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 (4 page)
Instead of slapping her, which Sherry knew she was entitled to do, Aunt Cornelia looked her straight in the eye and said, "I'm sure you do, Sheridan. I daresay you'll hate me much more before this is over. I, however, do not in the least hate you. Now, shall we have a bit of tea before we begin your lessons?"
"I hate tea too," Sheridan informed her, lifting her chin to its haughtiest angle and returning her aunt's stony stare—a stance that was not only instinctive but identical to her aunt's. Her aunt noticed the similarity, even though Sheridan was unaware of it. "Do not try to stare me out of countenance with that expression, child. I perfected that very look long ago, and I'm quite immune to it. In England, it would have served you well, were you Squire Faraday's acknowledged granddaughter. However, this is America, and we are no longer the proud Squire's relations. Here we are shabby-genteel at best. Here, I teach deportment to the children of people whom I would have once regarded as my inferiors, and I am lucky to have the work. I thank my Maker that I'm able to have this cozy house for my very own, and I do not look back at the past. A Faraday does not lament. Remember that. And I am not completely regretful of my life's choices. For one thing, I am no one's puppet anymore. I no longer awaken wondering what sort of uproar will occur today. I lead an orderly, quiet, respectable life."
She stepped back as she finished that speech, and with something that might actually have been amusement, she surveyed her unmoving niece. "My dear, if you wish to carry off that look of stony hauteur to its best advantage, I recommend that you look down your nose at me just the tiniest bit—yes, just so. That's how I would have done it."
If Sheridan hadn't been so forlorn and so bitter, she would have laughed. In time, she learned to laugh again—just as she learned Latin and ladylike behavior. Her aunt was a relentless teacher, determined that Sheridan learn everything she herself knew, and yet Sheridan soon realized that beneath her aunt's formal rigidity, there was a deep concern and even affection for her wayward niece. Sheridan was a quick student, once she got over her resentment. Book learning, as she discovered, helped to relieve the tedium of a life that no longer involved wild rides on spotted horses or the humming of guitar strings or laughter under the stars. Exchanging even a nodding glance with a member of the opposite sex was evidence of easy virtue and, therefore, forbidden; striking up a conversation with a stranger verged on criminal behavior. Singing was done only in church, and never, ever,
ever
was one to accept payment in any form for it. In place of the exhilarating things she used to enjoy, there was the dubious challenge of learning to pour tea while holding the pot at just the right angle, of placing one's fork and knife in the correct place after dining—trivial things, to be sure, but as Aunt Cornelia said, "Knowing how to behave is your most valuable asset—your only one, in our circumstances."
Her reasoning became evident when Sheridan turned seventeen: Garbed in a simple brown gown with her hair tucked into a neat chignon, held in place by a cap she'd crocheted herself, Miss Sheridan Bromleigh was presented to Mrs. Adley Raeburn, the headmistress of the school where Aunt Cornelia taught. Mrs. Raeburn, who had come to the house at Aunt Cornelia's invitation, stared for a split second at Sheridan's hair and face—a peculiar reaction from city people that had become more pronounced of late. A few years ago, a younger, less well-bred and serene Sheridan Bromleigh would have self-consciously looked down at her boots or tugged her hat down over her face or else demanded to know what the stranger was gaping at.
But this was a new Sheridan, a young woman who was well aware that she had been a financial burden. Now she was determined to become a wage-earner, not only for her aunt's sake, or merely for the present, but for her own sake and for always. In the city, she had seen the face of widespread poverty and hunger—things that had seemed rare in the country. Sheridan was a city dweller now, and likely to remain so for the rest of her life. In the last two years, her father's letters, which had come frequently at first, had ceased altogether. He wouldn't simply forget her here, of that she was sure, and the possibility that he might be dead was so unbearable that she couldn't endure it. That left her no choice except to find a way to look after herself and to tell herself that it was only until he and Rafe came for her. She told herself that as Mrs. Raeburn said courteously, "I've heard some very good things about you from your aunt, Miss Bromleigh."
And Sheridan Bromleigh, who once would have shoved her hands into the waistband of her pants and replied with blunt shyness that she couldn't think what those good things might have been, stretched out her hand instead, and replied with equal courtesy, "and I of you, Mrs. Raeburn."
Now, as Sheridan stood below decks on the
Morning Star
, she suddenly realized there was a very good chance she would never see any of the people from her old life again; not Aunt Cornelia, or the little girls at school or the other teachers who'd become her friends and who gathered at the house every Saturday afternoon for tea and conversation. She might never again set eyes on their smiling faces. Or on Rafe… or her father.
Her mouth felt dry and at the same time wet tears stung her eyes as she thought of the father she might never see again. When he finally appeared at Aunt Cornelia's, anxious to see her and explain the reason for his long silence, she wasn't going to be there… She might never know what happened to him.
She closed her eyes and could almost see Rafe and Dog Lies Sleeping and her father standing in her aunt's parlor, waiting to see her. She'd brought all of this on herself by insisting on accompanying Charise on this voyage, and money hadn't been her only motive. No, indeed. She'd been daydreaming about England ever since she'd started reading those romantic novels. They had sparked her longing for adventure, ignited the streak of dreamy recklessness that she hadn't been able to completely conquer, despite her aunt's diligent efforts, and her own.
Well, she was certainly having an adventure! Instead of sitting in a classroom, surrounded by little faces listening with rapt attention as she read them a story or taught them to walk decorously, she'd landed herself in a strange, unfriendly country—trapped, defenseless, and completely devoid of the wit and courage on which she'd prided herself, preparing to face a nobleman who, according to Meg, would not be required by British law to govern his justifiable rage or delay his vengeance when she told him what had happened. What she, in her pride, had
allowed
to happen.
Fear, the weakness Sheridan despised above all others, spread through her, evading her efforts to subdue it, and she shivered uncontrollably at the thought of the misery she had caused everyone who trusted and loved her. After a lifetime of determined optimism and robust health, she suddenly felt weak, frantic, and alarmingly dizzy. The room began to revolve, and she clutched at the back of a chair for support; then she forced her eyes open, drew a deep breath, and smoothed her hair back into its stern chignon as she reached for her cloak and aimed a reassuring smile at the terrified maid.
Trying to sound flippant, she said, "It's time to meet the beastly baron and face my fate," then she sobered and ceased trying to pretend there was no need for alarm. "You stay here, out of sight. If I don't come back for you right away, wait for a few hours and then leave as quietly as you can. Better yet, stay aboard. With luck, no one will discover you until the ship is already under way in the morning. There's no point in both of us being arrested and hauled away, if that's what he decides to do."
A
fter the relative quiet of their tiny, dim cabin, the noise and bustle on the torchlit deck was jarring. Stevedores with trunks and crates on their shoulders were swarming up and down the gangplank, unloading cargo and taking on new provisions for the
Morning Star's
voyage the next day. Winches creaked overhead as cargo nets were slung over the side of the vessel and lowered onto the pier. Sherry picked her way carefully down the gangplank, searching among the throngs for a man who looked like her notion of a villainous English nobleman—a thin, pale, overbred, pompous male with a streak of cruelty was certain to be decked out in satin knee breeches and dripping with fobs and seals to impress his bride.
And then she saw the tall, dark man standing on the pier, impatiently slapping his gloves against his thigh, and she knew in an instant it was he. Despite the fact that he was wearing dark trousers, not knee breeches, and that when the wind blew his cloak open, there wasn't a gleaming fob or golden seal in sight, everything about him still set him apart and stamped him indelibly as "privileged." His square jaw was set with cool purpose, and there was a confident strength emanating from every inch of his broad-shouldered frame, right down to the tips of his shiny boots. He was already frowning as he watched her approach, and Sherry's fear promptly escalated to panic. For the past two days, she'd secretly counted on her own ability to calm and cajole the affronted bridegroom into seeing reason, but the man whose dark brows were drawn together in a scowl of grim displeasure looked about as malleable as granite. He was doubtlessly wondering where the devil his fiancée was and why Sheridan Bromleigh, not Charise Lancaster, was walking down the gangplank. And he was clearly annoyed.
Stephen wasn't annoyed, he was stunned. He'd expected Charise Lancaster to be a giddy seventeen-or eighteen-year-old with bouncing curls and rosy cheeks, decked out in ruffles and lace. What he saw in the flickering shadows of the torches was a composed, pale young woman with high cheekbones and extraordinarily large, light eyes that were set off by gracefully winged, russet brows and a luminous fringe of long lashes. Her hair was an indeterminate color, pulled back severely off her forehead and concealed with a hood. Instead of ruffles, she was wearing a sensible, but unattractive, brown cloak, and his first thought as he held out his hand to shake hers was that Burleton must have been either mad or blind to describe her as "quite a pretty little thing."
Despite her outward composure, she looked extremely tense, frightened, as if she already sensed that something was terribly wrong, so Stephen changed his mind and decided the best course for both of them was probably the most direct one.
"Miss Lancaster," he said, after quickly introducing himself, "I'm afraid there's been an accident." Guilt tore at him as he added tightly, "Lord Burleton was killed yesterday."
For a moment, she simply stared at him in shocked incomprehension. "Killed? He isn't here?"
Stephen had expected her to dissolve into tears, at the very least, or even to have hysterics. He had not expected her to withdraw her cold hand from his and say in a dazed voice, "How very sad. Please give my condolences to his family." She'd turned and taken several steps up the pier before he realized she was obviously in complete shock. "Miss Lancaster—" he called, but his voice was drowned out by an alarmed shout from above as a cargo net loaded with crates swung wide from its winch: "STEP ASIDE! LOOK OUT!"
Stephen saw the danger and lunged for her, but he wasn't in time—the cargo net swung wide, striking her in the back of the head and sending her flying onto the pier on her face. Already shouting to his coachmen, Stephen crouched down and turned her over in his arms. Her head fell back limply and blood began to run from the huge lump at the back of her scalp.
"H
ow is our patient today?" Dr. Whitticomb asked as the Westmoreland butler ushered him into the earl's study. Despite Dr. Whitticomb's brisk tone, he felt as pessimistic about her chances of recovery as Stephen Westmoreland, who was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands.
"There's no change," the earl said, wearily rubbing his hands over his face before he looked up. "She's as still as death. The maids in her chamber are under orders to keep talking to her as you suggested. I even tried talking to her myself a few minutes ago, but she didn't respond. It's been three days," he pointed out as frustrated impatience edged his voice, "can't you do something?"
Dr. Whitticomb pulled his gaze from the earl's haggard features, curbed the impulse to insist he get some rest, which he knew would be futile, and said instead, "She's in God's hands, not mine. I'll go up and look in on her, however."
"A damned lot of good that's going to do," his lordship fired at his departing back.
Ignoring that outburst of noble temper, Hugh Whitticomb walked up the grand staircase and turned left at the top.
When he returned to the study sometime later, the earl was sitting as he had been before, but Dr. Whitticomb's expression had brightened considerably. "Evidently," he said dryly, "my visit did do some good, after all. Or perhaps she simply liked my voice better than the maids'."
Stephen jerked his head up, his gaze searching the physician's face. "She's conscious?"
"She's resting now, but she came around and was even able to speak a few words to me. Yesterday, I wouldn't have given a farthing for her chances, but she's young and strong, and I think she may pull through."
Having said all he had to say on that subject, Dr. Whitticomb looked at the deeply etched lines of fatigue and strain at Stephen's eyes and mouth and embarked on the second of his primary concerns: "You, however, look like the very devil, my lord," he pronounced with the blunt familiarity of a longtime family friend. "I was going to suggest we go up to see her together after supper—providing you invite me to stay for supper, of course—but the sight of you might frighten her into a relapse if you don't have some sleep and a shave first."
"I don't need any sleep," Stephen said, so relieved that he felt positively energized as he stood up, walked over to a silver tray, and pulled the stopper out of a crystal decanter. "I won't argue about the shave, however," he said with a slight smile as he poured brandy into two glasses and held one of them out to the physician. Lifting his own glass in the gesture of a toast, he said, "To your skill in bringing about her recovery."
"It wasn't my skill, it was more like a miracle," the physician said, hesitating to drink the toast.
"To miraculous recoveries, then," Stephen said, raising his glass to his lips, then he stopped again as Whitticomb negated the second toast with another shake of his head.
"I… didn't say she was recovered, Stephen. I said she's conscious and she's able to speak."
The earl caught the hesitation in his voice, and a pair of piercing blue eyes narrowed sharply on Dr. Whitticomb's face, demanding an explanation.
With a reluctant sigh, the physician acceded to the demand. "I'd hoped to delay telling you this until after you'd had some rest, but the fact is that even if she pulls through physically—and I can't promise you she will—there's still a problem. A complication. of course, it may be very temporary. then again it might not."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"She has no memory, Stephen."
"She what?" he demanded.
"She doesn't
remember
anything that took place before she opened her eyes in the bedchamber upstairs. She doesn't know who she is or why she's in England. She couldn't even tell me her own name."
W
ith his hand on the ornate brass door handle, Dr. Whitticomb paused before entering his patient's bedchambers. Turning to Stephen, he lowered his voice and issued some last-minute warnings and instructions: "Head wounds are very unpredictable. Don't be alarmed if she doesn't remember speaking to me a few hours ago. On the other hand, she may have already regained her memory completely. Yesterday, I spoke with a colleague of mine who's had more experience with serious head injuries than I, and we both felt it would be a mistake to give her laudanum no matter how severe her headache might become. Even though it would help her pain, laudanum will put her to sleep, and we both think it's imperative to keep her conscious and talking."
Stephen nodded, but Whitticomb wasn't finished. "Earlier today, she grew very anxious and frightened when she couldn't remember anything, so do not, under any circumstances, say or do anything to add to her anxiety. When we go in there, try to make her feel calm and reassured, and make certain any servant who enters this bedchamber is under the same orders. As I said, head wounds are very dangerous and very unpredictable, and we wouldn't want to lose her." Satisfied that he'd covered everything, he turned the handle.
Sheridan sensed the presence of people in the darkened room as she floated in a comforting gray mist, drifting in and out of sleep, her mind registering neither fear nor concern, only mild confusion. She clung to that blissful state, because it allowed her to escape the nameless fears and haunting questions nagging at the back of her mind.
"Miss Lancaster?"
The voice was very near her ear, kind but insistent and vaguely familiar.
"Miss Lancaster?"
He was speaking to her. She forced her eyes open and blinked, trying to focus, but her vision was strangely blurry and she saw two of everything, each object superimposed over the other.
"Miss Lancaster?"
She blinked again, and the images separated into two men, one of them middle-aged and gray-haired, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a neat mustache. He looked kindly and confident, just as he sounded. The other man was much younger. Handsome. Not so kindly. Not so confident, either. Worried.
The older man was smiling at her and speaking. "Do you remember me, Miss Lancaster?"
Sheridan started to nod, but movement made her head hurt so horribly that spontaneous tears burned her eyes.
"Miss Lancaster, do you remember me? Do you know who I am?"
Careful not to move her head when she spoke, she answered his question: "Doctor." Her lips felt dry and cracked, but talking didn't seem to make her headache more intense. The moment she realized that, her own questions began to rush in on her. "Where am I?"
"You're safe."
"Where?" she persisted.
"You're in England. You sailed here from America."
For some reason, that made her feel uneasy, depressed. "Why?"
The two men exchanged a glance, then the doctor said reassuringly, "That will all come back to you in due time. Don't concern yourself with anything right now."
"I… want to know," she insisted, her whisper hoarse with tension.
"Very well, child," he agreed at once, patting her arm. After a slight hesitation he smiled as if he were giving her happy news and said, "You came here to join your fiancé."
A fiancé. Evidently, she was betrothed… to the other man, she decided, because he was the one who'd looked the most worried about her. Worried and exhausted. She shifted her gaze to the younger man and gave him a wan, reassuring smile, but he was frowning at the physician, who was shaking his head at him in some sort of warning. That frown bothered her for some reason, and so did the physician's warning look, but she didn't know why. It was incongruous, but at that moment, when she knew not who she was or where she'd been or how she came to be here, the only thing she
did
seem to know for certain was that one must always apologize for causing unhappiness to another. She knew that rule of courtesy as if it were deeply ingrained in her—instinctive, imperative, urgent.
Sherry surrendered to the overwhelming compulsion, and in a faint, thready voice, she waited until her fiancé was looking at her and said, "I'm sorry."
He winced as if her words had hurt him, and then for the first time in her recollection, she heard his voice—deep, confident, and incredibly soothing. "Don't apologize. Everything is going to be fine. All you need is a little time and some rest."
The act of speaking was beginning to require more effort than she could make. Exhausted and bewildered, Sherry closed her eyes, then she heard the men move as if to leave. "Wait…" she managed. Suddenly and irrationally terrified of being alone, of sinking back into the dark void that was tugging at her and never being able to surface again, she looked at both men, then settled her imploring gaze on her fiancé. He was the stronger of the two, younger, more vital—he would keep the demons in her brain at bay, with sheer force of will, if they came back to torment her. "Stay," she said in a faint whisper that was draining the last of her strength. "Please." When he hesitated and looked at the doctor, Sheridan wet her cracked lips and, drawing a labored breath, she framed into one feeble word all the thoughts and emotions that were warring inside her. "Afraid."
Her eyelids felt like lead weights, and they closed against her will, shutting her away from the world of the living. Panic set in, pressing her down, making her fight for air… And then she heard the sharp scrape of chair legs on the polished wood floor as a heavy chair was pulled up beside the bed. "There's nothing to fear," her fiancé said.
Sheridan moved her hand an inch forward on the coverlet, a child blindly seeking reassurance from a parent she couldn't even remember. Long masculine fingers closed over her palm and held it in a reassuring grip. "Hate… afraid," she mumbled.
"I won't leave you. I promise."
Sheridan clung to his hand, and his voice, and his promise, and she took all three with her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Guilt and fear made Stephen's chest ache as he watched her drifting deeper and deeper into slumber. Her head was swathed in bandages and her face was ghostly pale, but what struck him forcibly was how
small
she looked in that bed, swallowed up by pillows and bedcovers.
She had apologized, when he was entirely to blame, not only for the death of her fiancé and her dreams, but for this calamity as well. He knew the dangers on a dock, and yet he'd positioned himself, and her, directly in the path of a winch. On top of that, he'd been so preoccupied with her reaction to Burleton's death that he'd failed to see the loaded cargo net swinging toward her, and then he'd failed to react in time to the stevedore's warning shout. And if she hadn't been in such a state of shock over what Stephen had told her, and the blunt, clumsy
way
he'd told her, then she might have been able to react in time to save herself.
As it was, he had put her in the path of danger, failed to protect her, and then made it all but impossible for her to protect herself. If she died, the fault would be entirely his, and he knew he'd never be able to live with that on his conscience. He already carried enough of a burden over young Burleton's death to torment his nights and haunt his days.
Her breathing changed suddenly, and fear clawed at him. He held his own breath until her chest rose and fell in what seemed like a reasonably steady rhythm, then he exhaled and looked down at the hand resting trustingly in his palm. Her fingers were long and graceful and smooth, but her nails were trimmed very short—an aristocratic hand belonging to a prim and proper young lady with an obvious penchant for tidiness and practicality, he decided.
He lifted his gaze to her face, and if he hadn't been half crazed with fear and half dead from exhaustion, he would have smiled as he wondered how she felt about that face of hers, given her prim and practical streak. There was certainly nothing prim about those soft, generous lips, and nothing practical about those incredibly long, curly lashes that lay like lush crescents against her cheeks. He had no idea what color her hair or eyes were, but her cheekbones were delicately molded, her ivory skin almost translucent. In contrast to all her other features that seemed to exemplify fragile femininity, there was a firmness to that small chin of hers that hinted of willfulness. No, Stephen corrected himself, it more likely hinted of courage. She hadn't wept with pain or fear; she'd said she
hated
being afraid, which implied she preferred to fight that debilitating emotion, rather than succumb to it.
She undoubtedly had courage, he decided, and kindness as well—enough to try to apologize for worrying him. Courage and gentleness, a remarkable combination in any woman, but particularly in one so young.
And so
vulnerable
, he realized with a fresh surge of panic as her chest rose and fell in fitful little gasps. Tightening his grip on her hand, he watched her seem to struggle for air while a lump of pure terror swelled in his throat. God! She was dying! "Don't!" he whispered fiercely. "Don't die!"
B
right sunlight was peeking between the green draperies at the far end of the room when Sheridan opened her eyes again. Her fiancé was seated in a chair beside the bed, still holding her hand, fast asleep. Sometime in the night, he'd removed his coat and neckcloth, opened his collar, and fallen asleep with his arms crossed on the bed and his head resting on them. His face was toward her, and Sheridan cautiously turned her head on the pillow, breathing a sigh of relief when the slight movement didn't unleash the hammers in her brain.
In the peaceful daze that comes after a deep sleep, she idly studied the man to whom she was betrothed. He was tanned, she realized, as if he spent time outdoors, and his thick hair was a rich dark brown, beautifully trimmed to lie flat at the sides and to barely touch the collar of his shirt. At the moment, his hair was rumpled from sleep and there was something endearingly boyish about that and the way his spiky black lashes lay against his face. There was nothing boyish about the rest of him, however, and she felt a mixture of fascination and an inexplicable uneasiness at the discovery. The shadowy beginnings of a dark beard had appeared on a square jaw that was hard and resolute even in slumber. His straight, dark brows were drawn together into a scowl that boded ill for someone in his dreams. The fine white fabric of his shirt was stretched taut over powerful shoulders and muscular arms. Crisp, dark hair peeked from the deep vee of his open collar and lightly covered his forearms. He was all rugged angles and sharp planes, from his finely carved nose to his chiselled jaw and long fingers. He looked stern and uncompromising, she decided.
And handsome.
Dear God, he was so handsome!
Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze from his face and, for the first time, she looked at her surroundings. Her eyes widened in shocked awe at the glittering opulence of the green and gold room. Pale, apple green silk covered the walls and the windows and floated gracefully from the bed's canopy, held in place by shimmering golden cords and tassels. Even the cavernous fireplace at the far end of the room was of a wondrous green marble, adorned with golden birds mounted at the corners and ornate brass fittings. Two curved sofas upholstered in pale green watered silk faced each other in front of the fireplace, separated by a low oval table.
Her attention drifted back to the dark head resting near her hip, and she felt her spirits lift a little. She was obviously very fortunate, because her betrothed was not only startlingly handsome, but he was obviously extremely wealthy too. Moreover, he'd stayed with her all night, sleeping in that dreadfully uncomfortable position and never letting go of her hand; therefore, he must be very much in love with her.
He had obviously courted her and asked her to marry him. She closed her eyes tightly, searching for any recollection of him or of her past, but there was nothing except a black void. No woman could possibly forget being courted and loved by a man like this; it just wasn't possible. She'd remember it all in a minute, she told herself fiercely, fighting back a surge of panic so strong it made her feel nauseated. In her mind, she said things to herself that he must have said to her "
Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Miss .
. . ?" Miss who? Miss WHO?
"
Stay calm
!" Sheridan warned herself desperately. "
Concentrate on other things
. . .
sweet things he must have said
." Unaware that she was breathing faster and clutching his hand so hard that her nails were digging into it, she tried to think, to remember some of their times together. He would have treated her in a courtly manner as befitted a proper suitor. He'd have brought her flowers and told her that she was clever and charming and beautiful. She'd have to be all those things in order to have captured the heart of such a supremely eligible suitor…
She tried to think of something clever, but her mind went blank.
She tried to think of a charming phrase, and her mind remained blank. Trying to stay calm, she settled for thinking of her face. Her face…
She had no face.
SHE HAD NO FACE!
Some instinct or latent character trait was struggling to keep her calm, but terror was beginning to quake through her. She couldn't remember her name. She couldn't remember his name. SHE COULDN'T REMEMBER HER OWN FACE.
Stephen felt as if his hand had suddenly been clamped in a vise that was biting into his fingers, cutting off their blood supply. He tried to pull free of its painful grasp, but it held onto him. After three days without sleep, it took a supreme effort just to force his eyes open enough to peek between the heavy lids at whatever was causing his hand to go numb. Instead of finding a pitchfork buried in his fingers, he saw a woman lying in the bed beside him. Since that situation certainly wasn't unusual enough to startle him from his dazed stupor, he simply twisted his hand to free it a little so that he could go back to sleep. But because courtesy to the opposite sex had been drummed into his head since childhood, and because the woman had looked truly frantic, he managed to form a polite inquiry about her problem just as his eyes closed and he began sinking into a deep sleep. "What's wrong?"
Her voice shook with alarm. "I don't know what I look like!"
Stephen had known other women who were obsessed with their appearance, but this female's concern—in a dimly lit boudoir in the middle of the night—verged on the ridiculous. Given that, he didn't feel obliged to even open his eyes when she tightened her grip and frantically implored, "What do I look like?"
"Ravishing," he stated tonelessly. His entire body ached, which, he belatedly realized, was because she was in the bed and he wasn't. He was trying to muster the strength to ask her to move over, when he heard the unmistakable sound of stifled crying. Turning his head away from the sound, he wondered irritably what he had done to make her cry and resolved to have Wheaton send her a pretty trinket to atone for whatever it was—a ruby brooch, or something. The desire for an expensive piece of jewelry was, more often than not, the underlying cause of most feminine bouts of delicate tears. Even in his sleep, Stephen knew that.
Her crying promptly escalated to serious, anguished weeping, punctuated with gulped breaths and shuddering. Whatever he'd done to cause
this
outburst, it was far more than merely forgetting to compliment her gown or breaking an engagement for the theatre. This outburst was going to cost him a diamond necklace!
A convulsive sob shook her entire body along with the bedcovers.
And a matching bracelet.
Exhausted in body and spirit, he drifted deeper into slumber, reaching for the bliss of it, but something she'd said was holding him back, tugging at him. "I
don't know how I look… don't know… don't know
."
Stephen's eyes snapped open, and he jerked his head toward her. She'd turned her face away and covered her mouth with her left hand in an attempt to silence her cries, but shudders were still racking her body. Her eyes were closed, but tears were trickling steadily from beneath her long wet lashes and streaking down her pale cheeks. She was weeping her heart out, but she was fully conscious and lucid, and his relief at that outweighed his guilt over her tears.
"I wasn't awake enough to understand your question before," he said quickly. "I apologize."
Her body stiffened at the sound of his voice, and he saw the gallant struggle she made to bring herself under control before she turned her head on the pillow and looked at him.
"What's wrong?" he said carefully, gentling his voice to what he hoped was a soothing tone.
Sheridan swallowed, taken aback by how tired he still looked and how relieved. He must have been worried to death about her for days, she realized, feeling foolish and ungrateful for weeping like an infant over what in reality was little more than a temporary inconvenience. A bizarre, frightening inconvenience, to be sure, but it wasn't as if she'd been crippled or maimed or diagnosed with some deadly ailment. Guided by an instinctive desire to make the best of a difficult situation, she drew a shaky breath and gave him an apologetic smile. "I—It sounds absurd, but I don't know what I look like, and it—" she broke off, unwilling to distress him by telling him how frightening that was. "It's a trifling thing, really, but since you're already awake, could you just describe me a little?"
Stephen recognized her attempt to control her fear as well as reassure him—which struck him as remarkably and touchingly brave. "Describe you…" he said, stalling for time. He didn't know the color of her hair, and he was afraid of how she might react if she saw herself in a mirror, so he tried to pass the entire issue off as a joke. "At the moment, your eyes are puffy and red," he said with a smile as he flicked a quick glance at her eyes to gather additional information, "but they're… very large and… gray," he concluded with some surprise.
In fact, she had startling eyes, Stephen realized—light silvery gray at the center with a thin outline of black at the edges and set off with that luxurious fringe of long sable lashes.
"Gray?" Sheridan said, disappointed. "I don't think I like that."
"Right now, when they're wet, they look like liquid silver."
"Perhaps they aren't so very bad. What about the rest of me?"
"Well, your face is pale and streaked with tears, but it's a rather nice face, despite that."
She looked torn between horror, tears, and laughter. To his relief and surprise, she decided to smile. "What color is my hair?"
"At the moment," he prevaricated quickly, "your hair is concealed by a large white… er… turban. Wearing a turban to bed has become all the rage, as you know." The night of the accident, the light had been poor and her hair had been covered, first with a hood and then with her blood. Still, her lashes were brown, so it stood to reason her hair would be. "Your hair is brown," he said decisively. "Dark brown."
"It took you rather a long time to decide."
She was watching him closely, puzzled but not suspicious.
"I'm not very observant—about some things," he countered, inanely he thought.
"May I see a mirror?"
Stephen wasn't certain how she'd react if she didn't recognize her face even when she saw it in a mirror, and he wasn't certain if she'd panic when she saw her head swathed in bandages and the dark bruise near her temple. He was, however, certain that when the time came for her to look in a mirror, he wanted Whitticomb here in case she needed medication. "Another day," he said. "Perhaps tomorrow. Or when the bandages are removed."
Sheridan sensed why he didn't want her to look at a mirror, and since she wasn't up to another bout of terror and had no desire to make things any more trying for him than she already had, she reverted to their earlier remarks about turbans. "Turbans are very practical, I suppose. They save one the bother of using brushes and combs, and all that."
"Exactly," Stephen said, marvelling at the grace and courage she displayed under such extreme duress. He was so grateful she was able to talk and so touched by her attitude that it seemed perfectly natural, perfectly right, to cover her hand with his, smile into those amazing silvery eyes, and tenderly inquire, "Are you in much pain? How do you feel?"
"I have a bit of a headache, that's all," she admitted, returning his smile as if that, too, were natural and right. "You needn't worry that I feel as badly as I look."
Her voice was soft and sweet, and yet her expression was open and direct. She'd indicated a feminine concern about her appearance earlier, then calmly accepted that she did not look her best, and now she was actually joking about it. All those things gave Stephen the distinct impression that pretense and pretension were completely foreign to her, and that she was refreshingly unique in those ways and probably many other delightful ways, as well.
Unfortunately, that realization led instantly to another—one that banished his pleasure and made him quickly withdraw his hand from hers. There was nothing natural, nothing right, about what he was doing or the way he was thinking about her. He was not her fiancé, as she believed; he was the man who was responsible for her fiancé's
death
. Common decency, respect for the young man he had killed, and just plain ordinary good taste all dictated that he keep his distance mentally and physically. He was the last man on earth who had the right to touch her or think about her in any personal sort of way.
Hoping to end his visit on a light note, he stood up, rotating his sore shoulders, trying to work the kinks out of them. Reverting to her last comment about her looks, he said, "All in all, if I had to describe you at this moment, I'd say you look like a fashionable mummy."
She giggled weakly at that, but she was tiring, and he saw it. "I'll send a maid in with breakfast. Promise me you'll eat something." She nodded, and he turned to leave.
"Thank you," she said quietly behind him, and he turned back, puzzled.
"For what?"
Those candid eyes lifted to his, searching, delving, and Stephen had the fleeting impression that, with time, she might see straight into his blackened soul. She obviously hadn't gotten his true measure, however, because a warm smile touched those soft lips of hers. "For staying with me all night."
Her gratitude only made him feel more guilty about everything, more of a disgusting fraud, for letting her think of him as some gallant white knight, instead of the black villain he actually was. Inclining his head in the mockery of a bow, Stephen gave her a bold grin and a deliberate insight into his true character: "That is the
first
time I've ever been thanked by a beautiful woman for spending the night with her."