Until You (16 page)
Authors: Judith McNaught
Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #England, #Historical Fiction, #Americans - England, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Americans, #Amnesia, #Historical, #English Fiction, #General, #Love Stories
Pearls! Stephen decided with an inner laugh as he recalled her mirthful commentary on the Countess of Evandale's gown. A gown adorned with three thousand and
one
pearls. Sherry didn't seem to have any interest in gowns, but that particular gown would appeal to her sense of humor, and she would like it because it was a gift from him.
Because it was from him…
He knew she would feel that way as surely as he knew Sherry wanted him. From the moment he brushed his mouth over her lips and felt them tremble, felt her body strain instinctively closer to his, he'd known she wanted him. She was too inexperienced to hide her feelings, too candid to want to try.
She wanted him, and he wanted her. In a very few days, he would take her to bed for the first time, and there he would teach her the delights of "having."
Jason Fielding spoke his name, and Stephen glanced up, realized they were all waiting for his bet, and tossed more chips onto the stacks in the middle of the table.
"You've already won that one," Jason pointed out in an amused drawl. "Wouldn't you like to clear it away, so you can win a nice fresh pile of our money?"
"Whatever is on your mind, Stephen," Jordan Townsende remarked, eyeing him curiously, "it must be damned engrossing."
"You looked right through us earlier," Jason Fielding added as he began to deal the cards. "The most crushing setdown I've had in years."
"Stephen has something
very
engrossing on his mind," Clayton joked.
As he finished that sentence, William Baskerville, a middle-aged bachelor, strolled over to the table, a folded newspaper in his hand, and idly watched the play.
Since Stephen's courtship of Sherry would be common gossip by morning, and his betrothal a fact by the end of the week, Stephen saw no reason to conceal what had been on his mind. "As a matter of fact—" he began, when he suddenly thought to glance at a clock. Three hours had passed already. "I'm late!" he said, startling the others as he shoved his cards back into the center, and abruptly stood up. "If I'm not inside Almack's before eleven, they'll have locked the damned doors."
Three astounded males watched his retreating shoulders as Stephen stalked swiftly out of the club—evidently in a hurry to reach a destination that no man of sophistication or maturity ever set foot in willingly, let alone anxiously. The thought of Stephen Westmoreland willingly setting foot in that place with its ballroom filled with blushing misses fresh from the schoolroom and eager to snag an eligible husband was utterly ludicrous. Baskerville spoke first. "Egad!" he breathed, looking around at the others in stunned horror, "did Langford say he was bound for
Almack's
?"
The Marquess of Wakefield tore his amused gaze from the doorway and looked at the others. "That's what I heard."
The Duke of Hawthorne nodded, his voice dry. "Not only did I hear him say Almack's, but I noticed he seems to be in rather a hurry to get there."
"He'll be lucky if he gets out of there alive," Jason Fielding joked.
"And still a bachelor," Jordan Townsende agreed grinning.
"Poor devil!" said Baskerville in a dire voice. Shaking his head, he departed to join some acquaintances at the hazard table—and to share the highly diverting information that the Earl of Langford had rushed off in order to make it into the "Marriage Mart" before the doors were closed.
The consensus of opinion among the hazard players, who were throwing dice on long tables with high wooden sides, was that Stephen had yielded to the deathbed wish of a dying relative to appear at Almack's on behalf of some young chit to whom the dying person was related.
At the green felt-covered faro tables, where gentlemen were placing bets on what card a dealer was going to draw, face up, from a box, the general opinion was that the unfortunate Earl of Langford had lost a wager that required him to spend a night at Almack's as his noxious forfeit.
Gentlemen who were playing even-odd, wagering on the numbers most likely to appear when the rotating even-odd wheel came to a stop, were of the opinion that Baskerville had lost his hearing.
Whist players, concentrating on the cards they held, were of the opinion that Baskerville had lost his mind.
But whatever opinion the particular individual held, his reaction was always the same as everyone else's: hilarity. In every one of The Strathmore's rooms, the refined atmosphere was repeatedly disrupted by loud guffaws, hearty chuckles, and snorts of laughter as word circulated from member to member, and table to table, that Stephen Westmoreland, Earl of Langford, had gone to Almack's for the evening.
I
t was five minutes past eleven of the clock when Stephen strode swiftly past the two chagrined young bucks who were retreating to their carriages after having been turned away by Lady Letitia Vickery for failing to arrive before eleven. The patroness was in the act of closing the door when Stephen called out to her in a low, warning voice, "Letty, don't you dare close that damned door in my face!"
Bristling with affront, she peered into the darkness beyond the lighted entry, as she swung it closed. "Whoever you are, you are too late to enter."
Stephen put his toe against the panel to stop her. "I think you should consider making an exception."
Her disdainful face appeared in the wedge of light between the jamb and the edge of the door. "We do not make exceptions, sirrah!" She saw who he was, and a look of comical disbelief momentarily shattered her expression of stony hauteur. "Langford, is that
you
?"
"Of course it is, now open the door," Stephen commanded quietly.
"You cannot come in."
"Letty," he said with strained patience, "do not make me resort to unpleasant reminders of times when you've invited me in to less appropriate places than this one—and with your poor husband practically within earshot."
She opened the door, but placed herself in the opening. Stephen contemplated the efficacy of lifting her by the shoulders and moving her out of his way while she implored in a fierce whisper, "Stephen, for God's sake, be reasonable! I cannot let you in. The other patronesses will have my head if I do."
"They will kiss you on both cheeks for making an exception in my case," he said flatly. "Only think of the boost in attendance you'll have tomorrow, when it's learned that
I
was actually lured to this boring assembly of virtuous innocents for the first time in fifteen years."
She hesitated, weighing the obvious truth of that against the peal that was likely to be rung over her head by the other patronesses before she could explain her motivations. "Every eligible male in London will want vouchers to get in, so that he can see for himself what female could possibly have been exquisite enough to lure you here."
"Exactly," Stephen said sardonically. "You'll have so many eligible men inside that you'll have to lay in an extra supply of warm lemonade and bread and butter."
She was so delighted with the possibility of receiving credit for all the splendid matches made during her season as patroness, that she overlooked his disdainful slurs on the hallowed halls of Almack's, its refreshments, and its occupants. "Very well. You may come in."
The evening had not been the disaster Sherry had feared it would be. She had danced and been made to feel quite welcome. In fact, with a few uncomfortable exceptions, the evening had been very pleasant, but she had remained tense and expectant until a few minutes ago, when the clock finally indicated the hour of eleven. Now that the possibility of the Earl of Langford's appearance was eliminated, she felt incredibly disappointed, but she refused to succumb to anger or rejection. She'd sensed he wasn't enthusiastic about coming here, and it was foolish to expect him to inconvenience himself for her. That would have implied some sort of concern or caring for her that she now accepted he simply did not have. Whitney and his mother had been wrong. Determined not to let thoughts of him occupy one more moment of her evening, she concentrated on the conversation of the young ladies and their mamas who were standing in a circle with her, talking among themselves, but politely including her.
Most of the girls were younger than she, and very amiable, if not particularly given to intelligent discourse. They were however amazingly well-informed on the income, prospects, and lineage of every bachelor in the room, and she had only to look twice at a male to have them—or their mamas and chaperones—lean aside and obligingly share all their knowledge. The deluge of data confused Miss Charity and alternately embarrassed and amused Sherry.
The Duchess of Clermont, a stern elderly lady who was introducing her granddaughter, another American named Dorothy Seaton, tipped her head toward a handsome young man who'd asked Sherry for the honor of a second dance, and warned, "I would not show young Makepeace more than the briefest civility, were I you. He is only a baronet, and his income is a mere five thousand."
Nicholas DuVille, who'd spent most of the evening in the card room, heard that as he returned to Sherry's side. Leaning down, he said in a low amused voice, "You look quite terribly embarrassed,
chérie
. Amazing, is it not, that a country that prides itself on its refined manners has no compunction at all in discussing such things."
The musicians who'd paused briefly for refreshments were returning to their instruments, and music began to fill the ballroom. "Miss Charity looks exhausted," Sherry said, raising her voice to be heard above the increasing volume of music and conversation.
Miss Charity heard her name and looked up sharply. "I am not weary, my dear child. I am exceedingly vexed with Langford for not making his appearance as he promised, and I intend to scold him soundly for treating you so shabbily!"
All around them heads were beginning to turn and conversations were dropping off, then escalating to frantic whispers, but Sherry was blissfully unaware of the cause. "It doesn't signify, ma'am. I've done perfectly well without him."
Miss Charity was not soothed. "I do not remember being this annoyed in the last thirty years! And if I
could
remember all of the last thirty years, I'm
still
certain I wouldn't remember being this annoyed!"
Beside them the Duchess of Clermont stopped eavesdropping on Charity Thornton's irate monologue, and she glanced up, her gaze riveting on something across the room. "I cannot believe my own eyes!" she burst out. Hectic conversations were erupting all around them, and she leaned sideways, raising her voice to be heard above it all as she commanded her granddaughter, "Dorothy, attend to your hair and gown. This is a chance you may
never
have again." That gruff order drew Sherry's attention to Dorothy who had obediently reached up to pat her coiffure into place as were half the debutantes in Sherry's range of view. Those who weren't checking their hair were smoothing their skirts. Debutantes who weren't already lining up with their partners on the dance floor were making a mass exodus toward the retiring room, and
they
were also patting and smoothing on the way. "What is happening?" she asked, lifting quizzical eyes to Nicki, who was blocking her view.
His gaze shifted over the blondes and brunettes, registering heightened color of cheeks and eager gazes, and without bothering to look over his shoulder, he said, "Either a fire has broken out in the middle of the dance floor, or else Langford has just arrived."
"It can't be him! It's after eleven and the doors are locked."
"Nevertheless, I would wager a small fortune that
Langford's the cause. The hunting instincts of the female of the species are at a fever pitch, which means prime prey is in sight. Shall I look round and see?"
"Try not to be obvious about it."
He complied, turned back around, and confirmed it. "He's stopped to greet the patronesses."
Sherry did the last thing she'd planned to do if he came: she ducked around Nicki and beat a hasty retreat to the retiring room—not to primp, though, or check her appearance. No indeed. Merely to compose herself. And then primp just a little.
As she waited to get into the retiring room, she discovered her fiancé was the talk of the crowd, and the talk she was hearing was as illuminating as it was embarrassing to her: "My older sister will swoon when she hears Langford was here tonight and she was not!" one of the girls was telling her friends. "Last autumn, he singled her out for particular attention at Lady Millicent's ball and then dropped her completely. She has carried a tendre for him ever since."
Her friends looked shocked. "But last autumn," one of them corrected, "Langford was on the verge of offering for Monica Fitzwaring."
"Oh, I do not think that's possible. I heard my sisters talking and they were positive he was having—" she cupped her hand over her lips, and Sherry strained helplessly to eavesdrop, "a
torrid
affair with a certain married lady last autumn."
"Have you ever seen his
chérie amie
?" another asked, and the girls in front of that group turned around. "My aunt saw him at the theatre with her two nights ago."
"
Chérie amie
?" The question flew out before Sherry could stop it, prompted by the discovery that he had escorted a female to the theatre, immediately after dining with Sherry and his family.
The girls, whom she'd been introduced to earlier, were happy to oblige Sherry with all the information a newcomer to their circle, and an American, might need in order to fully appreciate the finer subtleties of the gossip.
"
Chérie amie
is a courtesan, a woman who shares a man's baser passions. Helene Devernay is the most beautiful courtesan of them all."
"I heard my brothers talking one evening, and they said Helene Devernay is the most heavenly creature on earth. She loves lavender, you know… and Langford had a special silver coach built for her with lavender velvet squabs."
Lavender
. That flimsy lavender gown that Dr. Whitticomb had objected to, the meaningful way he'd said, "
Lavender, was it"
to the earl. It had belonged to the woman who shared his "baser passions." Sherry knew kissing qualified as passion. She didn't know what constituted baser, but she could sense the fact that they were intense and somehow scandalous and personal. And he shared all that with another woman only
hours
after dining with his unwanted fiancée.
Even though Miss Charity now knew Lord Westmoreland was somewhere in the ballroom, she was almost as angry with him when Sherry returned as she'd been when Sherry left. "I intend to report Langford's conduct to his mama, first thing in the morning! She will ring a peal over his head for this night's work."
Stephen's bland, amused voice made Sherry stiffen in angry shock as he strolled up behind them and spoke to Miss Charity first. "For what am I to be called to task by my mother, ma'am?" he asked, a lazy, white smile sweeping across his features.
"For being late, you naughty boy!" she said, but all traces of animosity were vanishing from her voice as he aimed that lethally attractive smile directly at her and kept it there. "For stopping too long to speak to the patronesses! And for being entirely too handsome for your own good! Now," she finished, forgiving him entirely, "kiss my hand properly and lead Sherry onto the dance floor."
Nicki had been shielding her by keeping his back to the room, but he had no choice except to step aside. Sherry's anger escalated when she heard Miss Charity cave in so easily, and it doubled when she reluctantly turned and found
herself the
object of amused blue eyes and a smile so warm it could have baked bread. Aware that every head in the ballroom seemed to be turned their way, Sherry reluctantly extended her hand, because that was what she was required to do. "Miss Lancaster," he said, pressing a brief kiss to the back of it, continuing to hold it despite her effort to jerk it free, "may I have the pleasure of the next dance?"
"Let go of my hand," Sherry said, her voice shaking with anger. "Everyone is looking at us!"
Stephen studied her hectic color and flashing eyes, and he marvelled that he'd been able to ignore how magnificent she looked when she was angry. If he'd realized during the last few days that a slight lack of punctuality could rouse her from her indifference to ire, he'd have come down late for every meal.
"Let go of my hand!"
Grinning helplessly because he was happy and she was evidently this
unhappy
over his near-absence, Stephen teased, "Are you going to make me drag you onto that dance floor?"
Some of his satisfaction with that faded as she yanked her hand free and said, "Yes!"
Momentarily thwarted, Stephen stepped aside as some young dandy squeezed past him and bowed before her. "I believe the next dance is mine, if you don't mind, my lord." Left with no choice, he backed off a step and watched her curtsy prettily to him and stroll onto the dance floor. Beside him, DuVille observed him with amusement. "I believe you have just been the recipient of a crushing setdown, Langford."
"You're right," he replied affably, leaning his shoulders against a pillar behind him. He was so happy he even felt charitably toward DuVille for a change. "I suppose there's nothing alcoholic to drink?" he said, watching Sherry dancing with her partner.
"Not a thing."
To the vast disappointment of everyone in the room, neither Lord Westmoreland nor Nicholas DuVille seemed inclined to ask anyone to dance except the American girl. When Sherry remained on the dance floor for a second dance with the same young man, Stephen frowned. "Didn't anyone warn her that it's a mistake to show partiality by dancing twice with the same partner?"
"You are beginning to sound like a jealous beau," Nicki remarked, slanting him an amused look from the corner of his eye.