smile as her finger traced a return path to his shoulder. "Do you want me to be?"
"I think so."
"Let me know when you are certain," he murmured.
"Did you notice anything odd about Stephen's behavior tonight—I mean about the way he treated Miss Lancaster and their betrothal, and all that?"
His eyes opened just enough to slant her a wry glance. "What could possibly be considered 'odd' behavior in a man who is temporarily betrothed to a woman whom he does not know, does not love, and does not wish to wed… and who thinks he is someone else?"
Whitney gave a sighing laugh at his summation of the predicament, then lapsed into thought again. "What I meant is that I glimpsed a softening in him that I haven't seen in years." When he didn't immediately reply, she continued to pursue her hazy line of thought. "Would you say that Miss Lancaster is extremely attractive?"
"I would say almost anything if it will entice you to either let me make love to you, or else go back to sleep."
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the mouth, but when he started to turn toward her, she put her hand against his chest and said with a laugh, "
Could
you say that Miss Lancaster is extremely attractive—in an unconventional sort of way?"
"If I say yes, will you let me kiss you?" he teased, already tipping her chin up for his kiss.
When he finished, Whitney drew a steadying breath, determined to voice her thoughts before she inevitably sank into the sensual spell he could weave so easily around her. "Do you think Stephen could be developing a special fondness for her?" she whispered.
"I think," he teased, his hand drifting down her collarbone to her breast, "that you are indulging in wishful thinking. DuVille is more likely to want her than Stephen—which would please me almost as much."
"Why would that please you?"
"Because," he said as he raised up on an elbow and forced her back onto the pillows, "if DuVille had a wife of his own, he'd stop longing for
mine
."
"Nicki doesn't 'long' for me in the least! He—"
Whitney forgot the rest of her protest as his mouth smothered her words and then her thoughts.
S
tanding on tiptoe, Sherry removed a book on America from one of the bookcases in the library, then she carried it to one of the polished mahogany tables scattered about the room and sat down. Looking for something to jog her memory, she flipped through the pages, searching for information that she might recognize. There were several intricate drawings of harbors teaming with ships and spacious city streets bustling with carriages, but nothing at all that seemed even remotely familiar. Since the heavy tome was arranged in alphabetical order, and since it seemed logical that pictures would jog her memory better than the written word, she went to the beginning of the book and began slowly turning the pages until she came to a drawing. Under "A" she found information on agriculture along with an illustration of verdant wheat fields against a backdrop of gentle hills. She'd started to turn the page when another picture flashed through her mind. Only the fleeting vision of fields that she saw had crops with fat white tufts on the top. The image faded instantly, but it made her hand begin to tremble as she reached for the next page and the next. The illustration of a coal mine triggered nothing, nor did anything else she saw, until she came to a picture of a man with a craggy face, prominent nose, and long, flowing dark hair. "American Indian," the caption above the illustration read, and Sherry felt the blood begin to pound in her temples as she stared hard at that face. A familiar face… or was it? She clenched her eyes closed, trying to focus on the images dancing and fading in her mind. Fields… and wagons… and an old man with a missing tooth. An ugly man who was grinning at her.
"Sherry?"
Sherry stifled a startled yelp as she whirled around in her chair and stared at the handsome man whose voice normally soothed and excited her.
"What's wrong?" Stephen demanded, his voice sharp with alarm as he noted her stricken, white face, and started forward.
"Nothing, my lord—" she lied with a nervous laugh, standing up. "You startled me."
Frowning, Stephen put his hands on her shoulders and scrutinized every feature on her pale face. "Is that all? What were you reading over there?"
"A book on America," she said, reveling in the sensation of his strong hands gripping her shoulders and steadying her. Sometimes, she almost felt as if he truly cared for her. Another vision drifted through her mind, hazier by far than the others… but soothing and, oh, so sweet: Kneeling before her with flowers in his hand, a handsome, dark-haired man who may have been the earl proclaimed,
I was nothing until you came into my life… nothing until you gave me your love… nothing until you… until you
…
"Should I summon Whitticomb?" Stephen demanded, raising his voice and giving her a slight shake.
His tone snapped her out of her reverie, and she laughed, shaking her head. "No, of course not. I was only remembering something, or perhaps only imagining it happened."
"What was it?" Stephen said, releasing his grip on her shoulders, but holding her pinned with his gaze.
"I'd rather not say," she stated, flushing.
"What was it?" he repeated.
"You would only laugh."
"Try me," he said, his words clipped.
Rolling her eyes in helpless dismay, Sherry stepped back and perched her hip on the library table beside the open book. "I wish you would not insist on this."
"But I do insist," Stephen persisted, refusing to be swayed by the infectious smile trembling on her soft lips. "Perhaps it was a real memory, and not just your imagination."
"You would be the only one to know that," she admitted, becoming very preoccupied with the study of the cuticle on her thumb. Looking sideways at him from beneath her long lashes, she asked, "By any chance, when you asked me to marry you, did you happen to mention that you were nothing at all, until me?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Inasmuch as you look revolted by the thought," Sherry said without rancor, "I don't suppose you would have gone down on one knee when you did propose?"
"Hardly," Stephen said dryly, so offended by the image of himself assuming such a foolish position that he'd forgotten he'd never proposed to her at all.
Sherry's disappointment in his answers was offset by his increasing discomfiture at the questions. "What about flowers? Did you happen to offer me a bouquet when you said, 'I was nothing until you gave me your love, Sherry. Nothing at all until you came into my miserable life'?"
Stephen realized she was actually relishing his discomfort, and he chucked her under the chin. "Brat," he said lightly, noting that she seemed never to be intimidated by him. "I merely came to invite you to join me in my study. My family will be gathering there any moment for a 'conference.' "
"What sort of conference?" Sheridan asked, pausing to close the book and return it to the shelf.
"A conference about you, actually—about the best way to 'launch' you into Society," Stephen replied distractedly, watching her lean up on tiptoe, and trying not to concentrate on how utterly fetching she looked in a deceptively simple peach gown with a high mandarin collar and tightly fitted bodice that cleverly called attention to every inviting curve she had without displaying so much as a glimpse of skin.
After a full night's sleep, he'd awakened feeling more optimistic about Sherry's plight than he had since she collapsed at his feet on the dock. With the aid of his family, who'd volunteered their cooperation and assistance, the idea of finding a suitable husband for her during the Season seemed not only an ideal solution, but an achievable one. In fact, he was so enthusiastic about it, that he'd sent notes to them early this morning, asking each of them to bring two lists: one of eligible men, and another itemizing those things that would also have to be handled in order to launch her properly.
Now that he had a specific goal, Stephen saw no reason not to pursue it with the same single-minded efficiency and determination that he used to achieve his other business successes. Like his brother and a very few other noblemen, he preferred to handle most of his own business and financial affairs, and he had a well-deserved reputation for doing so with brilliance and daring. In contrast to many of his peers who were sinking further and further into debt because they regarded any business dealings as the province of the "merchant class," and therefore beneath them, Stephen was steadily increasing his already vast holdings. He did it because it was sensible, but mostly, he did it because he thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of testing his judgment and timing; he liked the exhilaration that came with successfully acquiring and disposing of assets.
He intended to handle Sherry Lancaster as if she were any other very desirable "asset" he possessed and of which he intended to dispose. The fact that Sherry was a woman, not a rare artifact or a warehouse full of precious spices, had no bearing on his thinking or his strategy, except that he intended to ensure that her purchaser was worthy and responsible. The only remaining difficulty was to enlist her cooperation in being "disposed of."
He'd considered that delicate problem earlier, while he bathed. By the time Damson removed a jacket of biscuit superfine from one of the wardrobes and held it up for Stephen's approval, he'd arrived at the best, and only, solution. Rather than add yet another lie to the ones Sherry had already been told, Stephen was going to tell her a partial truth. But not until after he'd met with his family.
Sherry put away the remaining books she'd intended to look through, as well as the quill and paper she'd removed from a desk drawer. Then she turned and he offered his arm to her. The gesture was so gallant and the smile in his eyes so warm that she felt a helpless burst of joy and pride. Clad in a light tan coat, his long legs encased in coffee brown trousers and shiny brown top boots, Stephen Westmoreland was the stuff that dreams were made of… tall, broad-shouldered, and breathtakingly handsome.
As they started down the staircase, she stole another glance at his chiselled profile, marvelling at the strength and pride carved into every feature on that starkly beautiful, tanned face. With that lazy, intimate smile of his and those deep blue, penetrating eyes—why, he must have been making female hearts flutter all over Europe for years! No doubt he'd kissed a great many of those females too, for he certainly knew how to do it, and he didn't seem the least hesitant about it when he chose to kiss her. Thousands of women all over Europe had probably found him as completely irresistible as she did, and yet, for some incomprehensible reason, he'd chosen her above them. That seemed so unlikely, so inconceivable, that it made her uneasy. Rather than surrender to doubt and uncertainty, Sherry returned to the lighthearted conversation they'd had in the library.
As they neared the open doors of his study, she gave him a jaunty, teasing smile. "Since I can't remember your proposal, you might at least have
pretended
that you made me a proper one—on bended knee. Considering my weakened condition, that would have been the more chivalrous thing to do."
"I am a very unchivalrous man," Stephen replied with an impenitent grin.
"Then I hope I at least had the good sense to make you wait a very long time before I accepted your ungallant offer," she retorted severely, stopping in the doorway. She hesitated and then with a helpless laugh at her inability to remember, she said, "
Did
I make you wait, my lord?"
Helplessly enthralled by this new, teasingly flirtatious side of her, Stephen automatically matched her mood. "Certainly not, Miss Lancaster. In fact, you flung yourself at my feet and wept with gratitude at the offer of my splendid self."
"Of all the arrogant, dishonest—" she said on a choked, horrified laugh. "I did no such thing!" Looking for some sort of confirmation, Sherry glanced at Colfax who was standing at attention holding one of the study doors open, while trying to look as if he weren't hearing—and enjoying—their banter. Her fiancé looked so supremely self-satisfied, his expression so bland and complacent, that Sherry had the awful feeling he was telling the truth. "I didn't actually do that—" she said weakly, "did I?"
Stephen's shoulders lurched with suppressed mirth at the appalled expression on her upturned face, then he shook his head and put her out of her misery. "No," he said, unaware that he was flirting with her in an open doorway and looking happier than he had in years, in view of his mesmerized servants and his fascinated family and friends, who'd arrived while he was with Sherry in the library. "After you greet everyone, I'm sending you for a ride in the park, so that you can take in the sights and get some fresh air while we discuss arrangements—" He broke off as some slight movement from inside the study attracted his attention, and he turned fully around, somewhat surprised to find Sherry and himself the focus of a roomful of people who oddly hadn't made a single sound to alert him they were present.
Blaming their lack of conversation on awkwardness about their forthcoming topic, Stephen led her into the study and waited while Sherry greeted everyone with the same warm, unaffected cordiality that she seemed to feel for everyone from the servants to her physician. Anxious to get down to the purpose for the meeting, he interrupted Hugh Whitticomb, who was embarking on an enthusiastic recounting of Sherry's recuperative powers and bravery, and said, "Since you're all present, why don't you begin discussing the various ways to ease Sherry's way into Society while I walk her out to the carriage." To Sherry, he added, "I'll wait while you find a light wrap, then we'll go to the carriage and discuss your itinerary with my coachman."
Sherry felt his hand under her elbow, firmly drawing her away from people she would very much have liked to spend more time with, but she did as he asked and bade them good-bye.
Behind them, Dr. Whitticomb signalled Colfax to close the doors, then he looked round at Stephen's family, noting their distracted, thoughtful expressions. The scene he had witnessed a few moments ago as Stephen and Charise Lancaster stood just outside the doors had only confirmed what he already believed, and he was almost certain that the others in the room had noted the same delightful alteration in Stephen that he had.
He hesitated, vacillated, then made his decision, and cautiously endeavored to see if their thoughts truly marched with his. Keeping his voice casual, he glanced at the dowager duchess. "Lovely girl, isn't she?"
"Lovely," Stephen's mother agreed unhesitatingly. "Stephen seems very protective of her, I noticed. I haven't seen him treat any female quite that way before." Her smile turned wistful. "She seems to like him very well too. I cannot help wishing he weren't so set on finding a husband for her. Perhaps with time, he might have—"
"My thoughts, exactly," Hugh said, and so emphatically that she gave him an odd, startled look. Satisfied that he had her unwitting support, Hugh turned to Stephen's sister-in-law. "What do you think, Your Grace?" Whitney Westmoreland smiled at him—a slow, knowing smile that warmed his heart and promised her full cooperation. "I find her completely delightful, and I think Stephen does too, though I doubt he'd want to admit it."
Restraining the absurd urge to wink at her, Hugh looked to Nicholas DuVille. Until that moment, Hugh had been the only outsider whom the Westmoreland family had regarded as a confidant. DuVille was not a family member or even a close family friend. He had in fact been Clayton's rival for Whitney's hand, and although Whitney regarded him as a dear and close friend, Hugh doubted that Clayton harbored quite the same fondness for him. Hugh wasn't certain why DuVille had been invited to attend what was an intensely private family discussion.