Whitney, My Love (11 page)

In the doorway to her old bedroom, Whitney stopped and
caught her breath. Her room had been completely redone in her absence. She
smiled with pleasure as she looked at her bed, its canopy and coverlet of
ivory satin with threads of gold and pale orange. Matching draperies hung at
the windows. "Clarissa, doesn't it look wonderful?" she exclaimed, turning
to her maid. But the plump, gray-haired woman was busily directing the
footmen who were carrying in the trunks from the coaches. Whitney was too
excited to rest, so she helped Clarissa and a new maid with the unpacking.

By mealtime, she had bathed and changed clothes, and the
maids were nearly finished unpacking. Whitney went down the hallway to her
aunt's room. The large guest suite had not been redone and looked shabby in
comparison to other parts of the house. Whitney wanted to apologize to her
aunt for it, and for her father's rude reception, but Aunt Anne stopped her
with an understanding smile. "It doesn't matter, darling," she said. Linking
her arm through Whitney's, they went downstairs.

Her father was waiting for them in the dining room, and
Whitney vaguely noted that the chairs at the table had been reupholstered in
rose velvet to match the new draperies that were pulled back with heavy
tassels. Two footmen in immaculate uniforms were hovering near the
sideboard, and another was pushing in a silver cart laden with covered
dishes from the kitchen. "There seems to be a score of new servants in the
house."

Whitney remarked to her father as he politely seated
Anne at the table.

"We always needed them," he said brusquely. "The place
had begun to look run down."

It had been four years since anyone had spoken to her in
that tone, and Whitney stared at him in bewilderment. It was then, with the
bright light from the chandelier above the table illuminating him, that she
realized his hair had turned from black to gray in her absence, and that
deep crevices now marked his forehead and grooved the sides of his mouth and
eyes. He looked as if he had aged a decade in four years, she thought with a
sharp pang. "Why are you staring at me?" he said shortly. He had always been
this sharp with her in the old days, Whitney remembered sadly, but then he
had had reason to be. Now that she was home, however, she didn't want them
to fall into their old pattern of hostility. Softly she said, "I was
noticing that your hair has turned gray." -

"Is that so surprising?" he retorted, but with less edge
to his voice.

Very carefully, very deliberately, Whitney smiled at
him, and as she did so, it occurred to her that she couldn't remember ever
smiling at him before. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "If / didn't
give you gray hair white I was growing up, I'm amazed mere years could do
it."

Her father looked startled by her smiling reply, but he
unbent a bit. "Suppose you know your friend Emily got herself a husband?"
Whitney nodded, and he added, "She'd been out three seasons, and her father
told me he'd all but despaired of ever seeing her suitably married. Now the
match is the talk of the whole damn countryside!" His gaze levelled
accusingly on Lady Anne, rebuking her for having failed to see Whitney
suitably married.

Lady Anne stiffened and Whitney hastily tried to
interject a teasing note into her voice. "Surely you haven't despaired of
seeing me suitably married?" "Yes," he said bluntly. "I had." Pride demanded
that Whitney tell him of the dozen splendid offers Uncle Edward had received
for her hand; reason warned that her father would react violently to the
discovery that, without consulting him, Uncle Edward had rejected those
offers. Why was her father so cold and unapproachable? Whitney wondered
unhappily. Could she ever hope to bridge the gulf between them? Putting her
cup down, she gave him a warm, conspiratorial smile and said lightly, "If it
would lessen your mortification at having an unwed daughter already out four
seasons, Aunt Anne and I could have it whispered about that I declined
offers from two baronets, an earl, a duke, and a prince!"

"Is this true, Madam?" he snapped at Aunt Anne. "Why
wasn't I informed of these offers?"

"Of course, it isn't true," Whitney interceded, trying
to keep the smile pasted on her face. "I've met only one real duke and one
imposter-and I detested them both equally. I did meet a Russian prince, but
he was already spoken for by the princess, and I doubt she'd give him up so
that I could outdo Emily."

Far a moment he stared at her, then said abruptly, "I'm
having a little party for you tomorrow night."

Whitney felt a glow of warmth tingle through her that
remained even when he irritably corrected: "Actually, it's not a little
party, it's a damned circus with every Tom, Dick and Harry for miles around
coming-an orchestra, and dancing, and all that rubbish!"

"It sounds . . . wonderful," Whitney managed to say,
keeping her laughing eyes downcast.

"Emily is coming from London with her new husband.
Everybody is coming."

His shifts of mood were so unpredictable that Whitney
stopped trying to converse with him, and the rest of the meal progressed in
wary silence. Not until dessert was nearly finished did he break the
silence, and then his voice was so unnaturally loud that Whitney started.
"We have a new neighbor," he almost boomed, then checked himself, cleared
his throat, and spoke more naturally. "He'll be coming to your party too, I
want you to meet him. Good-looking chap--a bachelor. Excellent man with a
horse. Saw him out riding the other day."

Understanding dawned, and Whitney burst out laughing.
"Oh Papa," she said, shaking her long, shining hair, "you don't have to
start matchmaking-I'm not quite at my last prayers yet." Judging from his
expression, her father didn't share her humor in the matter, so Whitney
tried to look dutifully solemn as she asked the name of their new neighbor.

"Clayton Westmor . . . Clayton Westland."

Lady Anne's spoon clattered to her plate and onto the
table. She gazed with narrowed eyes at Martin Stone, who glared at her in
return while his face turned a suspicious red.

After considering her father's stormy countenance,
Whitney decided to rescue her aunt from his trying moods. Putting down her
own spoon, she stood up. "I think Aunt Anne and I would both like to retire
early after our journey, Father."

To her surprise, Lady Anne shook her head. "I would like
to spend a few minutes with your father, dear. You go ahead."

"Yes," Martin echoed instantly. "Run along to bed, and
your aunt and I will have a friendly chat."

When Whitney left, Martin curtly dismissed the footmen,
then regarded Anne with a mixture of caution and annoyance. "You reacted
very queerly to the mention of our neighbor's name, Madam."

Lady Anne inclined her head, watching him intently.
"Whether or not my reaction was 'queer' depends upon whether or not his name
is Clayton Westland-or Clayton Westmoreland. I warn you that if the man is
Clayton Westmoreland, I shall recognize him the moment I see him, even
though we've never been introduced."

"It is Westmoreland, if you must know," Martin snapped.
"And there's a very simple explanation for his being here: He happens to be
recovering from exhaustion-the result of an old ailment that sometimes
troubles him."

That explanation was so ludicrous, Anne stared at him
open-mouthed. "You're joking!"

"Dammit, do I look like I'm joking?" he hissed
furiously.

"Do you actually believe that Banbury tale?" Anne
exclaimed, not sore whether he might. "There are countless places where the
Duke of Claymore would go, were he in need of a rest. The very last I can
think of is here, with winter coming on."

"Be that as it may, I can only tell you what he told me.
His grace feels the need to escape from the pressures of his life, and he
has chosen to do it here. Since only I-and now you-know who be is, I trust
that neither of us will deprive him of his privacy by giving his identity
away."

Upstairs in the solitude of her rooms, Lady Anne sought
to come to grips with the furor in her mind, feverishly, she thought back to
the night of the Armands' masquerade when Whitney had asked the name of the
tall, gray-eyed man with Marie St. Allermain. Anne was absolutely positive
the man had been the duke; it was common knowledge that the gorgeous St.
Allermain was Claymore's mistress, and that she never honored any other man
with her company. The duke, of course, was not so singular in his
attentions, and frequently escorted other beautiful women when St. Allermain
was on tour in Europe.

 
Very well, Anne thought, dismissing St. Allermain from her
mind, Claymore had been at the masquerade, and Whitney had asked about him.
But they couldn't have spent any time together, or Whitney would have known
who he was without having to ask. And Claymore could not have followed
Whitney here--he was here before she arrived. Therefore, it must be mere
coincidence that Whitney had inquired about him at the Armands', and he was
now in quiet seclusion here.

Lady Anne felt much better, but only for an instant.
Tomorrow night Clayton Westmoreland and Whitney would be introduced to each
other. Whitney would attract him, of that Anne had no doubt. What if he
chose to pursue her? Anne shuddered, then stood up, and her feminine jaw was
hardened with resolve. She had no desire to make an enemy of the powerful
Duke of Claymore by giving his identity away, but if she suspected that
Whitney might be falling victim to his legendary charm and good looks, she
would reveal not only his identity to Whitney, but a full accounting of his
past female conquests and behavior!

Not for one moment would Anne allow herself to hope that
Claymore might meet Whitney and tumble into love with her, ignore the fact
that she was neither wealthy (by his standards) nor of aristocratic lineage,
and offer her marriage. No indeed! There were hundreds of embarrassed mamas
with heartbroken daughters who'd been foolish enough to hope that!

Lady Anne undressed and went to bed, but Clayton
Westmoreland's presence in the district kept her lying awake for hours. Nor
could Whitney sleep. She was dreamily contemplating tomorrow night's party,
when Paul would see her for the first time, elegantly gowned and grown to
womanhood.

Three miles away, the objects of both their* thoughts
were together at Clayton's temporary home, relaxing over a brandy after a
game of cards. Stretching his legs toward the fire, Paul savored the taste
of the amber liquid in his glass. "Are you planning to attend the Stone
affair tomorrow night?" he asked.

Clayton's expression was guarded. "Yes."

"Wouldn't miss it, myself," Paul chuckled. "Unless
Whitney's done a complete turnabout, it should be an entertaining evening."

"Unusual name-Whitney," Clayton remarked with just the
right degree of mild curiosity to encourage his guest to continue.

"It's a family name. Her father was bent on having a
boy, as I understand it, and he hung the name on her anyway. He nearly got
his wish, too. She could swim like a fish, climb like a monkey, and handle a
horse better than any female alive. She showed up in men's pants one
day-another, she set off on a raft saying that she was sailing for America
on an adventure."

"What happened?"

"She came to me end of the pond," Paul said, grinning.
"To give her credit, the chit has-had-a pair of eyes that were something to
behold, the greenest green you'll ever see." Paul gazed into the fire,
smiling with an old memory. "When she left for France four years ago, she
asked me to wait for her. First proposal I ever got."

Dark brows lifted over inscrutable gray eyes. "Did you
accept?"

"Hardly!" Paul laughed, taking a long swallow of brandy.
"She was barely out of the school room and determined to compete with
Elizabeth Ashton. If Elizabeth came down with a case of mumps, Whitney
wanted a worse case. God! She was a tangle-haired ruffian. Never conformed
to a single rule of propriety in her life." Paul fell silent, remembering
the day she had left for France, when he had brought her the little pendant.
But / don't want to be just your friend, she had pleaded desperately. The
smile faded from his face. "For her father's sake," he said with feeling, "I
hope she's changed." Clayton eyed Sevarin with amusement, but said
absolutely nothing.

After his guest had left, Clayton relaxed back in his
chair and thoughtfully swirled the brandy in his glass. At best, this
masquerade of his was risky, and the more people he came into contact with,
the greater his chances of being discovered.

Yesterday, he had received a jolt when he learned that
the Emily Archibald he'd been hearing so much about was married to a remote
acquaintance of his. That problem had been handled with a five-minute
private meeting with Michael Archibald. Not for a moment had the baron
believed his explanation about "needing a rest," Clayton knew, but Michael
was too much of a gentleman to pry, and honorable enough to keep Clayton's
identity secret.

Lady Anne Gilbert's arrival with Whitney today was
another unforeseen complication, but according to Martin Stone's note, Lady
Anne had accepted the explanation that he was here for a rest. Clayton stood
up and dismissed those incidents. If his identity was revealed, he would be
deprived of the pleasure of pursuing Whitney as an ordinary country
gentleman, but the legal agreement was already signed, and the money
accepted by Stone who, from the looks of things, was busily spending as much
of it as he could. Therefore, Clayton's ultimate objective was absolutely
secure.

Chapter Ten

WHITNEY THREW OPEN THE WINDOWS AND INHALED THE wonderful
fresh country air. While Clarissa helped her into a chic turquoise riding
habit, Whitney's traitorous mind suggested again and again that she pay a
morning call on Paul. Each time, she firmly thrust the notion aside. She
would ride over and see Emily.