Until You Page 8

  “We might,” Stephen said dryly, “but she will have precious little to tell you.” Taking pity on the solicitor, he added, “Her injury was to the head and severe enough to cause a loss of memory, which Dr. Whitticomb believes is a temporary condition. Unfortunately, although her health is mostly restored, her memory isn’t.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Matthew said sincerely. Thinking that concern for the young woman had somewhat diminished the earl’s usual perspicacity, he suggested diplomatically, “Perhaps her maid could be of help?”

  “I’m certain she could. If I knew where she was.” With veiled amusement, Stephen watched the solicitor struggle to keep his face from showing any emotion whatsoever. “I sent someone to her cabin within minutes after the accident, but the maid was nowhere to be found. One of the crew members thought she might have been English, so perhaps she went home to her family.”

  “I see,” Matthew replied, but he still wasn’t overly concerned. “In that case, we’ll begin our inquiry on the ship.”

  “It sailed the following morning.”

  “Oh. Well, what about her trunks? Was there anything in them to give us a clue as to her family’s direction?”

  “There might have been. Unfortunately, her trunks sailed with the ship.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite. In the immediate aftermath of the accident, my only concern was to get her medical attention at once. The following morning, I sent for her trunks, but the Morning Star had already sailed.”

  “Then we’ll begin our search at the ship’s office. There’s bound to be a passenger manifest and a cargo manifest, and they’ll be able to tell us what her ports of call were in America.”

  “Start with the shipping office,” Stephen agreed. He stood up, concluding the interview, and Matthew promptly arose, his mind already on the search he was about to instigate.

  “I’ve only been to the Colonies once,” he said. “I shan’t mind another visit.”

  “I’m sorry to have cut your holiday short,” Stephen repeated. “However, there’s another reason for urgency, beyond the obvious one. Whitticomb is becoming concerned that her memory hasn’t shown the slightest sign of returning. I’m hoping that seeing people from her past may help.”

  12

  As he’d promised, Stephen went upstairs to see her later that evening. He’d made it a practice to visit her twice each day, and although he kept them very brief and impersonal, he found himself nevertheless looking forward to them. He knocked on her door, and when there was no response, he hesitated then knocked again. Still no reply. Evidently his instructions that a maid was to be with her at all times had not been followed. Either that or the servant had fallen asleep on duty. Both possibilities angered him, but his primary emotion was alarm for his houseguest. She’d wanted to leave her bed. If she’d decided to try it, despite his instructions, and then collapsed with no one there to help her or sound an alarm . . . Or if she’d lapsed back into unconsciousness . . .

  He shoved the door open and strode into the chambers. The empty chambers. Baffled and annoyed, he looked at the bed, which had been neatly made up. Evidently the little idiot had not seen fit to follow his orders, and neither had the maid!

  A soft sound made him swing around. And stop cold.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” his houseguest said, walking out of the dressing room. Clad in a white dressing gown that was too large for her, with a hairbrush in one hand and a blue towel loosely draped over her head, she stood before him barefoot, unselfconscious, and completely unrepentant for ignoring his instructions.

  Having just been needlessly subjected to several awful moments of fear, Stephen reacted with a flash of annoyance, followed by relief, and then helpless amusement. She’d borrowed a gold cord from the draperies and tied it around her waist to hold the white dressing robe closed, and with her bare toes peeping out from beneath the long robe and that light blue towel over her head like a veil, she reminded him of the barefoot Madonna. Instead of the real Madonna’s serenely sweet smile, however, this madonna was wearing an expression that looked bewildered, accusing, and distinctly unhappy, all at once. She did not make him wait to find out the cause.

  “Either you’re extremely unobservant, my lord, or else your eyesight is afflicted.”

  Caught completely off-guard, Stephen said cautiously, “I’m not certain what you mean.”

  “I mean my hair,” she said miserably, pointing an accusing finger to whatever was concealed beneath the towel.

  He remembered that her hair had been matted with blood, and assumed the wound to her scalp had bled even after Whitticomb had stitched it. “It will wash right out,” he assured her.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said ominously. “I already tried that.”

  “I don’t understand . . .” he began.

  “My hair is not brown—” she clarified as she swept the towel away and picked up a fistful of the offending tresses to illustrate the problem. “Look at it. It’s red!”

  She sounded revolted, but Stephen was speechless, completely transfixed by a heavy mass of shiny, flaming strands that tumbled in waves and curls over her shoulders and the bodice of her robe and down her back. She released the handful she was holding, and it ran through her fingers like liquid fire. “Jesus . . .” he breathed.

  “It’s so . . . so brazen!” she said unhappily.

  Belatedly realizing that her real fiancé wouldn’t be standing there, staring at something he would have already seen, Stephen reluctantly withdrew his gaze from the most magnificent, and unusual, head of hair he had ever seen. “Brazen?” he repeated, wanting to laugh.

  She nodded and then impatiently shoved aside a glossy panel of coppery locks that slid away from her center part and draped itself over her forehead and left eye.

  “You don’t like it,” he summarized.

  “Of course not. Is that why you didn’t want to tell me its real color?”

  Stephen seized the excuse she’d inadvertently handed him and nodded, his gaze shifting back to that exotic hair. It was a perfect frame to set off her delicate features and porcelain skin.

  It began to register on Sheridan that the expression on his face wasn’t revulsion at all. In fact, he looked almost . . . admiring? “Do you like it?”

  Stephen liked it. He liked every damn thing about her. “I like it,” he said casually. “I gather that red hair isn’t quite the thing in America?”

  Sheridan opened her mouth to answer, and realized she didn’t know the answer. “I . . . don’t see how it could be. And I don’t think it is in England.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because the maid who helped me admitted after I pressed her that she had never seen a head of hair this color in her entire life. She looked perfectly appalled.”

  “Whose opinion matters most?” he countered smoothly.

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .” Sheridan said, feeling shy and overheated beneath the warmth of his smile. He was so beautiful—in a dark, manly way—that it was difficult not to stare at him and even more difficult to believe he’d actually chosen her above all the women in his own country. She loved his company, his humor, and the gentle way he treated her. She counted the hours between his visits, looking forward eagerly to each one, but the visits had all been very brief and completely uninformative. As a result, she still knew nothing about herself, or about him, or about their past relationship. She was no longer willing to exist in limbo, waiting for her capricious memory to return at any moment and provide the answers.

  She’d understood Lord Westmoreland’s point of view, which was that she shouldn’t jeopardize her health by overtaxing her mind, but her body was healed now. She’d gotten out of bed, bathed, and washed her hair, and then put on the dressing robe, in order to prove to him that she was well enough now to ask questions and hear answers. Her legs felt wobbly, but that might be due to a lingering weakness from her ordeal or, more likely, it was anoth
er symptom of the flustered nervousness she sometimes felt in his presence.

  She nodded toward a pair of inviting gold-silk-covered sofas positioned near the fireplace. “Would you mind if we sat down? I’m afraid I’ve been in bed so long that my legs have grown weak from disuse.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” Stephen said, already stepping aside so that she could precede him.

  “I wasn’t certain it was allowed.”

  She curled up on the sofa, tucked her bare feet beneath her, and arranged the dressing robe neatly around her. One of the things she’d obviously forgotten, Stephen noted, was that well-bred young ladies did not entertain gentlemen who were not their husbands in their boudoir. Stephen, on the other hand, was as aware of this as he was his own transgression in being there. He chose to ignore both issues in favor of his own desires. “Why did you say you weren’t certain you were allowed to sit down?”

  Her embarrassed gaze slid to the fireplace, and Stephen felt absurdly deprived of the delight of her face, and absurdly pleased when she looked back at him. “I understand from Constance—the maid—that you’re an earl.”

  She looked at him as if she almost hoped he’d deny it, which made her the most unusual woman he’d ever met.

  “And?” he said when she didn’t continue.

  “And that I ought properly to address you as ‘my lord.’ ” When he merely lifted his brows, waiting, she admitted, “Among the things I do seem to know is that in the presence of a king, one does not sit unless invited to do so.”

  Stephen suppressed the urge to shout with laughter. “I am not a king, however, merely an earl.”

  “Yes, well, I wasn’t certain if the same protocol applied.”

  “It doesn’t, and speaking of the maid, where the devil is she? I specifically said you were not to be left alone at any time.”

  “I sent her away.”

  “Because of her reaction to your hair,” he assumed aloud. “I’ll see that—”

  “No, because she’d been with me since dawn, and she looked exhausted. She’d already tidied the room, and I certainly didn’t want to be bathed as if I were a child.”

  Stephen heard that with surprise, but then she was full of surprises, including her next announcement, which was stated with a great deal of resolve and only a tremor of uncertainty. “I’ve been making some decisions today.”

  “Have you now,” he said, smiling at her fierce expression. She was not in any position to make decisions, but he saw no reason to point that out to her.

  “Yes. I’ve decided that the best way to cope with the loss of my memory is to believe that it’s merely a passing inconvenience, and for us to treat it that way.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  “There are a few things I’d like to ask you, however.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Oh, the usual things,” she said, choking on a laugh. “How old am I? Do I have a middle name?”

  Stephen’s defenses collapsed, leaving him torn between the wild urge to laugh at her wonderful, courageous sense of humor and the wilder urge to pull her off the sofa, shove his hands into that mass of gleaming hair and bury his lips in hers. She was as enticing as she was sweet, and more sexually provocative in that robe and curtain cord than any gorgeously dressed—or undressed—courtesan he’d ever known.

  Burleton must have been in an agony to take her to bed, he thought. No wonder he intended to marry her the day after she arrived . . .

  Guilt abruptly doused Stephen’s pleasurable contemplation of her appealing assets, and shame ate at him like acid. Burleton, not he, should have been sitting across from her. It was Burleton who should have been the one to enjoy this cozy moment with her, to see her curled up on the sofa, barefoot; it was Burleton who had the right to be mentally undressing her and thinking of taking her to bed. No doubt he’d been thinking of little else while he waited for her ship to arrive.

  Instead of all that, her ardent young lover was lying in a coffin, and his killer was enjoying the evening with his bride. No, Stephen corrected himself with savage self-disgust, he wasn’t merely enjoying a pleasant evening with her, he was lusting after her.

  His attraction to her was obscene! It was insane! If he wanted diversion of any kind, he could choose from among the most beautiful women in Europe. Sophisticated or naive, witty or serious, outgoing or shy, blondes, brunettes, and redheads—they were his for the asking. There was no reason on earth to feel a wild attraction to this woman, no reason to react to her like some randy adolescent or aging lecher.

  Her quiet voice jerked him from his furious self-reproach, but his feelings of revulsion lingered. “Whatever it is,” she said half-seriously, “I don’t think it has very long to live.”

  Stephen’s gaze snapped back to her face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Whatever it is that you’ve been glowering at over my left shoulder for the last minute—I hope it has legs and can run very quickly.”

  He gave her a brief, humorless smile. “My thoughts drifted. I apologize.”

  “Oh, please do not apologize!” she said with a nervous laugh. “I am vastly relieved to know you were thinking of something other than my questions with that black scowl on your face.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the questions entirely.”

  “My age?” she provided helpfully, her delicate brows lifting. “Do I have a middle name?” Despite her lighthearted tone, Stephen realized she was watching him very, very closely. He was disconcerted by the way her eyes were searching his, and he hesitated for a second, still struggling to switch his attention to the topic at hand. She broke the silence before he could, by heaving a great, comical sigh of dismay and warning him in an exaggerated, dire voice, “Dr. Whitticomb told me this malady I have is called am-ne-si-a, and it is not contagious. Therefore, I shall be very much aggrieved if you mean to pretend you have it too, and thus make me look quite ordinary. Now, shall we start with something a little easier? Would you care to tell me your full name? Your age? Take your time, think about the answers.”

  Stephen would have laughed if he hadn’t hated himself so much for wanting to. “I am three and thirty,” he said. “My name is Stephen David Elliott Westmoreland.”

  “Well that explains it!” she joked. “With so many names, it’s little wonder it took you awhile to recall them all!”

  A grin tugged at his lips, and Stephen tried to negate it by chiding as sternly as he could, “You impertinent baggage, I’ll thank you to show me a little more respect.”

  Unchastened and unrepentant, she tipped her head to the side and inquired curiously, “Because you’re an earl?”

  “No, because I’m bigger than you are.”

  Her peal of laughter was as musical as bells and so infectious that Stephen’s face hurt from the effort to keep his expression blank.

  “Now that we’ve established that I am impertinent and you are larger than I,” she said, giving him a laughing, innocent look from beneath her lashes, “would it be equally correct to assume that you are also older than I?”

  Stephen nodded because he couldn’t trust his voice.

  She pounced instantly. “By how many years?”

  “Persistent little chit, aren’t you?” he said, caught between amusement and admiration at how neatly she’d twisted the subject back around to her questions.

  She sobered, her gray eyes infinitely appealing. “Please tell me how old I am. Tell me if I have a middle name. Or don’t you know?”

  He didn’t know. On the other hand, he didn’t know the ages or middle names of many of the women who’d occupied his bed. Since she’d spent very little time with her fiancé, the truth seemed safe and even reasonable. “Actually, neither of those issues ever came up.”

  “And my family—what are they like?”

  “Your father is a widower,” Stephen said, recalling what he’d learned from Burleton’s butler, and feeling quite capable of handling th
e discussion, after all. “You are his only child.”

  She nodded, absorbing that, then she smiled at him. “How did we meet?”

  “I imagine your mother introduced you to him shortly after you were born.”

  She laughed because she thought he was joking. He frowned because he hadn’t anticipated questions like that, he didn’t feel capable of either answering or evading them, and no matter what he did or said, he was still going to be a fraud.

  “I mean, how did you and I meet?”

  “The usual way,” he said curtly.

  “Which is?”

  “We were introduced.” He got up to avoid the puzzlement and scrutiny in those wide gray eyes of hers, and walked over to a sideboard, where he’d seen a crystal decanter earlier.

  “My lord?”

  He glanced over his shoulder as he pulled the stopper out of the decanter and raised it to the glass. “Yes?”

  “Are we very much in love?”

  Half the brandy sloshed over his thumb and ran down the side of the glass onto the gold tray. Swearing silently, he realized that no matter what he told her now, she was going to feel duped when she recovered her memory. Between that and the fact that he was also responsible for the death of the man she did care for, she was going to hate him thoroughly when this was over. But not as much as he hated himself for everything, including what he was about to do. Raising the glass, he tossed down what little brandy he’d actually managed to get into it, then he turned around and faced her. Left with no choice, he answered in a way that he knew would destroy any good opinion she had of him. “This is England, not America—” he began.

  “Yes, I know. Dr. Whitticomb told me that.”

  Inwardly Stephen winced at the reminder that she’d had to be told what country she was in, which was also his fault. “This is England,” he repeated curtly. “In England, in the upper classes, couples marry for a variety of reasons, nearly all of which are purely practical. Unlike some Americans, we do not expect or desire to wear our hearts on our sleeves, nor do we prose on and on about that tenuous emotion called ‘love.’ We leave that to the peasants and the poets.”