Stephen glanced apologetically at Sherry, who looked completely disoriented and panicky, and whispered, "Don't worry. They will like you once they recover from their surprise." In the space of a few tense seconds, Stephen rapidly considered every plausible, and implausible, way of handling what looked to be impending disaster; but without ordering Sherry to leave so that he could explain-which would only humiliate and distress her-he had no choice but to improvise and to play out the farce in his family's presence and then explain the truth to them after Sherry went up to bed.
In keeping with that plan, Stephen sent a warning look to his older brother that insisted on his unquestioning cooperation, but Clayton's amused attention was on Sherry and the forgotten tea tray in Stephen's hands. "Very domestic, Stephen," Clayton remarked dryly.
Impatiently putting the tray down, Stephen looked at the doorway, where Colfax was waiting for instructions about refreshments, and nodded emphatically to produce them at once. Then he turned to the waiting group and began the introductions. "Mother, may I present Miss Charise Lancaster."
Sherry looked at her future mother-in-law, realized she was being introduced to a dowager duchess and promptly panicked because she couldn't think what to say. She threw an agonized look at Stephen and said in a whisper that seemed to shriek through the silent, waiting room, "Will an ordinary curtsy suffice?"
Stephen put his hand beneath her elbow, partly for support and partly to urge her forward, and gave her a reassuring smile. "Yes."
Sherry sank into a curtsy and felt her knees wobble, then she drew on courage she didn't know she possessed and straightened. Meeting the older woman's piercing gaze, she said courteously, "I am very happy to make your acquaintance, ma'am, I mean, Your Grace." Turning, she waited as Stephen introduced her to his sister-in-law, a stunning brunette he referred to as Whitney, whose green eyes were regarding Charise with veiled puzzlement. Another duchess! Sherry thought frantically, older than she, but not a great deal. To curtsy or not to curtsy? As if the other woman sensed her uncertainty, she held out her hand and said with a hesitant smile, "How do you do, Miss Lancaster?"
Sherry was grateful for the hint, and after shaking the young woman's hand she turned to be introduced to the duke, a very tall, dark-haired man who bore a distinct resemblance to her fiance in his facial features, height, and broad-shouldered physique. "Your Grace," she murmured, curtsying again.
The fourth member of the group, a handsome man in his mid-thirties whose name was Nicholas DuVille, pressed a gallant kiss to the back of her hand and told her that he was "enchanted" to meet her, then he smiled into her eyes in a way that made her feel as if she'd just received a very great compliment.
Finished with the introductions, she waited for one of Stephen's relatives to welcome her to the family or to at least wish her happiness, but no one seemed able to speak. "Miss Lancaster has been ill," her fiance said, and three pairs of eyes turned to her, as if concerned that she might swoon, which she felt very much as if she might actually do.
"Not ill, actually," Sherry amended. "It was an injury-a blow to the head."
"Why don't we all sit down," Stephen suggested; cursing perverse fate for making what had already been a difficult situation into one that was bound to worsen. Sherry obviously didn't understand what his family was thinking, but Stephen did. They had walked in on him while he was entertaining an unchaperoned female in his home, which meant that her morality was in serious question, not to mention his own judgment for bringing such a woman into his home, particularly at an hour when callers might arrive. Furthermore, if she were some doxy with whom he was dallying, then he'd committed an unforgivable breach of decency by introducing her to his female relatives. Rather than believe he would descend to that, they were now waiting patiently for some sort of explanation as to who she was… or where her chaperone was… or where his mind was. Stalling for time, Stephen stood up as the butler came forward bearing a tray of decanters and glasses. "Ah, here is Colfax right now!" he said with grim desperation. "Mother, what will you have to drink?"
His tone won a startled glance from his mother, but she sensed his desire for her unquestioning cooperation and complied at once. With a polite smile, she shook her head at the tray the butler was placing on the table in front of the sofa and looked instead at the one Stephen had already put there. "Is that hot chocolate I smell?" she asked brightly, and without waiting for a reply, she said to the butler, "I believe I prefer the chocolate, Colfax."
"I'd have the sherry if I were you," Stephen advised with feeling.
"No, I think I'd prefer the chocolate," his mother said firmly, then she demonstrated her legendary grace under pressure by turning to Sherry. "I noticed you have an American accent, Miss Lancaster," she said politely. "How long have you been in England?"
"A little over a sennight," Sherry said, her voice tense with confusion and uncertainty. No one in that room seemed to know anything at all about her, even though she was betrothed to a member of their own family. Something was odd-dreadfully odd.
"Is this your first visit?"
"Yes," Sherry managed, looking desperately at Stephen, her chest tightening with anxiety and irrational foreboding.
"And what brings you here?"
"Miss Lancaster came to England because she is betrothed to an Englishman," Stephen said, coming to Sherry's rescue and praying that his mother's heart was strong.
The dowager duchess's entire body seemed to relax and her expression to warm. "How delightful," she said, pausing to frown at the butler, who had poured sherry into a glass and was holding it toward her, despite her stated preference for the chocolate. "Colfax, do stop waving that wine under my nose. I'd prefer hot chocolate." She smiled at Sherry as Colfax distributed glasses of wine to the remaining guests. "To whom are you betrothed, Miss Lancaster?" she inquired brightly, reaching forward and helping herself to a cup of the chocolate.
"She is betrothed to me," Stephen said flatly.
Silence exploded in the room. If the situation hadn't been so grave, Stephen would have laughed at the myriad reactions to his announcement. "To… you?" his mother said dazedly. Without another word, she put the cup of chocolate down and plucked a glass of wine from Colfax's tray on the table. Off to Stephen's right, his brother was regarding him with fascinated disbelief, and his sister-in-law had gone perfectly still, a forgotten glass of sherry uplifted in her outstretched hand, as if she'd been about to offer someone a toast. Colfax was dividing his anguished sympathy between Stephen's mother and Sherry, while Nicholas DuVille was studying the edge of his coat sleeve, undoubtedly wishing he were somewhere else.
Ignoring their plight for the moment, Stephen looked at Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her head bent with mortification at what surely struck her as an insulting lack of enthusiasm from her future in-laws. Reaching for her hand, Stephen clasped it reassuringly and gave her the first feasible explanation that sprang to mind: "You wanted to wait until my family met you before we told them we are betrothed," he lied, with what he hoped was a convincing smile. "And that is why they seem so surprised."
"We seem surprised because we are surprised," his mother said sternly, looking at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "When did you meet? Where did you meet? You haven't been to-"
"I'll answer all your questions in a few minutes."
Stephen interrupted in a terse voice that silenced his mother before she could blurt out that he hadn't been to America in years. Turning to Sherry, he said gently, "You look very pale. Would you like to go upstairs and lie down?"
Sherry wanted very much to flee from that room with all its tension and undercurrents, but there was something so very strange about everything that she was half afraid to be absent. "No, I-I think I'd prefer to stay."
Stephen gazed into her wounded, silvery eyes and thought how this moment would have been for her if he had not killed her real fiance. True, Burleton wasn't much of a matrimonial prize, but they had cared for each other, and she certainly w
ouldn't have been subjected to such a degrading lack of enthusiasm from Burleton's family, if he'd had one. "If you would rather stay," he teased, "then I'll go upstairs and lie down and you stay here to explain to my family that I was such a… a sentimental idiot… that I let you twist me around your finger and convince me that they ought not to be told of our betrothal until after they'd met you and had an opportunity to know you."
Sherry felt as if an enormous weight had just fallen off her shoulders. "Oh," she said with an embarrassed laugh, as she looked around at the occupants of the room. "Is that what happened?"
"Don't you know?" the dowager burst out in what was, to Stephen's recollection, her first total loss of composure in her entire life.
"No-you see, I've lost my memory," Sherry replied with such sweetness and courage that Stephen's chest ached with admiration. "It is a dreadful inconvenience right now, but at least I can assure you it isn't a hereditary madness. It's merely the result of a silly accident that occurred on the dock beside the ship…"
Her voice trailed off, and Stephen forestalled another embarrassing barrage of questions by taking matters into his own hands and standing up, forcing her to follow suit. "You're tiring, and Hugh Whitticomb will have my head if you aren't rosy and healthy when he arrives tomorrow morning," he told her gently. "Let me walk you to your bedchamber. Say good-night to everyone. I insist."
"Good-night, everyone," Sherry echoed with a disconcerted smile. "As I'm certain you know, Lord Westmoreland is terribly protective." As she turned away, she noticed that while everyone else seemed to find her very odd, Nicholas DuVille was watching her with a faint smile, as if he found her more interesting than hopelessly peculiar. Sherry clung to the memory of his encouraging glance as she closed the door to her bedchamber and sat down on her bed, her mind whirling with frightening doubts and hopeless questions.
20
When Stephen walked back into the drawing room a few moments later, four pairs of eyes tracked his progress across the room, but his family waited until he was seated before they launched their questions. The instant he touched the chair, however, the two women spoke simultaneously.
His mother said, "What accident?"
His sister-in-law said, "What ship?"
Stephen looked to his brother for his first question, but Clayton merely regarded him with raised brows and said dryly, "I can't seem to get past the staggering discovery that you are not only a 'sentimental idiot' but 'terribly protective' as well."
Nicholas DuVille politely refrained from saying anything at all, though Stephen had the distinct feeling the Frenchman was rather amused by his predicament. He considered rudely volunteering to provide DuVille with a coach so that he could leave, but the man was a longtime friend of Whitney's, and, besides, his presence would deter Stephen's dignified mother from indulging in what would have been her first bout of hysterics.
Satisfied that the group was as ready as they were ever likely to be to hear the truth, Stephen leaned his head against the back of his chair and addressed the ceiling in a terse, composed voice. "The scene you just witnessed between Charise Lancaster and myself is actually a giant farce. The entire debacle began with a carriage accident over a week ago, an accident for which I was responsible and which has resulted in a chain of events that I am about to describe to you. The young woman whom you have just met is as much a victim of those events as her deceased fiance, a young baron by the name of Arthur Burleton."
From the other side of the room, Whitney said in an appalled voice, "Arthur Burleton is-was a complete scapegrace."
"Be that as it may," Stephen replied with a ragged sigh, "they cared for each other and were going to be wed. As you're about to discover from my tale, Charise Lancaster, whom you all suspect of being either a complete birdwit or else a scheming fortune-hunter who has somehow enticed me into offering her marriage, is actually a completely innocent, and very pitiable, victim of my own negligence and dishonesty…"
When Stephen had completed his tale and answered everyone's questions, a long silence fell over the room's occupants as everyone tried to gather their thoughts. Lifting his wineglass, Stephen took a long drink, as if the wine could somehow wash away the bitterness and regret he felt. His brother spoke first. "If Burleton was inebriated enough to run in front of a team of horses on a public street in the fog, then surely he is responsible for his own death."
"The responsibility is mine," Stephen replied curtly, dismissing Clayton's well-meaning attempt to absolve him. "I was driving a raw team. I should have been able to keep my horses under control."
"And following that logic, I gather you feel equally responsible for the loaded cargo net that injured Charise Lancaster?"
"Of course I do," Stephen bit out. "She would not have been standing in harm's way, nor would I have let her, if we hadn't both been preoccupied with Burleton's death. If it had not been for my carelessness on two occasions, Charise Lancaster would be a healthy, married woman tonight with an English baron for a husband and the life she wanted stretching before her."
"Now that you've convicted yourself," Clayton countered, momentarily forgetting DuVille's presence, "have you decided on your penalty yet?"
Everyone in the room knew Clayton was merely frustrated and alarmed by the bitter self-recrimination that had permeated Stephen's voice, but it was Nicholas DuVille who defused the charged atmosphere by interrupting in a humorous drawl, "In the interest of avoiding a nasty duel between the two of you at dawn, which would force me to arise at a very inconvenient and uncivilized hour in order to act as your joint second, may I respectfully suggest you turn your excellent minds to possible solutions to the problems, rather than dwelling on the cause?"
"Nicholas is quite right," the dowager duchess murmured to her empty glass, her expression somber and preoccupied. Lifting her gaze to his, she added, "Though it's unfair to embroil you in our family problems, it is obvious that you are better able to think clearly because you are not so deeply involved."
"Thank you, your grace. In that case, may I offer you my thoughts on the matter?" When both women nodded emphatically and neither man voiced an objection, Nicki said, "If I understood everything correctly, it appears that Miss Lancaster was betrothed to a penniless ne'er-do-well, for whom she harbored tender feelings, but who had nothing to offer her other than a noble title. Do I have it right so far?"
Stephen nodded, his expression carefully neutral.
"And," Nicki continued, "because of two accidents for which Stephen feels responsible, Miss Lancaster now has no fiance and no memory. Correct?"
"Correct," Stephen said.
"As I understood it, her physician believes her memory will return in its own good time, is that also correct?"
When Stephen nodded, Nicki said, "Therefore, the only permanent loss she has suffered-for which you can possibly feel responsible-is the loss of a fiance who possessed a meaningless title and several very unsavory habits. In which case"-he lifted his glass in a mocking toast to his own powers of reason-"it appears to me that you could discharge your debt to her by simply finding her another fiance to take Burleton's place. And if the fiance you select also happens to be a decent fellow, capable of supporting her in a respectable style, then you could not only soothe your guilt, but you might rightly feel as if you've saved her from a life of torment and degradation." He glanced at Whitney and then at Stephen. "How am I doing so far?"
"I'd say you're doing rather well," Stephen replied with a slight smile. "I'd given some thought to a similar idea. But," he added, "the idea is far easier to contemplate than to execute."
"Oh, but I know we could pull it off if we put our heads to it!" Whitney exclaimed, anxious to pursue any solution at all that would derail his guilt and give them all a direction. "All we need do is see that she's introduced to a few of the hundreds of eligible men who will be here for the Season." She looked at her mother-in-law for support and received an overbright smile that belied unspoken worries.
"Actually, t
here are one or two minor problems associated with that plan," Stephen said dryly, but he couldn't bring himself to dampen her enthusiasm. Besides, the plan seemed far more feasible now, with the women in his family ready to lend their enthusiasm and assistance, than it had in the past days. "Why don't you give the entire project some careful thought, and we'll discuss the various aspects of it on the morrow-at one o'clock here?" he suggested. When everyone agreed, he cautioned, "For Sherry's sake, it is important that we foresee problems and avert them in advance. Remember that, when you are thinking about all this. I'll send a note to Hugh Whitticomb and ask him to come round and join the discussion, so that we are certain we aren't imperiling her recovery in any way."
As the group arose, he looked at his mother and Whitney and said, "Unless I miss my guess, Sherry is wide awake and torturing herself with questions she cant possibly answer about everyone's reaction to her tonight." He didn't have to complete the request. Both women were already heading for the door, anxious to atone for any unhappiness they'd caused his temporary fiancee.
21
Standing at the windows, gazing out into a night as dark and blank as her memory, Sherry whirled around at the soft knock on the door of her bedchamber and called for her visitors to enter. "We've come to beg your forgiveness," Stephen's mother said as she walked over to the windows. "We didn't understand-about your betrothal, or your accident, or all the rest-until Stephen explained to us."
"I'm so glad you're still awake," Stephen's beautiful sister-in-law said, her green eyes filled with an odd kind of regret as they searched Sherry's. "I don't think I could have slept, after the way we behaved to you downstairs."
Momentarily mired down in the social technicalities of how she ought properly to respond to an apology from two regal duchesses, Sherry gave up worrying about protocol and did what she could to soothe their obvious unease. "Please don't trouble yourselves about it," she said with soft sincerity. "I don't know what could have possessed me to want to keep the betrothal a secret, but I wonder sometimes if, when I am quite myself, I am perhaps a little… eccentric."
Until You wds-3 Page 14
