Until You

by Judith McNaught

  Stephen opened the short, disjointed letter that had obviously been written in haste, and each unbelievable word seemed to sear his mind, branding his soul.

  As you will soon discover from the real Charise Lancaster, I am not who you thought I was. Not who I thought I was. Please believe that. Until the moment Charise Lancaster walked into my bedchamber this morning, I did not remember anything about myself except what I was told after the accident. Now that I do know who I am and what I am, I realize that a marriage between us would probably be impossible. I also realize that when Charise is finished telling you her opinion of what I intended to accomplish, it may sound far more believable than my truths in this note.

  That would hurt me more than you can imagine. I wonder how I would go on, knowing that somewhere in this world you would be living your life, forever believing that I was a fraud and a schemer. You won’t believe that, I know you won’t.

  She’d crossed out the last word and simply signed the letter:

  Sheridan Bromleigh

  Sheridan Bromleigh.

  Sheridan. In the most painful moment of his life, with her letter in his hand and the unbelievable words scored into his brain, Stephen stared at her real name—a strong, beautiful name. Unique.

  And he thought Sheridan fit her far better than Charise.

  “The woman who is waiting for you says that you’ve been duped. Deliberately.”

  Stephen’s hand closed on the letter, wadding it into a ball, and he tossed it in the direction of the table. “Where is she?” he snapped.

  “Waiting for you in your study.”

  His expression as murderous as his feelings, Stephen stalked out of the room, determined to prove that this new Charise Lancaster was a liar, or a fraud, or that she was mistaken about Sherry’s having deliberately duped him.

  But the one painfully irrefutable fact that he could not ignore, or disprove, was that Sheridan had run from him, rather than facing him and explaining. And that hinted unbearably of guilt . . .

  40

  As he walked swiftly toward his study, Stephen told himself Sherry would return in an hour or two. She’d run away because she was upset—hysterical. Whitticomb had said memory loss was a form of hysteria. Perhaps hysteria came with its return as well.

  With visions of her wandering through London streets, alone and confused, he strode into his study. With only a curt, icy nod to the blonde who was waiting for him, he flung himself into the chair behind his desk, determined to disprove her contention that Sherry had deliberately deceived him. “Sit down,” he ordered curtly, “let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “Oh, I have a great deal to say!” she burst out, and Stephen was momentarily disconcerted by the fleeting irony that this Charise Lancaster looked exactly like the curly-haired blonde he’d expected to meet at the ship.

  Charise sensed his desire to disbelieve anything she said, and as it sank in that this handsome, rich man might somehow have belonged to her, her fury and determination grew to new proportions. Daunted by his glacial manner, she was trying to decide how to best begin, when he said in a savage voice, “You’ve made a damning accusation against someone who isn’t here to defend herself. Now, start talking!”

  “Oh, I see you don’t want to believe me,” she burst out in alarm and rage. “Well, I didn’t want to believe it either when I read the announcement in the newspaper. She’s duped you, just the way she dupes everyone.”

  “She had amnesia—memory loss!”

  “Well, she certainly found it when I appeared—how do you explain that?”

  He couldn’t, and he didn’t want to let her see his reaction to that point or to the rest of what she was saying.

  “She’s a liar and an ambitious schemer, and she always was! On the ship, she told me she intended to marry someone like you, and she almost pulled it off, didn’t she? First she tried to lure my husband away, and then she set her sights on you!”

  “Until she returns and can answer you face to face, I’ll ignore that as the anger of a jealous little minx.”

  “Jealous!” Charise exploded, leaping to her feet. “How dare you imply I’d be jealous of that red-haired witch! And for your information, my lord, she ran away because she was exposed. She is never coming back, do you hear me? She admitted to me she’d lied to you.” Stephen felt as if his chest had a rope around it that was being tightened with every word the blonde said. She was telling the truth—it was all over her contemptuous face—the hatred she felt for Sheridan Bromleigh and the scorn she had for him.

  “On the way over from America, she talked me out of marrying Burleton and convinced me I ought to elope with Mr. Morrison instead! Now that I think about it, I’m surprised she didn’t betroth herself to my own fiancé!”

  In the midst of his own rampaging emotions, Stephen realized the girl seated in front of him with tears in her eyes and her fists clenched in furious frustration had two pieces of very bad news coming. In his current mood, he was not inclined to postpone or dissemble. Fed up with all the convoluted lies and his own disastrous efforts to spare Sherry news that didn’t even pertain to her, he tempered his voice and said flatly, “Burleton is dead.”

  “Dead?” Charise wailed in genuine despair as her secret hope that Burleton might still take her as his wife if she could get rid of Morrison was crushed to splinters. “How?” she whispered chokily, reaching into her reticule for a lacy handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.

  Stephen told her and watched her face crumple. She wasn’t lying now either, he realized. She was completely distraught.

  “My poor father. I didn’t know how I was ever going to face him after that Bromleigh woman talked me into eloping with Mr. Morrison. I’ve been so afraid I haven’t even written him yet. I’m going home!” Charise decided, already inventing a plausible lie that would persuade her father to take her back, to buy a divorce or an annulment or whatever was necessary. “I’m going straight home.”

  “Miss Lancaster,” Stephen said, and it seemed so odd, so ugly, to be calling this woman by a name he thought belonged to Sherry, “I have a letter for you from your father’s solicitor. It was sent to me by Burleton’s landlord.” Setting aside his own monumental concerns for the moment, Stephen unlocked his desk drawer, extracted the letter and bank draft, and reluctantly held them out to her. “I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”

  Her hand trembled violently as she read the contents of the letter and looked at the bank draft, then she slowly raised glazed eyes to his. “Is this all the money I have in the world?”

  Her financial situation wasn’t Stephen’s problem or his concern, since she had evidently jilted Burleton and wed someone else en route to England, but keeping her silent was very much his concern. “Without implying that I believe Sheridan Bromleigh deliberately impersonated you,” he said flatly, “I would be willing to give you a substantial sum to . . . shall we say, ease your plight . . . in return for your silence on this entire matter.”

  “How substantial?”

  Stephen loathed her at that moment. He loathed the idea of paying her off to keep her from spreading what would become a scandal that would explode all over England if it came out. He loathed himself for the twinge of doubt growing inside him about Sherry’s intention to return in a few hours. Her letter hadn’t been a final farewell, it had been a plea—a hysterical plea from a lovely, overwrought girl who feared he wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t believe. She had run from the house to give his temper time to cool, in case he did believe Charise.

  She would come back, confused and distraught and indignant; she would come back and face him. She was entitled to answers and explanations from him about why he’d impersonated Burleton. She would come back for those. She had enough spirit to confront him. She had so damned much spirit.

  * * *

  He repeated that to himself over and over again as he watched the Lancaster woman leave with the enormous sum he’d paid her, then he got up and wandered over to the windows, staring do
wn at the street watching for his bride to return . . . to explain. He saw Charise Lancaster climb into a hired hack as his brother walked in behind him and quietly said, “What do you intend to do?”

  “Wait.”

  For one of the few times in his life, Clayton Westmoreland felt and sounded helpless and hesitant. “Do you want me to send the vicar home?”

  “No,” Stephen clipped. “We’ll wait.”

  41

  Holding up a coat of wine-colored superfine, Nicholas DuVille’s superior valet cast an approving eye over his master’s gleaming white shirt and neckcloth. “As I’ve oft said, sir,” he remarked as Nicki finished buttoning his wine velvet waistcoat, “no Englishman has quite your excellent knack with a neckcloth.”

  Nicki cast him an amused glance. “And as I’ve oft replied, Vermonde, that is because I am more French than English, and you are biased against the British—” He broke off as the valet went to answer an imperative knock at the door of his bedchamber.

  “Yes, what is it?” Nicki asked, surprised that his haughty valet had admitted a lowly footman into his private domain.

  “I am to tell you that there is a young lady here to see you, my lord. She’s in the blue salon and very distraught. She says you know her as Miss Lancaster. The butler tried to send her off, seeing that she arrived in a rented hack and is not known to him, but she was very persistent. And unwell, we think, because . . .”

  His voice trailed off at the sight of the dire look on his employer’s face as he stalked swiftly toward the doorway, almost knocking the surprised footman out of his way in his haste.

  * * *

  “Sherry?” Nicki said, his alarm escalating as she looked up at him with a haunted, wild expression. Tears were streaking down a face that was so white her silvery eyes looked dark in contrast, and she was sitting on the very edge of the sofa as if she were thinking of either bolting or falling over. “What has happened?”

  “I—have my—memory back,” Sherry said, gulping for air as if she were strangling. “I—I’m a fraud. Everyone is a—a fraud! Charise was betrothed to Burleton. Why did Stephen pre-pretend? No, I’m the pretender—”

  “Don’t try to talk,” Nicki ordered sharply and went over to a tray of glasses and decanters. Pouring a liberal draught of brandy into a glass, he brought it over to her. “Drink this. All of it,” he added when she took a sip, shuddered, and tried to thrust it back. “It will help calm you very quickly,” Nicki added, thinking she was hysterical because she now knew she’d never been betrothed to Stephen Westmoreland.

  She looked at him as if his concern for her was madness, then she obeyed like an automaton, drinking the sharp liquor in gulps and coughing.

  “Don’t try to talk for a few minutes,” he said when she opened her mouth to begin again. Sherry obeyed helplessly, feeling the liquor burning a path all the way down to her stomach as she stared at her folded hands. The original shock of getting her memory back, of realizing who she was and had been, of seeing Charise, of listening to the ghastly accusations she was making, had sent her fleeing from the house like a heartbroken madwoman. She’d wandered for nearly an hour, wildly trying to think of some way to convince Stephen that she loved him, that she would never have lied to him, no matter what Charise convinced him was true, when another revelation finally hit her and sent her reeling: Stephen Westmoreland had never been betrothed to Charise Lancaster. Her fiancé’s name had been Burleton! Everyone had been playing some sort of charade.

  After that, came one stunning revelation and recollection after another, and she’d sat in a park, her mind stumbling over itself, her head spinning. Now she wanted answers from someone with the least reason to lie to her, and the brandy made her feel that she could cope with whatever explanations she heard.

  “I’ll send for Langford,” Nicki said, watching a little of her color return, but her answer was so frantic that he realized she was still hovering close to hysteria.

  “No! No! Do not!”

  He sat back down in the chair opposite her and said soothingly, “Very well. I won’t move from this room until you say I may.”

  “I have to explain,” Sherry said, forcing herself to sound calm and lucid. Then she changed her mind and decided her best chance of getting honest answers to what seemed to be a world of deception was to ask questions before she gave out information. “No, you have to explain,” she corrected carefully.

  Nicki noticed that she was measuring her words, and he began to realize that she had not come to him on a whim, no matter how hysterical she was about being duped. Her opening sentence confirmed that and also neatly entrapped him.

  “I came here because you are the only one I could think of with nothing to gain by . . . by continuing to play out this . . . this unbelievable deceit that’s been practiced by the entire Westmoreland family.”

  “Would it not be better to discuss all this with your fiancé?”

  “My fiancé!” She laughed a little wildly, shaking her head. “Arthur Burleton was betrothed to Charise Lancaster, Stephen Westmoreland wasn’t! If I hear another falsehood, I’ll—”

  “Have some more brandy,” Nicki interrupted, leaning forward.

  “I don’t need brandy!” Sheridan cried. “I need answers, can’t you understand that?” Realizing that she wasn’t likely to get them if she didn’t sound more rational, Sheridan took a firm grip on her rampaging emotions and very carefully steadied her voice. Looking imploringly into his eyes, she explained, “I came here, to you, because as I looked back, I couldn’t recall that you ever actively participated in this—this monstrous farce. You never even referred to the earl as my fiancé as everyone else did. Please help me now. Tell me the truth. All of it. If you don’t, I very much fear I will go quite mad.”

  Nicki had been appalled when Westmoreland had announced their betrothal two days ago, but when Whitney explained about Sherry’s father’s death, he’d at least found the notion of rushing her into marriage before she regained her memory less noxious. Whitticomb had repeatedly warned everyone not to tell her anything that would distress her, but Nicki was now certain that she did need and want the truth, all of it.

  Glad that the physician wasn’t here to complicate his decision with opposing advice, Nicki braced himself for the unpalatable task of answering for other people’s actions because Charise Lancaster trusted him and, evidently, him alone.

  “Please help me,” she said with quiet desperation. “I have things to explain to you too when you’re finished . . . difficult, shameful, embarrassing things, but I won’t hide the truth from you. I hate dissembling.”

  Sherry saw him lean back, as if resigned to a difficult discussion, but his gaze didn’t waver from hers as he said, “I will be very frank, if you are certain you are well enough to hear it.”

  “I am well enough,” she said emphatically.

  “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “Begin,” she said with a grim laugh, “at the beginning. Begin with why he let me believe until yesterday that he was Lord Burleton. The last thing I remember, before I woke up in the earl’s house with my head in bandages, was that he’d met me at the ship and told me Lord Burleton was dead.”

  Nicki noted that she had sounded solemn at the mention of Burleton’s death, but not devastated. Westmoreland had obviously been correct in his assumption that she’d not known Burleton well enough to form any deep attachment to him. “Burleton died in a carriage accident the night before your ship arrived,” he began in a gentle, but straightforward voice.

  “I was sorry to learn of his death,” she said, matching his tone and somehow reinforcing Nicki’s conclusion that she deserved to hear the whole truth and would be able to handle it better than she could handle confusion and deception. “But I do not understand how the earl became involved in all this.”

  “Langford was driving the carriage,” Nicki said flatly. He saw her wince, but she remained amazingly and gratifyingly calm, so he added, “It was foggy and close to daw
n. Burleton was foxed, and he walked right in front of the horses, but Langford blamed himself for the young man’s death, and in his position, I suspect I might have felt exactly the same. He was driving an untried team, unused to the city, and perhaps if that hadn’t been the case, Burleton would still be alive. I do not know.

  “In any event, when Langford made inquiries a few hours after the accident, he discovered that Burleton’s fiancée was arriving the next day from America, and that Burleton had no family and no friends whom Langford could trust to meet you and give you the news. In fact, if Burleton’s butler hadn’t known about you and your impending arrival in England, no one would have been there to meet your ship at all. You probably remember the rest—Langford went to the ship to give you the news and offer you whatever assistance you desired. Evidently, he was so absorbed in that, he failed to notice a cargo net loaded with crates was heading straight for you, and it struck you in the head.”

  Watching her closely, Nicki leaned forward, letting all that sink in while he poured himself a brandy. She seemed very calm, he thought admiringly, and he continued, “Langford brought you to his house and summoned their family physician. For several days, you were unconscious, and Whitticomb had little faith in your chances of ever waking up. When you finally did come round, and he realized the trauma to your head had caused you to lose your memory, he was adamant that no one ought to say anything to cause you any form of distress. You seemed to think Langford was your fiancé, and so they—we—let you go on believing it. That is about all I know, except,” Nicki added, in fairness to Stephen Westmoreland, “I do know that Langford blamed himself for not protecting you from harm, and for giving you dire news in such a clumsy way that you were too overcome to protect yourself. I also know he has carried a great burden of guilt and remorse over depriving you of your fiancé.”

  Drowning in humiliation, Sherry reached the obvious, the agonizing, conclusion: “And so he felt obliged to provide me with another fiancé by volunteering himself. That’s it, isn’t it?”