Until You

by Judith McNaught

  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 fiancée 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 swivelled 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 fiancée will be expected to have opera dresses, theatre dresses—”

  “I am not his fiancée, 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 fiancée?” 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.

  Prepared to go to great lengths to undo whatever damage her idiot brother-in-law had done to the one woman who was surely meant for him, Whitney said cautiously, “What has happened to make you say you aren’t betrothed to Stephen and don’t wish to be?”

  “Please!” Sherry said with more emotion than she wanted to show. “I do not know who I am or where I was born, but I do know that there is something inside of me that cries out against the deceit and pretense I’ve been told. I’ll surely begin to scream if I have to endure more of it right now. There’s no need, no purpose, in your pretending to want me as a sister-in-law, so please do not!”

  “Very well,” the duchess said without rancor, “we shall put an end to pretense.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have no idea just how badly I hope to have you as a sister-in-law.”

  “And I suppose you are now going to try to convince me that Lord Westmoreland is as eager a bridegroom as there ever was.”

  “I couldn’t even say that with a straight face,” the duchess admitted cheerfully, “let alone be convincing.”

  “What?” Sherry uttered in blank astonishment.

  “Stephen Westmoreland has the liveliest reservations about marrying anyone, especially you. And for some very good reasons.”

  Sherry’s shoulders shook with helpless laughter. “I think you are all quite mad.”

  “I cannot blame you for thinking that,” Whitney said with a gusty sigh. “Now, if you would like to sit down, I shall tell you what I can about the Earl of Langford. But first, I have to ask you what he told you this morning that has made you think he does not desire to marry you.”

  The offer of information about a man who was a total mystery to her was nearly irresistible, but Sherry wasn’t certain why the offer was being made or if she should accept it. “Why do you wish to become involved in all this?”

  “I wish to become involved because I like you very much. And because I’d like you to like me also. But most of all, because I truly believe you are perfect for Stephen and I’m desperately afraid this set of circumstances may keep you both from finding that out until it is too late to undo the damage. Now, please tell me what happened, and then I’ll tell you what I can.” For the second time, Whitney carefully avoided saying she would tell her everything. The phrase she’d used was misleading, but at least it was not another lie.

  Sherry hesitated, searching Whitney’s face for some sign of malice and saw only earnestness and concern. “I suppose it can’t do any harm—except to my pride,” she said with a weak attempt at a smile. In a relatively unemotional voice, she managed to recount what had happened that morning in the earl’s study.

  Whitney was impressed by the simplicity and cleverness of Stephen’s chosen method to enlist Sherry’s cooperation, and she was equally impressed that a naive girl, who was in a strange land, surrounded by strangers, and with not even a memory of her past, could have seen right through his smoothly worded ploy. Moreover Sherry had evidently been wise enough and proud enough not to voice a single objection to it. Which, Whitney decided with an inner smile, probably accounted for Stephen’s black scowl earlier, when she bade him good day before coming upstairs. “Is that everything?”

  “Not exactly,” Sherry said angrily, looking away in embarrassment.

  “What else happened?”

  “After he gave me all that fustian about wanting me to have choices, I was so angry and confused that I—I felt a little overemotional.”

  “Had I been in your place, I’d have felt for a heavy, blunt object to hit him with!”

  “Unfortunately,” Sherry said with a shaky laugh, “I didn’t see anything suitable to use, and I felt this—this stupid urge to cry, so I walked over to a window to try to compose myself.”

  “And then?” Whitney prodded.

  “And then he had the audacity, the arrogance, the—the gall to try to kiss me!”

  “Did you allow it?”

  “No. Not willingly.” That wasn’t entirely true, and she looked away again in helpless misery. “I wasn’t willing, at first,” she amended. “But you see, he’s very good at it, and—” She broke off as a realization hit her, and she said it aloud, her expression turning ferocious: “He’s very good at it, and he knows it! That is why he insisted on kissing me, as if that would make everything all right again. And in a way he won, because in the end I gave in. Oh, he must be very proud of himself,” she finished with withering scorn.

  Whitney burst out laughing. “I very much doubt that. In fact, he was in the foulest mood imaginable when I arrived. For a man who wishes to break a betrothal, and has every reason to believe he’s well on the way to accomplishing it, he is not in an exultant frame of mind.”

  Somewhat cheered by that, Sherry smiled; then her smile faded and she shook her head. “I do not understand any of this. Perhaps, even when I am in full possession of all my faculties, I am somewhat lacking in understanding.”

  “I think you are amazingly insightful!” Whitney said with feeling, “and brave. And very, very warmhearted too.” She watched uncertainty flicker in expressive gray eyes, and Whitney wanted desperately to trust Charise Lancaster with the entire truth, every bit of it, beginning with Burleton’s death and Stephen’s part in it. As Stephen had pointed out, Sherry had scarcely known Burleton. Moreover, it was very clear that she had strong feelings for Stephen.

  On the other hand, Dr. Whitticomb had emphasized the real danger of upsetting her too much, and Whitney was terribly afraid the news of Burleton’s death and Stephen’s part in it might do just that.

  She settled for telling her everything but that, and, returning the other girl’s level gaze, she said with a sad smile, “I am going to tell you a story about a very special man, whom you may not at first recognize. When I met him, four years ago, he was vastly admired for his tremendous charm and delightful manners. Men respected his skill at gaming an
d sports, and he was so handsome that women actually stared at him. His mother and I used to go into whoops over the effect he had on them, and not merely innocent young girls in their first Season, but sophisticated flirts, as well. I know he thought their reaction to his face was excessively silly, but he was unfailingly gallant to all of them. And then three things happened that changed him drastically—and the odd part is that two of them were good things: First, Stephen decided to take more of a personal interest in his business affairs and investments, which my husband had been handling along with ours. Stephen immediately began taking daring chances on large, risky ventures that my husband would never have considered—not with someone else’s money. Time after time Stephen took enormous risks, and time after time, they paid off in enormous profits. And while all that was happening, so did something else that eventually contributed to his change from friendly gallantry to cold cynicism: Stephen inherited three titles from an elderly cousin of his father’s, one of them the Earl of Langford. Normally, titles pass to the eldest son, except in certain instances, and this was one of them. Some of the titles held by the Westmoreland family date back over three hundred years, to King Henry VII. Among them are three titles granted by him that, at the request of the first Duke of Claymore, contain recorded exceptions to the normal line of descent. The exceptions allowed the holder of the title, if childless, to designate his own heir, so long as the heir was a direct descendant of one of the dukes of Claymore.