"Oh, I see. Actually, I'd rather you didn't spend money on a horse. It may turn out that I don't know how to ride at all. Could I not use one of your horses first, to find out? I could ask your coachman-"
"Don't even consider it," Stephen warned sharply. "I do not own a horse suitable for you or any other woman to ride, no matter how accomplished you may be. My animals are not the sort for a demure jog through the park."
"I don't think that's what I imagined yesterday. I felt like I wanted to gallop and feel the wind in my face."
"No gallops," he decreed. No matter how much riding she'd done, she was no rawboned country girl; she was slender and delicate, without the strength to handle a spirited gallop. When she looked bewildered and mutinous, he explained gruffly, "I don't want to carry you home unconscious for a second time."
He suppressed a shudder at the memory of her limp body in his arms, and that reminded him of another accident… another limp body belonging to a young baron with a life ahead of him and a beautiful girl who wanted to marry him. The recollection banished all desire to delay coming to the real point of their visit.
Leaning back in his chair, Stephen gave her what he hoped was a warm, enthusiastic smile and put his plan for her future into action. "I'm delighted to tell you that my sister-in-law has persuaded the most fashionable modiste in London to abandon her shop in its busiest time and to come here, with seamstresses in tow, in order to design a wardrobe for you to wear during the Season's activities." Instead of being thrilled, she furrowed her brow a little at the news. "Surely, that doesn't displease you?"
"No, of course not. But you see I don't need any more gowns. I still have two that I haven't yet worn."
She had a total of five ordinary day dresses, and she actually believed that was a wardrobe. Stephen decided her father must have been a selfish miser. "You will need a great many other things, besides those few items."
"Why?"
"Because the London Season calls for an extensive wardrobe," he said vaguely. "I also wanted to tell you that Dr. Whitticomb will be arriving this afternoon with an acquaintance of his, an elderly lady who, I understand from the doctor's note, is eager and competent to be an acceptable duenna for you."
That startled an instantaneous chuckle from her. "I don't need a ladies' companion," she laughed. "I am a-" Sherry's stomach churned and the words simply stopped coming. The thought that prompted them vanished into the ether.
"You are what?" Stephen prompted, watching her closely and noting her agitation.
"I-" she reached for the words, the explanation, but they evaded her, retreating further from her mind's grasp. "I-don't know."
Eager to get the distasteful part of the discussion over with, Stephen brushed that aside. "Don't worry about it. Everything will come back to you in good time. Now, there is something else I want to discuss with you…"
When he hesitated, she lifted those large silvery eyes to his and smiled a little to reassure him that she felt quite well enough to go on. "You were about to say?"
"I was about to say that I have arrived at a decision with which my family agrees." Having closed off her only possible avenue of appeal by warning her that his family concurred with him, Stephen presented her with a carefully worded ultimatum: "I want you to have an opportunity to enjoy the Season, and the attention of other men, before we announce our betrothal."
Sherry felt as if he had slapped her. She didn't want attention from strange men, and she couldn't imagine why he would like that. Steadying her voice, she said, "May I ask why?"
"Yes, of course. Marriage is a very great step, which should not be undertaken lightly-" Stephen broke off, mentally cursing himself for idiotically paraphrasing the actual ceremony, and switched to what he felt was a convincing explanation she wouldn't see through. "Since we did not know each other well before you came to England, I've decided that you ought to have the opportunity to look over the other eligible suitors in London, before you settle on me as a husband. For that reason, I'd like our betrothal to remain a secret between us for a while."
Sherry felt as if something were shattering inside. He wanted her to find someone else. He was trying to rid himself of her, she could feel it, and why not? She couldn't even remember her own name without a reminder and she was nothing like the gay, beautiful women she'd seen in the park yesterday. She couldn't even begin to compare to his sister-in-law or his mother, with their self-assured manner and regal ways. Apparently, they didn't want her in the family either, which meant their cordiality to her had all been a pretense.
Tears of humiliation burned the backs of her eyes, and she hastily got to her feet, trying to recover her control, fighting desperately to hold on to her shattered pride. She couldn't face him, and she couldn't run from the room without giving her feelings away, so she carefully kept her back to him and strolled over to the windows that looked out upon the London street. "I think that is an excellent idea, my lord," she said, staring blindly out the window, struggling to keep her voice steady. Behind her, she heard him get up and come toward her, and she swallowed and drew a deep breath before she could go on. "Like you, I have had… some reservations about our suitability… ever since I arrived here."
Stephen thought he heard her voice break, and his conscience tore at him. "Sherry," he began and put his hands on her shoulders.
"Kindly take your hands…" she paused for another shattered breath, "off me."
"Turn around and listen to me."
Sherry felt her control collapsing, and though she closed her eyes tightly shut, hot tears began to race down her cheeks. If she turned now he'd see that she was crying, and she would rather die than suffer that humiliation. Left with no recourse, she bent her head and pretended to be absorbed in tracing her finger over the etchings on the leaded glass pane.
"I am trying to do what is best," Stephen said, fighting the desire to wrap her in his arms and beg her forgiveness.
"Of course. Your family could not possibly think I am suitable for you," she managed in a relatively normal voice after a moment. "And I'm not at all certain how my father could have thought you were suited to me."
She sounded composed enough that Stephen was about to let go of her, when he saw the tears dropping onto the sleeve of her gown, and his restraint broke. Grabbing her shoulders he turned her around and pulled her into his arms. "Please don't cry," he whispered into her fragrant hair. "Please don't. I'm only trying to do what is best."
"Then let go of me!" she said fiercely, but she was crying so hard, her shoulders were quaking.
"I can't," he said, cradling the back of her head and holding her hot cheek pressed to his shirt, feeling the wetness seeping through it. "I'm sorry," he whispered, kissing her temple. "I'm sorry." She felt so soft against him. She was too proud to struggle and too shattered to stop crying, so she stood rigidly in his embrace, her body racked with silent sobs. "Please," he whispered hoarsely, "I don't want to hurt you." He stroked his hand over her back and nape in a helpless attempt to soothe her. "Don't let me hurt you." Without realizing what he was doing, he forced her chin up with his hand and touched his mouth to her cheek, trailing a light kiss over the smooth skin, feeling the wetness of her tears. With the single exception of the night she regained consciousness, she had not shed a single tear over the absence of her memory, or the blinding pain from her injury, but she was crying in silent earnest now, and suddenly Stephen lost his mind and his control. He rubbed his mouth over her trembling lips, tasting their salty softness, and crushed her closer to him, delicately teasing her lips with his tongue, urging them to part. Instead of sweetly offering him her mouth, as she had done before, she tried to turn her face away. He felt her rejection like a physical blow, and he doubled his efforts to make her succumb, kissing her with demanding hunger, while in his mind he saw her smiling up at him a few minutes ago, and leading a chorus of servants in the kitchen, and flirting with him yesterday: I hope I had the good sense to make you wait a very long time before I accepted yo
ur ungallant proposal, she'd teased. She was rejecting him now, permanently, and something deep within Stephen gave out a keening cry, mourning the loss of her tenderness and passion and warmth. Shoving his hands into her hair, he turned her face up to his and gazed into wounded, hostile silver eyes. "Sherry," he whispered thickly as he purposefully lowered his mouth to her, "kiss me back."
She couldn't free her mouth from his, so she fought him with rigid, unmoving indifference, and Stephen fought back. Using all of the sexual expertise he'd acquired during two decades of dalliance with the opposite sex, he ruthlessly laid siege to the defenses of an inexperienced, virginal twenty-year-old. Slanting his arm across her back, holding her pressed fiercely close to him, he teased and seduced her with his hands and mouth, and then his voice. "Since you're going to be comparing me with your other suitors," he whispered without realizing that he was undoing everything he thought he'd wanted to accomplish, "don't you think you ought to know how I compare?"
It was his words, not the seduction of his hands and mouth that crumbled Sherry's resistance. Some protective feminine instinct warned her that she must never again let herself trust him, never again let him touch or kiss her, but just this once… just one more time, to yield to that insistent mouth that was possessing hers…
Her lips softened imperceptibly, and Stephen claimed his victory with the swiftness of the hunter, except gentleness was his weapon now.
Reality set in finally, and Stephen lifted his mouth from hers and dropped his arms. She stepped back, breathing hard; her entrancing smile was overbright. "Thank you for the demonstration, my lord. I shall endeavor to grade you fairly when the time for comparison arrives."
Stephen scarcely heard her, nor did he try to stop her when she whirled on her heel and left him standing there. Reaching out, he braced his hand against the window frame, staring blindly at the ordinary scene in front of his house. "Son of a bitch!" he whispered savagely.
Careful to smile at each servant she passed so that they wouldn't know how she felt, Sherry walked up the stairs, her lips feeling swollen and bruised from the plundering kisses that had destroyed her and meant nothing to him.
She wanted to go home.
The phrase became a chant with every carefully paced step she took, until she finally gained the privacy of her own chamber. She curled into a protective ball on the bed, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them, feeling as if she could splinter into a thousand pieces if she let go. Turning her face into the pillow to stifle her sobs, Sheridan wept for a future she couldn't have and a past she couldn't remember. "I want to go home," she cried in a broken chant. "I want to go home. Papa," she wept, "why are you taking so long to come for me?"
26
A beautiful spotted horse was grazing nearby, and in a fit of exuberance, Sherry got up and jumped onto its back, and they rode off in the moonlight, her laughter echoing on the wind. The horse and she were flying… flying… "You'll break your neck, cara!" the younger man called, and he was in hot pursuit, his horse's hooves pounding closer and closer, and they were both laughing and flying across the meadow…
"Miss Lancaster!" Another voice, a female voice was calling from a further distance. "Miss Lancaster!" A hand touched her shoulder, shaking her lightly, and Sherry jolted back to harsh reality. "I'm sorry to wake you, ma'am," the maid said, "but Her Grace is in the sewing room with the seamstresses, and she asked if you would join them there."
Sherry wanted to wrap herself in the bedcovers like a cocoon and seek out her dream again, but how did one tell a duchess and her seamstresses to go away so one could dream, particularly when one was an unwanted fiancee of the duchess's son. Reluctantly, Sherry got up, washed her face, and followed the maid upstairs to a huge, sunny room.
The duchess who was waiting turned out to be the earl's sister-in-law, not his mother.
Refusing to disgrace herself further by revealing any of her emotions, Sherry gave her a scrupulously polite greeting that was neither cool nor warm.
If Whitney Westmoreland noticed anything different in Sherry's demeanor, she didn't show it, but then she was carried away with enthusiasm about seeing Sherry outfitted "in all the latest fashion."
With Whitney Westmoreland smiling and chatting about balls and routs and Venetian breakfasts, and seamstresses buzzing around her like gnats, Sherry stood for what seemed an eternity on a raised platform in a huge sunny room, being measured, pinned, pushed, tugged, and turned. This time, she was not gullible enough to believe Whitney's warm smile and encouraging comments were sincere. She simply wanted Sherry off their hands, engaged to someone else, and obviously a wardrobe was the first step toward that goal. Sherry understood that, but she had plans of her own. She was going back home, wherever home was, and she couldn't possibly get there fast enough to suit herself. She intended to reassure the duchess of that as soon as this absurd fuss over clothing was over, but when the seamstresses finally let her step off the platform and pull on a dressing robe, they didn't leave. Instead, they began opening trunks and swirling bolts of fabrics over furniture, window seats, and carpet, until the entire room was a riot of colors in every imaginable shade, from emerald green to sapphire blue and sunny yellows, down to the palest pinks and shades of cream.
"What do you think?" Whitney asked her.
Sherry looked around at the dizzying array of sumptuous silks and soft batistes, of gossamer chiffon and delicate lawn. Jaunty striped fabrics were scattered among silks that were richly embellished with gold and silver and bolts of batiste heavily embroidered with flowers of every color and type. Whitney Westmoreland was smiling, waiting for Sherry to express her pleasure or her preferences. What did she think? Sherry wondered a little hysterically. Putting up her chin, she looked at the woman named Madame LaSalle who spoke with a French accent and behaved like a general, and she stated her preference, though she didn't know where it came from. "Do you have anything in red?"
"Red!" the woman gasped, her eyes popping. "Red! No, no, no, mademoiselle. Not with your hair."
"I like red," Sheridan persisted stubbornly.
"Then you must have it," she said, recovering her diplomatic self, but not yielding a bit artistically. "You must use it to upholster furniture or hang at the windows, but it is not a color that can be worn on your lovely self, mademoiselle. Heaven has already blessed you with hair of the rarest red, and so it would be wrong, sinful, to wear anything that would not flatter your special gift."
That flowery speech was so absurd that Sherry bit back a wan smile and saw the duchess struggling to keep her own countenance straight. Momentarily forgetting that Whitney Westmoreland might pretend to be her friend, but was nothing of the sort, she said, "I think that means it would look dreadful on me."
"Oui," said Madame with great feeling.
"And that there is nothing on earth that would compel her to make me a red gown, no matter how much I insisted," Sherry added.
The duchess returned Sherry's laughing look and said, "Madame would sooner throw herself into the Thames."
"Oui!" all of the seamstresses chorused, and for a few moments the room was filled with the convivial laughter of eight women with a common goal.
For the next several hours, Sherry stood mostly aside while the duchess and Madame talked endlessly about the correct styles and fabrics to be used. Just when she thought it was all settled, they began to discuss embellishments, and there was more talk about bows and laces and satin edging. When she finally realized the seamstresses were actually going to remain at the house, working day and night in this room, Sherry firmly interceded. "I have five gowns already-one for every day for nearly a week."
Conversations dropped off and gazes swiveled to her. "I'm very much afraid," the duchess said with a smile, "that you will be changing gowns five times a day."
Sherry frowned at the amount of time that must take, but she held her silence until they left the sewing room. Planning to retreat back into the solitude of her room after she told
the duchess she had no intention of marrying into the family, she headed in that direction with the duchess by her side. "I really cannot change gowns five times a day," Sherry began. "They will all be wasted-"
"No they will not," Whitney said with a confident smile that was not returned. Wondering worriedly why Sherry Lancaster seemed reserved and distant today, she said, "During the Season, a well-dressed lady needs carriage dresses, walking dresses, riding habits, dinner dresses, evening gowns, and morning dresses. And those are only the barest necessities. Stephen Westmoreland's fiancee will be expected to have opera dresses, theatre dresses-"
"I am not his fiancee, nor have I any desire to be," Sherry interrupted implacably, as she stood with her hand on the handle of the door to her bedchamber. "I've tried to make it clear all day and in every way possible that I do not need or want all that clothing. Unless you will let my father repay you for it, I ask you to cancel everything. And now, if you will excuse me-"
"What do you mean you aren't his fiancee?" Whitney said, and in her alarm, she laid her hand on the other woman's arm. "What has happened?" A laundress padded down the hall with an armload of linen, and Whitney said, "Could we talk in your bedchamber?"
"I do not wish to be rude, your grace, but there is nothing to talk about," Sherry said very firmly, proud that her voice didn't waver in the least, and that there was nothing plaintive in the way she was speaking to the other woman.
To her surprise, the duchess did not stiffen in affront. "I disagree," she said with a stubborn smile and reached forward to nudge the door open. "I think there is a great deal to talk about."
Fully expecting some sort of deserved reprimand for her discourtesy or ingratitude, Sherry walked into the bedchamber, followed by the duchess. Refusing to cower or apologize, she turned around and waited in silence for whatever was to come.
In the space of seconds, Whitney considered Sherry's denial of her betrothal, noted the total absence of her normal, unaffected warmth, and correctly assumed her current attitude of proud indifference was a facade to conceal some sort of deep hurt. Since Stephen was the only one who had the power to truly hurt her, that meant he was the likely cause of the problem.
Until You wds-3 Page 18
