“Miss Stone,” Paul said, subjecting her to an amused scrutiny, “you wouldn’t by any chance be trying to make me jealous, would you?”
“Are you?” Whitney countered with a flirtatious smile.
He didn’t answer, but Whitney was almost certain that he was. Either way, the balance of the evening was the way she used to dream it would be. Paul remained at her side most of the time, and when he did leave her, it wasn’t to return to Elizabeth.
* * *
Dismissing his valet, Clayton poured himself a light brandy. Inwardly, he smiled at the bizarre turn his courtship had taken tonight. Never in his wildest imaginings had he visualized anything quite like this! Nevertheless, he was extremely pleased by what he had learned on Amelia Eubank’s balcony a few hours ago. None of Whitney’s suitors in France had been permitted the liberties he had taken; she had been shocked by his intimate kiss and outraged when his hand touched her breast.
God, what an enchanting creature she was—part angel, part spitfire; artlessly sophisticated, with a ripe, opulent beauty that made his blood stir hotly.
Lifting his glass, he frowned into the contents. He had treated her badly tonight. Tomorrow, he would have to find a way to make amends.
12
* * *
The morning of the picnic dawned brilliant blue, with a fresh cool breeze that carried the scent of fall.
Whitney bathed and washed her hair, then debated what to wear. Paul would undoubtedly call for her in the carriage, but Whitney had a deep yearning to ride beside him on horseback, as they occasionally had in years past. Her mind made up, she snatched a buttercup-yellow riding habit from the wardrobe.
She was ready when she heard Paul’s carriage coming to a stop directly below her open bedroom window, but she made herself pace the length of her room ten times before she hurried out into the hallway and across the balcony.
Paul watched her coming down the stairs, a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her jaunty yellow riding habit and the yellow-and-white dotted silk shirt that peeked from beneath her open jacket. Around her neck she had tied a matching dotted scarf, knotting it on the side, with the ends flipped over her right shoulder. “How can you look so lovely so early?” he asked, taking both her hands in his as she stepped onto the polished foyer floor.
Whitney suppressed the urge to fling herself into his arms and smiled up at him instead. “Good morning,” she said softly. “Shall we ride, rather than take the carriage? The stable is filled with horses, and you may have your choice.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ride over without me. I’ll need the carriage to escort those females who seem to live in constant terror of falling from a horse.” He inclined his head toward a dark shadow near the front door. “Clayton will ride with you and show you where we’ll be.”
Whitney panicked at the lump of disappointment and alarm swelling in her throat. She couldn’t believe Paul was doing this. Since he’d invited her, and since the picnic was in her honor, his first obligation was to escort her there. Besides, only one of the girls in the neighborhood, was afraid of horses—Elizabeth Ashton. She had a terrible feeling that appointing Clayton Westland as her substitute escort was Paul’s way of demonstrating to her that he would not play the part of jealous suitor. Last night he had realized that she was trying to make him jealous, and this morning he was showing her that it hadn’t worked.
With a sublime effort, Whitney forced herself to shrug lightly and smile. “You’ll miss a lovely ride then. It’s much too fine a day to be cooped up in a carriage.”
“Clayton will show you the place,” Paul repeated, studying her composed features. Dryly, he added, “I gather that you two know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?”
Whitney dragged her gaze toward the tall figure lounging in the doorway, and gritted her teeth to hide her loathing.
“I’m sure your father won’t object if Clayton rides one of your horses,” Paul said, already starting to leave.
Outside on the fourth step, he turned. “Take good care of my girl,” he called to Clayton, and then he was gone, leaving Whitney slightly pacified and thoroughly mystified at being first cavalierly handed over into Clayton’s custody, and then called “my girl.”
Her bemused thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice she despised saying a quiet, “Good morning.” Resentfully, Whitney snapped her attention to Clayton, who was still standing in the doorway. Biting back three nasty responses to his simple greeting, she passed a disdainful glance over his immaculate white shirt, which was open at the collar, his gray riding breeches, and his gleaming black boots. “Can you ride?” she asked icily.
“Good morning,” he repeated with calm emphasis, still smiling at her.
Whitney clamped her mouth shut and brushed past him into the brilliant sunlight, leaving him to follow her or stay in the house, she didn’t care which.
As she marched down the path leading around the back of the house toward the stable, he remained a pace behind her, but halfway there, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Smiling down at her, he said, “Do you treat every gentleman who steals a kiss from you with such animosity—or only me?”
Whitney looked at him with withering scorn. “Mr. Westland, in the first place, you are no ‘gentleman.’ In the second, I don’t like you. Now, please get out of my way.”
He remained there, studying her stormy face in thoughtful silence. “Kindly move out of the way and let me pass,” Whitney repeated.
“If you will keep still long enough to allow me to do it, I would like to apologize for last night,” he said calmly. “I can’t remember the last time I apologized for anything, so I may be a bit awkward about it.”
What an arrogant, conceited beast he was to think he could take liberties with her and then placate her with a few lukewarm words of apology. By telling her to “keep still” he completely banished Whitney’s momentary inclination to hear him out anyway, and get it over with. “I won’t accept any apology from you, awkward or otherwise. Now get out of my way!”
His face darkened with annoyance, and Whitney could almost feel his struggle to hold his temper in check. She glanced toward the stable to see if anyone would be within hearing if she needed help. Thomas was there, trying to hold a furious Dangerous Crossing who was lurching and trying to rear.
And revenge took the shape of a fiery black stallion.
The smile Whitney turned upon the angry man before her was dazzling and genuine. “My manners have not been entirely beyond reproach either,” she said, trying desperately to look ruefully apologetic when she felt like laughing. “If you wish to apologize, I shall be most willing to accept it.” Instantly, he looked suspicious, so Whitney prodded, “Or have you changed your mind?”
“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said quietly. Putting his hand beneath her chin, he tipped it up and said, “I am truly sorry if I frightened you last night. It was never my intention to hurt you, and I would like for us to be friends.”
Whitney resisted the urge to slap his hand away and appeared to consider his offer. “If we’re going to be friends, we should have something in common, should we not? I particularly love to ride. Are you an adequate horseman?”
“Adequate,” he confirmed, subjecting her to a cool, appraising look.
Eager to be free of his scrutiny, Whitney pulled away and started down the path toward the stable. “I’ll see to a horse for you,” she called over her shoulder. Clayton Westland was going to have to ride that stallion, or else admit he was afraid to try it. Either way, his monstrous ego was going to take a beating, and Whitney felt he deserved every bit of what was in store for him.
By the time she reached Thomas, she was breathless from running. She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, saw that Clayton was less than five paces behind her, and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. “Have Dangerous Crossing saddled immediately, Thomas. Mr. Westland insists on riding him.”
&n
bsp; “What?” Thomas gasped, staring at Westland. “Are you certain!”
“Positive!” Whitney said, laughing silently as Thomas turned and walked into the stable. Feeling extremely pleased with herself, Whitney clasped her hands behind her back and strolled over to the white corral fence to stand beside Clayton. “I’ve arranged for you to ride our very finest horse,” she told him.
Clayton studied her bright smile, but his attention was diverted by the sound of a scuffle from within the stable. Two violent oaths from a groom were followed by a yowl of pain, and Dangerous Crossing erupted into the enclosure, flinging one groom against the fence, then kicking savagely at the other.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” Whitney rhapsodized, casting a mirthful sidewise glance at her intended victim. At that moment, the horse changed direction, charging for the rail where they stood, then swung around. Whitney jumped back just as his rear feet punched out, exploding against the fence like the crack of a cannon. With a tremor in her voice, she explained, “He’s . . . ah . . . very spirited.”
“So I see,” Clayton agreed, shifting his impassive gaze from the nervous, sweating stallion to Whitney.
“If you’re afraid to ride the stallion, simply say so,” Whitney generously suggested. “I’m sure we can find you a more suitable mount . . . like Sugar Plum.” Fighting back her laughter, she nodded sweetly toward the old brood mare who was nibbling contentedly at grass, her belly hanging down, and her backbone sticking up. Clayton followed her gaze, and a look of cold revulsion crossed his features. Instantly, Whitney decided it would be much more satisfying if Clayton Westland had to jog up to the picnickers on the ancient mare. “Thomas!” Whitney called, “Mr. Westland has decided to ride Sugar Plum instead, so—”
“The stallion will do,” Clayton snapped at Thomas, then he swung his icy gaze on Whitney.
Defensively, she said, “Why don’t you just tell me where the picnic is, and I’ll go on ahead.”
“I have no intention of doing that, nor do I intend to gratify your wish to see me lying on the ground under the stallion’s hooves.” Jerking his head toward Khan, who was being led out of the stable, he said curtly, “Get on your horse and keep him at the rail out of my way. I’m going to have enough on my hands without having to worry about you.”
His arrogant assumption that he could ride the stallion wiped out Whitney’s momentary trace of guilt. She mounted Khan and guided him to the rail at the far end of the enclosure. Transferring Khan’s reins to her teeth, she reached up behind her neck, gathered her hair into a fist at her nape and then tugged her scarf loose, using it to tie her hair back.
Grooms and stablekeeps and three gardeners hurried to the enclosure, positioning themselves along the fence for the best view. Thomas and two grooms held the stallion’s head while Clayton ran his hand along the horse’s sleek neck, speaking quietly to him. The remembered feel of that same hand fondling her breast made Whitney flush with anger.
Clayton put his foot in the stirrup, then eased up and over, settling slowly, carefully into the saddle, avoiding any sudden movement that might add to the stallion’s alarm. In spite of his caution, Dangerous Crossing snorted and jerked wildly at the men holding him. The last man who had used that particular saddle was shorter than Clayton and, for a moment, it looked to Whitney as if Crossing were going to rid himself of his unwelcome burden while the stirrup leathers were being lengthened.
Whitney laughed at the way the stallion was turning and twisting about. At any second, she expected Clayton to give up and dismount. Instead he gathered the reins and the grooms turned the stallion loose, then leapt out of the way.
All Clayton’s attention was concentrated on the nervous, sweating stallion beneath him. “Easy now,” he soothed, loosening the reins very slightly. Dangerous Crossing jerked his head furiously, trying to get the bit between his teeth as he danced sideways across the enclosure, threatening first to rear and then trying to get his head down to buck. “Easy now . . . Easy . . .” The voice calmed the horse’s ragged nerves; the light contact on his reins held him firmly but not harshly under control.
Whitney watched in wide-eyed astonishment as the stallion fretted a bit and then smoothed out, easing into a flashy trot across the length of the enclosure. The stallion’s ears were forward, and he looked as if he were almost enjoying himself, proud to be bearing the burden of the tall man atop him—until Clayton brushed the stallion’s flank with the crop, signaling for a canter. Instantly Crossing jerked his head, bunching his hindquarters to buck.
“It’s the crop, sir,” Thomas called happily. “Drop it—that’s all that’s worrying him now.”
For the moment, Whitney dismissed her grievances against the man. She was too fine a horsewoman herself to pretend to be unimpressed by what she had just witnessed. Clayton’s expert handling of Dangerous Crossing filled her with admiring respect, and she made no effort to conceal it as the stallion trotted toward her. Her mouth curved into a smile as she started to pay him the tribute he deserved—only to have Clayton slap the crop into her outstretched hand and snap, “Sorry to disappoint you. Find someone else to play your nursery games with next time.”
“You monster!” Whitney hissed, raising her arm; the crop sliced the air, missed Clayton’s shoulders, and bit into the stallion’s flank. Raging and violent, the stallion threw himself into the air, broke for the fence as if he were going to crash through it, and at the last possible moment, leapt it instead with the bit in his teeth—completely out of control.
“Oh, dear God,” Whitney whispered, watching horse and rider tearing across the rolling landscape. In belated shame, she looked away. The silent punishment she was heaping on herself for her childish attempt at vengeance was reinforced by Thomas, who flung himself across the corral, his face purple with fury. “Is this what you learned in France—to bring injury to strangers! Is it?” he roared. “No one will ever mount that horse again, you little fool!” He turned and ran for a mount to pursue the stallion.
It was all Whitney could do not to go after Thomas and explain that she’d intended to hit the rider, not the horse. Never the horse. Off to her distant left, the stallion was rapidly diminishing to a speck on the horizon, and there was no way to tell if the rider was still up. Glancing about her, Whitney saw disapproval on every servant’s face before their eyes slid away from her.
She couldn’t bear to remain here and suffer their silent accusation. She turned Khan and cantered from the enclosure, but once outside its boundary, she realized she hadn’t any idea where to go. She drew Khan to a halt and hesitated. She really ought to stay here and face the results of her wretched conduct. Would they bring Clayton back on a litter? If so, she must remain to lend whatever assistance she could.
She turned Khan back toward the stable, then brought him up short again. Could Clayton possibly remain on Dangerous Crossing and bring him back? She hoped so, but if that should be the case, Whitney had no desire to be present when he did return. Just imagining his righteous wrath made her hands tremble with fear. “Coward!” she hissed at herself, turning Khan and starting for the Sevarin house where she could inquire about the location of the picnic.
Khan tossed his head, tugging at the reins, eager for a run, but Whitney had no heart for speed, and she kept him at a slow canter. Never had she felt so thoroughly obnoxious. Why, she wondered miserably, had she made a mess of her life the moment she set foot in England? How she hated herself for lapsing into the childish tempers she’d indulged in as a girl. After several minutes of harsh self-recrimination, her present predicament again intruded on her thoughts. How to atone for this calamity? Would the horse hurt himself and have to be destroyed? Whether the animal was injured or not, her father would never forgive her for her actions.
Her father! For the first time in her life, she’d seen approbation in his eyes when he looked at her, and now everything would be ruined. He would despise her for mistreating the horse, and if she tried to explain that she had meant to hit the man, he
’d be even more furious. Somehow, she had to keep the tale from him. None of the servants would tell him, of that Whitney was reasonably certain, Clayton Westland might, but perhaps if she begged him not to, pleaded with him not to . . .
Her unhappy reflections were interrupted by the sound of hooves beating a quick staccato behind her, and Whitney looked over her right shoulder, gaping at the sight of Clayton atop a lathered Dangerous Crossing who was closing rapidly on her.
Out of pure reflex, Whitney raised her crop to send Khan bolting ahead, then checked herself and dropped her arm. She would stay here and face the man, admit her fault—a lot of good it would do to deny it anyway!
As Clayton drew abreast, Whitney beheld a face of such dark, menacing rage that she shuddered. In one fluid motion, Clayton swooped down, grabbed Khan’s right rein, and hauled both horses to a sharp stop. “You can let go of my rein,” Whitney said softly. “I’m not going to run.”
“Shut up!” he hissed. Since he maintained his hold on Khan’s rein, Whitney had no choice but to ride quietly beside him while he let Dangerous Crossing cool. In the oppressive silence, she tried to think of something to say to break the tension, but the only thing she could think of was to comment on how well Clayton had managed the stallion. Under the circumstances, however, she didn’t think this was an appropriate time to say, “Well done, Mr. Westland!”
At the remains of an old stone wall a few yards from where they’d first met beside the stream, Clayton halted the horses and dismounted. He tied the stallion with swift, precise movements then strode to Whitney, jerked Khan’s left rein from her hand, and tied him on the opposite side of the wall from the stallion. He turned on his heel, snapped, “Get down!” to Whitney, and stalked toward the old sycamore tree atop the knoll.
Whitney took judicious note of the taut set of his jaw, his long, purposeful strides, and felt the first tendril of fear coil in the pit of her stomach. “I prefer to stay here,” she said unsteadily, watching him over her shoulder.