Until You (12 page)

S
ummoned to the earl's study by a footman, Sherry bade a cheerful good morning to the servants she passed in the upper hall, paused in front of a gilt-framed mirror to ensure her hair was tidy, then she smoothed the skirt of her new lime dress and presented herself to Hodgkin, who was stationed at the open doors to the study, watching as footmen applied beeswax to graceful tables and polish to silver candelabra. "Good morning, Hodgkin. You're looking especially fine today. Is that a new suit?"

"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss," Hodgkin said, fighting unsuccessfully to conceal his pleasure at the discovery that she, too, noticed how well he looked in the new suit of clothes that he was entitled to twice each year as part of his employment. Straightening his shoulders to their most rigid angle, he confided, "It arrived yesterday, directly from the tailors."

"I have a new gown," she confided in return. Stephen had looked up at the sound of her voice and now watched her pick up her skirts and do a slow pirouette for the under-butler's benefit. "Isn't it lovely?" he heard her ask.

The scene was so unaffectedly charming that Stephen smiled and answered before the under-butler could. "Very lovely," he replied, which caused Hodgkin to jump nervously and Sherry to drop her skirts, but she smiled that winsome smile of hers as she came toward his desk, her hips swaying gently. Most of the women Stephen knew had been taught exactly how to walk and how to carry themselves, so they moved with the practiced precision of a drill team. Sherry had an effortless grace about her, as if walking was what it should be—a distinctive, naturally feminine act.

"Good morning," she said. Gesturing toward the sheaf of documents and correspondence on his desk, she added, "I hope I'm not interrupting you. I thought you wished to see me at once—"

"You aren't interrupting," Stephen assured her. "In fact, I sent my secretary away so that we could be private. Sit down, please." Glancing at Hodgkin, he nodded toward the doors in a silent order that they were to be closed. As the tall oaken panels swung silently into place, Sherry settled her skirts around her. She took painstaking care with her new gown, Stephen noticed, smoothing her hand over a wrinkle and looking down at her feet to make certain the hem didn't lie beneath the toe of her slipper. Satisfied that everything was arranged in becoming order, she looked at him expectantly, her lovely eyes inquisitive. And trusting.

She trusted him implicitly, Stephen realized, and in return he was about to abuse that trust by manipulating her. As the silence lengthened to the point of awkwardness, he realized that he had been dreading this moment more than he'd realized—enough to have put it off last night so that they could enjoy supper together. However, there was no point in delaying it another minute. And yet, that's exactly what he found himself doing.

He searched quickly for a topic, failed to come up with one, and filled the expectant silence with the first remark that came to mind, "Have you had a pleasant morning?"

"It's a little too soon to tell," she solemnly replied, but her eyes lit with laughter. "We finished breakfasting only an hour ago."

"Has it only been an hour? It seems longer," Stephen said inanely, feeling as awkward and ill-at-ease as an untried youth alone with a woman for the first time. "Well, what have you done since then?" he persevered.

"I was in the library looking for something to read when you sent for me."

"You can't mean you've finished all those magazines I had sent over for you! There was a stack as high as my waist."

She bit her lip and gave him a laughing look. "Did you actually
look
at any of them?"

"No, why?"

"I don't think you'd find them very edifying."

Stephen knew nothing of women's magazines, except that women read them faithfully, but in an effort to keep the conversation going, he politely inquired about the names of the magazines she'd received.

"Well, there was one with a very long name. If I remember correctly, it was called,
The Ladies Monthly Museum, or Polite Repository of Amusement and Instruction: being an Assemblage of what can Tend to please the Fancy, Instruct the Mind or Exalt the Character of the British Fair
."

"All of that in one magazine?" Stephen teased. "That's quite an ambitious undertaking."

"That's what I thought, until I looked at the articles. Do you know what one of them was about?"

"Based on that look on your face, I'd be afraid to hazard a guess," he said, chuckling.

"It was about rouge," she provided.

"What?"

"The article was about how to rouge one's cheeks. It was absolutely
riveting
. Do you suppose that falls under the heading of 'Instructing the Mind' or of 'Exalting the Character'?" she inquired with sham gravity as Stephen's shoulders shook with helpless laughter at her wit.

"Some of the other magazines did have articles of far more import, however. For example, in the one called
La Belle Assemblée, or Bell's Court and Fashionable Magazine addressed particularly to the Ladies
, there was an informative treatise on the correct way for a lady to hold her skirts when she curtsies. I was spellbound! I had never realized it was preferable to use only the thumb and forefinger of each hand to spread one's skirts, instead of all the fingers God gave us. Dainty perfection is the ideal to which every woman must aspire, you know."

"Is that your theory, or the magazine's?" Stephen asked with a grin.

She gave him a sidewise, laughing look that was a miracle of jaunty irreverence. "What do you think?"

Stephen thought he'd take her jaunty irreverence over dainty perfection every day of his life. "I think we should have that rubbish removed from your bedchamber."

"Oh, no, you mustn't. Truly you mustn't. I read the articles every night in bed."

"You do?" Stephen asked because she looked perfectly serious.

"Oh, yes! I read one page and nod right off. It's ever so much more effective than a sleeping draught."

Stephen pulled his gaze from her entrancing face and watched her shove her hair back off her forehead and give it an impatient shake that sent a veil of coppery locks sliding off her shoulder. He'd liked it where it had been, draped artlessly over her right breast. Annoyed with the impossible direction of his thoughts, Stephen said abruptly, "Since we've ruled out rouge and curtsying, what are you interested in?"

You
, Sherry thought.
I am interested in you. I am interested in why you seem uneasy right now. I am interested in why there are times when you smile at me as if you see only me and I am all that matters. I am interested in why there are times when I sense that you don't want to see me at all, even when I'm in front of you. I am interested in anything that matters to you because I want so much to matter to you. I am interested in history. Your history. My history
. "History! I like history," she provided brightly after a pause.

"What else do you like?"

Since she couldn't speak from memory, she gave him the only answer that came to mind. "I think I like horses very well."

"Why do you say that?"

"Yesterday, as your coachman drove me through a park, I saw ladies riding, and I felt… happy. Excited. I think I must know how to ride."

"In that case, we'll have to find you a suitable mount and find out. I'll send word to Tattersall's and have someone over there choose a nice, gentle little mare for you."

"Tattersall's?"

"It's an auction house."

"May I go along and watch?"

"Not without causing an uproar." She gave him a startled look, and he smiled. "Females are not allowed at Tatt's."

"Oh, I see. Actually, I'd rather you didn't spend money on a horse. It may turn out that I don't know how to ride at all. Could I not use one of your horses first, to find out? I could ask your coachman—"

"Don't even consider it," Stephen warned sharply. "I do not own a horse suitable for you or any other woman to ride, no matter how accomplished you may be. My animals are not the sort for a demure jog through the park."

"I don't think that's what I imagined yesterday. I felt like I wanted to gallop and feel the wind in my face."

"No gallops," he decreed. No matter how much riding she'd done, she was no rawboned country girl; she was slender and delicate, without the strength to handle a spirited gallop. When she looked bewildered and mutinous, he explained gruffly, "I don't want to carry you home unconscious for a second time."

He suppressed a shudder at the memory of her limp body in his arms, and that reminded him of another accident… another limp body belonging to a young baron with a life ahead of him and a beautiful girl who wanted to marry him. The recollection banished all desire to delay coming to the real point of their visit.

Leaning back in his chair, Stephen gave her what he hoped was a warm, enthusiastic smile and put his plan for her future into action. "I'm delighted to tell you that my sister-in-law has persuaded the most fashionable modiste in London to abandon her shop in its busiest time and to come here, with seamstresses in tow, in order to design a wardrobe for you to wear during the Season's activities." Instead of being thrilled, she furrowed her brow a little at the news. "Surely, that doesn't displease you?"

"No, of course not. But you see I don't need any more gowns. I still have two that I haven't yet worn."

She had a total of five ordinary day dresses, and she actually believed that was a wardrobe. Stephen decided her father must have been a selfish miser. "You will need a great many other things, besides those few items."

"Why?"

"Because the London Season calls for an extensive wardrobe," he said vaguely. "I also wanted to tell you that Dr. Whitticomb will be arriving this afternoon with an acquaintance of his, an elderly lady who, I understand from the doctor's note, is eager and competent to be an acceptable duenna for you."

That startled an instantaneous chuckle from her. "I don't need a ladies' companion," she laughed. "I
am
a—" Sherry's stomach churned and the words simply stopped coming. The thought that prompted them vanished into the ether.

"You are what?" Stephen prompted, watching her closely and noting her agitation.

"I—" she reached for the words, the explanation, but they evaded her, retreating further from her mind's grasp. "I—don't know."

Eager to get the distasteful part of the discussion over with, Stephen brushed that aside. "Don't worry about it. Everything will come back to you in good time. Now, there is something else I want to discuss with you…"

When he hesitated, she lifted those large silvery eyes to his and smiled a little to reassure him that she felt quite well enough to go on. "You were about to say?"

"I was about to say that I have arrived at a decision with which my family agrees." Having closed off her only possible avenue of appeal by warning her that his family concurred with him, Stephen presented her with a carefully worded ultimatum: "I want you to have an opportunity to enjoy the Season, and the attention of other men, before we announce our betrothal."

Sherry felt as if he had slapped her. She didn't want attention from strange men, and she couldn't imagine why he would like that. Steadying her voice, she said, "May I ask why?"

"Yes, of course. Marriage is a very great step, which should not be undertaken lightly—" Stephen broke off, mentally cursing himself for idiotically paraphrasing the actual ceremony, and switched to what he felt was a convincing explanation she wouldn't see through. "Since we did not know each other well before you came to England, I've decided that you ought to have the opportunity to look over the other eligible suitors in London, before you settle on me as a husband. For that reason, I'd like our betrothal to remain a secret between us for a while."

Sherry felt as if something were shattering inside. He
wanted
her to find someone else. He was trying to rid himself of her, she could
feel
it, and why not? She couldn't even remember her own name without a reminder and she was nothing like the gay, beautiful women she'd seen in the park yesterday. She couldn't even begin to compare to his sister-in-law or his mother, with their self-assured manner and regal ways. Apparently, they didn't want her in the family either, which meant their cordiality to her had all been a pretense.

Tears of humiliation burned the backs of her eyes, and she hastily got to her feet, trying to recover her control, fighting desperately to hold on to her shattered pride. She couldn't face him, and she couldn't run from the room without giving her feelings away, so she carefully kept her back to him and strolled over to the windows that looked out upon the London street. "I think that is an excellent idea, my lord," she said, staring blindly out the window, struggling to keep her voice steady. Behind her, she heard him get up and come toward her, and she swallowed and drew a deep breath before she could go on. "Like you, I have had… some reservations about our suitability… ever since I arrived here."

Stephen thought he heard her voice break, and his conscience tore at him. "Sherry," he began and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Kindly take your hands…" she paused for another shattered breath, "off me."