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 (8 page)
"I understand," Stephen said gently, experiencing a sense of relief that was nearly as strong as hers. They stood within arm's reach, smiling at each other, sharing a moment of triumph that seemed to bind them together and send their thoughts in similar directions. Stephen suddenly understood how Burleton could have been "madly in love" with her, as Hodgkin had claimed. As Sherry looked into his smiling blue eyes, she saw a warmth and charm that made her understand why she might have pledged herself to him. Odd phrases began to flit through the blankness of her memory, suggesting what ought to happen next…
The baron captured her hand and pressed it to his lips as he pledged his eternal devotion. "You are my one and only love
…"
The prince took her in his strong embrace and clasped her to his heart. "If I had a hundred kingdoms, I would trade them all for you, my dearest love. I was nothing, until you
…"
The earl was so overwhelmed by her beauty that he lost control and kissed her cheek. "Forgive me, but I cannot help myself! I adore you!"
Stephen saw the soft invitation in her eyes, and in that unguarded moment of complete accord, it seemed right, somehow, to respond. Tipping her chin up, he touched his lips to hers and felt the gasp of her indrawn breath at the same time her body seemed to tense. Puzzled by her rather extreme reaction, he lifted his head and waited for what seemed a long time for her to open her eyes. When her long lashes finally fluttered up, she looked confused and expectant and, yes, even a little disappointed. "Is something amiss?" he asked cautiously.
"No, not at all," she said politely, but it seemed as if the opposite were true.
Stephen looked at her in waiting silence, a tactic that normally prompted others to continue speaking, and which was predictably successful on his "fiancée."
"It is only that I seemed to expect something different," she explained.
Telling himself that he was merely trying to help her jog her memory, he said, "What was it that you expected?"
She shook her head, her smooth brow furrowed, her eyes never leaving his. "I don't know."
Her hesitant words and steady gaze only confirmed what he already suspected, which was that her real fiancé had evidently given freer rein to his passion. As Stephen gazed into those inviting silvery eyes, he abruptly decided that he was practically o
bligated
to live up to her memory of Burleton. His conscience shouted that he had another, selfish reason for what he was about to do, but Stephen ignored it. He had, after all, promised Whitticomb that he would make her feel safe and cherished. "Perhaps you were expecting—" he said softly as he slid his arm around her waist and touched his lips to her ear, "something more like this."
His warm breath in her ear sent shivers up Sheridan's spine, and she turned her face away from the cause, which brought her lips into instant contact with his. Stephen had intended to kiss her as Burleton might have done, but when her soft lips parted on a shaky breath, his intentions slipped from his mind.
Sheridan knew the moment his arm tightened on her waist and his lips began to move insistently against hers that she couldn't have been expecting this… not the stormy rush of sensation that made her gasp and cling tighter to him, nor the compulsion to yield her mouth to his searching tongue, nor the frantic beating of her heart when his fingers shoved into the hair at her nape, holding her mouth tighter to his while her body seemed to want to meet and forge into his.
Stephen felt her lean into him and fell helpless victim to it. When he finally managed to drag his mouth from hers, he lifted his head and stared down at her flushed face, stunned by his unprecedented reaction to a few virginal kisses from an inexperienced girl who hadn't seemed to have the slightest idea how to kiss him back. He watched her lids open and gazed into her slumberous eyes, a little annoyed with his loss of control and distinctly amused by the fact that an untutored slip of a girl was responsible for it.
At three and thirty, his preferences ran toward passionate, experienced, sophisticated women who knew how to give and receive pleasure. The notion that he could have been so violently aroused by a child-woman who was currently draped in an ill-fitting peignoir belonging to his current mistress was almost comical. On the other hand, she had shown herself to be an eager and willing student during those minutes in his arms, and there hadn't been a sign of maidenly shyness, not even now, as she stood in his arms, steadily returning his gaze.
All things considered, he decided, Charise Lancaster was probably not inexperienced, but rather improperly tutored by Burleton and his predecessors. The realization that he himself had been the naive one made Stephen grin as he lifted his brows and inquired dryly, "Was that more what you expected?"
"No," she said, giving her head a firm shake that sent her shining hair spilling over her right shoulder. Her voice shook, but her eyes never left his as she confessed softly, "I know I could never have forgotten anything that feels like that."
Stephen's amusement vanished, and he felt an unfamiliar ache in his chest. Without realizing what he was doing, he laid his hand against her cheek, his fingers splaying over the incredible softness of it. "I wonder," he mused aloud, "if you can possibly be as sweet as you seem."
He hadn't intended to voice the thought, and he didn't expect any reply, let alone the amazing one she gave him. In the voice of one confessing a terrible secret, she said, "I don't think I am sweet at all, my lord. You may not have noticed it, but I believe I have a rebellious nature."
Stephen squelched his shout of laughter and fought to keep his face straight, but she mistook his silence for dissent. "It would seem," she said in a shaky whisper, as her eyes dropped guiltily to the front of his shirt, "that I must have been quite good at hiding it from you when I had all my wits about me?"
When he didn't reply, Sheridan stared at the tiny ruby studs winking in his snowy shirtfront, savoring the sensation of a strong masculine arm around her waist. And yet she had the hazy feeling that there was something wrong in what she was doing. She concentrated on the feeling, trying to force it to take shape and reveal itself, but nothing happened. It was as unreliable as her own reactions to her betrothed; to everything, in fact. One minute she hated her gown, her fiancé, and her loss of memory, and she wanted to be rid of all of them. And then he could change all that with a warm smile or an admiring glance… or a kiss. With a single smile, he could make her feel as if her gown were fit for a princess and that she was beautiful and that her memory was best lost. She couldn't understand any of that, particularly why there were fleeting moments when she felt she didn't
want
to remember. And, dear God, the way he kissed her! Her whole body seemed to melt and burn, and she loved the feeling at the same time that it made her uneasy and guilty and uncertain. In an effort to explain all that to him and even perhaps ask his counsel, Sheridan drew an unsteady breath and confessed to his shirtfront, "I don't know what sort of person you think I am, but I seem to have a… a
formidable
temper. One might even say I have a… a completely unpredictable disposition."
Helplessly enchanted by her candor, Stephen put his fingers beneath her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I've noticed," he said huskily.
Her expressive eyes searched his. "That doesn't bother you?"
There were several things that "bothered" Stephen at that moment, and they were not related to her disposition. Her full breasts were pressed against his chest, her molten hair was gliding over his hand at her back, and she had a soft, full mouth that positively invited a man's kiss. The name "Sherry" suited her perfectly. She was dangerously and subtly intoxicating. She was
not
his fiancée, she was
not
his mistress; she deserved his respect and his protection, not his lust. Intellectually, he knew that, but his brain seemed to be hypnotized by her smile and her voice, and his body was being ruled by an arousal that was becoming almost painful. Either she didn't understand why he was rigid, or she hadn't noticed, or she didn't mind, but whatever the reason, he was content with the result. "You 'bother' me very much," he said.
"In what way—" Sherry asked, watching his gaze drop to her lips and feeling her heartbeat triple.
"I'll show you," he murmured huskily, and his lips seized hers with violent tenderness.
He kissed her slowly, urging her to participate this time, not merely to yield, and Sheridan sensed the subtle invitation. His hand curved round her nape, stroking it softly, while his other hand drifted up and down her spine in an endless caress. His parted lips moved back and forth on hers, urging them to open for him, and Sheridan responded with tentative uncertainty. She matched the stroking movements of his mouth, and felt his lips part more; she touched her tongue to them, exploring the warm male contours, and she felt his hand clamp tighter against the base of her spine.
She leaned up on her toes, sliding her hands up the hard muscles of his chest, over his shoulders, arching her body as she brought him closer to her… and suddenly his arms went around her like iron bands, and the kiss became fiercely hard and urgent. His tongue caressed hers and then drove into her mouth, sending shivers of primitive sensations through Sheridan's quaking body, and she clung tighter to him, kissing him back. His hands shifted, sliding up the sides of her breasts, starting to caress them…
Warned by an instinct she didn't understand and didn't challenge, Sheridan tore free of his mouth and shook her head at him in a near-panic, even though a part of her desperately wanted him to kiss her again.
Stephen reluctantly loosened his grip on her and dropped his arms to his sides. With a mixture of disbelief and amusement he gazed down at the exquisite young beauty who had just managed to drug not only his senses, but his mind. Her face was flushed, her chest was heaving gently with each apprehensive breath she drew, and her dark-lashed eyes were wide with confusion and desire. She looked as if she wasn't certain what she wanted to do. "I think it's time we did something else," he said, making the decision for both of them.
"What do you have in mind?" she asked shakily.
"What I have in mind," Stephen replied wryly, "and what we are
going
to do are very far apart." He decided to teach her the rudiments of chess.
It was a mistake. She beat him twice in a row because he couldn't seem to keep his mind on the game.
S
tephen scrupulously avoided all thoughts of her the following day, but as his valet laid out his clothes for the evening, he found himself looking forward to supper with Sherry more than he could remember anticipating a meal in a very long time. He'd ordered some decent clothing for her from Helene's dressmaker and insisted that at least one gown be delivered to her later that day with the remainder to be delivered as they were readied. When the modiste had reminded him hysterically that the Season was about to begin and her seamstresses were all working night and day, Stephen had politely asked her to do the best she could. Since Helene's purchases at the exclusive shop resulted in astronomical charges, he had every faith the dressmaker would manage to put a decent wardrobe together and that she would charge him exorbitantly for the added haste.
Within hours, three seamstresses had arrived at the house, and although he wasn't naive enough to suppose that, on such short notice, his dinner partner would be garbed in the highest fashion, he was rather eager to see how she looked in a proper gown. As he tipped his head back so his valet could brush lather under his chin, Stephen decided that no matter what Charise Lancaster wore, she would do it with her own special flair, whether it was a golden drapery cord or a ball gown.
He was not disappointed in that, or in their evening. She walked into the dining room, her titian hair tumbling over her shoulders and framing her vivid face, looking like an exotic ingénue in a soft aqua wool gown with a low, square neckline and fitted bodice that managed to call attention to the tops of her full breasts and accent her narrow waist before it fell in simple folds to the floor. Shyly avoiding Stephen's frankly admiring gaze, she nodded graciously at the footmen standing at attention near the sideboard, complimented the silver bowls of white roses and banks of ornate silver candelabra on the table, then she slid gracefully into the chair across from him. Only then did she lift her face to his, and the smile she gave him was so warm, so filled with generosity and unconscious promise, that it took a moment for Stephen to realize she was merely thanking him for the gown. "… you were much too extravagant, though," she finished with quiet poise.
"The gown is far from extravagant and not nearly as lovely as the woman wearing it," Stephen replied, and when she looked away as if she were truly embarrassed by his remark, he reminded himself very firmly that she didn't
intend
to seduce him with that melting smile of hers, or the graceful sway of her hips, or the swell of her soft breasts, and that this was a very inappropriate time, place, and woman to evoke thoughts of satin pillows beneath glossy titian hair and full breasts swelling to fit his seeking hands. In view of that, he turned his thoughts to safer topics and asked what she had done with her day.
"I read the newspapers," she replied, and with candlelight shimmering on her hair and glowing in her laughing eyes, she began to regale him with a hilarious commentary about the gushing reports she'd been reading in the back issues of the newspapers about the doings of the ton during the London Season. Her original intent, she explained, had been to learn all she could from the newspapers about his acquaintances and all the other members of the haut ton before she was introduced to them. Stephen's conscience rebelled at letting her do that when she wasn't going to meet anyone at all, but, he reasoned, the endeavor seemed to have cheered and occupied her, and so he asked her what she had learned thus far.
Her answers, and her facial expressions, kept him amused, diverted, and challenged throughout the entire ten-course meal. When she talked about some of the outrageous frivolities and excesses she'd read about, she had a way of wrinkling her pert nose in prim disapproval or rolling her eyes in amused disbelief that invariably made him feel like laughing. And while he was still struggling to hide his amusement, she could turn thoughtful and phrase a quiet question that took him completely aback. Her damaged memory seemed to have random blanks when it came to understanding how and why people in his social stratum—or her own in America, for that matter—did things in a particular way, and so she asked pointed questions that made him reevaluate customs he'd taken for granted.
"According to the
Gazette
," she laughingly informed him as the footmen placed a serving of succulent duck on their plates, "the Countess of Evandale's court gown was embellished with three thousand pearls. Do you suppose that was an accurate tally?"
"I have every faith in the journalistic integrity of the
Gazette's
society reporter," Stephen joked.
"If that is correct," she said with an infectious smile, "then I can only assume they were either very
small
pearls or she is a very
large
lady."
"Why is that?"
"Because if the pearls were large and she was not, she'd have surely required a winch to haul her upright after she curtsied to the king."
Stephen was still grinning at the image of the coldly dignified and very rotund countess being hoisted aloft and swung out of the way of the throne when Sherry made a lightning shift from the frivolous to the serious. Propping her chin on her linked fingers, she'd regarded him down the length of the dining table and asked, "In April, when everyone of importance gathers in London for the Season and remains until June, what do people do with their children?"
"They stay in the country with their nannies, governesses, and tutors."
"And the same is true in the autumn during the Little Season?"
When Stephen nodded, she tipped her head to the side and said gravely, "How lonely English children must be during those long months."
"They aren't alone," Stephen emphasized patiently.
"Loneliness has nothing to do with being alone. Not for children or adults."
Stephen was so desperate to avert a topic that he feared would lead directly into an impossible discussion of
their
children, that he didn't realize his tone had chilled or that in her vulnerable state, his remarks might hit her like daggers. "Are you speaking from experience?"
"I… don't know," she said.
"I'm afraid that tomorrow evening, you're going to be."
"Alone?"
When he nodded, she looked quickly at the delicate pastry shell filled with pâté that was on the plate in front of her, then she drew a deep breath, as if gathering her courage, and looked at him directly. "Are you going out because of what I just said?"
He felt like a beast for making her ask that, and very emphatically he said, "I have a prior engagement that cannot be cancelled." And then, as if his need to exonerate himself in her eyes weren't already reaching the absurd, he announced, "It may also set your mind at ease to know that my parents had my brother and me brought to London at least once every fortnight during the London Season. My brother and his wife, and a few of their friends, bring their children and an entourage of governesses here during the Season."
"Oh, that's lovely!" she exclaimed, her smile dawning like the sun. "I am vastly relieved to know there are such devoted parents amongst the ton."
"Most of the ton," he informed her dryly, "is vastly
amused
by that same parental devotion."
"I don't think one ought to let the opinions of others influence what one does, do you?" she asked, frowning a little.
Three things hit Stephen at once, and he was torn between laughter, pity, and chagrin: Whether she realized it or not, Charise Lancaster was "interviewing" him, weighing his merits, not only as a prospective husband, but as the prospective father of her children—neither of which were roles he was going to fulfill. And that was a very good thing, because in the first place, he didn't seem to be rating very high in her estimation, and in the second, her disinterest in the opinions of Others would surely get her banished from polite society within a week, were she ever to set foot in it. Stephen had never cared for anyone's opinion, but then he was a man, not a woman, and his wealth and illustrious name gave him the right to do as he damn well pleased and to do it with impunity. Unfortunately, the same upright society matrons who were eager to lure him into marrying their daughters, and who were perfectly willing to overlook any of his vices and excesses, would pillory Charise Lancaster for the most minor social infraction—let alone a major one such as dining alone with him, as she was doing now.
"Do you think one ought to let the opinions of others influence one's actions?" she repeated.
"No, definitely not," he solemnly averred.
"I'm happy to hear that."
"I was afraid you would be," Stephen said, biting back a grin.
His good humor continued unabated during their meal and afterward in the drawing room, but when it was time to bid her good-night, he realized he couldn't trust himself to do more than press a brotherly kiss on her cheek.
"W
hatever you did, it certainly has turned the trick," Hugh Whitticomb announced early the following evening, as he poked his head into the drawing room, where Stephen was waiting for Sherry to join him for dinner.
"She's feeling well, then?" Stephen replied, pleased and relieved that his passionate and willing "fiancée" had not decided to indulge in a fit of virginal guilt over the few liberties he'd taken the night before and confessed it all to Whitticomb. Stephen had been closeted all day, first with one of his stewards, and then with the architect who was laboring over the plans for renovating one of his estates, and so he hadn't caught a glimpse of her, though the servants had kept him informed of her whereabouts in the large townhouse and reported that she appeared to be in good spirits. He was looking forward to a thoroughly enjoyable evening, first with Sherry and later with Helene. As to which part of the evening he was most looking forward to, that was something he did not care to consider.
"She's feeling more than well," the physician remarked. "I'd say she's glowing. She said to tell you she'd be down in a moment."
Stephen's pleasurable contemplation of his evening was substantially diminished by the fact that the physician was now strolling into the room, uninvited—and unwanted—and he was studying Stephen with an open, intense interest that was distinctly disturbing from someone as astute as he. "What did you do to accomplish such a miraculous transformation?"
"I did as you suggested," Stephen said mildly, turning and walking over to the fireplace mantel where he'd left his glass of sherry. "I made her feel… er… safe and secure."
"Could you be more specific? My colleagues—the ones I've consulted about Miss Lancaster's amnesia—would surely be interested in your method of treatment. It's amazingly effective."
In answer, Stephen propped an elbow on the mantelpiece and quirked a mocking brow at the inquisitive physician. "Don't let me keep you from another appointment," he countered dryly.
The broad hint that he should leave led Hugh Whitticomb to conclude that Stephen wished to enjoy the evening alone with her. Either that or he simply didn't want a witness to the charade he was being forced to play as her devoted fiancé. Hoping to discover it was the former, he said sociably, "As it happens, I'm free for the evening. Perhaps I could join you at supper and witness firsthand your methods with Miss Lancaster?"
Stephen gave the physician a look as bland as his own, but his voice carried a wealth of meaning. "Not a chance."
"I rather thought you were going to say something like that," Dr. Whitticomb said with a grin.
"A glass of Madeira instead?" the earl suggested, his expression as inscrutable as his tone.
"Yes, thank you. I believe I will," Dr. Whitticomb said, no longer quite so certain what Stephen's motives were for wanting him to depart. The earl nodded a silent instruction at a footman standing near a cabinet filled with decanters and glasses, and in moments a glass of wine was handed to him.
Dr. Whitticomb was asking Stephen what he intended to do about his houseguest when the ton descended en masse on London for the Season next week, when the earl's gaze suddenly snapped to the doorway and he straightened from his lounging position against the fireplace. Turning in the direction of his gaze, Dr. Whitticomb saw Miss Lancaster walk into the room wearing a fetching yellow gown that matched the wide ribbon that twined in and around the heavy curls at her crown. She saw him too, and she came directly to him as good manners and his age dictated she should. "Dr. Whitticomb," she exclaimed with a delighted smile, "you didn't tell me you would be here when I came down!"
She held out both hands to him in a gesture that, for a well-bred English girl, would have been much too cordial for such a brief acquaintance. Hugh took her hands in his own and decided he liked her unaffected warmth and spontaneity very well, and the devil with custom. He liked her very well indeed. "You look lovely," he said feelingly, standing back a little to survey her gown. "Like a buttercup, in fact," he added, though the compliment sounded unflattering somehow.
Sheridan was so nervous about facing her fiancé that she prolonged the moment before she had to look at him. "But I look exactly as I did when you saw me a few moments ago. Of course, I didn't have clothes on then," she added, and then felt like dropping through the floor when the earl made a choked, laughing sound.
"What I meant was," she amended swiftly, looking up at Lord Westmoreland's handsome, smiling face, "I didn't have
these
clothes on."
"I know what you meant," Stephen said, admiring the rosy blush that tinted her cheeks and the porcelain skin above the gown's square neckline.
"I cannot thank you enough for the lovely gowns," she told him, feeling as if she could drown in the depths of his blue eyes. "I confess that I was very much relieved by their arrival."
"Were you?" Stephen said, grinning for no reason at all except that she gave him an odd kind of pleasure when she walked into a room… or looked at him with such unconcealed delight over a trifling thing like a few hastily fashioned, simple gowns. "Why were you relieved?" he asked, noticing that she did not offer her hands to him to clasp as she had to Whitticomb.
"I wondered the same thing," Dr. Whitticomb said, and Sheridan pulled loose from Lord Westmoreland's mesmerizing gaze with a mixture of embarrassment and reluctance. "I was very much afraid they might all be like the one I wore two nights ago," she explained to the physician. "I mean, it was truly lovely, but… well…
drafty
."
"Drafty?" Dr. Whitticomb repeated blankly.
"Yes, you know—it rather floated about and I felt like I was wearing a lavender
veil
, instead of a sturdy gown. I was in constant fear that one of those silver ribbons would come undone and I would find myself…" she trailed off, as all the physician's attention shifted and narrowed on the earl. "So it was
lavender
, was it?" he asked her without taking his gaze from her fiancé. "And flimsy?"
"Yes, but it was perfectly proper to wear it in England," she put in quickly, sensing increasing censure in the look the older man was giving the earl.
"Who told you that, my dear?"
"The maid—Constance." Determined that he not misjudge her fiancé, who looked mildly amused despite the doctor's continued, narrowed scrutiny, she added very firmly, "Dr. Whitticomb, the maid assured me it was meant to be worn 'for one dinner bell.' Those were her very words—'For One Dinner Bell'!"
For some reason, that emphatic announcement caused both men to finally break off their visual duel and aim their twin gazes at her. "What?" they said in unison.
Wishing she'd never brought the matter up, Sheridan drew a long breath and patiently explained to both baffled male faces, "She said that the lavender gown was suitable for only
one dinner bell
. I didn't know you rang a bell, and I realized I was coming down to supper, not dinner, but since I didn't have anything else to wear, and I hadn't worn it for any other dinner bell, I didn't—" She broke off as understanding dawned on the earl's face, and she saw him struggling to keep his expression straight. "Have I said something amusing?"
Dr. Whitticomb looked at Stephen and demanded a little testily, "What does she mean?"
"She means '
En déshabillé
.' The chambermaid was butchering the French pronunciation."
Dr. Whitticomb nodded his instant understanding, but he did not find the explanation at all humorous. "I should have guessed. I certainly suspected it from the description of that
lavender
gown. I trust you'll find a qualified ladies' maid for Miss Lancaster at once and that you'll completely remedy the clothing problem, so that sort of misunderstanding won't happen again?"
Dr. Whitticomb had drained his glass and passed it to the footman who materialized at his elbow with a silver tray before he realized that his host hadn't replied. Intending to insist on an answer, he turned and realized that Stephen had evidently forgotten not only the question but Hugh's presence. Instead of attending the discussion, he was grinning at Charise Lancaster, and saying in a lightly chastising tone, "You have not yet bade me good evening, mademoiselle. I'm beginning to feel quite devastated."
"Oh, yes, I can see that you are," Sheridan said, laughing at the outrageous—but flattering—exaggeration. Leaning casually against the mantel, with his blue eyes smiling into hers and that lazy white smile upon his handsome face, Stephen Westmoreland epitomized male confidence and potency. Nevertheless, his teasing gallantry and the warmth in his eyes had a strangely exhilarating effect on her, and her own smile warmed as she admitted wryly, "I did intend to greet you at once, but I've forgotten how it should be done, and I've been meaning to ask you about it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, am I to curtsy?" she explained with a desperate little laugh that Stephen found utterly endearing. Somehow, she managed to confront her enormous problem and all its obstacles with a smiling honesty that he found astonishing and incredibly courageous. As to how he wished her to greet him, he would have preferred that she offer both her hands to him as she'd done to Hugh Whitticomb, or better yet that she offer her mouth for the kiss he suddenly wanted to put there, but since neither was feasible right now, he nodded in answer to her question and said casually, "It's customary."
"I rather thought it was," she said and sank into a graceful, effortless curtsy. "Was that acceptable?" she asked, putting her hand into Stephen's outstretched palm as she arose.
"More than acceptable," he said with a grin. "How did you spend your day?"
From the corner of his eye, Hugh Whitticomb carefully noted the warmth of the earl's smile, the absorbed way he watched her as she answered his question, and the fact that he was standing far closer to her than was necessary or even seemly. If he was merely acting a part, then he was certainly enjoying it. And if he wasn't merely acting…
Dr. Whitticomb decided to test the latter possibility, and in a casual joking tone, he addressed their profiles, "I could still be coerced into staying for supper, were I invited—"
Charise Lancaster looked around at him, but Stephen didn't so much as glance in his direction. "Not a chance," he said dryly. "Go away."
"Never let it be said I don't know a hint when I hear one," Dr. Whitticomb said, so encouraged, so utterly delighted by everything, including Stephen's unprecedented lack of hospitality, that he almost clasped the butler's outstretched hand at the front door when the butler gave him his hat and cane.
"Keep an eye on the young lady for me," he said instead, with a conspiratorial wink. "It will be our little secret." He was halfway down the front stairs before he realized that the butler hadn't been Colfax, but another, much older man.
It didn't matter. Nothing could have dampened his spirits right then.
His carriage was waiting at the curb, but the night was so fine and his hopes so high that he decided to walk and motioned to his coachman to follow him. For years, he and the Westmoreland family had watched in helpless consternation as women threw themselves at Stephen, all of them so damned eager to trade themselves for his title, his wealth, and an alliance with the Westmoreland family that Stephen, who had once been the personification of elegant charm and relaxed warmth, had become a hardened cynic.
He was sought after by every hostess and matchmaking mama in England, treated with the deferential respect that his immense wealth and powerful family commanded amongst the ton, and desperately desired—not for what he was, but for
who
he was and
what
he had.
The longer he remained unattached, the more of a challenge he had become, to married and unmarried women alike, until it reached the point that he could not walk into a ballroom without creating a veritable frenzy amongst the female population. He saw it happening, he understood the reasons, and his opinion of women continued to degenerate in direct proportion to his increase in popularity. As a result, his attitude toward the entire female sex was now so jaded and so low that he publicly preferred the company of his mistress to that of any respectable female of his own class. Even when he came to London for the Season, which he hadn't done in two years, he disdained to put in an appearance at any of the major social functions, preferring to spend his evenings either at the gaming tables with male friends or else at the theatre and opera with Helene Devernay. So openly did he flaunt her in front of the offended ton that it was causing a scandalbroth that was deeply distressing to his mother and his sister-in-law.
Until a year or two ago, he had at least tolerated the women who made cakes of themselves over him. Until then, he had treated them with nothing worse than amused condescension, but lately his patience had seemed to come to an end. These days, he was fully capable of delivering a crushing setdown or a biting incivility that was guaranteed to reduce a lady to mortified tears and to outrage her relatives when they heard of it.
And yet… tonight, he had been smiling into Charise Lancaster's eyes with some of his old warmth. No doubt part of his attitude owed itself to the fact that Stephen felt responsible for her plight—and he was. She needed him desperately right now, but in Dr. Whitticomb's opinion, he needed her just as badly. He needed gentleness in his life and sweetness. Most of all, he needed hard proof that there were unmarried females in the world who wanted and needed more from him than just the use of his title, his money, and his estates.