Stephen grinned at her. “I can only tell you what I know, darling. Clay’s note said simply that Vanessa and he had remained an extra night with her parents but that they would both join us here at four-thirty this afternoon.”
“He only referred to her as ‘Vanessa’?” her ladyship said. “Are you certain he meant Vanessa Standfield?”
Stephen sent her a wry look. “If the rumor mill is to be believed, her name is now Westmoreland.”
“I saw her years ago. She was a beautiful child.”
“She’s a beautiful woman,” Stephen said with a roguish grin. “Very blond, very blue eyes, very everything.”
“Good. Then I will have beautiful grandchildren,” the duchess predicted happily, her thoughts ever reverting to that. Glancing sideways, she discovered her son frowning out the coach window. “Stephen, is there something about her you don’t like?”
Stephen shrugged. “Only that her eyes aren’t green and her name doesn’t happen to be Whitney.”
“Who? Oh, Stephen, that’s ridiculous. What can you be thinking of? Why the girl, whoever she was, made him positively miserable. He’s obviously forgotten all about her, and that’s for the best.”
“She’s not that easy to forget,” Stephen said with a grim smile.
“What do you mean?” she demanded suspiciously. “Stephen, have you met that girl?”
“No, but I saw her at a ball at the Kingsleys’ a few weeks ago. She was surrounded by London’s ‘most eligibles,’ excluding Clay, of course. When I heard her name was Whitney and saw those eyes of hers, I knew who she was.”
The duchess started to demand a description of the young woman who had brought such torment to her eldest son, then dismissed the idea with a shrug. “That’s all over now. Clayton is bringing home his wife.”
“I can’t think he’d so easily forget someone who meant so much to him. And I can’t believe Clay is bringing home a wife. More likely a fiancée.”
“I almost hope you’re right. There’ll be the very devil to pay if Clayton married Miss Standfield so abruptly. The gossip will be terrible.”
Stephen gave her a mocking, sideways glance. “Clay wouldn’t care two hoots about the gossip, as you well know.”
* * *
“Time to get up,” Emily announced gaily, throwing back the curtains. “It’s past noon and there’s been no word from his grace telling you to stay away.”
“I didn’t go to sleep until dawn,” Whitney mumbled, then she sat bolt upright in bed, catapulting from deep sleep to total awareness in the space of an instant. “I can’t do it!” she cried.
“Of course you can. Just swing your feet over the side of the bed. It works every time,” Emily teased.
Whitney pushed the covers aside and slid from the bed, her mind groping frantically for ways to extricate herself from the arranged meeting with Clayton. “Why don’t we spend the day shopping and see that new play at the Royal?” she suggested desperately.
“Why don’t we wait until tomorrow and begin shopping for your trousseau instead?”
“We are both candidates for Bedlam!” Whitney cried. “This entire scheme is insane. He won’t listen to me, and even if he does, it won’t change anything. I’ve seen the way he looks at me now—he despises me.”
Emily shoved her in the direction of the bath. “That’s encouraging. At least he feels something for you.” She came back, just as Whitney finished dressing.
“How do I look?” Whitney asked uncertainly, turning in a slow circle for Emily’s inspection. Her gown of rich aquamarine velvet had long sleeves and a low square-cut bodice. Her heavy mahogany hair had been brushed until it shone, then pulled back off her forehead, and fastened at the crown with an aquamarine and diamond clip, letting the rest fall in natural waves that curled at the ends halfway down her back. The lush gown was enticing and yet demure; the hair style framed her slightly flushed face, setting off her heavily fringed green eyes and finely sculpted features, giving her a softly vulnerable appearance.
Solemnly Emily said, “You look like a beautiful temple goddess about to be sacrificed to the bloodthirsty gods.”
“You mean I look frightened?”
“Panic-stricken.” Emily crossed to Whitney and took her cold, clammy hands in her own. “You’ve never looked better, but that’s not going to be enough. I’ve met the man you’re going to see, and he’ll not be swayed by a poor-spirited, terrified young woman with whom he is still furious. He loved you for your spirit and courage. If you go to him all meekness and timidity, you’ll be so different from the girl he loved, that you’ll fail. He’ll let you explain and apologize, then he’ll thank you, and say good-bye. Do anything: argue with him, make him angrier if you must, but don’t go there looking frightened. Be the girl he loved—smile at him, flirt with him, argue or fight with him—but don’t, please don’t be meek and supplicating.”
“Now I know how poor Elizabeth must have felt when I made her defy Peter.” Whitney half sighed, half laughed. But her chin came up and she was once again regal and proud.
Emily walked her out to Michael’s coach and Whitney gave her a fierce hug. “Whatever happens, you’ve been wonderful.”
The coach pulled away with a much calmer Whitney and left behind a wildly nervous Emily.
After an hour of her journey, Whitney’s fragile serenity began to slip, and she tried to calm herself by imagining their meeting. Would Clayton open the door himself, or would he have the butler show her into a private room? Would he make her wait? Would he stalk in and loom over her, his handsome face cold and hard while he waited for her to finish so that he could thrust her out the door? What would he be wearing? Something casual, Whitney thought with a sinking heart, as she glanced down at her gorgeous finery—which he had paid for.
With firm determination, she pulled her mind away from this nonsensical preoccupation with the possible dissimilarities in their attire and concentrated on their meeting again. Would he be angry—or would he be merely cool? Oh God! she thought miserably, let him be angry or even furious; let him storm at me or say terrible things to me; but please, please don’t let him be coldly polite, because that will mean he doesn’t care anymore.
A terrible premonition of failure quivered through her. If Clayton still cared about her, he would never have waited impassively for her to come to him today; he would have at least sent her a terse note acknowledging that he would be there at five.
The coach made a sharp eastward turn and approached a pair of gigantic iron gates barring their way. He’d had the gates closed against her! Whitney thought frantically. A gatekeeper dressed in burgundy cloth trimmed in gold braid stepped out of the gatekeeper’s house and spoke to the Archibalds’ coachman.
An audible sigh of relief escaped Whitney as they were permitted to pass, and the coach lurched forward onto the smooth, private road. They swayed gently along the curving drive bordered with wide sweeping lawns and huge formal parks dotted with leafless trees. The gently rolling landscape seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.
They clattered over a wide bridge whose arches spanned a deep flowing stream, and at long last a magnificent house with immense expanses of mullioned windows and graceful balconies came into view. It loomed against a backdrop of clipped lawns, rising to a height of three stories in the center. Gigantic wings swept forward on both sides of the main structure, creating a terraced courtyard that was the size of a London park.
So bleak had been her mood the last time she had seen this house, Whitney could scarcely remember it. She laid her head back and closed her eyes in sublime misery: Her own large house would fit into one of the wings with room enough left over for four more like it. She felt as if she were coming to see a stranger; whoever owned this palatial estate was not the carelessly unaffected man who’d raced against her on Dangerous Crossing or taught her to gamble with cards and chips.
Darkness had settled on the November afternoon, and the windows of the great house were aglow with l
ights when the coach pulled to a stop and the coachman climbed down and lowered the steps for Whitney to alight.
* * *
Comfortably ensconced in the white and gold salon at the front of the house, Stephen glanced away from his mother’s anxious face and considered with distracted admiration the eighteenth-century furnishings covered in white silks and brocades. A magnificent Axminister carpet stretched across the seventy-foot length of the room, and the walls were papered in white watered silk, with paintings by Rubens, Reynolds, and Cheeraerts hanging in ornate gold gilt frames.
His gaze shifted restlessly to the clock, and he rose to pace impatiently. As he passed the wide bow windows, he saw a coach pulled up in the front drive and, with a quick grin over his shoulder at his mother, he strode from the room.
The butler was just opening the front door as Stephen stepped into the foyer with a welcoming smile on his face, expecting to see his brother with Vanessa Standfield. He halted in surprise, staring instead at a vaguely familiar, beautiful girl wrapped in a blue-green velvet cape lined with white ermine. When she reached up and pushed the hood back onto her shoulders, Stephen’s pulse gave a wild leap of recognition. “My name is Miss Stone,” she told the butler in a soft, musical voice. “I believe his grace is expecting me.”
In that brief flash of time, Stephen thought of his brother’s anguished drunken ramblings, debated whether it was likely Clay was bringing home a wife or only a fiancée, considered the wisdom of involving himself in his brother’s personal life, and on a wild impulse, made his decision.
Stepping quickly forward to intervene before the butler could say that his master wasn’t at home, Stephen put on his most engaging smile and said, “My brother is expected at any minute, Miss Stone. Would you like to come in and wait?”
Two very conflicting reactions flickered across the beautiful young woman’s face: disappointment and relief. She shook her head. “No. Thank you. I sent word yesterday that I would like a few moments of his time, and asked that he let me know if today wouldn’t be convenient. Perhaps some other day . . .” she murmured, half turning to leave.
Stephen reached out and firmly grasped her elbow. The reaction earned him a surprised look from the young woman, which deepened to astonishment as Stephen gently—but forcibly—drew her back into the entrance foyer. “Clay was delayed and didn’t return yesterday,” Stephen explained with a disarming smile. “So he doesn’t know you intended to call on him today.” Before she could utter a protest, he reached up and politely lifted the aquamarine velvet cape off her shoulders, then he handed it to the butler.
Whitney’s gaze was riveted on the immense marble staircase which swept in a wide graceful half circle, terminating in an arc along the broad balcony above. She remembered how Clayton had carried her up that staircase, and she recalled vividly how brutal his rage could be. Abruptly, she turned toward the door. “Thank you for inviting me to stay, Lord Westmoreland.”
“Stephen,” he corrected.
“Thank you, Stephen,” she said, taken aback when he insisted she use his given name. “But I’ve decided not to wait. If I could have my cape, please?” She looked at the butler, who looked at Stephen, who firmly shook his head, whereupon the butler crossed his arms over his chest and simply pretended not to have heard her request.
“I would like you to stay,” Stephen said, his voice firm, but his smile cordial.
Bewildered laughter crept into Whitney’s voice as she accepted Stephen’s outstretched arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever been made to feel quite so welcome, my lord.”
“Westmorelands are famous for their hospitality,” Stephen lied with a roguish grin as he drew her inexorably toward the salon where his mother was waiting.
At the sight of the duchess seated on one of the settees, Whitney drew back in startled embarrassment.
“My mother and I will both be pleased to have you wait for Clay with us,” Stephen urged gently. “I know he will be delighted to see you, Miss Stone, and that he would never forgive me for letting you go before he returned.”
Whitney halted and stared at him. “Lord Westmoreland,” she began with a hint of a smile touching her soft lips.
“Stephen,” he corrected.
“Stephen—I think you ought to know that there’s every chance your brother won’t be in the least ‘delighted’ to see me.”
“I’ll risk it,” Stephen said with a grin.
Whitney was overawed by the white-and-gold room, but she carefully refrained from gazing at the intricately carved plasterwork on the ceilings and the masterpieces displayed in ornate gold frames along the walls while Stephen led her to his mother.
“Mother, may I present Miss Stone,” Stephen said. “Since Clay did not return last night, he is unaware of Whitney’s intention to call, but I have persuaded her to stay and wait with us until he arrives.”
As Whitney curtsied to the duchess, she heard the emphasis Stephen placed on her first name—which she hadn’t told him—and she saw the duchess’s blank, answering look.
“Are you a friend of my son’s, Miss Stone?” the duchess politely inquired as Whitney took the indicated seat across from her.
“Occasionally we have been friends, your grace,” Whitney replied honestly.
The duchess blinked at the unusual response, studied the jade-green eyes regarding her solemnly from beneath a heavy fringe of dark lashes, then suddenly half rose from her chair, caught herself, and sat back down. Her gaze flew to Stephen, who nodded imperceptibly at her.
Cheerfully ignoring his mother’s apprehensive glances, he relaxed back in his chair and listened while she and Whitney discussed a variety of topics, from Paris fashions to London weather.
After nearly an hour the front door was swung wide and voices drifted in from the entryway. The words were inaudible, but there was no mistaking the soft murmur and throaty laughter of a woman as she answered Clayton. Stephen saw Whitney’s stricken expression as she realized that Clayton was accompanied by a female. Rising quickly, he flashed a sympathetic, encouraging look at her and then carefully placed himself so that he was standing in front of her, blocking her from Clayton’s view to give her time to compose herself.
“I’m sorry we’re late. We were delayed,” Clayton said to his mother as he leaned down and pressed a light kiss on her forehead. Teasingly he added, “I trust you had no trouble finding your rooms without me?” Turning aside, he drew Vanessa forward. “Mother, may I present Vanessa . . .”
Stephen expelled his breath in a rush of relief when Clayton finished. “Standfield.”
Vanessa sank into a deep curtsy before the duchess and when the two ladies had exchanged the proper civilities, Clayton waved a casual arm in Stephen’s direction and laughingly added, “Vanessa, you already know Stephen.” With that he turned back to his mother and bent low, speaking quietly to her.
“A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Standfield,” Stephen said with amused formality.
“For heaven’s sake, Stephen,” Vanessa laughed. “You and I have been on a first-name basis forever.”
Ignoring that, Stephen reached behind him, touched Whitney’s arm, and she rose with quaking reluctance to her feet. “Miss Standfield,” Stephen raised his voice slightly, “may I present Miss Whitney Stone . . .”
Clayton jerked erect and swung around.
“And this stony-faced gentleman,” Stephen continued lightly to Whitney, “is my brother. As you know.”
Whitney actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in Clayton’s eyes as they raked over her. “How is your aunt?” he inquired icily.
Whitney swallowed and replied in a barely audible whisper, “My aunt is very well, thank you. And you?”
Clayton nodded curtly. “As you can see, I have survived our last encounter without scars.”
Vanessa, who apparently recognized Whitney as her rival for Clayton from the Rutherfords’ ball, gave Whitney a faint inclination of her elegantly coiffed head and said with a frosty smile, “Es
terbrook was introduced to you at Lord and Lady Rutherford’s affair, Miss Stone.” She paused as if trying to recall the occasion more clearly. “Yes, I remember that he spoke of you at some length to many of us.”
Realizing that Vanessa was waiting for an answer, Whitney said cautiously, “That was very kind of him.”
“As I recall, what he said was not in the least kind, Miss Stone.”
Whitney stiffened at Vanessa’s unexpected and unprovoked attack, and Stephen waded into the deafening silence. “We can all discuss our mutual acquaintances at supper,” he announced cheerfully, “providing that I can convince my beautiful guest to dine with us.”
Whitney shook her head in a desperate, emphatic no. “I really can’t stay. I—I’m sorry.”
“Ah, but I insist.” He grinned. Arching a brow at his white-faced brother, he said, “We both insist, don’t we?”
To Stephen’s infinite disgust, Clayton didn’t bother to second the invitation. Instead he merely glanced over his shoulder and nodded curtly to the servant hovering in the doorway, indicating that another place should be set at the table. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode to the sideboard where he snatched a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
Stephen seated himself beside Whitney, then looked around to where Clayton stood, his tall frame rigid with anger, his back to them as he poured himself a drink. “Me too, big brother,” he called good-naturedly.
Clayton threw Stephen a look of unwavering distaste and said in a voice of tightly controlled fury, “I am certain, Stephen, that included among your other brilliant talents is the ability to pour your own drink.”
“Correct,” Stephen said serenely, getting up from the settee where he was seated beside Whitney. “Ladies?” he offered. “A glass of wine?”
Vanessa and Whitney both accepted, and the duchess stifled the urge to request a full bottle.
Whitney, My Love Page 43
