Until You (Westmoreland Saga 3)

49

Blind to everything but her intention, Sheridan located the drawing room with the help of a footman, and there she confronted yet another servant who was stationed in front of the drawing room’s closed door.

“I wish to see the Duchess of Claymore at once,” she informed him, fully expecting to be informed that was impossible—and fully prepared to force her way inside if necessary. “My name is Sheridan Bromleigh.”

To her shock, the footman bowed at once and said, as he opened the door, “Her grace has been expecting you.”

That announcement removed for Sheridan any question that this party might have been organized for some purpose other than to punish her. “I’ll wager she has been!” Sheridan said scornfully. Feminine laughter stopped and conversations broke off the instant she swept into the immense room. Ignoring Victoria Seaton and Alexandra Townsende, Sherry walked past the dowager duchess and Miss Charity without a nod and confronted the Duchess of Claymore.

Her eyes blazing, she looked down her nose at the composed brunette she had once thought of as a sister, and her voice shook with the violence of her outrage. “Are you so poor of entertainment that torturing a servant titillates you?” she demanded scathingly, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “How much amusement did you honestly expect me to provide for you, besides playing and singing? Did you hope I would dance for you as well? Why isn’t Stephen here yet? He must be as eager as you to see it all begin.” Her voice shook with wrath as she finished, “You have all wasted your time, because I am leaving! Do you understand? You have put the Skeffingtons to an expense they can ill afford and dragged them here with their hopes all built up, when all you wanted was vengeance on me! What sort of—of monsters are you, anyway? And don’t you dare to pretend you haven’t planned this entire weekend for the simple purpose of dragging me here!”

Whitney had expected this visit from Sheridan, but she hadn’t expected it to begin with the angry aggression of a duel. Instead of gently explaining what she hoped to accomplish, as Whitney had intended to do, she entered the verbal swordplay with a thrust aimed straight at Sheridan Bromleigh’s heart: “For some reason,” she announced coolly, with a challenging lift of her brows, “I rather thought you might appreciate our efforts to bring you into Stephen’s sphere.”

“I have no desire to be in any such place,” Sheridan fired back.

“Is that why you go to the opera every Thursday?”

“Anyone can go to the opera.”

“You don’t watch the performance. You watch Stephen.”

Sheridan paled. “Does he know? Oh, please, do not say you’ve told him. Why would you be that cruel?”

“Why,” Whitney said very, very carefully, sensing that she was a hair’s breadth from finally hearing the truth about Sheridan’s disappearance and that if she made one mistake, she wouldn’t, “would it be a cruelty if he knew you went there to see him?”

“Does he know?” Sheridan countered stubbornly, and Whitney bit her lip to hide an admiring smile at the other woman’s spirit. Sheridan Bromleigh might be a servant in a roomful of nobility, but she bowed to no one. On the other hand, her caution and spirit were creating a standoff. Whitney drew a breath, hating to resort to blackmail, but she did it anyway and without compunction. “He does not know, but he will know if you cannot make me understand why you go to the opera to look at him, after jilting him at the altar.”

“You have no right to ask me that.”

“I have every right.”

“Who do you think you are?” Sheridan exploded. “The Queen of England?”

“I think I am the woman who appeared for your wedding. I think you are the woman who did not appear for it.”

“For that, I would have expected you to thank me!”

“Thank you?” Whitney uttered, looking as stunned as she felt. “For what?”

“Why are you asking me all this! Why are we caviling over trifles?”

Whitney studied her manicure. “I do not consider my brother-in-law’s heart and life a trifle. Perhaps that is where we differ?”

“I liked you much better when I didn’t know who I was,” Sheridan said in a voice so bewildered that it would have been comic in another context. She looked around the room as if she needed confirmation that the furnishings were firmly anchored to the floor and that the draperies hadn’t become bed linens. “You didn’t seem quite so . . . difficult and unreasonable. After Monsie

ur DuVille explained to me the day of the wedding why Stephen had suddenly decided to marry me, I did the only thing I possibly could. Poor Mr. Lancaster . . . dying without Charise there.”

Mentally, Whitney consigned Nicki DuVille to perdition for his inadvertent part in this debacle, but she kept her mind focused on their plan.

“May I leave now?” Sheridan said stonily.

“Certainly,” Whitney said as Victoria and Miss Charity looked at her in shock. “Miss Bromleigh,” Whitney added as Sheridan reached for the door, but her voice was gentle now, “I believe my brother-in-law was in love with you.”

“Don’t tell me that!” Sherry exploded, her hand clenching the door handle, her back to them. “Don’t do this to me. He never pretended to love me, never even bothered to lie about it when we discussed marriage.”

“Perhaps he didn’t acknowledge the feeling by name, even to himself, perhaps he still does not, but he has not been the same man since you left.”

Sherry felt unbalanced by the explosion of hope and fear, of denial and joy, inside her brain. “Do not lie to me, for the love of God.”

“Sherry?”

Sherry turned at the soft sound in her voice.

“On your wedding day, Stephen wouldn’t believe you weren’t coming back. Even after Miss Lancaster poured all her venom, he didn’t believe her. He waited for you to come back and explain.”

Sherry thought her heart would break and that was before the duchess added, “He kept the cleric there until late that night. He wouldn’t let him leave. Does that sound like a man who didn’t want you? Does that sound like a man who was only marrying you out of guilt and responsibility? Since he knew by then you weren’t Charise Lancaster, why would he have felt any guilt or responsibility to you? Your head injury was healed and your memory was returned.”

Sherry felt shattered at the thought of what she might have had . . . and what she had lost.