That long, flowery speech won a hesitant, confused smile from Sherry, who had crouched down to adjust the bulky bandage on the little boy’s arm. “What Mr. Damson means,” Colfax, the butler, translated with a disgusted look at the valet, “is that we all enjoyed this evening very much, miss, and that we would be deeply appreciative if you might extend it just a little.”
The little boy rolled his eyes at the butler and the valet, then beamed at Sherry, who was at his eye level, frowning at whatever she saw beneath the bandage. “They mean, may we sing another song, please, miss?”
“Oh.” Sheridan laughed, and Stephen saw her wink conspiratorially at the butler and valet as she straightened and said, “Is that what you meant?”
“Indeed,” said the valet, glowering huffily at the butler.
“I know it is what I meant,” the butler retorted.
“Well, can we?” the little boy said.
“Yes,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table and drawing him onto her lap, “but I’ll listen to you this time, so that I can learn another of your songs.” She looked at Hodgkin, who was beaming at her and waiting for further suggestion. “I think that first song, Mr. Hodgkin—the one you all sang for me about ‘a snowy Christmas night with a Yule log burning bright.’ ”
Hodgkin nodded, held up his thin hands for silence, waved his arms dramatically, and the servants instantly burst into exuberant song. Stephen scarcely noticed. He was watching Sherry smile at the little boy in her lap and whisper something to him, then she lifted her hand to his cheek, gently cradling his smudged face to the bodice of her gown. The picture they made together was one of such eloquent maternal tenderness that it snapped Stephen out of his distraction, and he stepped forward, inexplicably anxious to banish the image from his mind. “Is it Christmas already?” he said, strolling into the midst of the cozy scenario.
If he’d been holding loaded guns in both hands, his presence couldn’t have had a more dampening, galvanizing effect on the merry occupants of the room. Fifty servants stopped singing and began backing out of the room, bumping into each other in their haste to scatter. Even the child in Sherry’s lap wriggled away before she could catch him. Only Colfax, Damson, and Hodgkin made a more dignified—but very cautious—retreat and bowed their way out of the room.
“They are quite terrified of you, aren’t they?” Sherry asked, so happy that he’d returned early that she was beaming at him.
“Not enough to stay at their posts, evidently,” Stephen retorted, then he smiled in spite of himself because she looked so guilty.
“That was my doing.”
“I assumed it was.”
“How did you know?”
“My magnificent powers of deduction,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I have never heard them sing, or ever come home to an empty house until tonight.”
“I felt at loose ends and decided to explore a little. When I wandered in here, Ernest—the little boy—had just put his arm against one of those kettles and burned it.”
“And so you decided to cheer him by organizing all the servants into a choir?”
“No, I did that because everyone seemed to be as much in need of a little cheering as I was.”
“Were you feeling ill?” Stephen asked worriedly, scanning her face. She looked fine. Very fine. Lovely and vibrant—and embarrassed.
“No. I was . . .”
“Yes?” he prompted when she hesitated.
“I was sorry you were gone.”
Her candid answer made his heart lurch in surprise . . . and something else, some other feeling he couldn’t identify. And didn’t want to try. On the other hand, for the moment she was his fiancée, and so it seemed both appropriate, and pleasurable, to lean down and press a kiss to her flushed cheek, despite the fact that he had vowed in that same hour to maintain a completely platonic relationship from that moment on. And if the kiss drifted to her lips, and his hands caught her shoulders, drawing her closer for a moment, then that, too, seemed harmless enough. What was not appropriate or harmless was the instantaneous response of his sated body when she pressed lightly against him and put her hand against his chest or the tender thought that suddenly sprang to his mind . . . I missed you tonight.
Stephen released her as if his hands were burned and stepped back, but he kept his expression bland so that his confused annoyance wouldn’t show. He was so preoccupied that he automatically complied when she suggested he wait while she fixed them something to drink.
When she had the cups and pot arranged on a tray, Sheridan returned to the table and sat down across from him.
She propped her chin in her hands and studied him with a slight smile while Stephen watched the way the firelight glinted on her hair and made her cheeks glow. “It must be exhausting work being an earl,” she remarked. “How did you become one?”
“An earl?”
She nodded, glanced at the pot and got up quickly. “The other night, after supper, you mentioned that you have an older brother who is a duke, and then you said you inherited your titles by default.”
“I was being glib,” Stephen answered idly, his attention pulled inevitably to her quick, graceful movements as she readied whatever she was preparing. “My brother inherited the ducal title and several others through our father. Mine came to me from an uncle. Under the terms of a Letters Patent and a special remainder granted to one of my ancestors generations ago, the earls of Langford were allowed to designate the heir to their titles if they were childless.”
She gave him a distracted smile and nodded, and Stephen realized with a jolt that she wasn’t particularly interested in a topic that was normally a matter of avid fascination to every unwed female of his acquaintance.
“The chocolate is ready,” she said, picking up a heavy tray laden with a pot, cups, spoons, and several delicate pastries she’d evidently discovered in a cupboard.
“I hope you like it. I seem to know exactly how to make it,” she said, putting the tray into his hands as if it were perfectly natural for him to march about bearing it. “Only I don’t know whether I make it well or not.” She looked thoroughly pleased that she remembered how to make the drink, but it struck Stephen as a little odd that she would know how to perform a task that was always relegated to the servants. On the other hand, she was American, and perhaps American women were more familiar with kitchens than their English counterparts.
“I hope you like it,” she repeated dubiously as they headed toward the front of the house.
“I’m sure I will,” Stephen replied dishonestly. The last time he’d drunk hot chocolate, he’d been in leading strings. These days, his preferences ran toward a glass of aged brandy at this hour. Afraid she’d somehow read his thoughts, he added for emphasis, “It smells delicious. All that singing about snow and Yule logs must have whetted my appetite for it.”
19
Stephen carried the ornate silver tray down the hall, past three gaping footmen, to the drawing room. Colfax was at his regular station near the front door, and he rushed forward with the obvious intent of prying the tray loose from him, but Stephen stopped him with a mocking remark to the effect that they had already fended for themselves without any help and he saw no reason to change that, now that most of the work was already done.
They were halfway into the drawing room when the door knocker was raised and lowered with emphatic regularity. Stephen had given instructions that all callers were to be informed he was not in, and he paid the sound no heed, but an instant later, he heard a chorus of cheerful voices that made him groan inwardly.
“He most certainly is at home, Colfax,” Stephen’s mother was telling the butler. “When we arrived in London two hours ago, there was a note from him announcing his intention to remove to the country. If we had not arrived several days early, he would have been gone. Now, where is he hiding himself?”
Swearing under his breath, Stephen turned just as his brother, his brother’s wife, and a friend of hers accompanied his mo
ther into the drawing room—a fleet of ships sailing determinedly into battle against what they perceived as his antisocial behavior.
“I won’t have it, darling!” his mother announced, marching forward to press a kiss on his cheek. “You are too much . . .” Her eyes riveted on Sherry, and her voice trailed off lamely, “ . . . alone.”
“Entirely too much!” Whitney Westmoreland announced, her back to the room as she allowed Colfax to divest her of her cape. “Clayton and I intend to see that you attend every important ball and route for the next six weeks,” she continued as she linked her arm through her husband’s and started forward. Two steps into the drawing room, they stopped.
Stephen glanced apologetically at Sherry, who looked completely disoriented and panicky, and whispered, “Don’t worry. They will like you once they recover from their surprise.” In the space of a few tense seconds, Stephen rapidly considered every plausible, and implausible, way of handling what looked to be impending disaster; but without ordering Sherry to leave so that he could explain—which would only humiliate and distress her—he had no choice but to improvise and to play out the farce in his family’s presence and then explain the truth to them after Sherry went up to bed.
In keeping with that plan, Stephen sent a warning look to his older brother that insisted on his unquestioning cooperation, but Clayton’s amused attention was on Sherry and the forgotten tea tray in Stephen’s hands. “Very domestic, Stephen,” Clayton remarked dryly.
Impatiently putting the tray down, Stephen looked at the doorway, where Colfax was waiting for instructions about refreshments, and nodded emphatically to produce them at once. Then he turned to the waiting group and began the introductions. “Mother, may I present Miss Charise Lancaster.”
Sherry looked at her future mother-in-law, realized she was being introduced to a dowager duchess and promptly panicked because she couldn’t think what to say. She threw an agonized look at Stephen and said in a whisper that seemed to shriek through the silent, waiting room, “Will an ordinary curtsy suffice?”
Stephen put his hand beneath her elbow, partly for support and partly to urge her forward, and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yes.”
Sherry sank into a curtsy and felt her knees wobble, then she drew on courage she didn’t know she possessed and straightened. Meeting the older woman’s piercing gaze, she said courteously, “I am very happy to make your acquaintance, ma’am, I mean, Your Grace.” Turning, she waited as Stephen introduced her to his sister-in-law, a stunning brunette he referred to as Whitney, whose green eyes were regarding Charise with veiled puzzlement. Another duchess! Sherry thought frantically, older than she, but not a great deal. To curtsy or not to curtsy? As if the other woman sensed her uncertainty, she held out her hand and said with a hesitant smile, “How do you do, Miss Lancaster?”
Sherry was grateful for the hint, and after shaking the young woman’s hand she turned to be introduced to the duke, a very tall, dark-haired man who bore a distinct resemblance to her fiancé in his facial features, height, and broad-shouldered physique. “Your Grace,” she murmured, curtsying again.
The fourth member of the group, a handsome man in his mid-thirties whose name was Nicholas DuVille, pressed a gallant kiss to the back of her hand and told her that he was “enchanted” to meet her, then he smiled into her eyes in a way that made her feel as if she’d just received a very great compliment.
Finished with the introductions, she waited for one of Stephen’s relatives to welcome her to the family or to at least wish her happiness, but no one seemed able to speak. “Miss Lancaster has been ill,” her fiancé said, and three pairs of eyes turned to her, as if concerned that she might swoon, which she felt very much as if she might actually do.
“Not ill, actually,” Sherry amended. “It was an injury—a blow to the head.”
“Why don’t we all sit down,” Stephen suggested; cursing perverse fate for making what had already been a difficult situation into one that was bound to worsen. Sherry obviously didn’t understand what his family was thinking, but Stephen did. They had walked in on him while he was entertaining an unchaperoned female in his home, which meant that her morality was in serious question, not to mention his own judgment for bringing such a woman into his home, particularly at an hour when callers might arrive. Furthermore, if she were some doxy with whom he was dallying, then he’d committed an unforgivable breach of decency by introducing her to his female relatives. Rather than believe he would descend to that, they were now waiting patiently for some sort of explanation as to who she was . . . or where her chaperone was . . . or where his mind was. Stalling for time, Stephen stood up as the butler came forward bearing a tray of decanters and glasses. “Ah, here is Colfax right now!” he said with grim desperation. “Mother, what will you have to drink?”
His tone won a startled glance from his mother, but she sensed his desire for her unquestioning cooperation and complied at once. With a polite smile, she shook her head at the tray the butler was placing on the table in front of the sofa and looked instead at the one Stephen had already put there. “Is that hot chocolate I smell?” she asked brightly, and without waiting for a reply, she said to the butler, “I believe I prefer the chocolate, Colfax.”
“I’d have the sherry if I were you,” Stephen advised with feeling.
“No, I think I’d prefer the chocolate,” his mother said firmly, then she demonstrated her legendary grace under pressure by turning to Sherry. “I noticed you have an American accent, Miss Lancaster,” she said politely. “How long have you been in England?”
“A little over a sennight,” Sherry said, her voice tense with confusion and uncertainty. No one in that room seemed to know anything at all about her, even though she was betrothed to a member of their own family. Something was odd—dreadfully odd.
“Is this your first visit?”
“Yes,” Sherry managed, looking desperately at Stephen, her chest tightening with anxiety and irrational foreboding.
“And what brings you here?”
“Miss Lancaster came to England because she is betrothed to an Englishman,” Stephen said, coming to Sherry’s rescue and praying that his mother’s heart was strong.
The dowager duchess’s entire body seemed to relax and her expression to warm. “How delightful,” she said, pausing to frown at the butler, who had poured sherry into a glass and was holding it toward her, despite her stated preference for the chocolate. “Colfax, do stop waving that wine under my nose. I’d prefer hot chocolate.” She smiled at Sherry as Colfax distributed glasses of wine to the remaining guests. “To whom are you betrothed, Miss Lancaster?” she inquired brightly, reaching forward and helping herself to a cup of the chocolate.
“She is betrothed to me,” Stephen said flatly.
Silence exploded in the room. If the situation hadn’t been so grave, Stephen would have laughed at the myriad reactions to his announcement. “To . . . you?” his mother said dazedly. Without another word, she put the cup of chocolate down and plucked a glass of wine from Colfax’s tray on the table. Off to Stephen’s right, his brother was regarding him with fascinated disbelief, and his sister-in-law had gone perfectly still, a forgotten glass of sherry uplifted in her outstretched hand, as if she’d been about to offer someone a toast. Colfax was dividing his anguished sympathy between Stephen’s mother and Sherry, while Nicholas DuVille was studying the edge of his coat sleeve, undoubtedly wishing he were somewhere else.
Ignoring their plight for the moment, Stephen looked at Sherry, who was staring at her lap, her head bent with mortification at what surely struck her as an insulting lack of enthusiasm from her future in-laws. Reaching for her hand, Stephen clasped it reassuringly and gave her the first feasible explanation that sprang to mind: “You wanted to wait until my family met you before we told them we are betrothed,” he lied, with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “And that is why they seem so surprised.”
“We seem surprised because we are surprised,” his mo
ther said sternly, looking at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “When did you meet? Where did you meet? You haven’t been to—”
“I’ll answer all your questions in a few minutes,” Stephen interrupted in a terse voice that silenced his mother before she could blurt out that he hadn’t been to America in years. Turning to Sherry, he said gently, “You look very pale. Would you like to go upstairs and lie down?”
Sherry wanted very much to flee from that room with all its tension and undercurrents, but there was something so very strange about everything that she was half afraid to be absent. “No, I—I think I’d prefer to stay.”
Stephen gazed into her wounded, silvery eyes and thought how this moment would have been for her if he had not killed her real fiancé. True, Burleton wasn’t much of a matrimonial prize, but they had cared for each other, and she certainly wouldn’t have been subjected to such a degrading lack of enthusiasm from Burleton’s family, if he’d had one. “If you would rather stay,” he teased, “then I’ll go upstairs and lie down and you stay here to explain to my family that I was such a . . . a sentimental idiot . . . that I let you twist me around your finger and convince me that they ought not to be told of our betrothal until after they’d met you and had an opportunity to know you.”
Sherry felt as if an enormous weight had just fallen off her shoulders. “Oh,” she said with an embarrassed laugh, as she looked around at the occupants of the room. “Is that what happened?”
“Don’t you know?” the dowager burst out in what was, to Stephen’s recollection, her first total loss of composure in her entire life.
“No—you see, I’ve lost my memory,” Sherry replied with such sweetness and courage that Stephen’s chest ached with admiration. “It is a dreadful inconvenience right now, but at least I can assure you it isn’t a hereditary madness. It’s merely the result of a silly accident that occurred on the dock beside the ship . . .”
Until You Page 14