Until You wds-3

by Джудит Макнот

  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 fiance 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 fiance. "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 fiance, 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 deshabille.' 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.

  Even in her vulnerable state of mind, Charise Lancaster seemed to place no importance in his title or the size and elegance of his home. She wasn't intimidated by him, or his possessions, nor was she awed by his attention. Tonight she had greeted Hugh with a natural warmth that was irresistible, then she had laughed out loud at Stephen's gallantry. She was refreshingly frank and unselfconscious, yet she was sweet and soft too-enough to have been crushed by Stephen's neglect. She was the sort of rare young woman who thought of others' needs before her own and who obviously forgave offenses with grace and generosity. During the first few days of her recovery, when she was still confined to her bed, she'd invariably asked Hugh to reassure "the earl" that she was going to recover her health and her memory so that he wouldn't worry needlessly. Moreover, she'd been thoughtful enough-and astute enough-to realize that he would blame himself for her accident. In addition to that, Hugh was completely enchanted by her friendly, unaffected cordiality toward everyone, from the servants to himself, and even her betrothed.

  Monica Fitzwaring was a fine young woman of excellent character and breeding, and Hugh liked her very well, but not as a wife for Stephen. She was lovely, gracious, and serene-as she'd been taught to be-but because of that same upbringing, she had neither the desire nor the ability to evoke deep emotions in any husband, and particularly not in Stephen. Not once, in all the times Hugh had seen Stephen with her, had he ever looked at her with the sort of gentle warmth he'd shown to Charise Lancaster in the last hour. Monica Fitzwaring would make Stephen an excellent hostess and charming dinner companion, but she would never be able to touch his heart.

  Not long ago, Stephen had alarmed his entire family by announcing that he had no intention of ever marrying Monica or anyone else merely to beget an heir. Hugh found that more reassuring than alarming. He didn't approve one bit of these modern marriages of convenience that were so de rigueur amongst the ton-not for anyone he cared about, and he cared very much about the Westmorelands. For Stephen, he wanted nothing less than the sort of marriage Clayton Westmoreland had, the sort of marriage Hugh himself had when his Margaret was alive.

  His Margaret…

  Even now, as he strolled past the stately mansions that marched along Upper Brook Street, the thought of her made him smile. Charise Lancaster rather reminded him of his Margaret, he realized. Not in looks, of course, but in her kindness and her pluck!

  All things considered, Hugh was quite convinced that fate had finally given Stephen Westmoreland the sort of blessing he deserved. Of course, Stephen didn't want that sort of blessing, and Charise Lancaster wasn't likely to feel very "blessed" when she discovered she'd been duped by her "fiance" and her own physician. Nevertheless, fate had Hugh Whitticomb as an ally, and Dr. Whitticomb fancied himself as something of a potent force when the need arose.

  "Maggie girl," he said aloud, because even though his wife had died ten years before, he still felt she was very close and he liked to talk to her to keep her close, "I think we're going to pull off the best match in years! What do you think?"

  Swinging his cane, he tipped his head and listened, and then he started to chuckle because he could almost hear her familiar response: "I think you should call me Margaret, Hugh Whitticomb, not Maggie!"

  "Ah, Maggie girl," Hugh whispered, grinning, because he always replied the same way, "you've been my Maggie since the day you slid backwards off that horse and dropped right into my arms."

  "I did not slide off, I dismounted. A little awkwardly. "

  "Maggie," Hugh whispered, "I wish you were here."

  "I am, darling."

  18

  Stephen had intended to spend the night with Helene, at the theatre and then in her bed, but three hours after he'd left, he found himself back at his own front door, frowning because his knock hadn't been answered. Inside the entrance hall, he looked around for a butler or a footman, but the place seemed deserted, despite the relatively early hour. Dropping his gloves on a hall table, he strolled into the main salon. No butler materialized to divest him of his coat, so he shrugged out of it and tossed it over the arm of a chair. Then he took out his watch, wondering if it had stopped.

  His watch indicated the hour was half past ten, and when he turned to study the ormolu clock on the mantel, both timepieces agreed. Normally, he never returned from an evening with Helene, or any of his clubs, until dawn, and even then a sleepy-eyed footman was always in the hall to greet him.

  His thoughts turned to the evening he'd just spent with Helene, and Stephen reached up, idly rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, as if he could somehow rub away the discontent and ennui that had plagued him all night. Seated beside her in his box at the theatre he'd paid scant attention to the performance on stage, and then it was only to find fault with the actors, the musicians, the stage setting, and the perfume worn by the elderly dowager in the next box. In his state of restlessness, everything seemed to either bore or grate on him.

  The unusually pleasant mood he'd enjoyed earlier, as Sherry partook of an early dinner and regaled him with her amusing-and often astute-observations about her latest discoveries in the newspapers, had begun to dissipate as soon as he left the house.

  By the end of the pla
y's first act, Helene had sensed his discontent, and smiling invitingly behind her fan, she had whispered, "Would you prefer to leave now, and create our own 'second act' in more congenial surroundings?"

  Stephen had readily acceded to her suggestion that he take her to bed, but his performance there was as unsatisfying as the performance he'd witnessed at the theatre. Once he'd gotten his clothes off, he discovered he didn't want to indulge in the sort of leisurely sexual preliminaries he normally enjoyed; he simply wanted to spend himself in her. He'd wanted physical relief, not sensual pleasure; he'd gotten the former and given none of the latter.

  Helene had noticed, of course, and as he shoved off the bedcovers to get up, she raised up on an elbow and watched him dressing. "What occupies your thoughts tonight?"

  Guilty and frustrated, Stephen had bent down to press an apologetic kiss on her furrowed forehead, as he replied, "A situation that is entirely too complicated and too vexing to trouble you with." The explanation was an evasion, and they both knew it, just as they both knew a mistress was not ordinarily entitled to explanations or recriminations, but then Helene Devernay was far from ordinary. She was as sought-after and admired in her own right as any of the ton's acclaimed beauties. She chose her lovers to suit herself, and she had a wide field to choose from, all of them wealthy noblemen who were only waiting for the chance to offer her their "protection," as Stephen had done, in exchange for the exclusive right to her bed and her company.

  She'd smiled at his evasion and traced her fingertip down the deep vee of his open shirt as she inquired with sham innocence, "I understand from a seamstress at Madame LaSalle's that you had urgent need of several gowns that you desired to be delivered to your home with utmost haste for a visitor there. How is that… situation?" she finished delicately.

  Stephen straightened and regarded her with a mixture of amusement, irritation, and admiration for her perception. "The situation," he admitted bluntly, "is 'vexing' and 'complicated.' "