Until You (Westmoreland Saga 3)

Until a year or two ago, he had at least tolerated the women who made cakes of themselves over him. Until then, he had treated them with nothing worse than amused condescension, but lately his patience had seemed to come to an end. These days, he was fully capable of delivering a crushing setdown or a biting incivility that was guaranteed to reduce a lady to mortified tears and to outrage her relatives when they heard of it.

And yet . . . tonight, he had been smiling into Charise Lancaster’s eyes with some of his old warmth. No doubt part of his attitude owed itself to the fact that Stephen felt responsible for her plight—and he was. She needed him desperately right now, but in Dr. Whitticomb’s opinion, he needed her just as badly. He needed gentleness in his life and sweetness. Most of all, he needed hard proof that there were unmarried females in the world who wanted and needed more from him than just the use of his title, his money, and his estates.

Even in her vulnerable state of mind, Charise Lancaster seemed to place no importance in his title or the size and elegance of his home. She wasn’t intimidated by him, or his possessions, nor was she awed by his attention. Tonight she had greeted Hugh with a natural warmth that was irresistible, then she had laughed out loud at Stephen’s gallantry. She was refreshingly frank and unselfconscious, yet she was sweet and soft too—enough to have been crushed by Stephen’s neglect. She was the sort of rare young woman who thought of others’ needs before her own and who obviously forgave offenses with grace and generosity. During the first few days of her recovery, when she was still confined to her bed, she’d invariably asked Hugh to reassure “the earl” that she was going to recover her health and her memory so that he wouldn’t worry needlessly. Moreover, she’d been thoughtful enough—and astute enough—to realize that he would blame himself for her accident. In addition to that, Hugh was completely enchanted by her friendly, unaffected cordiality toward everyone, from the servants to himself, and even her betrothed.

Monica Fitzwaring was a fine young woman of excellent character and breeding, and Hugh liked her very well, but not as a wife for Stephen. She was lovely, gracious, and serene—as she’d been taught to be—but because of that same upbringing, she had neither the desire nor the ability to evoke deep emotions in any husband, and particularly not in Stephen. Not once, in all the times Hugh had seen Stephen with her, had he ever looked at her with the sort of gentle warmth he’d shown to Charise Lancaster in the last hour. Monica Fitzwaring would make Stephen an excellent hostess and charming dinner companion, but she would never be able to touch his heart.

Not long ago, Stephen had alarmed his entire family by announcing that he had no intention of ever marrying Monica or anyone else merely to beget an heir. Hugh found that more reassuring than alarming. He didn’t approve one bit of these modern marriages of convenience that were so de rigueur amongst the ton—not for anyone he cared about, and he cared very much about the Westmorelands. For Stephen, he wanted nothing less than the sort of marriage Clayton Westmoreland had, the sort of marriage Hugh himself had when his Margaret was alive.

His Margaret . . .

Even now, as he strolled past the stately mansions that marched along Upper Brook Street, the thought of her made him smile. Charise Lancaster rather reminded him of his Margaret, he realized. Not in looks, of course, but in her kindness and her pluck!

All things considered, Hugh was quite convinced that fate had finally given Stephen Westmoreland the sort of blessing he deserved. Of course, Stephen didn’t want that sort of blessing, and Charise Lancaster wasn’t likely to feel very “blessed” when she discovered she’d been duped by her “fiancé” and her own physician. Nevertheless, fate had Hugh Whitticomb as an ally, and Dr. Whitticomb fancied himself as something of a potent force when the need arose.

“Maggie girl,” he said aloud, because even though his wife had died ten years before, he still felt she was very close and he liked to talk to her to keep her close, “I think we’re going to pull off the best match in years! What do you think?”

Swinging his cane, he tipped his head and listened, and then he started to chuckle because he could almost hear her familiar response: “I think you should call me Margaret, Hugh Whitticomb, not Maggie!”

“Ah, Maggie girl,” Hugh whispered, grinning, because he always replied the same way, “you’ve been my Maggie since the day you slid backwards off that horse and dropped right into my arms.”

“I did not slide off, I dismounted. A little awkwardly.”

“Maggie,” Hugh whispered, “I wish you were here.”

“I am, darling.”

18

Stephen had intended to spend the night with Helene, at the theatre and then in her bed, but three hours after he’d left, he found himself back at his own front door, frowning because his knock hadn’t been answered. Inside the entrance hall, he looked around for a butler or a footman, but the place seemed deserted, despite the relatively early hour. Dropping his gloves on a hall table, he strolled into the main salon. No butler materialized to divest him of his coat, so he shrugged out of it and tossed it over the arm of a chair. Then he took out his watch, wondering if it had stopped.

His watch indicated the hour was half past ten, and when he turned to study the ormolu clock on the mantel, both timepieces agreed. Normally, he never returned from an evening with Helene, or any of his clubs, until dawn, and even then a sleepy-eyed footman was always in the hall to greet him.

His thoughts turned to the evening he’d just spent with Helene, and Stephen reached up, idly rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, as if he could somehow rub away the discontent and ennui that had plagued him all night. Seated beside her in his box at the theatre he’d paid scant attention to the performance on stage, and then it was only to find fault with the actors, the musicians, the stage setting, and the perfume worn by the elderly dowager in the next box. In his state of restlessness, everything seemed to either bore or grate on him.

The unusually pleasant mood he’d enjoyed earlier, as Sherry partook of an early dinner and regaled him with her amusing—and often astute—observations about her latest discoveries in the newspapers, had begun to dissipate as soon as he left the house.

By the end of the play’s first act, Helene had sensed his discontent, and smiling invitingly behind her fan, she had whispered, “Would you prefer to leave now, and create our own ‘second act’ in more congenial surroundings?”

Stephen had readily acceded to her suggestion that he take her to bed, but his performance there was as unsatisfying as the performance he’d witnessed at the theatre. Once he’d gotten his clothes off, he discovered he didn’t want to indulge in the sort of leisurely sexual preliminaries he normally enjoyed; he simply wanted to spend himself in her. He’d wanted physical relief, not sensual pleasure; he’d gotten the former and given none of the latter.

Helene had noticed, of course, and as he shoved off the bedcovers to get up, she raised up on an elbow and watched him dressing. “What occupies your thoughts tonight?”

Guilty and frustrated, Stephen had bent down to press an apologetic kiss on her furrowed forehead, as he replied, “A situation that is entirely too complicated and too vexing to trouble you with.” The explanation was an evasion, and they both knew it, just as they both knew a mistress was not ordinarily entitled to explanations or recriminations, but then Helene Devernay was far from ordinary. She was as sought-after and admired in her own right as any of the ton’s acclaimed beauties. She chose her lovers to suit herself, and she had a wide field to choose from, all of them wealthy noblemen who were only waiting for the chance to offer her their “protection,” as Stephen had done, in exchange for the exclusive right to her bed and her company.

She’d smiled at his evasion and traced her fingertip down the deep vee of his open shirt as she inquired with sham innocence, “I understand from a seamstress at Madame LaSalle’s that you had urgent need of several gowns that you desired to be delivered to your home with utmost haste for a visitor there. How is th

at . . . situation?” she finished delicately.

Stephen straightened and regarded her with a mixture of amusement, irritation, and admiration for her perception. “The situation,” he admitted bluntly, “is ‘vexing’ and ‘complicated.’?”

“I rather thought it might be,” she said with a knowing smile, but Stephen heard the underlying note of sorrow in her voice. She was obviously concerned about the presence of an unknown woman in his home, and that puzzled him. In his elite social circle, not even the presence of a wife had any bearing on a man’s decision to have a mistress. Amongst the ton, marriages generally took place between two congenial strangers who expected to remain exactly that, once the requisite heir was produced. Neither party was expected to alter their lifestyle to suit the other, and affairs were as rampant among women as men. Discretion, not morality, was what mattered to both parties in a ton marriage. Since both Helene and he understood all that, and since he was not married, Stephen was amazed that she would give even a passing thought to his female houseguest. Leaning down, he kissed her on the mouth as he ran his hand familiarly over her bare thigh. “You are making entirely too much of the matter. She is a homeless waif who is merely recovering from an injury at my home, while we await the arrival of her family.”

But as Stephen left the house he provided for Helene, he reluctantly faced the fact that Charise Lancaster was a far cry from a pitiable homeless waif. In reality, she was courageous, intelligent, spontaneous, amusing, naturally sensual, and thoroughly entertaining. And the surprising, irritating truth was that he’d enjoyed her company tonight far more than he’d enjoyed taking Helene to the theatre or to bed. Sherry enjoyed his company too. She liked talking to him, and she liked being in his arms . . .

Those thoughts gave birth to an impractical possibility that he actually let himself consider as his carriage neared his home on Upper Brook Street: Burleton hadn’t had anything to offer her except a minor noble title and the respectability of marriage, but she and her father had been willing to settle for only that. Within hours of Burleton’s death, Stephen had made plans for a funeral and had begun making inquiries into the young man’s affairs to see if any other final arrangements were needed. What he learned was that the young baron had a predilection for gaming. Not until this morning, when Matthew Bennett’s firm provided him with a full dossier, did Stephen learn that Burleton had completely depleted what little fortune he’d inherited. Beyond a small mountain of gambling debts, which Stephen intended to settle, Burleton had nothing to leave behind—not an estate or the family jewels or even a coach. His excessive gambling had already depleted whatever money he’d gained by agreeing to marry Charise Lancaster.

Within a year or two, Sherry would have been living in genteel poverty, just as Burleton had been doing at the time of his death, with no benefit from her marriage beyond a noble title that wasn’t equal to the least of the titles Stephen held. Stephen had no intention of marrying her, but he was able—and perhaps even willing—to offer her the world, provided they continued to enjoy each other in the weeks to come, and so long as she actually understood the arrangement and its terms. . . .

So long as she actually understood the arrangement . . .

The ugliness of what he was actually considering hit him, and it sickened him. Charise Lancaster was a naive virgin, not a courtesan. Even if she had had the background and experience to understand what such a relationship would entail, which she did not, she was still much too young for him, and he was entirely too jaded for her.

Fortunately, he was not quite jaded enough, or debauched enough, or bored enough to actually offer her an arrangement that would have robbed her of her virtue and all chances of respectability. He could not believe he was so utterly lacking in morality, so vile, that he was capable of killing a young, would-be bridegroom and then, in less than a fortnight, actually considering making a mistress of the young man’s affianced bride. It wasn’t merely revolting, it was madness. He accepted that he obviously had lost all his ideals over the years, but until that moment, he’d never felt he’d lost his mind as well.

Feeling like a complete degenerate, Stephen resolved to fulfill his role as Sherry’s temporary guardian from that moment forward and to think of her only in the most impersonal terms. In keeping with this, he would henceforth see that she was not only amused and made to feel secure but also spared any future physical advances from him!

She might think they were betrothed, but he damned well knew better, and in the future, he would remember it! One person with a faulty memory was enough!

He wished, very devoutly, that she would recover quickly, but he was beginning to feel less guilty for depriving her of her real fiancé. She deserved someone better than young Burleton. He would never have been man enough for her; he was too callow for her, too irresponsible, and too poor. She needed, she deserved, to be garbed in furs and kept in the lap of sumptuous luxury.

In the back of his mind, he was aware that the responsibility for finding her someone like that was very probably his, but he didn’t want to contemplate that now. It dimmed his pleasure, and he wanted to salvage the rest of the evening and make it enjoyable for both of them.

Wondering when he had developed such a weakness for damsels in distress—and such a bizarre partiality for distressed damsels with flame-colored hair—Stephen stood in the empty salon, prepared to do his duty as guardian by entertaining his houseguest.

Except the house was as silent and deserted as an empty tomb.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned slowly, still half-expecting Sherry, or a servant, to materialize from the corners of the empty room. When no one did, he started forward, undecided whether to go to bed or rouse his normally efficient servants—who’d suddenly become inexcessably lax in their duties. He was reaching for the bell pull when he heard the faint sound of raised voices speaking in unison from somewhere at the back of the house, and then the sound died away.

Puzzled, Stephen headed in the direction of the sound, his booted footsteps echoing on the floor of the colonnaded entry hall as he crossed it and turned down a long corridor that ran toward the back of the house. At the end of the corridor he stopped again, his head tipped to the side, listening to the silence. Sherry had undoubtedly retired hours ago, he decided, growing thoroughly annoyed with himself for rushing home from his mistress’s inviting arms to devote himself to her like some overardent nursemaid.

He started to turn in disgust then stopped dead as Sherry’s merry voice wafted down the hallway from the direction of the kitchen. “All right, everyone, let’s try it again—only Mr. Hodgkin, you must stand right near me and sing louder, so I don’t get the words wrong again. Ready?” she said.

A chorus of servants’ voices suddenly burst into a jaunty Yuletide song that every English child since the Middle Ages had learned to sing. Stephen strode toward the kitchen, his annoyance increased by the thought of Sherry being in the kitchen with his dawdling servants instead of his being waited upon by them. In the doorway of the large, tiled room, Stephen stopped short, staring in amused disbelief at the sight that greeted him.

Fifty servants in their various household uniforms were standing in five perfect rows, with Sherry and old Hodgkin positioned in front of them. Normally the household staff conformed to a rigid, centuries-old hierarchy, with the head butler and the housekeeper at the pinnacle of it, but it was obvious to Stephen that Sherry had organized them without regard to either rank or decorum and probably according to singing ability instead. Poor Colfax, Stephen’s lofty head butler, was relegated to the back row, between a chambermaid and a laundress, while his archrival for household supremacy—Stephen’s valet, Damson—had managed to obtain a more important placing in the front row. Damson, a rigidly superior gentleman’s gentleman, who rarely deigned to speak to anyone but Stephen, had actually slung his arm around a footman’s shoulders, and the two of them were harmonizing with shared gusto, their rapturous gazes cast toward the ceiling, their heads nearl

y touching.

The vignette was so unprecedented, so beyond Stephen’s wildest imaginings, that for several minutes he remained where he stood, watching and listening as grooms, ushers, and footmen in full livery sang in democratic harmony with chambermaids, laundresses, and plump scullery maids in soiled white aprons, all of whom were taking direction from a stooped, ancient under-butler who was waving his hands as if he were conducting a symphonic chorus.

Stephen was so riveted by the scene before him that it was several moments before he realized that Damson and the footman, and several of the others, had very pleasant voices, and several minutes more before it occurred to him that he was enjoying the amateur performance in his kitchen far more than the professional one at the theatre.

He was wondering why they were singing a Christmas song in the middle of spring, when Sherry suddenly joined the chorus, and the sound of her voice soaring gently above the would-be tenors and aspiring baritones nearly stopped Stephen’s breath. When the notes were low, she sang them with a jaunty earthiness that made her makeshift chorus break into grins as they sang with her, and when the melody climbed higher, she matched it with effortless ease until every corner of the vast room seemed to reverberate with the soaring beauty of her voice.

When the song came to its rousing end, a footboy of about seven years of age stepped forward, holding out his bandaged forearm to Sherry. Smiling bashfully at her, he said, “Me hand would feel much better, ma’am, if I was to hear one more happy song.”

In the doorway, Stephen straightened and opened his mouth to order the boy not to plague her, but Damson leapt in with what Stephen thought would be a similar order. Instead, the valet said, “I’m sure I speak for all of us, miss, when I say that you’ve made this evening into an extraordinarily fine one by sharing your company and your—may I be so bold as to say—your exquisite voice with us!”