Until You

by Judith McNaught

  “He wouldn’t believe you’d run away. He wouldn’t let the cleric leave,” Whitney emphasized. “The vicar was adamant that the wedding had to be performed in daylight, before noon, as is custom, but Stephen overrode him.”

  Sherry turned her head away because her eyes were glazing with tears. “I never thought . . . never imagined . . . He could not possibly have been thinking clearly,” she said with more strength, turning to look at Whitney. “He would never have considered marrying a common governess.”

  “Oh, yes he would,” Whitney said with a teary laugh. “I can tell you from personal experience—and from all I’ve read about the family’s history—that Westmoreland men do exactly as they please, and they always have. May I remind you that when Stephen kept the vicar at his house, he was already aware of your former position as Charise Lancaster’s paid companion. It didn’t matter to him. He’d made up his mind to marry you, and nothing could have stopped him. Except you.”

  She paused, watching Sheridan’s expressive face mirror joy and anguish . . . and then hope. Tentative, fragile, but there, and though that pleased Whitney immensely, she also felt obliged to issue a sobering warning. “Unfortunately,” she said, “Westmoreland men are extremely difficult to manage when they have been provoked beyond what they deem reasonable, and I’m afraid Stephen is already far, far beyond that unlucky state.”

  “Provoked beyond reason?” Sheridan said cautiously.

  Whitney nodded. “I’m afraid so.” She waited, hoping for a sign of the courage Sheridan was going to need if things were to be set to rights. “If matters are to be set to rights between you, I very much fear the burden for it will fall completely to you. In fact, the best thing you can hope to receive from Stephen is opposition. Cold, unresponsive opposition. At worst, he’ll unleash some of the rage he feels toward you.”

  “I see.”

  “He wants nothing to do with you, will not even allow the mention of your name by any of us.”

  “He . . . hates me?” Her voice faltered at the agonizing certainty he did—and the realization that she could have prevented all this.

  “Thoroughly.”

  “But he—I mean you do think that he didn’t hate me before?”

  “I think he loved you. I told you once before I’ve never seen Stephen treat a woman quite the way he treated you. Among other things, he was possessive, which is not at all in his normal style.”

  Sheridan looked down at her hands, afraid to hope she could rekindle any of those feelings in him. Unable to stop herself from hoping. Raising her eyes to Whitney’s, she said, “What can I do?”

  “You can fight for him.”

  “But how?”

  “That’s the delicate part of the problem,” Whitney said, biting her lip to hide a smile at Sheridan’s alarmed expression.

  “He will avoid you, of course. In fact, he would have left here the moment he realized you were here if it hadn’t been Noel’s birthday, and if leaving wouldn’t cause him to lose all face.”

  “Then I suppose I should be grateful matters happened this way.”

  “Actually, they didn’t ‘happen this way.’ You were quite right when you assumed all this was planned very carefully, but it was never intended to embarrass you, only to force Stephen to be in your company the maximum amount of time over the weekend. Also, the other two governesses will step in to look after the Skeffington boys while you’re here. To that end, I’ve suggested to Lady Skeffington that you might better serve if you were to be where you could chaperone Julianna—from a distance, of course. That will allow you to wander about the grounds, ride if you wish, and generally be visible.”

  “I—I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You may not want to thank me,” Whitney said with a nervous smile. And then because she desperately wanted to give the other woman enough reassurance to make her able to face up to whatever Stephen did to her, she confided something that only the family knew. “Several years ago, I was betrothed to my husband by my father without my knowledge. I—I had some foolish girlhood notion of marrying a local boy I thought I’d love forever, and I—I did several things to try to avoid this marriage that caused my husband to break the betrothal and withdraw his offer. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until then that I realized I was long over my infatuation with the other man. By then, Clayton wouldn’t even acknowledge that he knew me.”

  “Eventually, however, he obviously changed his mind.”

  “Not quite,” Whitney admitted with a rosy blush. “I changed his mind. He was on the verge of marrying another, and I—I came here to see him, to try to dissuade him. Stephen stepped in and forced me to stay. Actually, I only conceived this party because a similar ploy worked with my husband and me.”

  “But everything came about as soon as he saw you?”

  That evoked a musical laugh from the duchess and a firm shake of her head. “He seemed to hate the sight of me. It was the most mortifying night of my life. But when it was over, when I won—when we both won—I had no pride left. I had him.”

  “And you are warning me that my pride is going to suffer?”

  “Terribly, unless I miss my guess.”

  “Thank you for confiding in me. In a way it helps to know another woman made an enormous mistake and had to rectify it herself.”

  “I didn’t,” Whitney said gently, “confide in you to share misery. I had a much more important reason, else I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “I know.”

  Sheridan hesitated, then stood up, her smile wobbly but her voice strong. “What should I do?”

  “First, you must be very visible, so that he cannot avoid noticing you. And very available, somehow.”

  “Available . . . to him, you mean?”

  “Precisely. Having been jilted and deceived, Stephen won’t want anything to do with you. It will take an invitation from you—unmistakable, and hopefully irresistible—to lure him to you again.”

  Sheridan nodded, her heart thundering with dread and hope and uncertainty, then she slowly turned to the other women, all of whom she’d insulted earlier, and all of whom were watching her with fond, gentle understanding. She looked at the dowager and Miss Charity first. “I was inexcusably rude,” she began, but Stephen’s mother shook her head to stop her and held out her hand.

  “Under the circumstances, my dear, I’m sure I would have acted much as you did.”

  Taking the dowager’s hand in both of hers, Sherry clasped it tightly. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry—”

  Victoria Seaton stopped further outpourings of guilt by standing up and giving Sheridan a fierce hug, then she drew back and laughingly said, “We are all here to support you, and you may well need it when Stephen arrives.”

  “Don’t frighten her,” said Alexandra Townsende, laughing as she stood up and clasped Sheridan’s hands. With an exaggerated shiver, she said, “Leave that to Stephen.”

  Sheridan’s smile wavered a little. “Do your husbands know what all this is about?”

  All three women nodded, and Sheridan found it very touching to know the husbands were also wishing her well.

  The task that lay in front of her was daunting. The realization that Stephen had evidently cared enough for her to wait with the cleric for hours after she ran away was heartbreaking. Sherry had never been happier in her life.

  50

  After Sheridan, Alexandra, and Victoria left the drawing room, the three women who remained within it, despite their valiant efforts to seem normal and confident, were jumpy and tense by the time they heard the sound of a coach arriving an hour later. “That must be Stephen,” the dowager duchess said, putting her teacup down with enough nervous energy to cause the priceless Sèvres cup to clatter and tilt upon its delicate saucer. All morning, guests had been arriving for the birthday celebration, including the Skeffington party, but Stephen had not put in an appearance, and it was becoming obvious something either had detained him or was going to cause him to miss the day completely.
“If he has not been injured or held up by highwaymen on the road,” she continued peevishly, “I shall be sorely tempted to do him bodily harm myself! My nerves are drawn to the limit. I am entirely too old to be subjected to this sort of suspense.”

  Too anxious to wait for the butler to announce the new arrival, Whitney was already on her way to the windows to have a look.

  “Is it he, dear?”

  “Yes . . . Oh, no!” her daughter-in-law answered, and turning around she pressed against the draperies, looking positively frantic.

  “Yes, it is he, or ‘oh, no,’ it is not he?” inquired Miss Charity.

  “Yes, it is Stephen.”

  “That’s good.”

  “With Monica Fitzwaring.”

  “That’s bad,” said the dowager, handing her three-year-old grandson to Charity, who opened her arms to him, and who’d been included in the plot out of necessity. Since she and Noel had become inordinately fond of each other, Whitney didn’t have the heart to send the elderly lady away from him on his birthday, nor could she have allowed Charity to remain if she Weren’t forewarned of Sheridan’s arrival and apprised of the reasons and the plan.

  “He has also brought Georgette Porter.”

  “That is very bad,” the dowager said, sounding more dire.

  “I think it is very nice!” exclaimed Miss Charity, drawing their incredulous looks as she grinned at Lord Noel Westmoreland. Picking up the youngster’s wrists, she clapped his chubby hands together, making him laugh, before she glanced up at the two duchesses and noticed they were looking at her as if she were demented. “One woman would occupy his time,” she predicted happily. “Two women can occupy each other and leave him quite free for our Sheridan.”

  “Unfortunately, Monica and Georgette cannot abide each other.”

  Miss Charity didn’t see that as an obstacle. “In order to secure Langford’s good opinion, they will spend all their time trying to surpass each other for amiability. Or else,” she added, her brow furrowed in thought, “they will unite and turn all their malice on our poor Sherry, should Langford pay her attention.”

  Less than pleased with the second possibility, Whitney looked at her mother-in-law. “What shall we do?”

  Unwilling to be left out of the excitement for more than a moment, Charity said brightly, “We ought to invite dear Monsieur DuVille to even out the numbers!”

  The dowager duchess’s nerves were strained enough to cause that lady to turn clear round in her chair and glower at Miss Charity. “What a perfectly absurd idea! As you well know, Stephen developed an aversion to the mere mention of the man’s name from the day Sheridan disappeared!”

  Wary of the dowager’s unprecedented mood, Whitney hastily interceded. “Why don’t you take Noel outdoors, ma’am,” she suggested to Charity. “I instructed the governesses to take the children down by the pond at this hour to see the swans and have a sweet. You could keep an eye on our particular governess if she appears there.”

  Charity nodded at once, stood up, and took Noel’s hand. “Well, my young lord, shall we endeavor to spy out our prey?” she invited.

  Noel pulled back and shook his dark, curly head. “First, kiss ’bye,” he explained, and ran across the room on sturdy little legs to kiss his grandmother and his mother as he knew they liked for him to do. Satisfied, he grinned at Miss Charity, offered her his hand, and allowed her to lead him outdoors through the French doors that opened onto the lawns.

  The Dowager Duchess of Claymore managed to keep her smile in place until Noel vanished, but the moment he was out of sight, she focused her irate gaze on the door that led into the room from the main hall. Stress had finally pushed her past the limit of her endurance. She was irrationally angry with Stephen for foiling their carefully made plans to effect a reconciliation with Sherry by bringing not one, but two women, and she was vastly, if unjustly, annoyed with both women for coming along. Unaware of his mother’s strained temper, Stephen escorted his guests into the drawing room and went straight to her chair. “You look a little weary,” he said, bending to kiss his mother’s cheek.

  “I wouldn’t look weary if you wouldn’t persist in being late and worrying me when you are.”

  Stephen was too startled by her tone to react strongly to the unjust criticism. “I wasn’t aware time was of the essence. I’m sorry you were worried.”

  “It is excessively rude to keep your hostess waiting,” she added crossly.

  Stephen straightened and eyed her with surprised annoyance. “My sincerest apologies for my tardiness, your grace.” With a formal bow, he added, “For the second time.”

  Dismissing her unnaturally querulous behavior with an imperceptible shrug, he turned so that she could acknowledge his guests. “Mother,” he said, “I believe you’re acquainted with Miss Fitzwaring—”

  “How is your papa, Monica?” the dowager demanded as the young woman made her a pretty curtsy.

  “Very well, thank you, your grace. He sends you his warmest regards.”

  “Please convey mine to him. And now, since you are clearly exhausted from your trip, I suggest you go straight upstairs and stay there until supper so that you may rest and recover your color.”

  “I am not in the least tired, your grace,” Miss Fitzwaring said, stiffening in affront at the bald hint she didn’t look her best.

  The dowager ignored her, extended her regal hand to the other woman, and announced as Georgette curtsied, “I heard you have been ill recently, Miss Porter. You must spend the weekend lying down.”

  “Oh, but—that was last year, your grace. I’m fully recovered.”

  “Prevention is the key to good health,” she persevered doggedly. “That is what my physician always says, and that is how I have lived all these years with such robust health and cheerful disposition.”

  Whitney stepped in and greeted her unexpected guests before they could pause to mentally challenge her claim to cheerful disposition. “You both look perfectly fit, but I’m certain you’d like a few minutes to refresh yourselves,” she said with a smile as she escorted the mortified Miss Porter and the offended Miss Fitzwaring to the door so that a footman could show them to their rooms.

  “Where is my nephew?” Stephen asked as he pressed a brief kiss to Whitney’s cheek. “And where,” he added in a sardonic whisper, “is my mother’s ‘cheerful’ disposition?”

  “Noel is with Miss Charity . . .” Whitney began as it suddenly hit her the time was at hand. It was now. There was no turning back. “In a half hour, everyone is to go down to the pond, where the children are to have a little party. Noel will be there then, along with some of the cottagers’ children.”

  51

  Swans floated gracefully on water as still as a mirror, as Sheridan and the two other governesses stood near a graceful white gazebo, watching several children who lived on the estate playing happily with small, fledgling ducks on the bank of a small lake on the front lawn. Their happy voices rang out as they tried to coax the lofty swans closer to the bank, mingling with the deeper, more reserved voices of the Fieldings, Townsendes, Skeffingtons, and Westmorelands.

  Sheridan kept a close eye on the children, but none of the day’s sounds were as loud as the thunder of her heart as she watched Stephen finally emerge from the house with two women. Whitney had already whispered a warning about the women before she joined her guests, but Sheridan scarcely paid it any attention. In her mind, all she could hear was Whitney’s earlier words: “Stephen kept the cleric there until late that night. He could not—would not—believe you weren’t coming back.”

  Tenderness and regret shook through her every time she thought of it, reinforcing her courage, her determination to face him and give him whatever “invitation” was necessary to bring him back to her.

  He was listening to whatever Monica was telling him, but his smile was absent, and his gaze was on the children.

  The closer he came, the harder Sheridan’s heart beat until it seemed to roar in her ears. Noel cam
e running up to her with Charity close beside him, and he stopped shyly in front of her. “Flower, for you,” he said, holding out a tiny wildflower that Charity had told him to pick.

  Charity’s reason was obvious as she said, “Langford will be looking for Noel, and if he is with you, then we will all be relieved of our tension sooner than if we have to wait until he notices the governesses.”

  Sherry didn’t care for that idea, but she crouched down to accept the flower, smiling softly at the sturdy three-year-old, who reminded her of his father and Stephen both. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, watching Stephen from the corner of her eye as he neared the gazebo. Behind her, beneath a large oak tree, the adults were surreptitiously watching the same scene begin to unfold, and their conversations became halting, while their laughter came to an abrupt end.

  Noel looked at the sunlight glinting on the flaming strands of her hair, reached out to touch it, then paused to look inquiringly at Charity. “Hot?”

  “No,” Sheridan answered, loving every feature on his face. “It’s not hot.”

  He grinned and reached out to touch it, but Stephen’s call drew his instant attention.

  “Noel!”

  Noel broke into a grin, and before Charity could stop him, he turned and raced to his uncle, who swept him up into his arms. “You’ve grown a foot!” Stephen told him, shifting him to his left arm, his gaze on the group of adults beneath the tree. “Have you missed me?”

  “Yes!” Noel said emphatically with a shake of his head, but as they passed within a few feet of Sheridan, Noel saw Sherry watching him with a hesitant smile. He made a sudden decision and wriggled to get down.

  “What, leaving me so soon?” Stephen asked, looking surprised and a little hurt. “Obviously,” he joked to the Townsendes and Fieldings, as well as Georgette and Monica, as he lowered the wriggling little boy to his feet, “I need to start bringing him more lavish gifts. Where are you going, young man?”

  Noel gave him an adoring look, but pointed a chubby finger to a woman who was standing a few paces away, wearing a drab dark blue gown, and explained, “First, kiss ’bye!”