Until You

"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 a

"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, 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 fiance, 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 the 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."