“Are you planning to wear men’s breeches and ride astride? Or will you go barefoot and try to stand on his back?” Margaret taunted viciously.
As if by mutual agreement, everyone else began talking at once, drowning out Margaret’s voice, but Whitney heard snatches of what she was saying to Clayton and the other couple: “. . . disgraced her father . . . scandalized the village . . .”
The servants began to distribute baskets of cold chicken, ham, cheese, and apples and pears. Whitney determinedly shook off the pall of Margaret’s spite and strove to make something enjoyable of what was left of her day. She listened to the light raillery Emily was exchanging with her husband, Michael. “Whitney and I made a bet when we were very young,” she was telling him. “The first of us to marry had to pay the other a forfeit of £5.”
“That’s absolutely right!” Whitney smiled. “I had forgotten.”
“Since it was I who influenced her to marry me,” Michael Archibald said, winking at Whitney, “I suppose I am honor-bound to pay her forfeit.”
“Indeed you are,” Whitney returned. “And I hope that won’t be the last time Emily allows you to influence her, my lord.”
“So do I!” Baron Archibald replied with such exaggerated despair that Whitney burst out laughing.
Paul leaned close, and Whitney looked up at him, traces of laughter still lingering in her eyes. “Are you planning to allow me to influence you?” he asked.
It was so near to a declaration of his intentions that Whitney could hardly believe she’d heard him correctly. “That depends,” she said in a whisper, unable to tear her gaze from his compelling blue eyes. A fierce gust of wind blew up, tossing her hair wildly about her face and shoulders. Absently, Whitney reached behind her for the yellow and white dotted scarf that should have been holding her hair back.
“Are you looking for this?” Clayton drawled, pulling her scarf from his pocket and holding it toward her.
Paul’s jaw tightened, and Whitney snatched the scarf out of Clayton’s hand. She knew that Clayton had just deliberately caused everyone to wonder not only about how her scarf came to be in his pocket, but about their delayed arrival at the picnic as well, and to her consternation, she felt a guilty flush creeping up her cheeks. The idea of doing him bodily harm filled Whitney with morbid delight. She would have thoroughly enjoyed running him through with a sword or blowing his head off with a gun or seeing him hanging from a tree.
Late in the afternoon when the last of the picnickers had departed, Paul instructed a groom to ride Khan, and he took Whitney home in his gleaming carriage. The horses pranced down the dry, dusty lane with Paul handling the reins in preoccupied silence.
“Paul, are you angry with me?” Whitney ventured cautiously.
“Yes, and you know why I am.”
Whitney did know, and she was torn between worry and happiness. It was possible, just possible, that Clayton Westland was providing the impetus Paul needed to declare himself without delay. All day, Paul’s loverlike jealousy had been unmistakable.
In the drive at the front of her house, Paul pulled the horses to a stop and turned toward her, resting his arm on the back of the seat behind her. “I don’t remember telling you how beautiful you look today,” he said.
“Thank you,” Whitney replied with surprised pleasure.
He grinned suddenly. “I’ll call for you at eleven tomorrow morning. We’ll talk about it then.”
“About how beautiful I looked today?” Whitney teased.
“No, about why I’m angry.”
She sighed. “I’d rather talk about the other.”
“I’m sure you would,” Paul said with a chuckle as he climbed down and came around to help her alight.
* * *
Paul arrived at precisely eleven the following morning. In the doorway of the drawing room, Whitney stopped, scarcely able to believe he was actually here, calling for her, exactly as she used to dream he would be! He looked incredibly handsome as he laughed at some remark of Lady Anne’s.
“I like your young man,” Anne whispered to Whitney as she left.
“He isn’t mine yet,” Whitney whispered back, but she was smiling optimistically.
The sky was bright blue with a fresh breeze that gently ruffled Paul’s blond hair as they toured the country roads in Paul’s well-sprung carriage, talking and laughing, stopping occasionally to admire a particularly pleasing view of the hilly terrain stretching out on both sides of the road. A few of the trees were already exchanging the lush green leaves of summer for the bright golds and oranges of early fall, and for Whitney, it was a halcyon day.
Paul was charming and entertaining, treating her as if she were made of fragile porcelain, as if she weren’t the same female who used to catapult from one misadventure to the next near calamity. And Whitney was scrupulously careful to say nothing which might remind him of the young girl she had been. Even now, years later, it still made her cringe with embarrassment when she recalled how she had tried to kiss him and begged him to wait for her.
They had luncheon with Paul’s mother, and although Whitney had dreaded the idea at first, it turned out to be a very pleasant meal.
Afterward, they strolled across the lawn to the edge of the woods. At Paul’s suggestion, Whitney sat on a swing suspended from a stout oak branch.
“Why were you and Westland so late getting to the picnic yesterday?” he demanded without preamble.
Whitney started, then shrugged, trying to appear bewildered and unconcerned, when she was neither. “We took the stallion and he gave us trouble.”
“Whitney, I find that very difficult to believe. I’ve ridden with Westland; he’s no novice around horses. And yesterday he seemed perfectly docile and well-mannered.”
“Who seemed docile?” Whitney teased, trying desperately to lighten his mood. “The stallion? Or Mr. Westland?”
“I was referring to the stallion’s behavior, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I would rather hear about Westland’s.”
“Paul, for heaven’s sake!” she almost pleaded. “You know perfectly well that some horses are completely unpredictable and can give even the most experienced horsemen trouble managing them.”
“Then perhaps you will explain to me why, if that horse is so damned difficult to handle, you agreed to ride him in a race against Westland?”
“Oh that. Well, he taunted me until I could hardly refuse.” Through her lowered lashes, Whitney stole a glance at Paul’s grim, dubious expression. Under the circumstances, she thought it might be wise—even expected—for her to display a degree of righteous indignation. “Paul, I can’t abide the man, and I—I don’t think it’s nice of you to quiz me like this. It’s unfair and improper.”
Unexpectedly, he grinned. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were conscious of propriety.” Without warning, he pulled her off the swing and into his arms. “God, you are beautiful!” he whispered.
Whitney caught her breath and held it, thinking stupidly over and over, He’s going to kiss me! She was so nervous that she felt a giggle welling up inside of her as his head slowly descended to hers. But at the first brush of his warm, smooth lips on hers, all traces of laughter vanished.
She tried to keep her hands at her sides, but they slid of their own volition part way up his chest. She held back as best she could, afraid to abandon herself to the kiss for fear that Paul might somehow be offended by the depth of her feeling.
But Paul wouldn’t let her remain uninvolved. He tightened his arms, holding her imprisoned against the hard wall of his chest, kissing her expertly, his mouth moving insistently over hers, sometimes teasing and gentle, then hungry and demanding. By the time he finally let her go, Whitney’s legs were weak. With a sinking heart, she realized that she had just been kissed by someone who knew a great deal about kissing and who undoubtedly had stored up a wealth of practice.
He was watching her, his expression pleased and confident. “You do that very well,” Whitney complimente
d, hoping to sound as if she were competent to judge.
“Thank you,” Paul said, looking mildly irritated. “Is that conclusion based upon your vast experience in France?”
Whitney sat down on the swing, smiled at him, and said absolutely nothing. Pushing hard with the toe of her slipper, she sent the swing backward. On the second sweep, Paul’s strong hands shot out, caught her at the waist and plucked her unceremoniously off her moving chair and into his arms. “You infuriating, outrageous brat.” He chuckled. “If I don’t watch myself I’ll be more insane about you than those mincing fops in Paris were.”
“They weren’t,” Whitney protested weakly as him mouth covered hers, “mincing fops.”
“Good,” he murmured huskily, “because I would hate being in such poor company.”
Whitney’s heart somersaulted. “Meaning?” she whispered against his lips.
“Meaning,” Paul answered, his arms tightening around her, his mouth beginning to move hungrily over hers, “I already am insane about you.”
Two hours later, Whitney floated dreamily into the house, inquired after her aunt and was informed by Sewell that her aunt, her father, and Mr. Westland were together in her father’s study. She shot a cautious glance down the hall to be certain she hadn’t been seen, then hurried up the stairs to her room. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would spoil her happiness, and seeing Clayton Westland was about the only thing that could do it. With a sigh of relief, Whitney closed the door to her room and flopped across the bed, hugging her memories of the afternoon to her heart.
* * *
Tears sparkled in Lady Anne’s eyes as she curtsied stiffly to the Duke of Claymore in Martin’s study. With long, determined strides he turned and left the room, and still she stood there, her chest painfully constricted around a knot of emotion.
Chair legs scraped against the floor as Martin Stone stood up and came around from behind his desk. “I would not have told you about all this yet; however, his grace left that you should be made aware of the arrangements. I hope I don’t have to remind you that you gave your solemn word to remain silent about everything we discussed?”
Anne stared at him, her throat filled with tears. She started to raise her hand in a helpless, beseeching gesture, then let it drop to her side.
Apparently encouraged by her silence, Martin softened his tone slightly. “I will admit to you that I was not best pleased when I saw that you had accompanied Whitney, but since you’re here, you could be of great assistance. I want you to express approval of the duke to Whitney. She respects your opinion, and the sooner she develops a fondness for him, the better off we’ll all be.”
At last, Anne found her voice. “Develops a fondness for him?” she echoed in terse disbelief. “Whitney loathes the air he breathes!”
“Rubbish! She scarcely knows him.”
“She knows him well enough to despise him. I have it from her own lips.”
“Then I shall rely upon you to change her opinion.”
“Martin, are you blind? Whitney is in love with Paul Sevarin.”
“Paul Sevarin is hard put to hold his own place together,” Martin snorted. “All he could offer her is a life as a house drudge.”
“Nevertheless, it is still Whitney’s decision to make.”
“Poppycock! The decision was mine to make, and I made it.”
Anne opened her mouth to argue, but Martin cut her off in a savage voice. “Let me explain something to you, Madam. I signed a legal agreement drawn up by Claymore’s attorneys, and I accepted £100,000 from the duke as his part of the bargain. I have already paid off my creditors and spent more than half the money. Half,” he emphasized. “If Whitney should refuse to honor the agreement, I can’t return the man’s money. In which case, Claymore could, and would, bring me up on charges of fraud, theft, and God knows what else. And if that doesn’t concern you, let me put it a different way: Just how happy do you think Whitney would be married to Sevarin, while everyone for a hundred miles sniggers and gossips about her father who is rotting away in a dungeon?”
Having delivered this diatribe, he stalked to the door. “I shall expect your cooperation in all this, for Whitney’s sake, if not for mine.”
13
* * *
Whitney greeted the news that Clayton was to dine with them the following evening with all the enthusiasm she would have felt for a public flogging. Nevertheless, her father liked the man, and Whitney was prepared to endure him for her father’s sake.
They dined at eight o’clock, with her father at one end of the long, damask-covered table and Lady Anne at the other. Which left Whitney sitting across from Clayton. Using the heavy silver candelabra in the center of the table as a barrier between herself and her unwanted dinner companion, she maintained a cool, formal silence. Several times during the meal, Clayton made inflammatory remarks which she knew were deliberately intended to rile her into entering the dinner table conversation, but she meticulously ignored him.
Surprisingly, the other three managed quite well without her, and the conversation became animated as the evening wore on.
As soon as dessert was cleared away, Whitney stood and excused herself, pleading an impending attack of the vapors. She thought she saw Clayton’s lips twitch, but when her narrowed gaze searched his face, he seemed to be regarding her with polite concern and nothing else. “Whitney has the constitution of an ox,” her father was reassuring his guest as Whitney walked out of the room.
* * *
During the next two weeks, Paul called for her every day. Her life took on a dreamlike quality, spoiled only by the frequency with which she had to endure Clayton’s company in the evenings. However, she bore it without complaint for her father’s sake. No matter what Clayton said or did, Whitney was unfailingly cool, polite, and distant. Her withdrawn formality pleased her father (who mistook it for ladylike reserve); irritated Clayton (who apparently never mistook anything); and, for no reason Whitney could understand, seemed to worry her aunt.
In fact, Whitney thought Anne was acting very peculiarly lately. She spent endless hours writing letters to every capital in Europe where she thought Uncle Edward might be, and her moods shifted constantly from nervous animation to dazed solemnity.
Whitney decided that the cause of her aunt’s odd behavior was loneliness for her husband. “I know how dreadfully you must miss Uncle Edward,” Whitney sympathized one evening two weeks later, when they were to dine with Clayton at his house for the first time.
Aunt Anne seemed not to have heard, as she concentrated on selecting a gown for Whitney to wear. Finally she chose a gorgeous peach-colored crepe, scalloped at the low neckline, with wider scallops at the hem. “I missed Paul dreadfully the entire time I was in France, so I know how you must feel,” Whitney continued, her voice muffled by the peach gown which Clarissa was lowering over her head.
“Childhood romances,” her aunt replied, “always seem so real, so enduring, when we are separated from the object of our affection. But usually, when we return, we find that our dreams and memories quite surpassed reality.”
Whitney jerked around without a thought for poor Clarissa, who was busily applying a brush to Whitney’s long hair. “You can’t think Paul is a ‘childhood romance.’ Well, he was of course, but not any longer. We are going to be married, precisely as I always dreamed we would be. And very soon.”
“Has Paul mentioned marriage to you?”
When Whitney shook her head and started to reply, Anne drew a long breath and interrupted her. “I mean, if it was his intention to offer for you, he’s surely had sufficient time by now to do so.”
“I’m certain he’s only waiting for the right moment to declare himself. And I haven’t really been home very long, a few weeks only.”
“You’ve known each other for years, darling,” Aunt Anne contradicted gently. “I’ve seen matches between two perfect strangers arranged in the length of time we’ve been back here. Perhaps Mr. Sevarin merely enjoys paying court
to a lovely young woman who is all the rage, right now. Many men do, you know.”
Whitney smiled confidently and planted a kiss on her aunt’s cheek. “You worry too much for my happiness, Aunt Anne. Paul is on the verge of offering, you’ll see.”
But as their open carriage rocked along beneath the shadowy oaks toward Clayton’s house, Whitney’s optimism began to ebb. Idly, she toyed with a long strand of her hair which hung in gentle waves over her shoulders and midway down her back where it curled at the ends. Could it be that Paul merely enjoyed escorting the current neighborhood beauty? she wondered. Unemotionally, Whitney knew she had usurped that title from Elizabeth Ashton, although she didn’t derive nearly as much satisfaction from the knowledge as she once thought she would. Invitations to local card parties and soirées were arriving with flattering regularity, and whenever Whitney accepted, Paul either escorted her or spent most of the evening at her side. In fact, the only person in the neighborhood who rivaled Whitney’s popularity was Clayton Westland, and she saw him everywhere she went.
Whitney shrugged the thought of her despised neighbor aside. Why didn’t Paul declare himself? she wondered. And why didn’t he ever speak of love, if not marriage? Whitney was still searching for answers to those troublesome questions when they arrived at Clayton’s home.
The front door was opened by a stiff-backed butler who eyed the trio down the length of his nose. “Good evening,” he intoned majestically. “My master is expecting you.” Whitney was at first shocked, then secretly amused by his lofty manner, which would have been far more appropriate if he were the butler of some grand personage, opening the front door of a magnificent mansion.
As Aunt Anne and her father were being divested of their outer garments, Clayton came striding down the hall into the small foyer. He went directly to Whitney. “May I?” he inquired politely, stepping behind her, his long fingers resting lightly on the peach-colored satin cape covering her shoulders.