Until You

by Judith McNaught

  Nervous because so much could hinge on his reaction and his help, Whitney admitted, “It’s Sheridan Bromleigh. I didn’t want to tell you in advance for fear she wouldn’t be here, or you wouldn’t come.”

  His expression hardened instantly at the mention of the other woman’s name, and she lifted beseeching green eyes to his cool gray ones. “Please, Clayton, do not condemn her out of hand. We have never heard her side in the matter.”

  “Because she ran off like the guilty little bitch she is. The fact that she likes opera, which we already knew, doesn’t change that.”

  “Your loyalty to Stephen is clouding your judgment.” When that didn’t have any noticeable effect, Whitney persevered with gentle but firm determination. “She doesn’t come here for the performances. She never even looks at the stage, she only looks at Stephen, and she always sits in rows behind his box so that he wouldn’t see her if his attention wandered from the stage. Please, darling, just look for yourself.”

  He hesitated for an endless moment, then conceded with a curt, wordless nod, and slid a glance in the direction she’d indicated, off to their right. “Plain dark blue bonnet with a blue ribbon,” Whitney added to help, “and a dark blue dress with a white collar.”

  She knew the moment Clayton found Sheridan in the crowd, because his jaw hardened, his gaze snapped back to the stage, and it remained there until the curtain went up. Disappointed, but not defeated, she watched him from the corner of her eye, waiting for the merest change in his posture that might indicate he was taking a second look. The moment she felt it, she stole a swift glance at him. He’d moved his head only a fraction of an inch to the right, away from the stage, but his gaze was far off to the right. Praying that this was not the only time in weeks that Sheridan Bromleigh had decided to watch the performance, Whitney leaned slightly forward to peer around Clayton’s shoulders and smiled with relief.

  For the next two hours, Whitney kept her husband and Sheridan Bromleigh under cautious surveillance, careful not to move her body in any way that would alert him. By the end of the evening, her eye sockets hurt, but she was feeling absolutely triumphant. Clayton’s gaze had returned to Sheridan throughout the entire evening, but Whitney did not bring the topic up again until two days later, when she felt he’d had time to perhaps readjust his attitude toward Stephen’s former fiancée.

  46

  “Do you recall the other night at the opera?” she began cautiously as the footmen cleared away their breakfast dishes.

  “I thought it was a ‘riveting’ performance, just as you’d said,” Clayton said straight-faced. “The tenor who—”

  “You were not watching the performance,” she interrupted firmly.

  “You’re right.” He grinned. “I was watching you watch me.”

  “Clayton, please be serious. This is important.”

  His brows lifted inquiringly, and he gave her his fullest attention, but he looked amused, wary, and prepared.

  “I want to do something to bring Stephen and Sheridan Bromleigh face to face. I discussed it yesterday with Victoria, and she agreed they ought to at least be forced to talk to each other.”

  She braced herself for an argument and ended up gaping at him as he said casually, “Actually, a similar thought occurred to me, so I discussed it with Stephen last night when I saw him at The Strathmore.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me! What did you say? What did he say?”

  “I said,” Clayton recited, “that I wanted to discuss Sheridan Bromleigh with him. I told him that I believe she goes to the opera specifically to see him.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Nothing happened. He got up and walked out.”

  “That’s all? He didn’t say anything?”

  “As a matter of fact he did. He said that, out of respect for our mother, he would ignore the temptation to resort to physical violence against my person, but that if I ever brought up Sheridan Bromleigh’s name to him again, I should not depend on his ability to exercise similar restraint.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “Not in exactly those words,” Clayton said with grim irony. “Stephen’s were shorter and more—colorful.”

  “Well, he can’t threaten me. There must be something I could do.”

  “Have you considered prayer? A pilgrimage? Sorcery?” Despite his light tone, he wanted her to let matters rest, and she could see that he did. When she didn’t smile, he put his cup onto the saucer and leaned back in his chair, frowning a little. “You’re absolutely determined to get involved in this, no matter what Stephen says or I say, is that it?”

  She hesitated, and then nodded. “I have to try. I keep remembering the expression on Sheridan’s face when she looks at him in the opera, and the way she was looking at him at the Rutherfords’ ball. And Stephen looks more haggard and grim each time I see him, so being apart isn’t doing either of them any good.”

  “I see,” he said, studying her face with a reluctant smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Is there anything I can say to persuade you it’s a mistake?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I see.”

  “I may as well confess—I’ve contacted Matthew Bennett to ask him to have his firm make inquiries about where she is. I can’t do anything to bring them together until I can find her.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t decide to hire a lackey during the intermission to follow her home from the opera, and then have Bennett’s firm make inquiries.”

  “I didn’t think of it!”

  “I did.”

  His voice had been so unemotional, his expression so marvelously bland, that it took a moment for the true import of those two words to register. When they did, she felt the familiar fierce surge of love that had grown stronger over the four years of their marriage. “Clayton,” she said. “I love you.”

  “She’s working as a governess for a baronet and his family,” he informed her. “Surname is Skeffington. Three children. I’ve never heard of them. Bennett has their direction.”

  Whitney put her teacup down and stood up, intending to send a note to the solicitor’s firm at once, asking for all the information they had.

  “Whitney?”

  She turned in the doorway of the morning room. “My lord?”

  “I love you too.” She smiled at him in answer, and he waited a moment before issuing a serious warning: “If you persist in your determination to bring them face to face, be very cautious how you handle this, and be prepared for Stephen to leave the moment he sees her. You should also be prepared for the possibility that he will not forgive you for this, not for a very long time. Think carefully before you take steps you may sorely regret.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  Clayton watched her leave and slowly shook his head, knowing damned well she wasn’t going to waste time in contemplation and inaction. It simply was not in her nature to watch life happen and not wade in. It was, he decided wryly, one of the things he most loved about her.

  He did not, however, expect her to act as swiftly as she did.

  “What’s that?” he asked late that same afternoon as he strolled past the salon and saw her sitting at a rosewood secretary, thoughtfully brushing the feathered end of a quill against her cheek while she studied a sheet of paper in her hand.

  She looked up as if she’d been far away, and then smiled swiftly. “A guest list.”

  The frenetic activities of the Season were finally winding to a close, and they’d both been looking forward to returning to the peace and serenity of the country for the summer, so Clayton was naturally surprised she was evidently planning to entertain. “I thought we were going back to Claymore the day after tomorrow.”

  “We are. This party is three weeks off—it’s a birthday party for Noel. Nothing too large, of course.”

  Over her shoulder, Clayton glanced at her list and muffled a laugh as he read the first item aloud, “ ‘One small elephant, safe for children to t
ouch—’ ”

  “I was thinking of a circus theme, with clowns and jugglers and such, with all the festivities and meals taking place on the lawn. That’s so much more relaxed, and the children will be able to enjoy everything right alongside with the adults.”

  “Isn’t Noel a little young for all this?”

  “He needs the society of other children.”

  “I thought that was the reason he spends every day with the Fieldings’ and the Thorntons’ children when we come to London.”

  “Oh, it is,” she said, giving him a breezy smile. “Stephen volunteered to give Noel’s party at Montclair when I told him about it today.”

  “Having been to enough parties in the last six weeks to last a lifetime, I rather wish you’d have let him,” he joked. “As Noel’s uncle and godfather, it’s Stephen’s prerogative to have his country house overrun with parents who’ll stay for a week and expect to be entertained, children’s party or no.”

  “I suggested Stephen give your mother’s sixtieth birthday ball at Montclair instead, and let us have Noel’s birthday party at Claymore. Since her birthday is only three days after Noel’s, that seemed the best plan.”

  “Clever girl,” Clayton replied, instantly reversing his opinion of who ought to have the party. “Mother’s ball will be a huge crush.”

  “Our party will be small—a few carefully chosen guests with their children and governesses.”

  As she spoke, Clayton glanced idly at the sheet of paper near her wrist and his eyes riveted on the name Skeffington. He straightened, and when he spoke, his voice was filled with amused irony. “Interesting guest list.”

  “Isn’t it?” she replied with an incorrigible smile. “Five couples whose absolute discretion we can depend upon, no matter what they see or hear, and who already know most of the situation. And the Skeffingtons.”

  “And their governess, of course.”

  Whitney nodded. “Of course. And the beauty of the plan is that Sheridan won’t be able to leave, no matter how badly she wishes, because she works for the Skeffingtons.”

  “How do you intend to prevent Stephen from leaving when he sets eyes on her?”

  “Leave?” she repeated, looking even more pleased. “And abandon his nephew who adores him? The nephew he positively dotes on? How would that look to Noel? And how would it look to everyone else if he’s so overset by the presence of a mere governess in a house with over a hundred rooms that he can’t bear being there and has to leave? I wish there were a less public way to bring them together, but since Stephen clearly won’t countenance a private meeting, I had to find a method of getting him where we want him to be and then preventing him from leaving. Even if he could rationalize that Noel wouldn’t notice his absence, he’d still lose face in front of the Fieldings and Townsendes and everyone else. He has a great deal of pride, and Sheridan already trampled it. I doubt he’ll be willing to sacrifice one iota more by leaving when he sees her. And by keeping the party outdoors, the governesses will be in constant view of the guests, so Stephen won’t be able to avoid Sherry, even in the evenings.”

  She paused, glancing thoughtfully at the guest list. “I daren’t invite Nicki. For one thing, he’ll try to dissuade me, and even if he didn’t, he’d refuse to come under these circumstances. He disapproved of everything Stephen did where Sheridan was concerned, including the fact that Stephen didn’t try to find her and explain. Nicki is very hostile on the entire subject. He admitted to me the day after I saw her at the opera for the first time that he knew where she was, but he refused to tell me where when I asked. Nicki’s never refused me anything. He said very firmly that she’s suffered enough from Stephen and she doesn’t wish to be found.”

  “She left. Stephen didn’t,” Clayton pointed out curtly.

  “I’m inclined to agree, but Nicki is adamant.”

  “Then you’re wise not to maneuver them into the same shire, let alone the same house.”

  Whitney heard that with a troubled frown. “Why not?”

  “Because Stephen has developed a pronounced, highly refined loathing for DuVille since Sheridan vanished.”

  She looked so distressed that Clayton shifted his thoughts back to the plan to bring Sheridan into Stephen’s presence. Her scheme was fraught with possibilities for failure, but he could not think of another that was better. “What if the Skeffingtons decline?” he said idly.

  His wife dismissed that possibility by tapping her fingers on a folded missive on her desk. “According to the information in this letter from Matthew Bennett’s firm, Lady Skeffington persuaded her husband, Sir John, to bring the family to London for the Season, specifically so they could mingle with the ‘right sort of people.’ Lady Skeffington has very little money, but very big social aspirations, it seems.”

  “She sounds delightful,” Clayton said ironically. “I can hardly wait to have them occupy my home for seventy-two consecutive hours, twelve meals, three teas . . .”

  Preoccupied with making her point, Whitney continued, “They came to London in high hopes of gaining an entrée into the sort of elevated circles where their seventeen-year-old daughter might have an opportunity to make a brilliant match. As of yesterday, they’d succeeded in neither goal. Now, given all that, can you honestly believe the Skeffingtons will decline a personal invitation from the Duke of Claymore to attend a party at his country seat?”

  “No,” Clayton said, “but there is always hope.”

  “No, there isn’t,” his incorrigible wife said as she turned back to her note making with a laugh, “not when your brother happens to be considered the most splendid match in England.”

  “Maybe it will snow that weekend,” he said, looking appalled by the forthcoming house party. “Surely at some time in the history of the world, it must have snowed on this continent in June.”

  47

  With her aching feet propped up on a footstool, Lady Skeffington sat in blissful silence in the salon of their small rented London house. On the opposite side of the room, her husband read the Times, his gouty foot propped up on another footstool. “Listen to how quiet it is,” she said, tipping her head to the side, her expression blissful. “Miss Bromleigh has taken the children for ice cream. They will return at any moment, and all I can think about is how nice it is to have them gone.”

  “Yes, my dove,” her husband replied without missing a word of text.

  She was about to continue that topic when their footman, who doubled as coachman and also butler, intruded on the solitude, a missive in his outstretched hand. “If this is another notice about our rent—” she began, then her fingers registered the extraordinary thickness of the heavy cream paper in her hand, and she turned it over, staring at the seal embedded in the wax. “Skeffington,” she breathed, “I think—I am almost certain—we have just received our first important invitation—”

  “Yes, my dove.”

  She broke the seal, unfolded the note, and her mouth dropped open as she beheld the gold crest at the top of the parchment. Her hands began to shake as she read each word, and she stood up as excitement flowed through her shaking limbs. “Claymore!” she uttered in awe, her free hand clutching her chest, where her heart was beginning to thunder. “We have been invited . . . to Claymore!”

  “Yes, my dove.”

  “The Duke and Duchess of Claymore request the honor of our company at a small party to celebrate the birthday of their son. And—” Lady Skeffington paused to reach out for her hartshorn on the table, before she could continue, “the Duchess of Claymore has written me a note in her own hand. She says she is sorry that she did not have the pleasure of making our acquaintance during the Season, but is hoping to remedy that at . . . Claymore . . .” She stopped for a dose of hartshorn before she continued. “ . . . in three weeks. And we are to bring the children. How does that sound to you?”

  “Devilish queer.”

  She pressed the invitation to her ample bosom, her voice a reverent whisper. “Skeffington, do you
know what this means?” she breathed.

  “Yes, my dove. It means we have received an invitation intended for someone else.”

  Lady Skeffington whitened at the possibility, snatched the paper from her chest, reread it, and shook her head. “No, it is directed to us, right there—look.”

  His attention finally drawn away from the Times, Sir John took the note from her outstretched hand and read it, his expression going from disbelief to smug satisfaction. “I told you there was no need to hare all over London hither, thither, and yon, hoping for invitations. This letter would have found us had we stayed right at home in Blintonfield, where we belong.”

  “Oh, this is not merely an invitation!” she said, her voice gaining girlish strength. “This means a great deal more than that!”

  He picked his paper back up. “How so?”

  “This has to do with Julianna.”

  The paper lowered a scant inch, and his eyes, red-rimmed from a pronounced fondness for Madeira, appeared over the top. “Julianna? How so?”

  “Think, Skeffington, think! Julianna has been in London all Season, and though we could never get her vouchers to Almack’s or anywhere else where she’d be seen by the best people, I did insist she stroll in Green Park each day. I was very regular about it, and we saw him there one day. He looked straight at Julianna, and I thought then . . . I thought, Yes, he sees her. And that is why we have received an invitation to Claymore. He noticed how lovely she is and has spent all this time searching for her and thinking of a way to bring her into his company.”

  “Rotten way for him to go about it—having his own wife send the invitation for him. I can’t say I approve. Smacks of bad taste.”

  She rounded on him in dismayed disbelief. “What? Whatever are you talking about?”

  “Our daughter and Claymore.”

  “The duke?” she cried in frustration. “I want her to have Langford!”