Until You

by Judith McNaught

  “Hardly,” Stephen said dryly, so offended by the image of himself assuming such a foolish position that he’d forgotten he’d never proposed to her at all.

  Sherry’s disappointment in his answers was offset by his increasing discomfiture at the questions. “What about flowers? Did you happen to offer me a bouquet when you said, ‘I was nothing until you gave me your love, Sherry. Nothing at all until you came into my miserable life’?”

  Stephen realized she was actually relishing his discomfort, and he chucked her under the chin. “Brat,” he said lightly, noting that she seemed never to be intimidated by him. “I merely came to invite you to join me in my study. My family will be gathering there any moment for a ‘conference.’ ”

  “What sort of conference?” Sheridan asked, pausing to close the book and return it to the shelf.

  “A conference about you, actually—about the best way to ‘launch’ you into Society,” Stephen replied distractedly, watching her lean up on tiptoe, and trying not to concentrate on how utterly fetching she looked in a deceptively simple peach gown with a high mandarin collar and tightly fitted bodice that cleverly called attention to every inviting curve she had without displaying so much as a glimpse of skin.

  After a full night’s sleep, he’d awakened feeling more optimistic about Sherry’s plight than he had since she collapsed at his feet on the dock. With the aid of his family, who’d volunteered their cooperation and assistance, the idea of finding a suitable husband for her during the Season seemed not only an ideal solution, but an achievable one. In fact, he was so enthusiastic about it, that he’d sent notes to them early this morning, asking each of them to bring two lists: one of eligible men, and another itemizing those things that would also have to be handled in order to launch her properly.

  Now that he had a specific goal, Stephen saw no reason not to pursue it with the same single-minded efficiency and determination that he used to achieve his other business successes. Like his brother and a very few other noblemen, he preferred to handle most of his own business and financial affairs, and he had a well-deserved reputation for doing so with brilliance and daring. In contrast to many of his peers who were sinking further and further into debt because they regarded any business dealings as the province of the “merchant class,” and therefore beneath them, Stephen was steadily increasing his already vast holdings. He did it because it was sensible, but mostly, he did it because he thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of testing his judgment and timing; he liked the exhilaration that came with successfully acquiring and disposing of assets.

  He intended to handle Sherry Lancaster as if she were any other very desirable “asset” he possessed and of which he intended to dispose. The fact that Sherry was a woman, not a rare artifact or a warehouse full of precious spices, had no bearing on his thinking or his strategy, except that he intended to ensure that her purchaser was worthy and responsible. The only remaining difficulty was to enlist her cooperation in being “disposed of.”

  He’d considered that delicate problem earlier, while he bathed. By the time Damson removed a jacket of biscuit superfine from one of the wardrobes and held it up for Stephen’s approval, he’d arrived at the best, and only, solution. Rather than add yet another lie to the ones Sherry had already been told, Stephen was going to tell her a partial truth. But not until after he’d met with his family.

  Sherry put away the remaining books she’d intended to look through, as well as the quill and paper she’d removed from a desk drawer. Then she turned and he offered his arm to her. The gesture was so gallant and the smile in his eyes so warm that she felt a helpless burst of joy and pride. Clad in a light tan coat, his long legs encased in coffee brown trousers and shiny brown top boots, Stephen Westmoreland was the stuff that dreams were made of . . . tall, broad-shouldered, and breathtakingly handsome.

  As they started down the staircase, she stole another glance at his chiselled profile, marvelling at the strength and pride carved into every feature on that starkly beautiful, tanned face. With that lazy, intimate smile of his and those deep blue, penetrating eyes—why, he must have been making female hearts flutter all over Europe for years! No doubt he’d kissed a great many of those females too, for he certainly knew how to do it, and he didn’t seem the least hesitant about it when he chose to kiss her. Thousands of women all over Europe had probably found him as completely irresistible as she did, and yet, for some incomprehensible reason, he’d chosen her above them. That seemed so unlikely, so inconceivable, that it made her uneasy. Rather than surrender to doubt and uncertainty, Sherry returned to the lighthearted conversation they’d had in the library.

  As they neared the open doors of his study, she gave him a jaunty, teasing smile. “Since I can’t remember your proposal, you might at least have pretended that you made me a proper one—on bended knee. Considering my weakened condition, that would have been the more chivalrous thing to do.”

  “I am a very unchivalrous man,” Stephen replied with an impenitent grin.

  “Then I hope I at least had the good sense to make you wait a very long time before I accepted your ungallant offer,” she retorted severely, stopping in the doorway. She hesitated and then with a helpless laugh at her inability to remember, she said, “Did I make you wait, my lord?”

  Helplessly enthralled by this new, teasingly flirtatious side of her, Stephen automatically matched her mood. “Certainly not, Miss Lancaster. In fact, you flung yourself at my feet and wept with gratitude at the offer of my splendid self.”

  “Of all the arrogant, dishonest—” she said on a choked, horrified laugh. “I did no such thing!” Looking for some sort of confirmation, Sherry glanced at Colfax who was standing at attention holding one of the study doors open, while trying to look as if he weren’t hearing—and enjoying—their banter. Her fiancé looked so supremely self-satisfied, his expression so bland and complacent, that Sherry had the awful feeling he was telling the truth. “I didn’t actually do that—” she said weakly, “did I?”

  Stephen’s shoulders lurched with suppressed mirth at the appalled expression on her upturned face, then he shook his head and put her out of her misery. “No,” he said, unaware that he was flirting with her in an open doorway and looking happier than he had in years, in view of his mesmerized servants and his fascinated family and friends, who’d arrived while he was with Sherry in the library. “After you greet everyone, I’m sending you for a ride in the park, so that you can take in the sights and get some fresh air while we discuss arrangements—” He broke off as some slight movement from inside the study attracted his attention, and he turned fully around, somewhat surprised to find Sherry and himself the focus of a roomful of people who oddly hadn’t made a single sound to alert him they were present.

  Blaming their lack of conversation on awkwardness about their forthcoming topic, Stephen led her into the study and waited while Sherry greeted everyone with the same warm, unaffected cordiality that she seemed to feel for everyone from the servants to her physician. Anxious to get down to the purpose for the meeting, he interrupted Hugh Whitticomb, who was embarking on an enthusiastic recounting of Sherry’s recuperative powers and bravery, and said, “Since you’re all present, why don’t you begin discussing the various ways to ease Sherry’s way into Society while I walk her out to the carriage.” To Sherry, he added, “I’ll wait while you find a light wrap, then we’ll go to the carriage and discuss your itinerary with my coachman.”

  Sherry felt his hand under her elbow, firmly drawing her away from people she would very much have liked to spend more time with, but she did as he asked and bade them good-bye.

  Behind them, Dr. Whitticomb signalled Colfax to close the doors, then he looked round at Stephen’s family, noting their distracted, thoughtful expressions. The scene he had witnessed a few moments ago as Stephen and Charise Lancaster stood just outside the doors had only confirmed what he already believed, and he was almost certain that the others in the room had noted the same delightful a
lteration in Stephen that he had.

  He hesitated, vacillated, then made his decision, and cautiously endeavored to see if their thoughts truly marched with his. Keeping his voice casual, he glanced at the dowager duchess. “Lovely girl, isn’t she?”

  “Lovely,” Stephen’s mother agreed unhesitatingly. “Stephen seems very protective of her, I noticed. I haven’t seen him treat any female quite that way before.” Her smile turned wistful. “She seems to like him very well too. I cannot help wishing he weren’t so set on finding a husband for her. Perhaps with time, he might have—”

  “My thoughts, exactly,” Hugh said, and so emphatically that she gave him an odd, startled look. Satisfied that he had her unwitting support, Hugh turned to Stephen’s sister-in-law. “What do you think, Your Grace?” Whitney Westmoreland smiled at him—a slow, knowing smile that warmed his heart and promised her full cooperation. “I find her completely delightful, and I think Stephen does too, though I doubt he’d want to admit it.”

  Restraining the absurd urge to wink at her, Hugh looked to Nicholas DuVille. Until that moment, Hugh had been the only outsider whom the Westmoreland family had regarded as a confidant. DuVille was not a family member or even a close family friend. He had in fact been Clayton’s rival for Whitney’s hand, and although Whitney regarded him as a dear and close friend, Hugh doubted that Clayton harbored quite the same fondness for him. Hugh wasn’t certain why DuVille had been invited to attend what was an intensely private family discussion.

  “Charming,” the Frenchman said with a tranquil smile. “And unique, I suspect. Based on what I have witnessed, I cannot believe Stephen is immune to her attractions.”

  Satisfied that he’d gathered all the support he could have hoped, Hugh looked at Clayton Westmoreland, the one member of the group who he knew could, and would, put a stop to any sort of intervention if he didn’t agree. “Your grace?” he invited.

  The duke gave him a steady look, and said one word, very clearly and very distinctly: “No.”

  “No?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking, forget it. Stephen will not welcome our interference in his personal life.” Oblivious to his wife’s swift intake of breath as she started to argue, he said, “Furthermore, the entire situation he is in with Miss Lancaster is already impossibly complicated and fraught with deceit.”

  “But you do like her, don’t you?” Whitney put in a little desperately.

  “Based on what little I know of her,” Clayton emphasized, “I like her very well. However, I am also thinking of her best interests. It would be wise if we all remember that when she recovers her memory and realizes that Stephen was responsible for her fiancé’s death, and that he has been lying to her about everything since then, she is not going to like him nearly so well. In fact, she is unlikely to think very well of any of us, when that day arises.”

  “It’s likely she will be embarrassed and angry when she first realizes she’d never set eyes on Stephen until last week,” Dr. Whitticomb conceded. “However, even before she was out of danger, she showed great concern for Stephen. Kept asking me not to let him worry, and so forth. I think that shows a remarkable understanding—the sort that could enable her to see very quickly why we all had to lie to her.”

  “As I said before,” Clayton said firmly, “Stephen will not welcome our interference in his personal life. If anyone in the family feels the need to try to dissuade him from finding her a husband or to influence him in her favor in any way, then it should be done openly. Today. After that, the matter should be left to Stephen and Miss Lancaster and fate.”

  Surprised when there was no objection from his wife, Clayton turned to tease her about her uncharacteristic acquiescence, but she was frowning at DuVille, who, in turn, seemed to be vastly amused about something. He was wondering about that silent exchange when Stephen strode swiftly into the study.

  23

  “Sherry is safely out of hearing and out of the house,” Stephen announced as he carefully closed the study doors behind him. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but you were all more prompt than I anticipated.” Walking over to his desk, he sat down behind it, passed a cursory glance over his accomplices, who were seated in a semicircle in front of the desk, and went directly to the point.

  “Rather than getting mired down in the minor complications and details of sending Sherry out into Society,” he said in a cordial, but businesslike tone, “let’s go directly to the subject of prospective husbands. Did you bring your lists of acquaintances who might serve the purpose?”

  A rustling followed as the women searched their reticules and Whitticomb reached into his pocket to extract the lists they had prepared that morning at his instruction. His mother leaned forward and handed her folded sheet of writing paper to him, but she pointed out a major encumbrance. “Without a dowry, Miss Lancaster is at a terrible disadvantage, no matter how desirable she might be. If her father isn’t the man of means that you suspect—”

  “I’ll provide a generous dowry,” Stephen said as he unfolded the notepaper. He glanced at the first few names on the list, and his reaction veered from horror to hilarity. “Lord Gilbert Reeves?” he repeated, looking at her. “Sir Frances Barker? Sir John Teasdale? Mother, Reeves and Barker must be fifty years older than Sherry. And Teasdale’s grandson was at university with me. These men are ancient.”

  “Well, I’m ancient!” she protested defensively. “You said we were to list any unmarried acquaintances for whom we could personally vouch, and that’s what I did.”

  “I see your point,” Stephen said, struggling to keep his face straight. “While I look over the other lists, perhaps you could concentrate on some younger men of good reputation with whom you are not quite so personally acquainted?” When she nodded agreeably, Stephen turned to his sister-in-law and smiled as he reached for her list.

  His smile faded, however, as he looked down the long list of names.

  “John Marchmann?” he said with a frown. “Marchmann is a compulsive sportsman. If Sherry was ever going to see him, she’d have to slog down every stream in Scotland and England and spend the rest of her life in the hunting field.”

  Whitney managed a look of innocent confusion. “He is exceedingly handsome, however, and he is also very amusing.”

  “Marchmann?” Stephen repeated incredulously. “He’s terrified of women! The man still blushes in the company of a pretty girl, and he’s nearly forty!”

  “Nevertheless, he is very kind and very nice.”

  Stephen nodded absently, looked at the next name, and then at her. “The Marquis deSalle won’t do at all. He’s a habitual womanizer, not to mention a complete hedonist.”

  “Perhaps,” Whitney graciously conceded, “but he does have charm, wealth, and an excellent address.”

  “Crowley and Wiltshire are both too immature and hot-tempered for her,” he said, studying the two names. “Crowley isn’t too bright, but his friend Wiltshire is a complete bacon-brain. They duelled a few years ago and Crowley shot himself in the foot.” Oblivious to her startled giggle, he added disgustedly, “A year later they decided to settle another argument on the field of honor, and Wiltshire shot a tree.” Bending a reproving look on his laughing sister-in-law, he added, “It wasn’t funny. The ball from Crowley’s pistol ricocheted off the tree and hit Jason Fielding, who’d raced out there to try to stop them. If it hadn’t wounded Jason in the right arm, Crowley probably wouldn’t have walked away in one piece. If Sherry married either one of them, they’d manage to make her a widow by their own hand, mark my word.”

  He looked at the next two names and then scowled at her. “Warren is a mincing fop! Serangley is a dead bore. I can’t believe you think these men are eligible suitors for anyone, let alone an intelligent, sensible young woman.”

  For the next ten minutes, Stephen dismissed every name on the list for a variety of reasons that seemed very sound to him, but he began to have the annoying feeling that the group gathered around the desk was finding hi
s rejection of suitor after suitor amusing.

  The last name on Whitney’s list made his brows snap together and his smile vanish. “Roddy Carstairs!” he exclaimed in disgust. “I wouldn’t let Sherry near that overdressed, egotistical, razortongued little gossip for anything. He’s never married because he’s never found a woman who he thinks is worthy of him.”

  “Roddy is not little,” Whitney pointed out firmly, “though I’ll grant he’s not precisely tall, but he is a particular friend of mine.” Biting her lip to hide her smile, she added, “You are being excessively particular, Stephen.”

  “I’m being practical!”

  Discarding that list, he reached for Hugh Whitticomb’s, glanced at it, frowned, and tossed it aside. “Apparently you and my mother have a great many friends in common.” With an irritated sigh he got up and walked restlessly around to the front of his desk. He perched his hip on the edge of it, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded his brother with frustration and hope. “I see you haven’t brought a list, but you must know someone who’d be right for her.”

  “As a matter of fact,” his brother replied in a voice tinged with ironic amusement, “I’ve been thinking that over as I listened to you eliminate the other candidates.”

  “And?”

  “And I realized I do know someone. He doesn’t meet all of your lofty criteria, but I’m no longer in any doubt he’s the right man for her.”

  “Thank God! Who is he?”

  “You.”

  The word hung on the air while Stephen bit back a strange and irrational bitterness. “I am not a candidate!” he said frigidly.

  “Excellent—” Nicholas DuVille’s amused exclamation drew everyone’s instant attention as he removed a sheet of writing paper bearing his family crest from his pocket. “In that case I did not waste my time in making out my own list. I assumed,” he added as Stephen slowly unfolded his arms and reached for the paper, “that since I was invited here today, I was also to bring a list?”