“Lancaster must have been quite a pinchpenny if he regarded that ugly serviceable brown gown she was wearing on the ship as giving her ‘everything,’ ” Stephen remarked as he stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and settled more comfortably into the chair. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced over his shoulder to signal a servant. “Champagne,” he requested in answer to the servant’s inquiry.
In the immediate aftermath of such grim news and its dire ramifications for Sherry, Clayton thought Stephen’s indolent posture, and his request for champagne, were both a little odd. He waited for some indication as to how and when he intended to break the news to her, but Stephen seemed perfectly content to watch the servant pour champagne into two glasses and place them on the table.
“What do you intend to do next?” Clayton finally demanded.
“Propose a toast,” Stephen said.
“To be more specific,” Clayton said, growing extremely impatient with his brother’s deliberate obtuseness, “when do you intend to tell her about the letter?”
“After we’re married.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Instead of repeating his answer, Stephen quirked an amused brow at his brother, picked up his champagne, and lifted the glass in a mock toast. “To our happiness,” he said dryly.
In the moment it took Stephen to drain the glass, Clayton recovered his composure, carefully disguised his delight with that turn of events, and stretched out in his own chair. He picked up his glass of champagne, but instead of drinking it, he turned it absently in his fingers while he eyed his brother with unhidden amusement.
“Are you wondering if I’m making a mistake?” Stephen asked finally.
“Not at all. I am merely wondering whether you’re aware that she seems to have developed a certain, shall we say, ‘mild aversion’ to you?”
“She wouldn’t throw water on me if I were on fire,” Stephen agreed “At least not if she had to come close to me to do it.’
“And do you see that as an obstacle to her accepting your generous offer of marriage?”
“Possibly,” Stephen said with a chuckle.
“In that case, how do you intend to persuade her to agree?”
“Actually,” Stephen lied straight-faced, “I thought I would point out how wrong it was of her to mistrust my intentions and integrity, and then I’ll prove it to her by proposing. Afterward, I’ll tell her that if she cares to ask my forgiveness, I’ll grant it to her.”
He was so convincing that his brother gave him a look of sarcastic disgust. “And then what do you suppose will happen?”
“And then I will spend the next few days and nights in the pleasant confines of my home.”
“With her, I presume?” Clayton mocked.
“No, with compresses on both my eyes.”
Clayton’s laughing rejoinder was interrupted by the return of Jordan Townsende, the Duke of Hawthorne, and Jason Fielding, Marquess of Wakefield. Since Stephen had nothing more to discuss with his brother, he invited them to stay and the four friends got down to the serious business of high-stakes gaming.
Concentrating proved to be difficult, however, because Stephen’s thoughts kept drifting to Sherry and their immediate future. Despite his joking banter about how he intended to propose to her, he had no notion of what he would actually say. It didn’t even seem important. All that mattered was that they were going to be together. She was actually going to be his, and without the taint, the lifelong guilt, that had made Stephen recoil from marrying young Burleton’s fiancée. Her father’s death made it imperative that she have someone to care for her—and for whom she cared—when she learned about it.
Their marriage would have happened anyway. Stephen accepted the truth of that now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known it from the moment she had confronted him in a robe tied with a gold curtain cord and her hair covered with a blue towel, reminding him of a barefoot Madonna—a Madonna with a horrifying problem. “My hair—it’s red!”
No, Stephen thought, he’d felt something for her even before that . . . from that very first morning when he awoke beside her bed and she’d asked him to describe her face. He’d looked into those mesmerizing gray eyes of hers and seen such courage, such softness. It had started then and was strengthened by everything she did and said. He loved her irreverent wit, her intelligence, and her unaffected warmth toward everyone she encountered. He loved the way she felt in his arms, and the way her mouth tasted. He loved her spirit and her fire and her sweetness. And especially her honesty.
After an adulthood surrounded by women who hid avarice behind inviting smiles and ambition behind lingering glances, and who pretended passion for a man when the only passion they were capable of feeling was for possessions, Stephen Westmoreland had finally found a woman who wanted only him.
And he was so damned happy, that he couldn’t decide what to buy her first. Jewels, he decided, as he paused to bet on his hand of cards. Carriages, horses, gowns, furs, but first the jewels . . . Fabulous jewels to set off her exquisite face and more to twine in her lustrous hair. Gowns adorned with . . .
Pearls! Stephen decided with an inner laugh as he recalled her mirthful commentary on the Countess of Evandale’s gown. A gown adorned with three thousand and one pearls. Sherry didn’t seem to have any interest in gowns, but that particular gown would appeal to her sense of humor, and she would like it because it was a gift from him.
Because it was from him. . . .
He knew she would feel that way as surely as he knew Sherry wanted him. From the moment he brushed his mouth over her lips and felt them tremble, felt her body strain instinctively closer to his, he’d known she wanted him. She was too inexperienced to hide her feelings, too candid to want to try.
She wanted him, and he wanted her. In a very few days, he would take her to bed for the first time, and there he would teach her the delights of “having.”
Jason Fielding spoke his name, and Stephen glanced up, realized they were all waiting for his bet, and tossed more chips onto the stacks in the middle of the table.
“You’ve already won that one,” Jason pointed out in an amused drawl. “Wouldn’t you like to clear it away, so you can win a nice fresh pile of our money?”
“Whatever is on your mind, Stephen,” Jordan Townsende remarked, eyeing him curiously, “it must be damned engrossing.”
“You looked right through us earlier,” Jason Fielding added as he began to deal the cards. “The most crushing setdown I’ve had in years.”
“Stephen has something very engrossing on his mind,” Clayton joked.
As he finished that sentence, William Baskerville, a middle-aged bachelor, strolled over to the table, a folded newspaper in his hand, and idly watched the play.
Since Stephen’s courtship of Sherry would be common gossip by morning, and his betrothal a fact by the end of the week, Stephen saw no reason to conceal what had been on his mind. “As a matter of fact—” he began, when he suddenly thought to glance at a clock. Three hours had passed already. “I’m late!” he said, startling the others as he shoved his cards back into the center, and abruptly stood up. “If I’m not inside Almack’s before eleven, they’ll have locked the damned doors.”
Three astounded males watched his retreating shoulders as Stephen stalked swiftly out of the club—evidently in a hurry to reach a destination that no man of sophistication or maturity ever set foot in willingly, let alone anxiously. The thought of Stephen Westmoreland willingly setting foot in that place with its ballroom filled with blushing misses fresh from the schoolroom and eager to snag an eligible husband was utterly ludicrous. Baskerville spoke first. “Egad!” he breathed, looking around at the others in stunned horror, “did Langford say he was bound for Almack’s?”
The Marquess of Wakefield tore his amused gaze from the doorway and looked at the others. “That’s what I heard.”
The Duke of Hawthorne nodded, his voice dry. “No
t only did I hear him say Almack’s, but I noticed he seems to be in rather a hurry to get there.”
“He’ll be lucky if he gets out of there alive,” Jason Fielding joked.
“And still a bachelor,” Jordan Townsende agreed, grinning.
“Poor devil!” said Baskerville in a dire voice. Shaking his head, he departed to join some acquaintances at the hazard table—and to share the highly diverting information that the Earl of Langford had rushed off in order to make it into the “Marriage Mart” before the doors were closed.
The consensus of opinion among the hazard players, who were throwing dice on long tables with high wooden sides, was that Stephen had yielded to the deathbed wish of a dying relative to appear at Almack’s on behalf of some young chit to whom the dying person was related.
At the green felt-covered faro tables, where gentlemen were placing bets on what card a dealer was going to draw, face up, from a box, the general opinion was that the unfortunate Earl of Langford had lost a wager that required him to spend a night at Almack’s as his noxious forfeit.
Gentlemen who were playing even-odd, wagering on the numbers most likely to appear when the rotating even-odd wheel came to a stop, were of the opinion that Baskerville had lost his hearing.
Whist players, concentrating on the cards they held, were of the opinion that Baskerville had lost his mind.
But whatever opinion the particular individual held, his reaction was always the same as everyone else’s: hilarity. In every one of The Strathmore’s rooms, the refined atmosphere was repeatedly disrupted by loud guffaws, hearty chuckles, and snorts of laughter as word circulated from member to member, and table to table, that Stephen Westmoreland, Earl of Langford, had gone to Almack’s for the evening.
32
It was five minutes past eleven of the clock when Stephen strode swiftly past the two chagrined young bucks who were retreating to their carriages after having been turned away by Lady Letitia Vickery for failing to arrive before eleven. The patroness was in the act of closing the door when Stephen called out to her in a low, warning voice, “Letty, don’t you dare close that damned door in my face!”
Bristling with affront, she peered into the darkness beyond the lighted entry, as she swung it closed. “Whoever you are, you are too late to enter.”
Stephen put his toe against the panel to stop her. “I think you should consider making an exception.”
Her disdainful face appeared in the wedge of light between the jamb and the edge of the door. “We do not make exceptions, sirrah!” She saw who he was, and a look of comical disbelief momentarily shattered her expression of stony hauteur. “Langford, is that you?”
“Of course it is, now open the door,” Stephen commanded quietly.
“You cannot come in.”
“Letty,” he said with strained patience, “do not make me resort to unpleasant reminders of times when you’ve invited me in to less appropriate places than this one—and with your poor husband practically within earshot.”
She opened the door, but placed herself in the opening. Stephen contemplated the efficacy of lifting her by the shoulders and moving her out of his way while she implored in a fierce whisper, “Stephen, for God’s sake, be reasonable! I cannot let you in. The other patronesses will have my head if I do.”
“They will kiss you on both cheeks for making an exception in my case,” he said flatly. “Only think of the boost in attendance you’ll have tomorrow, when it’s learned that / was actually lured to this boring assembly of virtuous innocents for the first time in fifteen years.”
She hesitated, weighing the obvious truth of that against the peal that was likely to be rung over her head by the other patronesses before she could explain her motivations. “Every eligible male in London will want vouchers to get in, so that he can see for himself what female could possibly have been exquisite enough to lure you here.”
“Exactly,” Stephen said sardonically. “You’ll have so many eligible men inside that you’ll have to lay in an extra supply of warm lemonade and bread and butter.”
She was so delighted with the possibility of receiving credit for all the splendid matches made during her season as patroness, that she overlooked his disdainful slurs on the hallowed halls of Almack’s, its refreshments, and its occupants. “Very well. You may come in.”
The evening had not been the disaster Sherry had feared it would be. She had danced and been made to feel quite welcome. In fact, with a few uncomfortable exceptions, the evening had been very pleasant, but she had remained tense and expectant until a few minutes ago, when the clock finally indicated the hour of eleven. Now that the possibility of the Earl of Langford’s appearance was eliminated, she felt incredibly disappointed, but she refused to succumb to anger or rejection. She’d sensed he wasn’t enthusiastic about coming here, and it was foolish to expect him to inconvenience himself for her. That would have implied some sort of concern or caring for her that she now accepted he simply did not have. Whitney and his mother had been wrong. Determined not to let thoughts of him occupy one more moment of her evening, she concentrated on the conversation of the young ladies and their mamas who were standing in a circle with her, talking among themselves, but politely including her.
Most of the girls were younger than she, and very amiable, if not particularly given to intelligent discourse. They were however amazingly well-informed on the income, prospects, and lineage of every bachelor in the room, and she had only to look twice at a male to have them—or their mamas and chaperones—lean aside and obligingly share all their knowledge. The deluge of data confused Miss Charity and alternately embarrassed and amused Sherry.
The Duchess of Clermont, a stern elderly lady who was introducing her granddaughter, another American named Dorothy Seaton, tipped her head toward a handsome young man who’d asked Sherry for the honor of a second dance, and warned, “I would not show young Makepeace more than the briefest civility, were I you. He is only a baronet, and his income is a mere five thousand.”
Nicholas DuVille, who’d spent most of the evening in the card room, heard that as he returned to Sherry’s side. Leaning down, he said in a low amused voice, “You look quite terribly embarrassed, chérie. Amazing, is it not, that a country that prides itself on its refined manners has no compunction at all in discussing such things.”
The musicians who’d paused briefly for refreshments were returning to their instruments, and music began to fill the ballroom. “Miss Charity looks exhausted,” Sherry said, raising her voice to be heard above the increasing volume of music and conversation.
Miss Charity heard her name and looked up sharply. “I am not weary, my dear child. I am exceedingly vexed with Langford for not making his appearance as he promised, and I intend to scold him soundly for treating you so shabbily!”
All around them heads were beginning to turn and conversations were dropping off, then escalating to frantic whispers, but Sherry was blissfully unaware of the cause. “It doesn’t signify, ma’am. I’ve done perfectly well without him.”
Miss Charity was not soothed. “I do not remember being this annoyed in the last thirty years! And if I could remember all of the last thirty years, I’m still certain I wouldn’t remember being this annoyed!”
Beside them the Duchess of Clermont stopped eavesdropping on Charity Thornton’s irate monologue, and she glanced up, her gaze riveting on something across the room. “I cannot believe my own eyes!” she burst out. Hectic conversations were erupting all around them, and she leaned sideways, raising her voice to be heard above it all as she commanded her granddaughter, “Dorothy, attend to your hair and gown. This is a chance you may never have again.” That gruff order drew Sherry’s attention to Dorothy who had obediently reached up to pat her coiffure into place as were half the debutantes in Sherry’s range of view. Those who weren’t checking their hair were smoothing their skirts. Debutantes who weren’t already lining up with their partners on the dance floor were making a mass exodus toward the
retiring room, and they were also patting and smoothing on the way. “What is happening?” she asked, lifting quizzical eyes to Nicki, who was blocking her view.
His gaze shifted over the blondes and brunettes, registering heightened color of cheeks and eager gazes, and without bothering to look over his shoulder, he said, “Either a fire has broken out in the middle of the dance floor, or else Langford has just arrived.”
“It can’t be him! It’s after eleven and the doors are locked.”
“Nevertheless, I would wager a small fortune that Langford’s the cause. The hunting instincts of the female of the species are at a fever pitch, which means prime prey is in sight. Shall I look round and see?”
“Try not to be obvious about it.”
He complied, turned back around, and confirmed it. “He’s stopped to greet the patronesses.”
Sherry did the last thing she’d planned to do if he came: she ducked around Nicki and beat a hasty retreat to the retiring room—not to primp, though, or check her appearance. No indeed. Merely to compose herself. And then primp just a little.
As she waited to get into the retiring room, she discovered her fiancé was the talk of the crowd, and the talk she was hearing was as illuminating as it was embarrassing to her: “My older sister will swoon when she hears Langford was here tonight and she was not!” one of the girls was telling her friends. “Last autumn, he singled her out for particular attention at Lady Millicent’s ball and then dropped her completely. She has carried a tendre for him ever since.”
Her friends looked shocked. “But last autumn,” one of them corrected, “Langford was on the verge of offering for Monica Fitzwaring.”
“Oh, I do not think that’s possible. I heard my sisters talking and they were positive he was having—” she cupped her hand over her lips, and Sherry strained helplessly to eavesdrop, “a torrid affair with a certain married lady last autumn.”
“Have you ever seen his chérie amie?” another asked, and the girls in front of that group turned around. “My aunt saw him at the theatre with her two nights ago.”