Her voice trailed off, and Stephen forestalled another embarrassing barrage of questions by taking matters into his own hands and standing up, forcing her to follow suit. “You’re tiring, and Hugh Whitticomb will have my head if you aren’t rosy and healthy when he arrives tomorrow morning,” he told her gently. “Let me walk you to your bedchamber. Say good-night to everyone. I insist.”
“Good-night, everyone,” Sherry echoed with a disconcerted smile. “As I’m certain you know, Lord Westmoreland is terribly protective.” As she turned away, she noticed that while everyone else seemed to find her very odd, Nicholas DuVille was watching her with a faint smile, as if he found her more interesting than hopelessly peculiar. Sherry clung to the memory of his encouraging glance as she closed the door to her bedchamber and sat down on her bed, her mind whirling with frightening doubts and hopeless questions.
20
When Stephen walked back into the drawing room a few moments later, four pairs of eyes tracked his progress across the room, but his family waited until he was seated before they launched their questions. The instant he touched the chair, however, the two women spoke simultaneously.
His mother said, “What accident?”
His sister-in-law said, “What ship?”
Stephen looked to his brother for his first question, but Clayton merely regarded him with raised brows and said dryly, “I can’t seem to get past the staggering discovery that you are not only a ‘sentimental idiot’ but ‘terribly protective’ as well.”
Nicholas DuVille politely refrained from saying anything at all, though Stephen had the distinct feeling the Frenchman was rather amused by his predicament. He considered rudely volunteering to provide DuVille with a coach so that he could leave, but the man was a longtime friend of Whitney’s, and, besides, his presence would deter Stephen’s dignified mother from indulging in what would have been her first bout of hysterics.
Satisfied that the group was as ready as they were ever likely to be to hear the truth, Stephen leaned his head against the back of his chair and addressed the ceiling in a terse, composed voice. “The scene you just witnessed between Charise Lancaster and myself is actually a giant farce. The entire debacle began with a carriage accident over a week ago, an accident for which I was responsible and which has resulted in a chain of events that I am about to describe to you. The young woman whom you have just met is as much a victim of those events as her deceased fiancé, a young baron by the name of Arthur Burleton.”
From the other side of the room, Whitney said in an appalled voice, “Arthur Burleton is—was a complete scapegrace.”
“Be that as it may,” Stephen replied with a ragged sigh, “they cared for each other and were going to be wed. As you’re about to discover from my tale, Charise Lancaster, whom you all suspect of being either a complete birdwit or else a scheming fortune-hunter who has somehow enticed me into offering her marriage, is actually a completely innocent, and very pitiable, victim of my own negligence and dishonesty . . .”
* * *
When Stephen had completed his tale and answered everyone’s questions, a long silence fell over the room’s occupants as everyone tried to gather their thoughts. Lifting his wineglass, Stephen took a long drink, as if the wine could somehow wash away the bitterness and regret he felt.
His brother spoke first. “If Burleton was inebriated enough to run in front of a team of horses on a public street in the fog, then surely he is responsibile for his own death.”
“The responsibility is mine,” Stephen replied curtly, dismissing Clayton’s well-meaning attempt to absolve him. “I was driving a raw team. I should have been able to keep my horses under control.”
“And following that logic, I gather you feel equally responsible for the loaded cargo net that injured Charise Lancaster?”
“Of course I do,” Stephen bit out. “She would not have been standing in harm’s way, nor would I have let her, if we hadn’t both been preoccupied with Burleton’s death. If it had not been for my carelessness on two occasions, Charise Lancaster would be a healthy, married woman tonight with an English baron for a husband and the life she wanted stretching before her.”
“Now that you’ve convicted yourself,” Clayton countered, momentarily forgetting DuVille’s presence, “have you decided on your penalty yet?”
Everyone in the room knew Clayton was merely frustrated and alarmed by the bitter self-recrimination that had permeated Stephen’s voice, but it was Nicholas DuVille who defused the charged atmosphere by interrupting in a humorous drawl, “In the interest of avoiding a nasty duel between the two of you at dawn, which would force me to arise at a very inconvenient and uncivilized hour in order to act as your joint second, may I respectfully suggest you turn your excellent minds to possible solutions to the problems, rather than dwelling on the cause?”
“Nicholas is quite right,” the dowager duchess murmured to her empty glass, her expression somber and preoccupied. Lifting her gaze to his, she added, “Though it’s unfair to embroil you in our family problems, it is obvious that you are better able to think clearly because you are not so deeply involved.”
“Thank you, your grace. In that case, may I offer you my thoughts on the matter?” When both women nodded emphatically and neither man voiced an objection, Nicki said, “If I understood everything correctly, it appears that Miss Lancaster was betrothed to a penniless ne’er-do-well, for whom she harbored tender feelings, but who had nothing to offer her other than a noble title. Do I have it right so far?”
Stephen nodded, his expression carefully neutral.
“And,” Nicki continued, “because of two accidents for which Stephen feels responsible, Miss Lancaster now has no fiancé and no memory. Correct?”
“Correct,” Stephen said.
“As I understood it, her physician believes her memory will return in its own good time, is that also correct?”
When Stephen nodded, Nicki said, “Therefore, the only permanent loss she has suffered—for which you can possibly feel responsible—is the loss of a fiancé who possessed a meaningless title and several very unsavory habits. In which case”—he lifted his glass in a mocking toast to his own powers of reason—“it appears to me that you could discharge your debt to her by simply finding her another fiancé to take Burleton’s place. And if the fiancé you select also happens to be a decent fellow, capable of supporting her in a respectable style, then you could not only soothe your guilt, but you might rightly feel as if you’ve saved her from a life of torment and degradation.” He glanced at Whitney and then at Stephen. “How am I doing so far?”
“I’d say you’re doing rather well,” Stephen replied with a slight smile. “I’d given some thought to a similar idea. But,” he added, “the idea is far easier to contemplate than to execute.”
“Oh, but I know we could pull it off if we put our heads to it!” Whitney exclaimed, anxious to pursue any solution at all that would derail his guilt and give them all a direction. “All we need do is see that she’s introduced to a few of the hundreds of eligible men who will be here for the Season.” She looked at her mother-in-law for support and received an overbright smile that belied unspoken worries.
“Actually, there are one or two minor problems associated with that plan,” Stephen said dryly, but he couldn’t bring himself to dampen her enthusiasm. Besides, the plan seemed far more feasible now, with the women in his family ready to lend their enthusiasm and assistance, than it had in the past days. “Why don’t you give the entire project some careful thought, and we’ll discuss the various aspects of it on the morrow—at one o’clock here?” he suggested. When everyone agreed, he cautioned, “For Sherry’s sake, it is important that we foresee problems and avert them in advance. Remember that, when you are thinking about all this. I’ll send a note to Hugh Whitticomb and ask him to come round and join the discussion, so that we are certain we aren’t imperiling her recovery in any way.”
As the group arose, he looked at his mother and
Whitney and said, “Unless I miss my guess, Sherry is wide awake and torturing herself with questions she can’t possibly answer about everyone’s reaction to her tonight.” He didn’t have to complete the request. Both women were already heading for the door, anxious to atone for any unhappiness they’d caused his temporary fiancée.
21
Standing at the windows, gazing out into a night as dark and blank as her memory, Sherry whirled around at the soft knock on the door of her bedchamber and called for her visitors to enter.
“We’ve come to beg your forgiveness,” Stephen’s mother said as she walked over to the windows. “We didn’t understand—about your betrothal, or your accident, or all the rest—until Stephen explained to us.”
“I’m so glad you’re still awake,” Stephen’s beautiful sister-in-law said, her green eyes filled with an odd kind of regret as they searched Sherry’s. “I don’t think I could have slept, after the way we behaved to you downstairs.”
Momentarily mired down in the social technicalities of how she ought properly to respond to an apology from two regal duchesses, Sherry gave up worrying about protocol and did what she could to soothe their obvious unease. “Please don’t trouble yourselves about it,” she said with soft sincerity. “I don’t know what could have possessed me to want to keep the betrothal a secret, but I wonder sometimes if, when I am quite myself, I am perhaps a little . . . eccentric.”
“I think,” Whitney Westmoreland said, looking as if she were trying to smile when she felt rather sad, “that you are very brave, Miss Lancaster.” And then as if she’d belatedly thought of it, she held out her hands and exclaimed with a bright smile, “Oh—and, welcome to the family. I—I’ve always wanted a sister!”
Something about that forced, desperate cheer in her voice set off the alarm bells in Sherry’s brain, and she felt her hands tremble as she held them out to her future sister-in-law. “Thank you.” That sounded so inadequate that an awkward pause followed, and Sherry stifled a hysterical laugh as she explained, “I haven’t the slightest idea if I’ve always wanted a sister . . . but I’m perfectly certain that I must have and that I would have wished for her to be as lovely as you are.”
“What an utterly charming thing for you to say,” the dowager duchess said with a catch in her voice as she enfolded Sherry in a brief, almost protective hug and then ordered her to “go straight to sleep,” as if Sherry were a child.
They left, promising to come to see her tomorrow, and Sherry gazed in stupefaction at the door when it closed behind them. Her future husband’s relatives were as unpredictable as he was—one minute cool and distant and unreachable, and then warm and affectionate and kind. Sherry sank down onto the bed, her brow furrowed in puzzlement as she searched for some explanation for their range of behavior.
Based on various statements she’d read in the Post and the Times in the past week, Americans were often regarded by the British in a variety of unflattering ways—from amusingly ill-bred Colonists to uncouth barbarians. No doubt, both duchesses had wondered what could have possessed Lord Westmoreland to want to marry one of them—that would explain their negative reaction to her when they first arrived. Evidently, Lord Westmoreland had told them something to reassure them, but what . . . Weary of the endless questions that revolved in her mind during every waking moment, Sherry raked her hair off her forehead and flopped down on her back, staring at the canopy above the bed.
* * *
The Duchess of Claymore rolled onto her side, studying her husband’s rugged features in the light of a single candle beside their bed, but her troubled thoughts were on Stephen’s “fiancée.”
“Clayton?” she whispered, absently trailing her fingertip down his arm. “Are you awake?”
His eyes remained closed, but his lips quirked in a lazy half smile as her finger traced a return path to his shoulder. “Do you want me to be?”
“I think so.”
“Let me know when you are certain,” he murmured.
“Did you notice anything odd about Stephen’s behavior tonight—I mean about the way he treated Miss Lancaster and their betrothal, and all that?”
His eyes opened just enough to slant her a wry glance. “What could possibly be considered ‘odd’ behavior in a man who is temporarily betrothed to a woman whom he does not know, does not love, and does not wish to wed . . . and who thinks he is someone else?”
Whitney gave a sighing laugh at his summation of the predicament, then lapsed into thought again. “What I meant is that I glimpsed a softening in him that I haven’t seen in years.” When he didn’t immediately reply, she continued to pursue her hazy line of thought. “Would you say that Miss Lancaster is extremely attractive?”
“I would say almost anything if it will entice you to either let me make love to you, or else go back to sleep.”
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the mouth, but when he started to turn toward her, she put her hand against his chest and said with a laugh, “Could you say that Miss Lancaster is extremely attractive—in an unconventional sort of way?”
“If I say yes, will you let me kiss you?” he teased, already tipping her chin up for his kiss.
When he finished, Whitney drew a steadying breath, determined to voice her thoughts before she inevitably sank into the sensual spell he could weave so easily around her. “Do you think Stephen could be developing a special fondness for her?” she whispered.
“I think,” he teased, his hand drifting down her collarbone to her breast, “that you are indulging in wishful thinking. DuVille is more likely to want her than Stephen—which would please me almost as much.”
“Why would that please you?”
“Because,” he said as he raised up on an elbow and forced her back onto the pillows, “if DuVille had a wife of his own, he’d stop longing for mine.”
“Nicki doesn’t ‘long’ for me in the least! He—”
Whitney forgot the rest of her protest as his mouth smothered her words and then her thoughts.
22
Standing on tiptoe, Sherry removed a book on America from one of the bookcases in the library, then she carried it to one of the polished mahogany tables scattered about the room and sat down. Looking for something to jog her memory, she flipped through the pages, searching for information that she might recognize. There were several intricate drawings of harbors teaming with ships and spacious city streets bustling with carriages, but nothing at all that seemed even remotely familiar. Since the heavy tome was arranged in alphabetical order, and since it seemed logical that pictures would jog her memory better than the written word, she went to the beginning of the book and began slowly turning the pages until she came to a drawing. Under “A” she found information on agriculture along with an illustration of verdant wheat fields against a backdrop of gentle hills. She’d started to turn the page when another picture flashed through her mind. Only the fleeting vision of fields that she saw had crops with fat white tufts on the top. The image faded instantly, but it made her hand begin to tremble as she reached for the next page and the next. The illustration of a coal mine triggered nothing, nor did anything else she saw, until she came to a picture of a man with a craggy face, prominent nose, and long, flowing dark hair. “American Indian,” the caption above the illustration read, and Sherry felt the blood begin to pound in her temples as she stared hard at that face. A familiar face . . . or was it? She clenched her eyes closed, trying to focus on the images dancing and fading in her mind. Fields . . . and wagons . . . and an old man with a missing tooth. An ugly man who was grinning at her.
“Sherry?”
Sherry stifled a startled yelp as she whirled around in her chair and stared at the handsome man whose voice normally soothed and excited her.
“What’s wrong?” Stephen demanded, his voice sharp with alarm as he noted her stricken, white face, and started forward.
“Nothing, my lord—” she lied with a nervous laugh, standing up. “You startled me.”
&nb
sp; Frowning, Stephen put his hands on her shoulders and scrutinized every feature on her pale face. “Is that all? What were you reading over there?”
“A book on America,” she said, revelling in the sensation of his strong hands gripping her shoulders and steadying her. Sometimes, she almost felt as if he truly cared for her. Another vision drifted through her mind, hazier by far than the others . . . but soothing and, oh, so sweet: Kneeling before her with flowers in his hand, a handsome, dark-haired man who may have been the earl proclaimed, I was nothing until you came into my life . . . nothing until you gave me your love . . . nothing until you . . . until you . . .
“Should I summon Whitticomb?” Stephen demanded, raising his voice and giving her a slight shake.
His tone snapped her out of her reverie, and she laughed, shaking her head. “No, of course not. I was only remembering something, or perhaps only imagining it happened.”
“What was it?” Stephen said, releasing his grip on her shoulders, but holding her pinned with his gaze.
“I’d rather not say,” she stated, flushing.
“What was it?” he repeated.
“You would only laugh.”
“Try me,” he said, his words clipped.
Rolling her eyes in helpless dismay, Sherry stepped back and perched her hip on the library table beside the open book. “I wish you would not insist on this.”
“But I do insist,” Stephen persisted, refusing to be swayed by the infectious smile trembling on her soft lips. “Perhaps it was a real memory, and not just your imagination.”
“You would be the only one to know that,” she admitted, becoming very preoccupied with the study of the cuticle on her thumb. Looking sideways at him from beneath her long lashes, she asked, “By any chance, when you asked me to marry you, did you happen to mention that you were nothing at all, until me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Inasmuch as you look revolted by the thought,” Sherry said without rancor, “I don’t suppose you would have gone down on one knee when you did propose?”