beautiful spotted horse was grazing nearby, and in a fit of exuberance, Sherry got up and jumped onto its back, and they rode off in the moonlight, her laughter echoing on the wind. The horse and she were flying… flying… "You'll break your neck, cara!" the younger man called, and he was in hot pursuit, his horse's hooves pounding closer and closer, and they were both laughing and flying across the meadow…

"Miss Lancaster!" Another voice, a female voice was calling from a further distance. "Miss Lancaster!" A hand touched her shoulder, shaking her lightly, and Sherry jolted back to harsh reality. "I'm sorry to wake you, ma'am," the maid said, "but Her Grace is in the sewing room with the seamstresses, and she asked if you would join them there."

Sherry wanted to wrap herself in the bedcovers like a cocoon and seek out her dream again, but how did one tell a duchess and her seamstresses to go away so one could dream, particularly when one was an unwanted fiancée of the duchess's son. Reluctantly, Sherry got up, washed her face, and followed the maid upstairs to a huge, sunny room.

The duchess who was waiting turned out to be the earl's sister-in-law, not his mother.

Refusing to disgrace herself further by revealing any of her emotions, Sherry gave her a scrupulously polite greeting that was neither cool nor warm.

If Whitney Westmoreland noticed anything different in Sherry's demeanor, she didn't show it, but then she was carried away with enthusiasm about seeing Sherry outfitted "in all the latest fashion."

With Whitney Westmoreland smiling and chatting about balls and routs and Venetian breakfasts, and seamstresses buzzing around her like gnats, Sherry stood for what seemed an eternity on a raised platform in a huge sunny room, being measured, pinned, pushed, tugged, and turned. This time, she was not gullible enough to believe Whitney's warm smile and encouraging comments were sincere. She simply wanted Sherry off their hands, engaged to someone else, and obviously a wardrobe was the first step toward that goal. Sherry understood that, but she had plans of her own. She was going back home, wherever home was, and she couldn't possibly get there fast enough to suit herself. She intended to reassure the duchess of that as soon as this absurd fuss over clothing was over, but when the seamstresses finally let her step off the platform and pull on a dressing robe, they didn't leave. Instead, they began opening trunks and swirling bolts of fabrics over furniture, window seats, and carpet, until the entire room was a riot of colors in every imaginable shade, from emerald green to sapphire blue and sunny yellows, down to the palest pinks and shades of cream.

"What do you think?" Whitney asked her.

Sherry looked around at the dizzying array of sumptuous silks and soft batistes, of gossamer chiffon and delicate lawn. Jaunty striped fabrics were scattered among silks that were richly embellished with gold and silver and bolts of batiste heavily embroidered with flowers of every color and type. Whitney Westmoreland was smiling, waiting for Sherry to express her pleasure or her preferences. What did she think? Sherry wondered a little hysterically. Putting up her chin, she looked at the woman named Madame LaSalle who spoke with a French accent and behaved like a general, and she stated her preference, though she didn't know where it came from. "Do you have anything in red?"

"Red!" the woman gasped, her eyes popping. "Red! No, no, no, mademoiselle. Not with your hair."

"I like red," Sheridan persisted stubbornly.

"Then you must have it," she said, recovering her diplomatic self, but not yielding a bit artistically. "You must use it to upholster furniture or hang at the windows, but it is not a color that can be worn on your lovely self, mademoiselle. Heaven has already blessed you with hair of the rarest red, and so it would be wrong, sinful, to wear anything that would not flatter your special gift."

That flowery speech was so absurd that Sherry bit back a wan smile and saw the duchess struggling to keep her own countenance straight. Momentarily forgetting that Whitney Westmoreland might pretend to be her friend, but was nothing of the sort, she said, "I think that means it would look dreadful on me."

"Oui," said Madame with great feeling.

"And that there is nothing on earth that would compel her to make me a red gown, no matter how much I insisted," Sherry added.

The duchess returned Sherry's laughing look and said, "Madame would sooner throw herself into the Thames."

"Oui!" all of the seamstresses chorused, and for a few moments the room was filled with the convivial laughter of eight women with a common goal.

For the next several hours, Sherry stood mostly aside while the duchess and Madame talked endlessly about the correct styles and fabrics to be used. Just when she thought it was all settled, they began to discuss embellishments, and there was more talk about bows and laces and satin edging. When she finally realized the seamstresses were actually going to remain at the house, working day and night in this room, Sherry firmly interceded. "I have five gowns already—one for every day for nearly a week."

Conversations dropped off and gazes swiveled to her. "I'm very much afraid," the duchess said with a smile, "that you will be changing gowns five times a day."

Sherry frowned at the amount of time that must take, but she held her silence until they left the sewing room. Planning to retreat back into the solitude of her room after she told the duchess she had no intention of marrying into the family, she headed in that direction with the duchess by her side. "I really cannot change gowns five times a day," Sherry began. "They will all be wasted—"

"No they will not," Whitney said with a confident smile that was not returned. Wondering worriedly why Sherry Lancaster seemed reserved and distant today, she said, "During the Season, a well-dressed lady needs carriage dresses, walking dresses, riding habits, dinner dresses, evening gowns, and morning dresses. And those are only the barest necessities. Stephen Westmoreland's fiancée will be expected to have opera dresses, theatre dresses—"

"I am not his fiancée, nor have I any desire to be," Sherry interrupted implacably, as she stood with her hand on the handle of the door to her bedchamber. "I've tried to make it clear all day and in every way possible that I do not need or want all that clothing. Unless you will let my father repay you for it, I ask you to cancel everything. And now, if you will excuse me—"

"What do you mean you aren't his fiancée?" Whitney said, and in her alarm, she laid her hand on the other woman's arm. "What has happened?" A laundress padded down the hall with an armload of linen, and Whitney said, "Could we talk in your bedchamber?"

"I do not wish to be rude, your grace, but there is nothing to talk about," Sherry said very firmly, proud that her voice didn't waver in the least, and that there was nothing plaintive in the way she was speaking to the other woman.

To her surprise, the duchess did not stiffen in affront. "I disagree," she said with a stubborn smile and reached forward to nudge the door open. "I think there is a great deal to talk about."

Fully expecting some sort of deserved reprimand for her discourtesy or ingratitude, Sherry walked into the bedchamber, followed by the duchess. Refusing to cower or apologize, she turned around and waited in silence for whatever was to come.

In the space of seconds, Whitney considered Sherry's denial of her betrothal, noted the total absence of her normal, unaffected warmth, and correctly assumed her current attitude of proud indifference was a facade to conceal some sort of deep hurt. Since Stephen was the only one who had the power to truly hurt her, that meant he was the likely cause of the problem.

Prepared to go to great lengths to undo whatever damage her idiot brother-in-law had done to the one woman who was surely meant for him, Whitney said cautiously, "What has happened to make you say you aren't betrothed to Stephen and don't wish to be?"

"Please!" Sherry said with more emotion than she wanted to show. "I do not know who I am or where I was born, but I do know that there is something inside of me that cries out against the deceit and pretense I've been told. I'll surely begin to scream if I have to endure more of it right now. There's no need, no purpose, in your pretending to want me as a sister-in-law, so please do not!"

"Very well," the duchess said without rancor, "we shall put an end to pretense."

"Thank you."

"You have no idea just how badly I hope to have you as a sister-in-law."

"And I suppose you are now going to try to convince me that Lord Westmoreland is as eager a bridegroom as there ever was."

"I couldn't even say that with a straight face," the duchess admitted cheerfully, "let alone be convincing."

"What?" Sherry uttered in blank astonishment.

"Stephen Westmoreland has the liveliest reservations about marrying anyone, especially you. And for some very good reasons."

Sherry's shoulders shook with helpless laughter. "I think you are all quite mad."

"I cannot blame you for thinking that," Whitney said with a gusty sigh. "Now, if you would like to sit down, I shall tell you what I can about the Earl of Langford. But first, I have to ask you what he told you this morning that has made you think he does not desire to marry you."

The offer of information about a man who was a total mystery to her was nearly irresistible, but Sherry wasn't certain why the offer was being made or if she should accept it. "Why do you wish to become involved in all this?"

"I wish to become involved because I like you very much. And because I'd like you to like me also. But most of all, because I truly believe you are perfect for Stephen and I'm desperately afraid this set of circumstances may keep you both from finding that out until it is too late to undo the damage. Now, please tell me what happened, and then I'll tell you what I can." For the second time, Whitney carefully avoided saying she would tell her everything. The phrase she'd used was misleading, but at least it was not another lie.

Sherry hesitated, searching Whitney's face for some sign of malice and saw only earnestness and concern. "I suppose it can't do any harm—except to my pride," she said with a weak attempt at a smile. In a relatively unemotional voice, she managed to recount what had happened that morning in the earl's study.

Whitney was impressed by the simplicity and cleverness of Stephen's chosen method to enlist Sherry's cooperation, and she was equally impressed that a naive girl, who was in a strange land, surrounded by strangers, and with not even a memory of her past, could have seen right through his smoothly worded ploy. Moreover Sherry had evidently been wise enough and proud enough not to voice a single objection to it. Which, Whitney decided with an inner smile, probably accounted for Stephen's black scowl earlier, when she bade him good day before coming upstairs. "Is that everything?"

"Not exactly," Sherry said angrily, looking away in embarrassment.

"What else happened?"

"After he gave me all that fustian about wanting me to have choices, I was so angry and confused that I—I felt a little overemotional."

"Had I been in your place, I'd have felt for a heavy, blunt object to hit him with!"

"Unfortunately," Sherry said with a shaky laugh, "I didn't see anything suitable to use, and I felt this—this stupid urge to cry, so I walked over to a window to try to compose myself."

"And then?" Whitney prodded.

"And then he had the audacity, the arrogance, the—the gall to try to kiss me!"

"Did you allow it?"

"No. Not willingly." That wasn't entirely true, and she looked away again in helpless misery. "I wasn't willing, at first," she amended. "But you see, he's very good at it, and—" She broke off as a realization hit her, and she said it aloud, her expression turning ferocious: "He's very good at it, and he knows it! That is why he insisted on kissing me, as if that would make everything all right again. And in a way he won, because in the end I gave in. Oh, he must be very proud of himself," she finished with withering scorn.

Whitney burst out laughing. "I very much doubt that. In fact, he was in the foulest mood imaginable when I arrived. For a man who wishes to break a betrothal, and has every reason to believe he's well on the way to accomplishing it, he is not in an exultant frame of mind."

Somewhat cheered by that, Sherry smiled; then her smile faded and she shook her head. "I do not understand any of this. Perhaps, even when I am in full possession of all my faculties, I am somewhat lacking in understanding."

"I think you are amazingly insightful!" Whitney said with feeling, "and brave. And very, very warmhearted too." She watched uncertainty flicker in expressive gray eyes, and Whitney wanted desperately to trust Charise Lancaster with the entire truth, every bit of it, beginning with Burleton's death and Stephen's part in it. As Stephen had pointed out, Sherry had scarcely known Burleton. Moreover, it was very clear that she had strong feelings for Stephen.

On the other hand, Dr. Whitticomb had emphasized the real danger of upsetting her too much, and Whitney was terribly afraid the news of Burleton's death and Stephen's part in it might do just that.

She settled for telling her everything but that, and, returning the other girl's level gaze, she said with a sad smile, "I am going to tell you a story about a very special man, whom you may not at first recognize. When I met him, four years ago, he was vastly admired for his tremendous charm and delightful manners. Men respected his skill at gaming and sports, and he was so handsome that women actually stared at him. His mother and I used to go into whoops over the effect he had on them, and not merely innocent young girls in their first Season, but sophisticated flirts, as well. I know he thought their reaction to his face was excessively silly, but he was unfailingly gallant to all of them. And then three things happened that changed him drastically—and the odd part is that two of them were good things: First, Stephen decided to take more of a personal interest in his business affairs and investments, which my husband had been handling along with ours. Stephen immediately began taking daring chances on large, risky ventures that my husband would never have considered—not with someone else's money. Time after time Stephen took enormous risks, and time after time, they paid off in enormous profits. And while all that was happening, so did something else that eventually contributed to his change from friendly gallantry to cold cynicism: Stephen inherited three titles from an elderly cousin of his father's, one of them the Earl of Langford. Normally, titles pass to the eldest son, except in certain instances, and this was one of them. Some of the titles held by the Westmoreland family date back over three hundred years, to King Henry VII. Among them are three titles granted by him that, at the request of the first Duke of Claymore, contain recorded exceptions to the normal line of descent. The exceptions allowed the holder of the title, if childless, to designate his own heir, so long as the heir was a direct descendant of one of the dukes of Claymore.

"The titles Stephen inherited were old and prestigious, but the land and income that went with them were insignificant. However—and here is where everything began to go 'wrong,' as it were—Stephen was already doubling and redoubling his own wealth. He loves architecture and studied it at university, so he bought fifty thousand of the most beautiful rolling acres imaginable and began working on a design for a house that would serve as his primary seat. While that house was under construction, he bought three lovely old estates in different parts of England, and began restoration on them as well. So there you have the whole picture—a man who was already wealthy, handsome, and from one of the most important families in England, and who, quite suddenly, acquired three titles, amassed a very large fortune, and bought four splendid estates. Can't you guess what happened next?"

"I presume he moved into one of his new homes."

Whitney gaped at her in laughing delight, pleased at her straightforward outlook and lack of guile. "He did do that," she said after a moment, "but that's not to the point."

"I don't understand."

"What happened was that a thousand families who would settle for nothing less than a titled husband for their daughters—and daughters who expected nothing less than that for themselves—suddenly added Stephen Westmoreland to their lists of desirable husbands. To the very top of their lists, in fact. Stephen's desirability and popularity exploded so quickly and so—so noticeably—that it was rather appalling to see. Because he was nearly thirty at the time, it was believed he would have to wed very soon, and that added a degree of desperation and urgency to the chase. Entire families descended on him if he walked into a room, daughters were thrust in his way—subtly of course—no matter where he went.

"Most men with titles and fortunes are born to them, as my husband was, and they learn to accept and ignore all that, though my husband admitted to me there were many times he felt like a hunted hare. In Stephen's case, it all seemed to happen overnight. If it had been otherwise, if the change hadn't been so sudden and drastic, Stephen might have adjusted to it with more patience, or at least more tolerance. And I think he still would have done so if he hadn't also gotten involved with Emily Kendall."

Sherry felt her stomach clench at the mention of a woman he'd been "involved" with, and at the same time she was helpless to control her curiosity. "What happened?" she asked when Whitney hesitated.

"Before I tell you, you will have to give me your pledge never to breathe a word of this to anyone."

Sheridan nodded.

Whitney got up and restlessly wandered over to the windows, then she turned and leaned back against the pane, her hands behind her back, her face somber. "Stephen met Emily two years before he inherited his titles. She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and one of the wittiest and most amusing… and haughty. I thought her haughty. In any case, half the bachelors in England were mad about her, and Stephen was one of them, though he was clever enough not to let her see it. She had the most amazing way of bringing men to their knees, but Stephen wouldn't bend to her, and I suppose that was part of his appeal—the challenge. In what I can only think of as a moment of madness, Stephen asked her to marry him. She was stunned."

"Because he loved her?" Sherry asked.

"Because he was so dreadful as to ask her."

"What?"

"According to my husband, who had the story directly from Stephen, Emily's primary reaction was shock and then anguish that he'd put her in such an untenable position. She was—is—the daughter of a duke, and it seemed that her family would not countenance a marriage to a mere mister. She was to be married in a fortnight to William Lathrop, the Marquess of Glengarmon, an old man whose father's estate marched beside Emily's father's. No one knew about the betrothal as yet because it had just been finalized. Emily burst into tears and told Stephen that, before he'd asked her to marry him, she had at least been able to resign herself to marrying Lord Lathrop, but that now, her life was going to be unbearable. Stephen was furious that she was to be 'wasted' on a pathetic old man, but she convinced him there was no point in trying to reason with her father—which he actually wanted to do, even though he knew perfectly well that it is a daughter's duty to marry wherever her family wills."

She paused and gave Sherry an abashed smile and added, "I did not necessarily agree with that when my father claimed the right to choose a husband for me." Returning to the story, she continued, "In any case, when Stephen still insisted on talking to her father, Emily told him he would beat her if he knew she'd complained to Stephen about her fate or her feelings about Lord Lathrop."

"And so they parted?" Sherry ventured when Whitney seemed to hesitate.

"I only wish they had! Instead, Emily convinced him that the only way she could endure her fate, now that she knew he loved her, was if they continued their… friendship… after she was married." Sherry frowned because it was difficult to hear about how much he had loved another. Whitney mistook her frown for disapproval and hastened to defend the indefensible, partly out of loyalty to Stephen and partly so that Sherry wouldn't condemn him out of hand. Unfortunately, within moments she found herself on shaky ground as she tried to impart information while obscuring its full meaning. "It's not that unusual or even scandalous. Amongst the ton, there are many females who desire the… attention… and the… companionship of an attractive man whom they know… ah… think... would be very… entertaining in… er… a-variety-of-ways," Whitney finished breathlessly. "It's all very discreet, of course."

"You mean they must be sly about their friendship?"

"I suppose you could say that," Whitney said, as it dawned on her that Sherry was blissfully unaware that Stephen had been much more than Emily's "friend" during her marriage, and that they were not discussing friendships at all. In retrospect, Whitney realized she should have expected that. Well-bred English girls often had no clear idea of what couples did in the bedchamber, but they usually had overheard the gossip of older sisters and other married females. By the time they were Sherry's age, they at least suspected that something more than friendly handshakes occurred.

"What happens if the truth is discovered?"

Having gotten by this far by telling truth with impunity, Whitney stuck to the same practice with the rest of her questions. "Then the husband is usually displeased, particularly if there has been cause for gossip."

"And if he is displeased, does he insist that his wife restrict herself to female companions?"

"Yes, but he occasionally has a discussion with the gentleman as well."

"What sort of discussion?"

"The sort that takes place at dawn at twenty paces."

"A duel?" Sherry exclaimed, thinking that seemed like a severe overreaction to what had merely been, at worst, too close a friendship between opposite sexes to be seemly.

"A duel," Whitney confirmed.

"And did Lord Westmoreland agree to continue being Emily Kendall's—" She paused, discarding the word "suitor" because it sounded ridiculous if the lady was already married, "—her close friend," she improvised, since that was correct, "even after she was married?"

"Yes, for over a year, until her husband found out about it."

Sherry drew in a long breath, half afraid to ask. "Was there a duel?"

"Yes."

Since Lord Westmoreland was still very much alive, Sherry assumed Lord Lathrop was very much dead. "He killed him," she said flatly.

"No, he didn't, though it might well have come to that. I think Stephen may have intended that it should. He was desperately in love with Emily, and loyal to her to the point of blindness. He despised Lord Lathrop. He hated him for ever offering for Emily in the first place, for being a disgusting old roué who'd stolen her youth and life, and for being too old to give her children. The morning of the duel, Stephen mentioned some of those opinions to him, though I'm certain he expressed himself more eloquently."

"And then what happened?"

"The old marquess nearly died, but of shock, not from a pistol shot. It seems that Emily and her father, not he, had sought the marriage. Our Emily wanted to be a duchess, which she would have become when Lathrop's ancient father died and Lathrop inherited his father's title. On the morning of the duel, Stephen believed Lord Lathrop. He said no man alive could have feigned such a stunned reaction to Stephen's accusations. Besides, Lathrop had no reason to lie."

"Did they still duel?"

"Yes and no. Stephen deloped, which amounts to an apology. In doing that he gave the elderly man the satisfaction he was entitled to have from him. Emily's father sent her to Spain within the week, and she stayed there for over a year, until after Lord Lathrop died. She came home a 'new woman'—more beautiful than before, but also more serene and less haughty." Whitney had intended to end the story there and explain the point she'd been trying to make with it, but Sherry's question obliged her to finish. "Did they ever see each other again?"

"Yes, and by that time Stephen had inherited his title. Oddly enough—or perhaps not oddly at all, considering the timing—it was Emily's father who went to see Stephen first. He told Stephen that Emily was in love with him, and always had been, which, in her own selfish way, I believe she was. He asked Stephen to at least talk to her.

"Stephen agreed, and I'm quite sure her father left in happy expectation that everything would be all right and that his daughter was going to be the Countess of Langford. Emily came to see Stephen the following week, and she confessed to everything, from her selfishness to her deceit. She begged his forgiveness and pleaded with him to give her a chance to prove that she truly loved him, to show him that she'd changed.

"Stephen told her he would think about it. The very next day, her father paid a 'casual social call' on Stephen and brought up the subject of a betrothal contract. Stephen volunteered to have something drawn up, and her father left believing Stephen was the most forgiving and generous of men."

"He was going to marry her after what she'd done?" Sherry burst out in disbelief. "I cannot believe he would! He must have been quite out of his head." The words were out before Sherry realized that the emotion she felt was as much jealousy as righteous indignation. "Then what happened?" she asked more calmly.

"Emily and her father came to see him, as they'd arranged to do, but the paper that Stephen handed them was not a betrothal contract."

"What was it?"

"It was a list of suggested second husbands for her. Every man on it had a title, and every man was between the ages of sixty and ninety-two. It was not merely an intentional insult to both of them; it was doubly cutting because he'd deliberately let Emily believe she was going to be given a betrothal contract."

Sherry digested all that for a moment. "He isn't very forgiving, is he? Particularly when you said earlier that it is not at all unusual for married ladies to do what she did."

"Stephen could not forgive her for wanting to marry Lathrop in the first place, not when she did it for his title. He could not forgive her for lying to him. But most of all, he could not forgive her for letting him nearly kill her husband in a duel.

"If you consider all I've told you, I think you will begin to understand why he mistrusts his own judgment of women and why he mistrusts their motives. Perhaps you'll even find that his desire to have you meet other gentlemen, before you decide permanently on him, isn't so very wrong or even cruel. I am not saying he was right," Whitney added when her conscience issued another irate protest. "I don't know that he is, and what I think doesn't matter in any case. I am only asking—suggesting—that you listen to your heart and decide for yourself, based on the new information about him I've given you. And there is one more thing I can tell you that may help you to decide."

"What is it?"

"Neither my husband nor I have every seen Stephen look at any woman quite the way he looks at you, not with the same degree of gentleness and warmth and humor." Having done and said everything she could think of to help matters, Whitney walked over to the sofa to collect her things, and Sherry stood up.

"You've been very kind, Your Grace," Sherry said with soft sincerity.

"Please call me Whitney," the duchess said as she picked up her reticule, and with a sidewise smile, she added, "and do not call me 'kind,' for then I will have to confess the truth, which is that I also have a selfish reason for wanting you in the family."

"What selfish reason is that?"

Turning fully toward her, the duchess said with soft candor, "I think you are my best chance of ever having a sister, and probably my only chance of having one with whom I could be completely delighted."

In a world where everything and everyone seemed unfamiliar and suspicious, the words she'd said and the soft smile that accompanied them had a profound effect on Sherry. As they smiled at each other, Sherry reached out to shake the duchess's hand and the duchess reached forward to meet it, and somehow the polite handshake became a tight squeeze of encouragement that lasted an extra moment longer than it needed to. And then it became a hug. Sherry had no idea who made the first move, but she did not think it was she, and it didn't matter. They both stepped back from it, smiling a little sheepishly at such an unseemly display between two virtual strangers who should have been calling each other "Miss Lancaster" and "your grace" for at least another year of acquaintance. None of that mattered because it was too late to go back The bond had already been felt and acknowledged and accepted. The duchess stood quietly for a moment, a tiny, amused smile at the corner of her lips, and she shook her head as if pleased and puzzled. "I like you so much," she said simply, and then she was gone in a swirl of fashionable cherry skirts.

A moment after the door closed, it opened again and she put her head inside, still smiling. "By the by," she whispered, "Stephen's mother likes you too. And we'll see you at supper."

"Oh, that's lovely."

Whitney nodded and said with another irrepressible smile, "I'm on my way downstairs to convince Stephen it's his idea."

And then she was gone.

Sherry wandered over to the windows that overlooked Upper Brook Street. Crossing her arms, she gazed absently at the fashionably dressed men and women alighting from carriages and strolling down the street, enjoying the balmy afternoon.

She thought about everything she'd heard, turned it over and over in her mind, and the earl took on new dimensions. She could imagine how it would feel to be wanted for what he had and not for what he was. The fact that he didn't appreciate that sort of attention, that sort of fawning and pretense, proved that he was not a boastful or prideful man.

The fact that he had not abandoned his friendship with the woman he'd loved, even after she was lost to him, was irrefutable proof that he was steadfast and loyal. And the fact that he'd been prepared to risk his life in a duel… that was downright noble.

In return Emily Lathrop had deceived and used and betrayed him. In view of that it was little wonder he wanted to be very, very certain he did not make a second mistake when he chose a wife.

Idly rubbing her hands over her elbows, Sherry watched a carriage with a high perch tear down the street, scattering pedestrians, while she contemplated the vengeance he had exacted on the woman he had once obviously loved.

He was not boastful or prideful…

He was not forgiving either.

She turned away from the window and wandered over to her desk, idly turning the pages of the morning newspaper, trying to distract herself from another truth: she had not learned one thing today, or any other day, that would indicate he had any feelings for her at all.

He liked to kiss her, but somewhere in her darkened memory. Sherry had the feeling that that did not necessarily signify love. He liked her company, sometimes. And he liked to laugh with her, always. She could sense that.

She so much wished her memory would return, because all the answers she needed would be there.

Restlessly, she bent down and picked a scrap of paper from the carpet, trying to decide how to behave to him from this point on. Pride demanded that she seem unaffected by his crushing announcement downstairs. Her instincts demanded that she not give him a second opportunity to hurt her again.

She would act as naturally as she could, she decided, but she would be just reserved enough to warn him to keep his distance.

And she would find some way to stop remembering how his hands slid up and down her spine and across her shoulders when he kissed her… or how his fingers sank into her hair, holding her mouth pressed so tightly to his that it was as if he couldn't get enough of it. She would not think about the insistent hunger of those kisses, or the way his arms felt around her. And under no circumstances would she let herself dwell again on the way he smiled… that lazy, dazzling smile that swept slowly across his tanned face and made her heart stop… or the way his dark blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled…

Thoroughly disgusted with herself for doing precisely what she was telling herself she would not do, Sherry sat down at her desk and concentrated all her attention on the newspaper.

HE HAD LOVED EMILY LATHROP.

Frustrated, Sherry closed her eyes tightly as if she could shut him out of her mind. But she couldn't. He had loved Emily Lathrop to destruction and though she knew it was foolish, the knowledge hurt terribly, because she loved him.