Whitney, My Love (3 page)

Her aunt was watching her with naked pity, but her
father's expression was stony. "Oh Papa," she whispered brokenly, "do you
really despise me this much? Do you hate me so much that you have to send me
out of your sight?" Her eyes swimming with unshed tears, Whitney stood up.
"If you . . . will excuse me ... I'm not very hungry this evening."

"How could you!" Anne cried when she left, rising from
her own chair and glaring furiously at Martin Stone. "You are the most
heartless, unfeeling-it will be a pleasure to remove that child from your
clutches. How she has survived this long is a testimony to her strength. I'm
sure I could never have done so well."

"You refine too much upon her words, Madam," Martin said
icily. "I assure you that what has her looking so distraught is not the
prospect of being parted from me. I have merely put a premature end to her
plans to continue making a fool of herself over Paul Sevarin."

Chapter Two

THE NEWS THAT MARTIN STONE'S DAUGHTER WAS BEING PACKED
off to France poste haste spread through the countryside like a fire through
dry brush. In a sleepy rural area where the gentry were usually aloof and
reserved, Whitney Stone had again provided everyone with a delicious morsel
of excitement.

On the cobbled streets of the village and in households
wealthy and poor, females of all ages gathered to savor this latest piece of
gossip. With great relish and at greater length, they discussed every
scandalous escapade of Whitney's scandal-ridden life, beginning with the
toad she let loose in church one Sunday when she was eight years old, to the
time this past summer when she fell out of a tree while spying on Paul
Sevarin, seated beneath it with a young lady.

Only when those events had been recalled in detail, did
they allow themselves to conjecture over Martin Stone's reason for finally
sending her off to France.

In general, they felt that the outrageous child bad
probably pushed her poor, beleaguered father too far when she appeared in
men's trousers. Because she had so many other shortcomings, there was some
disagreement over exactly what had driven her father to take such sudden
action, but if there was anything they all agreed upon, it was that Paul

Sevarin would be vastly relieved to have the girl out
from under his feet.

During the next three days, Martin Stone's neighbors
arrived at his house in droves, ostensibly to visit with Lady Gilbert and to
bid Whitney goodbye. On the evening before their departure for France, Anne
Gilbert was seated in the salon, enduring one of these social calls by three
ladies and their daughters. Her smile was more formal than friendly as she
listened with ill-concealed annoyance to these women who professed to be
well-wishers and yet took a morbid delight in recounting to her Whitney's
many youthful transgressions. Under the pretense of friendly concern, they
made it clear that, in their collective opinion, Whitney was going to
disgrace herself in Paris, destroy Anne's sanity, and very likely ruin
Edward's diplomatic career.

She stood when they were finally ready to leave, and
bade them a curt goodbye; then she sank into a chair, her eyes bright with
angry determination. By constantly criticizing his daughter in front of
other people, Martin Stone had made his own child a target for village
ridicule. All Anne really needed to do was whisk Whitney away from these
narrow-minded, spiteful neighbors of hers and let her bloom in Paris, where
the social atmosphere wasn't so stifling.

In the doorway of the salon, the butler cleared his
throat. "Mr. Sevarin is here, my lady."

"Show him in, please," Anne said, carefully hiding her
surprised pleasure that the object of Whitney's childish adoration had come
to say goodbye to her. Anne's pleasure faded, however, when Mr. Sevarin
walked into the salon accompanied by a stunningly lovely little blonde.
Since everyone for fifteen miles seemed to know that Whitney worshiped him,
Anne had no doubt that Paul Sevarin knew it too, and she thought it very
callous of him to bring a young woman with him when he had come to say
goodbye to a girl who adored him.

She watched him cross the room toward her, longing to
find something about him to criticize, but there was nothing. Paul Sevarin
was tall and handsome, with the easy charm of a wealthy, well-bred country
gentleman. "Good evening, Mr.

Sevarin," she said with cool formality. "Whitney is in
the garden."

As if he guessed the reason for her reserve, Paul's blue
eyes lit with a smile as he returned her greeting. "I know that," he said,
"but I was hoping you might visit with Elizabeth white I say goodbye to
Whitney."

In spite of herself, Anne was mollified. "I would be
delighted."

Whitney stared morosely at the shadowy rosebushes. Her
aunt was in the salon, undoubtedly being regaled with more stories of her
niece's past, and dire predictions for her future. Emily had left for London
with her parents, and Paul.. . Paul hadn't even come to say goodbye. Not
that she'd really expected him to; he was probably with his friends,
toasting her departure.

As if she'd conjured him up, his deep, masculine voice
sounded from the darkness behind her. "Hello, pretty girl."

Whitney lurched around. He was standing only inches away
with one shoulder casually propped against a tree. In the moonlight his
snowy shirt and neckcloth gleamed against the almost invisible darkness of
his jacket. "I understand you're leaving us," he said quietly.

Mutely, Whitney nodded. She was trying to commit to
memory the exact shade of his blond hair and every contour of his handsome,
moonlit face. "Will you miss me?" she blurted.

"Of course I will," he chuckled. "Things are going to be
very dull without you, young lady."

"Yes, I imagine so," Whitney whispered, dropping her
eyes. "With me gone, who else win fall out of trees to ruin your picnic, or
break your teg, or . . ."

Paul interrupted her string of self-recriminations. "No
one."

Whitney lifted her candid gaze to his. "Will you wait
for me?"

"I will be here when you return, if that's what you
mean," he replied evasively.

"But you know it isn't!" Whitney persisted in
desperation. "What I mean is, could you possibly not marry anyone else until
I-" Whitney trailed off in embarrassment. Why, she wondered, did she always
go on this way with him? Why couldn't she be cool and flirtatious as the
older girls were?

"Whitney," Paul was saying firmly, "you will go away and
forget my name. Some day, you'll wonder why you ever asked me to wait for
you."

"I'm already wondering that," she admitted miserably.

Sighing with irritation and compassion, Paul gently
touched her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I'll be here," he said with a
reluctant grin, "waiting impatiently to see how you've grown up."

Mesmerized, Whitney gazed up into his recklessly
handsome, smiling face-and then she committed the final, the ultimate,
mistake: Impulsively, she leaned up on her toes, flung her arms around nun,
and planted an urgent kiss just to the side of Paul's mouth. Swearing under
his breath, be pulled her arms down and forcibly moved her away. Tears of
self-loathing filled Whitney's eyes. "I'm so sorry, Paul. I-I never should
have done that."

"No," he agreed, "you shouldn't have." He reached into
his pocket, angrily pulled out a small box, and slapped it unceremoniously
into her hand. "I brought you a farewell gift."

Whitney's spirits soared dizzyingly. "You did?" Her
fingers shook as she snapped the lid up and gazed in rapturous wonder at the
small cameo pendant dangling from a slender gold chain. "Oh, Paul," she
whispered, her eyes shining, "it's the most beautiful, most splendid-I shall
treasure it forever."

"It's a memento," he said carefully. "Nothing more."

Whitney scarcely heard him as she reverently touched the
pendant. "Did you choose it for me yourself?"

Paul frowned in indecision. He'd gone to the village
this morning to choose a tastefully expensive little trinket for Elizabeth.
While he was there, the proprietor had laughingly remarked that with Miss
Stone leaving for France, Paul must be in a mood to celebrate his freedom.
As a matter of fact, Paul was. So, on an impulse, he asked the proprietor to
choose something suitable for a fifteen-year-old. Until Whitney opened the
box a moment ago, Paul had no idea what was in it. But what was the point of
telling Whitney that? With luck, her aunt and uncle would be able to find
some unsuspecting Frenchman who would marry her- preferably a docile man who
wouldn't complain when Whit-ney ran roughshod over him. Out of reflex, Paul
started to reach for her, to urge her to make the most of her opportunities
in France. Instead he kept his hands at his sides. "I chose it myself-as a
gift from one friend to another," he said finally.

"But I don't want to be just your friend," Whitney burst
out, then she caught herself. "Being your friend will be fine . . . for
now," she sighed.

"In that case," he said, his expression turning
humorous, "I suppose it would be perfectly proper for two friends to
exchange a farewell kiss."

With a dazzling smile of joyous amazement, Whitney
squeezed her eyes closed and puckered her lips, but his mouth only brushed
her cheek. When she opened her eyes, he was striding from the garden.

"Paul Sevarin," she whispered with great determination.
"I shall change completely in France, and when I come home, you are going to
marry me."

As the packet they had boarded at Portsmouth pitched and
rocked across the choppy Channel, Whitney stood at the rail, her gaze
fastened on the receding English coastline. The wind caught at the wide rim
of her bonnet, tugging it free to dangle from its ribbons, whipping her hair
against her cheek. She stared at her homeland, conjuring a vision of how it
would be when she again crossed this Channel. Of course, news of her return
would be announced in the papers: "Miss Whitney Stone," they would proclaim,
"lately the belle of Paris, returns this week to her native England." A
faint smile touched Whitney's lips ... The belle of Paris . . .

She pushed her unruly hair off her face, stuffing it
into the crown of her childish bonnet, and resolutely turned her back on
England.

The Channel seemed to smooth out as she marched across
the deck to stare in the direction of France. And her future.

Chapter Three

FRANCE 1816-1820

SITUATED BEHIND WROUGHT-IRON GATES, LORD AND LADY
Gilbert's Parisian home was imposing without being austere. Huge bow windows
admitted light to the spacious rooms; pastels lent an air of sunny elegance
to everything from parlors to second-floor bedrooms. "And these are your
rooms, darling," Anne said as she opened the door to a suite carpeted in
pale blue.

Whitney stood mesmerized on the threshold, her gaze
roving longingly over the magnificent white satin coverlet on the bed
splashed with flowers of orchid, pink, and blue. A dainty settee was covered
in matching fabric. Delicate porcelain vases were filled with flowers in the
same hues of orchid and pink. Ruefully, Whitney turned to her aunt. "I'd
feel ever so much better, Aunt Anne, if you could find another room for me,
something not quite so, well, fragile. Anyone at home," Whitney explained to
Anne's amazed expression, "could tell you that I've only to walk by
something delicate to send it crashing to the floor."

Anne turned to the servant beside her who was
shouldering Whitney's heavy trunk, "In here," Anne said with a firm nod of
her head toward the wonderful blue room.

"Don't say you weren't forewarned," sighed Whitney,
removing her bonnet and settling herself gingerly on the flowered settee.
Paris, she decided, was going to be heavenly.

The parade of visitors began promptly at half past
eleven, three days later, with the arrival of Anne's personal dressmaker,
accompanied by three smiling seamstresses who talked endlessly about styles
and fabrics and measured and remeasured Whitney.

Thirty minutes after they departed, Whitney found
herself marching back and forth with a book on her head before the critical
stare of the plump woman whom Aunt Anne was entrusting with the formidable
task of teaching Whitney something called "social graces."

"I am atrociously clumsy, Madame Froussard," Whitney
explained with an embarrassed flush as the book plummeted to the floor for
the third time.

"But no!" Madame Froussard contradicted, shaking her
elaborately coiffed silver hair. "Mademoiselle Stone has a natural grace and
excellent posture. But Mademoiselle most learn not to walk as if she were in
a race."

By the dancing instructor who arrived on the heels of
Madame Froussard's departure, Whitney was whirled around the room in time to
an imaginary waltz and judged, "Not at aO hopeless-with practice."

By the French tutor who appeared at tea time, she was
pronounced, "Fit to instruct me, Lady Gilbert"

For some months, Madame Froussard visited for two hours,
five times each week, instructing Whitney in the social graces. Under her
relentless, exacting tutelage, Whitney worked diligently to learn anything
which might eventually help her win favor in Paul's eyes.

"Exactly what are you teaming from Madame Froussard?"
inquired Uncle Edward as they dined one evening.

A sheepish look crept across Whitney's face. "She is
teaching me to stroll not gallop." She waited, half expecting her uncle to
say that was a nonsensical waste of time, but instead he smiled approvingly.
Whitney smiled back, feeling unaccountably happy. "Do you know," she teased,
"I once believed that all one needed to walk properly were two sound limbs!"

From that night on, Whitney's laughing anecdotes about
her day's endeavors became a delightful ritual at each evening meal. "Did
you ever observe, Uncle," she asked him gaily one night, "that there is an
art to turning around in a court dress with a train?"