Until You wds-3

by Джудит Макнот

  Most of the girls were younger than she, and very amiable, if not particularly given to intelligent discourse. They were however amazingly well-informed on the income, prospects, and lineage of every bachelor in the room, and she had only to look twice at a male to have them-or their mamas and chaperones-lean aside and obligingly share all their knowledge. The deluge of data confused Miss Charity and alternately embarrassed and amused Sherry.

  The Duchess of Clermont, a stern elderly lady who was introducing her granddaughter, another American named Dorothy Seaton, tipped her head toward a handsome young man who'd asked Sherry for the honor of a second dance, and warned, "I would not show young Makepeace more than the briefest civility, were I you. He is only a baronet, and his income is a mere five thousand."

  Nicholas DuVille, who'd spent most of the evening in the card room, heard that as he returned to Sherry's side. Leaning down, he said in a low amused voice, "You look quite terribly embarrassed, cherie. Amazing, is it not, that a country that prides itself on its refined manners has no compunction at all in discussing such things."

  The musicians who'd paused briefly for refreshments were returning to their instruments, and music began to fill the ballroom. "Miss Charity looks exhausted," Sherry said, raising her voice to be heard above the increasing volume of music and conversation.

  Miss Charity heard her name and looked up sharply. "I am not weary, my dear child. I am exceedingly vexed with Langford for not making his appearance as he promised, and I intend to scold him soundly for treating you so shabbily!"

  All around them heads were beginning to turn and conversations were dropping off, then escalating to frantic whispers, but Sherry was blissfully unaware of the cause. "It doesn't signify, ma'am. I've done perfectly well without him."

  Miss Charity was not soothed. "I do not remember being this annoyed in the last thirty years! And if I could remember all of the last thirty years, I'm still certain I wouldn't remember being this annoyed!"

  Beside them the Duchess of Clermont stopped eavesdropping on Charity Thornton's irate monologue, and she glanced up, her gaze riveting on something across the room. "I cannot believe my own eyes!" she burst out. Hectic conversations were erupting all around them, and she leaned sideways, raising her voice to be heard above it all as she commanded her granddaughter, "Dorothy, attend to your hair and gown. This is a chance you may never have again." That gruff order drew Sherry's attention to Dorothy who had obediently reached up to pat her coiffure into place as were half the debutantes in Sherry's range of view. Those who weren't checking their hair were smoothing their skirts. Debutantes who weren't already lining up with their partners on the dance floor were making a mass exodus toward the retiring room, and they were also patting and smoothing on the way. "What is happening?" she asked, lifting quizzical eyes to Nicki, who was blocking her view.

  His gaze shifted over the blondes and brunettes, registering heightened color of cheeks and eager gazes, and without bothering to look over his shoulder, he said, "Either a fire has broken out in the middle of the dance floor, or else Langford has just arrived."

  "It can't be him! It's after eleven and the doors are locked."

  "Nevertheless, I would wager a small fortune that

  Langford's the cause. The hunting instincts of the female of the species are at a fever pitch, which means prime prey is in sight. Shall I look round and see?"

  "Try not to be obvious about it."

  He complied, turned back around, and confirmed it. "He's stopped to greet the patronesses."

  Sherry did the last thing she'd planned to do if he came: she ducked around Nicki and beat a hasty retreat to the retiring room-not to primp, though, or check her appearance. No indeed. Merely to compose herself. And then primp just a little.

  As she waited to get into the retiring room, she discovered her fiance was the talk of the crowd, and the talk she was hearing was as illuminating as it was embarrassing to her: "My older sister will swoon when she hears Langford was here tonight and she was not!" one of the girls was telling her friends. "Last autumn, he singled her out for particular attention at Lady Millicent's ball and then dropped her completely. She has carried a tendre for him ever since."

  Her friends looked shocked. "But last autumn," one of them corrected, "Langford was on the verge of offering for Monica Fitzwaring."

  "Oh, I do not think that's possible. I heard my sisters talking and they were positive he was having-" she cupped her hand over her lips, and Sherry strained helplessly to eavesdrop, "a torrid affair with a certain married lady last autumn."

  "Have you ever seen his cherie amie?" another asked, and the girls in front of that group turned around. "My aunt saw him at the theatre with her two nights ago."

  "Cherie amie?" The question flew out before Sherry could stop it, prompted by the discovery that he had escorted a female to the theatre, immediately after dining with Sherry and his family.

  The girls, whom she'd been introduced to earlier, were happy to oblige Sherry with all the information a newcomer to their circle, and an American, might need in order to fully appreciate the finer subtleties of the gossip.

  "Cherie amie is a courtesan, a woman who shares a man's baser passions. Helene Devernay is the most beautiful courtesan of them all."

  "I heard my brothers talking one evening, and they said Helene Devernay is the most heavenly creature on earth. She loves lavender, you know… and Langford had a special silver coach built for her with lavender velvet squabs."

  Lavender. That flimsy lavender gown that Dr. Whitticomb had objected to, the meaningful way he'd said, "Lavender, was it" to the earl. It had belonged to the woman who shared his "baser passions." Sherry knew kissing qualified as passion. She didn't know what constituted baser, but she could sense the fact that they were intense and somehow scandalous and personal. And he shared all that with another woman only hours after dining with his unwanted fiancee.

  Even though Miss Charity now knew Lord Westmoreland was somewhere in the ballroom, she was almost as angry with him when Sherry returned as she'd been when Sherry left. "I intend to report Langford's conduct to his mama, first thing in the morning! She will ring a peal over his head for this night's work."

  Stephen's bland, amused voice made Sherry stiffen in angry shock as he strolled up behind them and spoke to Miss Charity first. "For what am I to be called to task by my mother, ma'am?" he asked, a lazy, white smile sweeping across his features.

  "For being late, you naughty boy!" she said, but all traces of animosity were vanishing from her voice as he aimed that lethally attractive smile directly at her and kept it there. "For stopping too long to speak to the patronesses! And for being entirely too handsome for your own good! Now," she finished, forgiving him entirely, "kiss my hand properly and lead Sherry onto the dance floor."

  Nicki had been shielding her by keeping his back to the room, but he had no choice except to step aside. Sherry's anger escalated when she heard Miss Charity cave in so easily, and it doubled when she reluctantly turned and found herself the object of amused blue eyes and a smile so warm it could have baked bread. Aware that every head in the ballroom seemed to be turned their way, Sherry reluctantly extended her hand, because that was what she was required to do. "Miss Lancaster," he said, pressing a brief kiss to the back of it, continuing to hold it despite her effort to jerk it free, "may I have the pleasure of the next dance?"

  "Let go of my hand," Sherry said, her voice shaking with anger. "Everyone is looking at us!"

  Stephen studied her hectic color and flashing eyes, and he marvelled that he'd been able to ignore how magnificent she looked when she was angry. If he'd realized during the last few days that a slight lack of punctuality could rouse her from her indifference to ire, he'd have come down late for every meal.

  "Let go of my hand!"

  Grinning helplessly because he was happy and she was evidently this unhappy over his near-absence, Stephen teased, "Are you going to make me drag you onto that dance floor?"
/>   Some of his satisfaction with that faded as she yanked her hand free and said, "Yes!"

  Momentarily thwarted, Stephen stepped aside as some young dandy squeezed past him and bowed before her. "I believe the next dance is mine, if you don't mind, my lord." Left with no choice, he backed off a step and watched her curtsy prettily to him and stroll onto the dance floor. Beside him, DuVille observed him with amusement. "I believe you have just been the recipient of a crushing setdown, Langford."

  "You're right," he replied affably, leaning his shoulders against a pillar behind him. He was so happy he even felt charitably toward DuVille for a change. "I suppose there's nothing alcoholic to drink?" he said, watching Sherry dancing with her partner.

  "Not a thing."

  To the vast disappointment of everyone in the room, neither Lord Westmoreland nor Nicholas DuVille seemed inclined to ask anyone to dance except the American girl. When Sherry remained on the dance floor for a second dance with the same young man, Stephen frowned. "Didn't anyone warn her that it's a mistake to show partiality by dancing twice with the same partner?"

  "You are beginning to sound like a jealous beau," Nicki remarked, slanting him an amused look from the corner of his eye.

  Stephen ignored him, glancing around at the hungry, eager, expectant, hopeful female faces watching him and feeling like a human banquet being served up to an audience of refined, elegantly dressed cannibals. As the music wound to its end, Stephen said, "Do you happen to know if her next dance is taken?"

  "All of her dances are taken."

  Stephen saw Sherry's partner politely return her to Charity Thornton, and he observed the crowd of men crossing the dance floor to claim their partners for the waltz that was just beginning so that he could see in advance who he was about to preempt. Beside him, DuVille shoved away from the pillar they'd been sharing. "I believe this dance is mine," he said.

  "Unfortunately, it isn't," Stephen drawled mildly. "And if you try to claim it," he added in a voice that stopped DuVille cold, "I will have to tell her that my sister-in-law put you up to playing the gallant suitor." Without a backward glance, Stephen shoved away from the pillar and presented himself to his unwilling partner.

  "Nicki has the next dance," Sherry informed him with stony hauteur, deliberately using the familiar form of address to show the earl what particularly friendly terms she was already on with "Nicki."

  "He's relinquished the privilege to me."

  Something about his implacable tone made Sherry reverse her earlier decision and decide it was wiser to get the dance over with instead of delaying it or attempting to refuse, or causing any sort of scene. "Oh, very well."

  "Are you having a pleasant evening?" Stephen inquired as the music began and she moved woodenly in his arms, dancing with none of the grace he'd seen in her in the last set.

  "I was having a pleasant evening, thank you very much."

  Stephen looked down at her shining head and caught a glimpse of her resentful profile. The letter in his pocket went a long way to dilute his annoyance over her attitude. "Sherry," he said with quiet determination.

  Sherry heard the strange softness in his voice and refused to look up. "Yes?"

  "I apologize for anything I've said or done that has hurt you."

  The reminder that he knew he had hurt her, and undoubtedly believed he still could, was more than her lacerated pride could withstand. Her temper ignited and burst into flames. "You needn't give a thought to any of that," she said, managing to sound bored with the topic and disdainful of him. "I feel certain I'll have several more suitable offers of marriage by the end of the week, and I'm excessively happy that you gave me this opportunity to be introduced to other gentlemen. Until tonight," she continued, her voice beginning to vibrate with the raging hostility she really felt, "I naturally assumed all Englishmen were arbitrary, moody, vain, and unkind, but now I know that they are not. You are!"

  "Unfortunately for you and for them," Stephen stated, stunned by the apparent depth of her anger at his tardiness, "you happen to be already betrothed to me.

  Sherry was riding her wave of triumphant defiance, and that remark didn't slow her down in the least. "The gentlemen I've met tonight are not only the soul of amiability, but they are also much more desirable than you!"

  "Really?" he said with a lazy grin. "In what way?"

  "For one thing, they are younger!" Sherry fired back, longing to slap that arrogant, insufferable smile off his face. "You are much too old for me. I realized that tonight."

  "Did you, indeed?" His gaze dropped meaningfully to her lips. "Then perhaps you need a reminder of times you found me very desirable."

  Sherry jerked her gaze from his. "Stop looking at me that way! It isn't seemly, and people will talk! They are staring at us!" she hissed, trying to pull back, only to have his arm tighten, imprisoning her with infuriating ease.

  In a conversational tone more appropriate to a casual discussion of the latest on-dits, he said, "Do you have any idea of what will happen if I follow my inclinations and either toss you over my shoulder and haul you out of here, or else kiss you right in the middle of this dance? For a start, you would be off-limits to every respectable male in the room. I, of course, wouldn't care, being the 'arbitrary, vain, unkind' man that I am-"

  "You wouldn't dare!" she exploded.

  Her eyes shot daggers at him as she boldly called his bluff, while all around them dancers were missing their steps in their eagerness to witness the altercation that seemed to be taking place between the mysterious American girl and the Earl of Langford. Stephen looked at her flushed, entrancing, rebellious face, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "You're right, sweetheart," he said softly. "I wouldn't."

  "How dare you call me by an endearment after the things you have done to me!"

  Momentarily forgetting that she would be thrown off balance by the sort of sophisticated sexual banter that was commonplace among his own set, Stephen let his gaze drop suggestively to the rounded breasts displayed enticingly above the square bodice of her gown. "You have no idea what I would dare to do to you," he warned with a lazy, suggestive smile. "Have I complimented you on your gown, by the by?"

  "You can take your compliments, and yourself, right to hell," she whispered furiously, yanking out of his arms and leaving him in the middle of the dance floor.

  "Egad!" said Makepeace to his current partner, "did you see that? Miss Lancaster just left Langford standing on the dance floor."

  "She must be insane," said his partner in a stricken voice.

  "I do not at all agree," the young baronet proudly declared. "Miss Lancaster did not treat me shabbily at all. She was the soul of civility and sweetness." When the dance was over, he hurried off to make certain his own friends had noticed that the stunning redheaded American preferred his attentions to those of the lofty Earl of Langford.

  That astounding fact had already been noted by a great many of the gentlemen in the ballroom, many of whom had been sorely rankled by Langford's appearance in their own arena and who were greatly mollified to note that at least one female in the room had the superior taste and foresight to prefer Makepeace to Westmoreland.

  Within minutes, Makepeace's stature escalated to unparalleled heights among his peers. The lovely American girl, who clearly preferred him, ergo all of them, to the vastly more popular Earl of Langford, became an instantaneous heroine.

  Furious with her for her outrageous display of temper, Stephen stood off to the side, watching an entire wall of bachelors make their way straight toward his fiancee. They clustered about her, asking for dances and flattering her so outrageously that she sent a glance of helpless appeal in his direction. But not to him, Stephen noticed, growing even angrier-to DuVille.

  Nicki put down his glass of lemonade and started for her, but the men were closing around her so tightly that she began backing away, then she turned and beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the retiring rooms. Left with no choice, Nicki leaned back against the same pillar
that he had shared with Stephen earlier and folded his arms over his chest as Stephen had just done. Unaware of how identical they looked, they stood side by side, two darkly handsome, urbane men in flawlessly tailored black evening clothes, wearing matched expressions of bored civility. "By spurning you, she has just become a heroine to every male in this ballroom," Nicki observed.

  Stephen, who had reached the same conclusion, was somewhat mollified to note that DuVille sounded almost as frustrated as he himself felt. "By tomorrow," DuVille continued, "my fiancee will be unanimously declared an Original, an Incomparable, and Joan of Arc by every mincing fop and young Corinthian in London. You have set my courtship back by weeks."

  "I've turned down your suit," Stephen retorted with flat satisfaction. Tipping his head toward the debutantes and their mothers who were lined up on the opposite side of the room, he said, "Feel free to lavish your attentions on any one of those eager hopefuls, however. I feel certain you could propose tonight to any one of them and be wed with their family's blessing and a special license by tomorrow."

  Nicki automatically followed his gaze and for the moment the two men set aside their hostilities in favor of shared observations on the drawback of being deemed a brilliant catch. "Do you ever have the feeling they see you as a platter of tempting trout?" Nicki inquired, nodding politely and distantly toward a young lady who was fluttering her fan invitingly at him.

  "I think they see me more as a blank bank draft with legs," Stephen replied, staring unencouragingly at Lady Ripley, who was whispering frantically to her daughter and casting beckoning looks at him. He inclined his head imperceptibly at Lady Ripley's very pretty daughter, who seemed to be one of the few females in the room who seemed not to be either coyly pretending the two men weren't there or else gazing longingly at them. "At least the Ripley girl has enough sense and enough pride to ignore us."