Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  "Excuse us," Paul said with a curt nod as he escorted Elizabeth past them, toward the doors into the ballroom.

  "How long has Paul been there?" Whitney demanded wrathfully, facing Clayton with her fists clenched. "You vile, contemptible . . . you did all that deliberately, for his benefit, didn't you? So that he would see it. You wanted him to see it!"

  "I did it deliberately, for my benefit," Clayton corrected her blandly, placing his hand under Whitney's elbow and guiding her toward the French doors

  They stepped into the safety of the brightly lit house, and Whitney jerked her arm away, her voice a furious whisper. "You must be Satan's own son!"

  "My father would have been disappointed to think so," Clayton replied with an infuriating chuckle.

  "Your father?" Whitney scoffed, stepping away from him. "If you think your mother even knew his name, you deceive yourself!"

  There was a moment of stunned silence white it registered on Clayton that he had just been called a bastard, followed by a shout of laughter as her ladylike slur on his legitimacy sank in. He was still grinning as he strolled along in her indignant wake, admiring the sway of her slender hips.

  Blind with anger, Whitney stormed up to a group of middle-aged guests, which included her aunt, and stared past them, oblivious to their conversation. How she loathed and despised Clayton Westland! If it was the last thing she ever did, she would repay him for this night, for putting his filthy, debauched hands on her, for causing her to appear a harlot in front of Paul.

  It was at least an hour later when Paul's deep voice said very quietly near her ear, "Come and dance with me." His hand had already taken possession of her elbow, and Whitney walked beside him. She was so afraid of seeing condemnation on his face that even when they were dancing she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Does a man have to take you out to the balcony to get your attention, Miss Stone?" he taunted.

  Whitney's gaze flew to his, and she discovered to her intense relief that the scene he had witnessed on the balcony had obviously annoyed him, but there was no disgust in his expression.

  "Would you prefer a stroll in the night air?" he mocked.

  "Please don't tease me about that," she half pleaded, half sighed. "It's been a long evening, and I'm exhausted."

  "I'm not surprised," he said with heavy irony, but when Whitney flushed with embarrassment, he relented. "Do you think you could recover from your 'exhaustion' by tomorrow morning-in time for a picnic with, say, ten people, in your honor?"

  Lady Eubank and Aunt Anne had been right! Whitney realized jubilantly. "I would love it," she admitted with a bright, happy smile.

  When the dance ended, Paul led her to a relatively quiet corner of the room. He stopped a footman bearing a tray of champagne, took two glasses, and gave one to Whitney. Leaning his shoulder against a pillar, he grinned down at her. "Shall I invite Westland?"

  Whitney's first instinct was to grab his lapels and scream no! But one look at that confident grin of his, and she chose a wiser course. She shrugged and even managed to smile. "By all means, invite him if you wish."

  "You wouldn't object?"

  Whitney gave him an innocent stare. "I can't think why I should. He's, well, very handsome . . ." She looked down at her glass to hide her grimace of revulsion. "And charming, and.. ."

  "Miss Stone," Paul said, subjecting her to an amused scrutiny, "you wouldn't by any chance be trying to make me jealous, would you?"

  "Are you?" Whitney countered with a mutinous smile.

  He didn't answer, but Whitney was almost certain that he was. Either way, the balance of the evening was the way she used to dream it would be. Paul remained at her side most of the time, and when he did leave her, it wasn't to return to Elizabeth.

  Dismissing his valet, Clayton poured himself a light brandy. Inwardly, he smiled at the bizarre turn his courtship had taken tonight. Never in his wildest imaginings had he visualized anything quite like this! Nevertheless, he was extremely pleased by what he had learned on Amelia Eubank's balcony a few hours ago. None of Whitney's suitors in France had been permitted the liberties he had taken; she had been shocked by his intimate kiss and outraged when his hand touched her breast.

  God, what an enchanting creature she was-part angel, part spitfire; artlessly sophisticated, with a ripe, opulent beauty that made his blood stir hotly.

  Lifting his glass, he frowned into the contents. He had treated her badly tonight. Tomorrow, he would have to find a way to make amends.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE MORNING OF THE PICNIC DAWNED BRILLIANT BLUE, WITH A fresh cool breeze that carried the scent of fall.

  Whitney bathed and washed her hair, then debated what to wear. Paul would undoubtedly call for her in the carriage, but Whitney had a deep yearning to ride beside him on horseback, as they occasionally had in years past. Her mind made up, she snatched a buttercup-yellow riding habit from the wardrobe.

  She was ready when she heard Paul's carriage coming to a stop directly below her open bedroom window, but she made herself pace the length of her room ten times before she hurried out into the hallway and across the balcony.

  Paul watched her coming down the stairs, a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her jaunty yellow riding habit and the yellow-and-white dotted silk shirt that peeked from beneath her open jacket. Around her neck she had tied a matching dotted scarf, knotting ft on the side, with the ends flipped over her right shoulder. "How can you look so lovely so early?" he asked, taking both her hands in his as she stepped onto the polished foyer floor.

  Whitney suppressed the urge to fling herself into his arms and smiled up at him instead. "Good morning," she said softly. "Shall we ride, rather than take the carriage? The stable is filled with horses, and you may have year choice."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to ride over without me. I'll need the carriage to escort those females who seem to live in constant terror of falling from a horse." He inclined his head toward a dark shadow near the front door. "Clayton will ride with you and show you where we'll be."

  Whitney panicked at the lump of disappointment and alarm swelling in her throat. She couldn't believe Paul was doing this. Since he'd invited her, and since the picnic was in her honor, his first obligation was to escort her there. Besides, only one of the girls in the neighborhood was afraid of horses-Elizabeth Ashton. She had a terrible feeling that appointing Clayton Westland as her substitute escort was Paul's way of demonstrating to her that he would not play the part of jealous suitor. Last night he had realised that she was trying to make him jealous, and this morning he was showing her that it hadn't worked.

  With a sublime effort, Whitney forced herself to shrug lightly and smile. "You'll miss a lovely ride then. It's much too fine a day to be cooped up in a carriage."

  "Clayton will show you the place," Paul repeated, studying her composed features. Drily, he added, "1 gather that you two know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?"

  Whitney dragged her gaze toward the tall figure lounging in the doorway, and gritted her teeth to hide her loathing.

  "I'm sure your father won't object if Clayton rides one of your horses," Paul said, already starting to leave.

  Outside on the fourth step, he turned. "Take good care of my girl," he called to Clayton, and then he was gone, leaving Whitney slightly pacified and thoroughly mystified at being first cavalierly handed over into Clayton's custody, and then called "my girl."

  Her bemused thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice she despised saying a quiet, "Good morning." Resentfully, Whitney snapped her attention to Clayton, who was still standing in the doorway. Biting back three nasty responses to his simple greeting, she passed a disdainful glance over his immaculate white shirt, which was open at the collar, his gray riding breeches, and his gleaming black boots. "Can you ride?" she asked icily.

  "Good morning," he repeated with calm emphasis, still smiling at her.

  Whitney clamped her mouth shut and brushed pas
t him into the brilliant sunlight, leaving him to follow her or stay in the house, she didn't care which.

  As she marched down the path leading around the back of the house toward the stable, he remained a pace behind her, but halfway there, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Smiling down at her, he said, "Do you treat every gentleman who steals a kiss from you with such animosity-or only me?"

  Whitney looked at him with withering scorn. "Mr. West-land, in the first place, you are no 'gentleman.' In the second, I don't like you. Now, please get out of my way."

  He remained there, studying her stormy face in thoughtful silence. "Kindly move out of the way and let me pass," Whitney repeated.

  "If you will keep still long enough to allow me to do it, I would like to apologize for last night," he said calmly. "I can't remember the last time I apologized for anything, so I may be a bit awkward about it."

  What an arrogant, conceited beast he was to think he could take liberties with her and then placate her with a few lukewarm words of apology. By telling her to "keep still" he completely banished Whitney's momentary inclination to hear him out anyway, and get it over with. "I won't accept any apology from you, awkward or otherwise. Now get out of my way!"

  His face darkened with annoyance, and Whitney could almost feel his struggle to hold his temper in check. She glanced toward the stable to see if anyone would be within hearing if she needed help. Thomas was there, trying to hold a furious Dangerous Crossing who was lurching and trying to rear.

  And revenge took the shape of a fiery black stallion.

  The smile Whitney turned upon the angry man before her was dazzling and genuine. "My manners have not been entirely beyond reproach either," Whitney said, trying desperately to look ruefully apologetic when she felt like laughing. "If you wish to apologize, I shall be most willing to accept it." Instantly, he looked suspicious, so Whitney prodded, "Or have you changed your mind?"

  "I haven't changed my mind," he said quietly. Putting his hand beneath her chin, he tipped it up and said, "I am truly sorry if I frightened you last night. It was never my intention to hurt you, and I would like for us to be friends."

  Whitney resisted the urge to slap his hand away and appeared to consider his offer. "If we're going to be friends, we should have something in common, should we not? I particularly love to ride. Are you an adequate horseman?"

  "Adequate," he confirmed, subjecting her to a cool, appraising look.

  Eager to be free of his scrutiny, Whitney pulled away and started down the path toward the stable. "I'll see to a horse for you," she called over her shoulder. Clayton Westland was going to have to ride that stallion, or else admit he was afraid to try it. Either way, his monstrous ego was going to take a beating, and Whitney felt he deserved every bit of what was in store for him.

  By the time she reached Thomas, she was breathless from running. She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, saw that Clayton was less than five paces behind her, and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. "Have Dangerous Crossing saddled immediately, Thomas. Mr. Westland insists on riding him."

  "What?" Thomas gasped, staring at Westland. "Are you certain?"

  "Positive!" Whitney said, laughing silently as Thomas turned and walked into the stable. Feeling extremely pleased with herself, Whitney clasped her hands behind her back and strolled over to the white corral fence to stand beside Clayton, "I've arranged for you to ride our very finest horse," she told him.

  Clayton studied her bright smile, but his attention was diverted by the sound of a scuffle from within the stable. Two violent oaths from a groom were followed by a yowl of pain, and Dangerous Crossing erupted into the enclosure, flinging one groom against the fence, then kicking savagely at the other.

  "Isn't he wonderful?" Whitney rhapsodized, casting a mirthful sideways glance at her intended victim. At that moment, the horse changed direction, charging for the rail where they stood, then swung around. Whitney jumped back just as his rear feet punched out, exploding against the fence like the crack of a cannon. With a tremor in her voice, she explained, "He's … ah … very spirited."

  "So I see," Clayton agreed, shifting his impassive gaze from the nervous, sweating stallion to Whitney.

  "If you're afraid to ride the stallion, simply say so," Whitney generously suggested. "I'm sure we can find you a more suitable mount. . . like Sugar Plum." Fighting back her laughter, she nodded sweetly toward the old brood mare who was nibbling contentedly at grass, her belly hanging down, and her backbone sticking up. Clayton followed her gaze, and a look of cold revulsion crossed his features. Instantly, Whitney decided it would be much more satisfying if Clayton Westland had to jog up to the picnickers on the ancient mare. "Thomas!" Whitney called, "Mr. Westland has decided to ride Sugar Plum instead, so-"

  "The stallion will do," Clayton snapped at Thomas, then he swung his icy gaze on Whitney.

  Defensively, she said, "Why don't you just tell me where the picnic is, and I'll go on ahead."

  "I have no intention of doing that, nor do I intend to gratify your wish to see me lying on the ground under the stallion's hooves." Jerking his head toward Khan, who was being led out of the stable, he said curtly, "Get on your horse and keep him at the rail out of my way. I'm going to have enough on my hands without having to worry about you."

  His arrogant assumption that he could ride the stallion wiped out Whitney's momentary trace of guilt. She mounted Khan and guided him to the rail at the far end of the enclosure. Transferring Khan's reins to her teeth, she reached

  up behind her neck, gathered her hair into a fist at her nape and then tugged her scarf loose, using it to tie her hair back.

  Grooms and stablekeeps and three gardeners hurried to the enclosure, positioning themselves along the fence for the best view. Thomas and two grooms held the stallion's head while Clayton ran his hand along the horse's sleek neck, speaking quietly to him. The remembered feel of that same hand fondling her breast made Whitney flush with anger.

  Clayton put his foot in the stirrup, then eased up and over, settling slowly, carefully into the saddle, avoiding any sudden movement that might add to the stallion's alarm. In spite of his caution, Dangerous Crossing snorted and jerked wildly at the men holding him. The last man who had used that particular saddle was shorter than Clayton and, for a moment, it looked to Whitney as if Crossing were going to rid himself of his unwelcome burden while the stirrup leathers were being lengthened.

  Whitney laughed at the way the stallion was turning and twisting about. At any second, she expected Clayton to give up and dismount. Instead he gathered the reins and the grooms turned the stallion loose, then leapt out of the way.

  All Clayton's attention was concentrated on the nervous, sweating stallion beneath him. "Easy now," he soothed, loosening the reins very slightly. Dangerous Crossing jerked his head furiously, trying to get the bit between his teeth as he danced sideways across the enclosure, threatening first to rear and then trying to get his head down to buck. "Easy now . . . Easy . . ." The voice calmed the horse's ragged nerves; the light contact on his reins held him firmly but not harshly under control.

  Whitney watched in wide-eyed astonishment as the stallion fretted a bit and then smoothed out, easing into a flashy trot across the length of the enclosure. The stallion's ears were forward, and he looked as if he were almost enjoying himself, proud to be bearing the burden of the tall man atop him- until Clayton brushed the stallion's flank with the crop, signaling for a canter. Instantly Crossing jerked his head, bunching his hindquarters to buck.

  "It's the crop, sir," Thomas called happily. "Drop it- that's all that's worrying him now."

  For the moment, Whitney dismissed her grievances against the man. She was too She a horsewoman herself to pretend to be unimpressed by what she had just witnessed. Clayton's expert handling of Dangerous Crossing filled her with admiring respect, and she made no effort to conceal it as the stallion trotted toward her. Her mouth curved into a smile as she started to pay him the trib
ute he deserved-only to have Clayton slap the crop into her outstretched hand and snap, "Sorry to disappoint you. Find someone else to play your nursery games with next time."

  "You monster!" Whitney hissed, raising her arm; the crop sliced the air, missed Clayton's shoulder, and bit into the stallion's flank. Raging and violent, the stallion threw himself into the air, broke for the fence as if be were going to crash through it, and at the last possible moment, leapt it instead with the bit in his teeth-completely out of control.

  "Oh dear God," Whitney whispered, watching horse and rider tearing across the rolling landscape. In belated shame, she looked away. The silent punishment she was heaping on herself for her childish attempt at vengeance was reinforced by Thomas, who flung himself across the corral, his face purple with fury. "Is this what you learned in France-to bring injury to strangers! Is it?" he roared. "No one will ever mount that horse again, you little fool!" He turned and ran for a mount to pursue the stallion.

  It was all Whitney could do not to go after Thomas and explain that she'd intended to hit the rider, not the horse. Never the horse. Off to her distant left, the stallion was rapidly diminishing to a speck on the horizon, and there was no way to tell if the rider was still up. Glancing about her, Whitney saw disapproval on every servant's face before their eyes slid away from her.

  She couldn't bear to remain here and suffer their silent accusation. She turned Khan and cantered from the enclosure, but once outside its boundary, she realized she hadn't any idea where to go. She drew Khan to a halt and hesitated.