Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  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.

  The stables where the horses were kept was situated down a path and off to the left, screened from view of the main house by a tall boxwood hedge. Twenty stalls ran the length of the building on both sides. A wide, overhanging roofline provided shade and protection to the building's equine occupants. Halfway there, Whitney stopped to let her gaze rove appreciatively over the lovely, familiar landscape.

  In the distance a newly whitewashed fence stretched in a broad oval, marking the boundary of the timing track where her grandfather used to test the speed of his horses before deciding which to take to the races. Behind the track, hills rolled gently at first, dotted with oak and sycamore trees, then became steeper, ending in a densely wooded rise along the northeast boundary of the property.

  As Whitney approached the stable, she was amazed to see that every stall along this side was occupied. A brass name-plate was bolted to each door, and Whitney stopped at the last stall on the corner, glancing at the name on the plate.

  "YOU must be Passing Fancy," she said to the beautiful bay mare as she stroked her satiny neck. "What a pretty name you have."

  "Still talking to horses, I see," chuckled a voice behind her.

  Whitney swung around, beaming at the ramrod-straight figure of Thomas, her father's head groom. Thomas had been her girlhood confidant and a sympathetic witness to some of her most infamous outbursts of temper and unhappiness. "I can't believe how full the stable is," she said after they had "What on earth do we do with all these horses?"

  "Exercise them mostly. But don't stand out here. I've something to show you." Wonderful smells of oil and leather welcomed Whitney as she stepped into the cool stable, bunking to adjust to the dim tight. At the end of the corridor, two men were attempting to soothe a magnificent Mack stallion who was crosstied, while a third tried to trim his hooves. The stallion was a flurry of movement, shaking and tossing his head, rearing the few inches off the ground that the slack in the ropes allowed. "Dangerous Crossing," announced Thomas proudly. "And a right fitting name for him, too."

  Already Whitney could feel those splendid muscles flexing beneath her. "Is he broken to ride?"

  "Sometimes," Thomas chuckled. "But most of the time he tries to break the rider. Moodiest animal in the world. One day you think he's ready to give in and start responding, the next he'll try to rub you off on the fences. Gets himself all worked up over something, and he'll charge like he's half bull." Thomas raised his crop to point to another stall and the frenzied horse tripled his efforts to break free.

  "Whoa! Easy now. Easy," gasped one of the struggling stableboys. "Master Thomas, could you put that crop behind you?"

  Quickly tucking the crop behind him with an apologetic look at the sweating stableboy, Thomas explained to Whitney, "This animal hates the sight of the crop. George there tried to back him off a fence with it last week and nearly

  ended up making the acquaintance of his Creator. Never mind the stallion, I've got something else to show you." Thomas steered Whitney toward the opposite entrance to the stable where another stable boy was leading-or being led by-a magnificent chestnut gelding with four snowy white feet.

  "Khan?" Whitney whispered. Before Thomas could answer, the chestnut nuzzled her at the hip, looking for the pocket where she used to hide his treats when he was a colt. "Why you beggar!" she laughed. She smiled over her shoulder at Thomas. "How does he go? He was much too little to saddle when I left."

  "Why don't you try him out and see for yourself?"

  Whitney needed no more encouragement. With her crop clenched between her teeth, she reached up to tighten the turquoise ribbon that held her hair at the nape. Dangerous Crossing lunged backward, kicking out at the men, creating a furor. "Hide the crop!" Thomas warned sharply, and Whitney quickly complied.

  Khan pranced sideways with anticipation as he was ted outdoors. Thomas gave Whitney a leg up, and she landed gracefully in the sidesaddle. Turning Khan toward the open gate, she said, "I'm a little out of practice. If he comes back without me, I'll be between here and Lady Archibald's father's house."

  As Khan trotted up the drive to Emily's house, a curtain shifted at a wide bow window. A moment later the front door opened, and Emily came flying outside. "Whitney!" she cried joyously, flinging her arms around her and returning Whitney's hug. "Oh Whitney, let me see you." Laughing, Emily backed up, still clasping both Whitney's hands in hers. "You're absolutely beautiful!"

  "You're the one who looks wonderful," Whitney said, admiring Emily's tight brown hair cut fashionably short and threaded with a ribbon.

  "That's because I'm happy, not because I'm beautiful," Emily argued.

  Arm in arm the girls strolled into the drawing room. A slender, sandy-haired man in his late twenties stood up, his hazel eyes smiling as Emily breathlessly began the introduction. "Whitney, may I present my husband-"

  "Michael Archibald," he finished before his wife put the barrier of his title in Whitney's way. It was a simple, unaffected gesture of open friendliness, and Whitney appreciated the subtle thoughtfulness, as did his beaming wife.

  Shortly thereafter, he excused himself and left the girls to talk, an activity in which they engaged eagerly for two hours. "Paul was here this morning," Emily said as Whitney reluctantly rose to leave. "He came over to speak to my father about something." A guilty smile flitted over Emily's pretty features. "I… well. . . I didn't think it would hurt if I-very casually, you understand-repeated some of the things Monsieur DuVille had mentioned about how popular you are in France. Although," Emily added as her smile vanished, "I'm not sure Monsieur DuVille did you a favor talking about you like that in front of Margaret Merryton. He flayed her alive with tales of your conquests, and now she hates you even more than she ever did."

  "Why?" Whitney asked as they walked down the front hall.

  "Why has she
always hated you? I suppose because you were the wealthiest of all of us. Although, now that she's preoccupied with your new neighbor, maybe she'll be nice for a change, instead of so hateful." At Whitney's puzzled look, Emily explained. "Mr. Westland, your new neighbor. From what Elizabeth was telling me yesterday, Margaret considers him her exclusive property."

  "How is Elizabeth?" Whitney asked, forgetting about Margaret entirety at the mention of her rival for Paul's love.

  "As pretty and sweet as ever. And you may as well know that Paul escorts her practically everywhere."

  Whitney thought about that as she galloped diagonally across an implanted field belonging to Emily's father. Elizabeth Ashton had always been everything Whitney wanted to be-ladylike, demure, blond, petite, and sweet.

  The wind tore at her hair, tugging it loose from the velvet ribbon, tossing it wildly about. Beneath her, Whitney could feel Khan gathering and flexing gracefully as he flew over the ground with amazing speed. Regretfully, she eased him back into a canter, slowing him to a walk as they entered the woods to follow a path that existed now only in Whitney's memory. Rabbits scampered in the underbrush, and squirrels darted up the trees as they wound their way through the dense growth. A few minutes later, they crested the hill, and Whitney guided Khan carefully down the steep slope where a small meadow was bordered by a wide brook that ran through the northern section of her father's property.

  Dismounting, Whitney looped Khan's reins around a sturdy oak, waited a minute to be certain that he would stand quietly, then patted his sleek neck and struck out across the meadow toward the stream. As she walked, she stopped now and then to gaze around her with older, more appreciative eyes, and to savor the scent of late summer wildflowers and fresh clover. She did not, however, look up and over her shoulder, and so she didn't notice the solitary horseman who was motionless atop a great sorrel stallion, watching every step she took.

  Clayton grinned when Whitney stripped off her turquoise jacket and slung it jauntily over her right shoulder. Free of all the restrictions of Parisian society, her walk was an easy, swinging gait that was both lively and seductive, sending her luxuriant mane of hair swaying to and fro as she strolled toward the stream. She sauntered up a gentle knoll that sloped toward the water's edge. Seating herself beneath an ancient, gnarled sycamore standing sentinel atop the knoll, she pulled off her riding boots, peeled her stockings down, and tossed them over by the boots.

  His horse moved restlessly beneath him while Clayton debated whether or not to approach his quarry. When she hitched her skirts up and waded into the stream, he chuckled and made his decision. Angling his horse back into the trees, he descended through the woods toward the meadow below. Wading in this stream, Whitney quickly decided, was not quite as enjoyable as she remembered it. For one thing, the water was freezing cold, and beneath her feet the rocks were sharp and slippery. Gingerly, she waded back to the bank, then stretched out on the grass. Her hair tumbled to the sides, floating on the water's rippling surface as she lay propped up on her elbows, her chin cupped in her hands, lazily raising and lowering her wet calves, letting the breeze dry them. She was watching the minnows darting in the shallows and trying to imagine the moment when Paul would see her for the first time tonight, when a slight movement near the sycamore tree to her left drew her attention.

  From the corner of her eye, Whitney glimpsed a pair of expensive brown riding boots polished to a mirror shine. She froze, then rolled over and quickly raised herself to a sitting position, drawing her knees up against her chest, hastily tugging her sodden skirts down around her bare ankles.

  The man was standing with one shoulder negligently propped against the sycamore tree, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Fishing?" he inquired, as his gaze roamed over every warm curve of her body, lingered momentarily on her bare toes peeping out from beneath the wet hem of her riding skirts, then moved upward in a leisurely inspection of her feminine assets that left Whitney feeling as if she'd just been stripped of all her clothing. "Spying?" she countered coldly.

  He didn't deign to reply, but looked at her in ill-concealed amusement. Whitney lifted her chin and haughtily returned his gaze. He was very tall, easily 6 feet 2 inches, lean and superbly fit. His jaw was firm and well carved, his nose straight. The breeze lightly ruffled his hair which was a thick, coffee-brown. Beneath dark brows, his gray eyes observed her with frank interest. His clean-shaven face was very handsome-Whitney allowed him that-but there was an aggressive virility in his bold gaze, and an uncompromising authority, an arrogance, in the set of his jaw, that was not at all to Whitney's liking.

  His mouth quirked in a half smile. "Were you going for a swim?"

  "No, I was trying to be alone, Mr. … ?" "Westland," he provided, his gaze dipping to touch the rounded fullness of her breasts where they pressed against her sheer white shirt. Whitney crossed her arms protectively over her bosom, and his smile widened knowingly. "Mr. Westland!" she snapped angrily, "your sense of direction must be nearly as poor as your manners!"

  Her tart reprimand only seemed to push him nearer the brink of outright laughter. "Really, why is that, Ma'am?"

  "Because you are trespassing," Whitney said. When he still showed no inclination to leave or apologize, Whitney knew she would have to be the one to go. Gritting her teeth, she glanced disgustedly toward her stockings and boots.

  He straightened from his lounging position and stepped over to her, extending his hand. "May I help you?" he offered.

  "You certainly may help me," Whitney replied, her smile deliberately cold and ungracious. "Get on your horse and go away."

  Something flickered in his gray eyes, but his smile remained, and his hand was still outstretched. "Here is my hand, take it." Whitney ignored it and rose to her feet unassisted. It was impossible to put on her stockings without exposing her legs to the man who was leaning against the tree watching her, so she pulled on her boots and stuffed the stockings in her jacket pocket.

  Walking quickly over to Khan, she picked up her crop and, stepping onto a fallen stump, hoisted herself into the saddle. His horse, a beautifully muscled sorrel, was tied beside her. She turned Khan in a tight circle, urging nun into a lunging gallop around the woods.

  "A pleasure meeting you again, Miss Stone," Clayton chuckled aloud. "You little hellcat," he added appreciatively.

  Once out of sight, Whitney slowed Khan to a loping canter. She could hardly believe Mr. Westland was the neighbor her father held in such high esteem. She grimaced, recalling that he was invited to her party tonight. Why, the man was insufferably rude, outrageously bold, and infuriatingly arrogant! How could her father like him?

  She was still wondering about that when she wandered into the sewing room and sat down beside her aunt. "You will never guess who I have just met," she was telling her aunt when Sewell, the old family butter, circumspectly cleared his throat and announced, "Lady Amelia Eubank asks to see you."

  Whitney blanched. "Me? Dear God, why?"

  "Show Lady Eubank into the rose salon, Sewell," Lady Anne said, curiously studying Whitney, who was looking wildly around the room for a place to hide. "What on earth has you looking so alarmed, darling?"

  "You just don't know her, Aunt Anne. When I was little she used to shout at me not to chomp my nails."

  "Well, at least she cared enough about you to want to correct you, which is more than I can say of anyone else here."

  "But we were in church," Whitney cried desperately.

  Anne's smile was sympathetic but firm. "I'll admit she's a trifle deaf and very outspoken. But four years ago, when all your neighbors came to see me, Lady Eubank was the only person who had a kind word to say about you. She said you had spunk. And she has a great deal of influence with everyone else hereabouts."

  "That's because they're all frightened to death of her." Whitney sighed.

  When Lady Anne and Whitney walked into the salon, the dowager Lady Eubank was examining the workmanship of a porcelain pheasant. Grimacing to show her dis
taste, she replaced the object atop the mantle and said to Whitney, "That atrocity must be to your father's liking. Your mother wouldn't have had it in her house."

  Whitney opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't think of a reply. Lady Eubank groped for the monocle dangling from a black ribbon over her ample bosom, raised it to her eye and scrutinized Whitney from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. "Well, miss, what have you to say for yourself?" she demanded.

  Fighting down the childish urge to wring her hands, Whitney said formally, "I am delighted to see you again after so many years, my lady."

  "Rubbish!" said the dowager. "Do you still chomp your nails?"

  Whitney almost, but not quite, rolled her eyes. "No, actually, I don't."

  "Good. You have a fine figure, nice face. Now, to get down to the reason for my visit. Do you still mean to get Sevarin?"

  "Do I-I what?"

  "Young woman, I am the one who's supposed to be deaf. Now do you, or do you not, mean to get Sevarin?"

  Whitney frantically considered and cast aside half a dozen responses. She glanced beseechingly at her aunt, who gave her a helpless, laughing look. Finally, she clasped her hands behind her back and regarded her tormentor directly. "Yes. If

  I can."

  "Ha! Thought so!" said the dowager happily, then her eyes narrowed. "You aren't given to blushing and simpering, are you? Because if you are, you may as well go back to France. Miss Elizabeth has tried that for years, and she's yet to snare Sevarin. You take my advice, and give that young man some competition! Competition is what he needs-he's too sure of himself with the ladies and always has been." She turned to Lady Anne. "For fifteen years, I have listened to my tiresome neighbors foretelling a dire future for your niece, Madam, but I always believed there was hope for her. Now," she said with a complacent smirk, "I intend to sit back and laugh myself into fits watching her snap Sevarin up right in front of their eyes." Raising her monacle to her eye, she gave Whitney a final inspection, then nodded abruptly. "Do Not Fail Me, Miss."