Whitney, My Love (19 page)

"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 West-land 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 of 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. No
wonder he had always been so popular, so sought after and dreamed about, by
the girls in the neighborhood.

He was watching her, his expression pleased and
confident. "You do that very well," Whitney complimented, 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
swiag 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 his 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 felt 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."

Chapter Thirteen

WHTTNEY 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."