Whitney, My Love

Chapter Nine

IN THE DEEPENING DUSK OF A SPLENDID SEPTEMBER DAY, Whitney gazed out the coach window at the achingly familiar scene. She was only a few miles from home.

Uncle Edward had insisted that they travel in style, which meant that, in addition to their coach, there were two more, heavily loaded with trunks and valises, and a fourth carrying Aunt Anne's maid and Clarissa, Whitney's own maid. Besides the four coachmen and four postillions, there were six outriders, three in front and three bringing up the rear. Altogether they combined to make a rather spectacular caravan, and Whitney wished that Paul could see her returning in such grand style.

The coach swayed as they turned north onto the private drive leading up to her home. Whitney's hands shook as she drew on her lilac gloves so that she would look absolutely perfect when she saw her father.

"Nervous?" Anne smiled, watching her.

"Yes. How do I look?"

Lady Anne gave her a thorough appraisal from the top of her head where a fragile filigree clip held her heavy mahogany tresses off her forehead, past her glowing face, to the fashionable lilac traveling costume she was wearing. "Perfect," she said.

Lady Anne pulled on her own gloves, feeling almost as nervous as Whitney looked. In order to eliminate the possibility that Martin Stone might somehow object to her accompanying Whitney home, Edward had decided the best course was for her to arrive unexpectedly with Whitney, leaving Martin with no choice but to make her welcome. At the time, Anne had recognized the wisdom in her husband's thinking, but as her confrontation with Martin approached, she was miserably uncomfortable at being an uninvited houseguest.

Their coaches drew up before the wide steps at the front of the house. The footman opened the door and let down the steps, and both women watched Martin making his decorous way toward the coach. Whitney gathered her skirts so that she could step down and threw a smiling look at Anne.

From within the coach, Anne watched eagerly as Martin came face to face with the gorgeous, elegant young woman who was smiling dazzlingly at him. In a stiff, self-conscious voice, he spoke to the daughter he hadn't seen in four years. "Child," said he, "you've grown even taller."

"Either that, Papa," Whitney returned gravely, "or you have shrunk."

Lady Anne's muffled laugh announced her presence in the coach, and she reluctantly climbed down to confront her host. She had not expected effusive cordiality-Martin was never effusive, and rarely cordial-but neither had she expected him to gape at her, while his expression went from thunderstruck to alarmed to irritated. "Good of you to see Whitney home," he managed finally. "When d'you plan to leave?"

"Aunt Anne is going to remain with me for two or three months, until I'm settled again," Whitney interjected hastily "Isn't that kind of her?"

"Yes, kind," he agreed, looking definitely irked. "Why don't you both relax before supper . . . have a rest, or supervise the unpacking, or something. I have a note to write. I will see you later," he added, already starting for the house.

Whitney was torn between mortification over the way her father was treating her aunt, and a nostalgic joy at being home again. As they mounted the staircase, she let her gaze wander over the familiar old house with its mellow, oak-panelled walls lined with English landscapes and trained portraits of her ancestors. Her favorite painting, a lively hunt scene in the cool morning mist, was in its place of honor on the balcony, hanging between a pair of Chippendale sconces. Everything was the same, yet different. There seemed to be three times as many servants as they'd ever had before, and the house shone from the painstaking labor of many extra hands. Every inch of parquet floor, every bit of panelled wall was glowing with newly applied polish. The candleholders lining the hall were gleaming, and the carpet beneath her feet was new.

In the doorway to her old bedroom, Whitney stopped and caught her breath. Her room had been completely redone in her absence. She smiled with pleasure as she looked at her bed, its canopy and coverlet of ivory satin with threads of gold and pale orange. Matching draperies hung at the windows. "Clarissa, doesn't it look wonderful?" she exclaimed, turning to her maid. But the plump, gray-haired woman was busily directing the footmen who were carrying in the trunks from the coaches. Whitney was too excited to rest, so she helped Clarissa and a new maid with the unpacking.

By mealtime, she had bathed and changed clothes, and the maids were nearly finished unpacking. Whitney went down the hallway to her aunt's room. The large guest suite had not been redone and looked shabby in comparison to other parts of the house. Whitney wanted to apologize to her aunt for it, and for her father's rude reception, but Aunt Anne stopped her with an understanding smile. "It doesn't matter, darling," she said. Linking her arm through Whitney's, they went downstairs.

Her father was waiting for them in the dining room, and Whitney vaguely noted that the chairs at the table had been reupholstered in rose velvet to match the new draperies that were pulled back with heavy tassels. Two footmen in immaculate uniforms were hovering near the sideboard, and another was pushing in a silver cart laden with covered dishes from the kitchen. "There seems to be a score of new servants in the house."

Whitney remarked to her father as he politely seated Anne at the table.

"We always needed them," he said brusquely. "The place had begun to look run down."

It had been four years since anyone had spoken to her in that tone, and Whitney stared at him in bewilderment. It was then, with the bright light from the chandelier above the table illuminating him, that she realized his hair had turned from black to gray in her absence, and that deep crevices now marked his forehead and grooved the sides of his mouth and eyes. He looked as if he had aged a decade in four years, she thought with a sharp pang. "Why are you staring at me?" he said shortly. He had always been this sharp with her in the old days, Whitney remembered sadly, but then he had had reason to be. Now that she was home, however, she didn't want them to fall into their old pattern of hostility. Softly she said, "I was noticing that your hair has turned gray." -

"Is that so surprising?" he retorted, but with less edge to his voice.

Very carefully, very deliberately, Whitney smiled at him, and as she did so, it occurred to her that she couldn't remember ever smiling at him before. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "If / didn't give you gray hair white I was growing up, I'm amazed mere years could do it."

Her father looked startled by her smiling reply, but he unbent a bit. "Suppose you know your friend Emily got herself a husband?" Whitney nodded, and he added, "She'd been out three seasons, and her father told me he'd all but despaired of ever seeing her suitably married. Now the match is the talk of the whole damn countryside!" His gaze levelled accusingly on Lady Anne, rebuking her for having failed to see Whitney suitably married.

Lady Anne stiffened and Whitney hastily tried to interject a teasing note into her voice. "Surely you haven't despaired of seeing me suitably married?" "Yes," he said bluntly. "I had." Pride demanded that Whitney tell him of the dozen splendid offers Uncle Edward had received for her hand; reason warned that her father would react violently to the discovery that, without consulting him, Uncle Edward had rejected those offers. Why was her father so cold and unapproachable? Whitney wondered unhappily. Could she ever hope to bridge the gulf between them? Putting her cup down, she gave him a warm, conspiratorial smile and said lightly, "If it would lessen your mortification at having an unwed daughter already out four seasons, Aunt Anne and I could have it whispered about that I declined offers from two baronets, an earl, a duke, and a prince!"

"Is this true, Madam?" he snapped at Aunt Anne. "Why wasn't I informed of these offers?"

"Of course, it isn't true," Whitney interceded, trying to keep the smile pasted on her face. "I've met only one real duke and one imposter-and I detested them both equally. I did meet a Russian prince, but he was already spoken for by the princess, and I doubt she'd give him up so that I could outdo Emily."

Far a moment he stared at her, then said abruptly, "I'm having a little party for you tomorrow night."

Whitney felt a glow of warmth tingle through her that remained even when he irritably corrected: "Actually, it's not a little party, it's a damned circus with every Tom, Dick and Harry for miles around coming-an orchestra, and dancing, and all that rubbish!"

"It sounds . . . wonderful," Whitney managed to say, keeping her laughing eyes downcast.

"Emily is coming from London with her new husband. Everybody is coming."

His shifts of mood were so unpredictable that Whitney stopped trying to converse with him, and the rest of the meal progressed in wary silence. Not until dessert was nearly finished did he break the silence, and then his voice was so unnaturally loud that Whitney started. "We have a new neighbor," he almost boomed, then checked himself, cleared his throat, and spoke more naturally. "He'll be coming to your party too, I want you to meet him. Good-looking chap-a bachelor. Excellent man with a horse. Saw him out riding the other day."

Understanding dawned, and Whitney burst out laughing. "Oh Papa," she said, shaking her long, shining hair, "you don't have to start matchmaking-I'm not quite at my last prayers yet." Judging from his expression, her father didn't share her humor in the matter, so Whitney tried to look dutifully solemn as she asked the name of their new neighbor.

"Clayton Westmor . . . Clayton Westland."

Lady Anne's spoon clattered to her plate and onto the table. She gazed with narrowed eyes at Martin Stone, who glared at her in return while his face turned a suspicious red.

After considering her father's stormy countenance, Whitney decided to rescue her aunt from his trying moods. Putting down her own spoon, she stood up. "I think Aunt Anne and I would both like to retire early after our journey, Father."

To her surprise, Lady Anne shook her head. "I would like to spend a few minutes with your father, dear. You go ahead."

"Yes," Martin echoed instantly. "Run along to bed, and your aunt and I will have a friendly chat."

When Whitney left, Martin curtly dismissed the footmen, then regarded Anne with a mixture of caution and annoyance. "You reacted very queerly to the mention of our neighbor's name, Madam."

Lady Anne inclined her head, watching him intently. "Whether or not my reaction was 'queer' depends upon whether or not his name is Clayton Westland-or Clayton Westmoreland. I warn you that if the man is Clayton Westmoreland, I shall recognize him the moment I see him, even though we've never been introduced."

"It is Westmoreland, if you must know," Martin snapped. "And there's a very simple explanation for his being here: He happens to be recovering from exhaustion-the result of an old ailment that sometimes troubles him."

That explanation was so ludicrous, Anne stared at him open-mouthed. "You're joking!"

"Dammit, do I look like I'm joking?" he hissed furiously.

"Do you actually believe that Banbury tale?" Anne exclaimed, not sore whether he might. "There are countless places where the Duke of Claymore would go, were he in need of a rest. The very last I can think of is here, with winter coming on."

"Be that as it may, I can only tell you what he told me. His grace feels the need to escape from the pressures of his life, and he has chosen to do it here. Since only I-and now you-know who be is, I trust that neither of us will deprive him of his privacy by giving his identity away."

Upstairs in the solitude of her rooms, Lady Anne sought to come to grips with the furor in her mind, feverishly, she thought back to the night of the Armands' masquerade when Whitney had asked the name of the tall, gray-eyed man with Marie St. Allermain. Anne was absolutely positive the man had been the duke; it was common knowledge that the gorgeous St. Allermain was Claymore's mistress, and that she never honored any other man with her company. The duke, of course, was not so singular in his attentions, and frequently escorted other beautiful women when St. Allermain was on tour in Europe.

Very well, Anne thought, dismissing St. Allermain from her mind, Claymore had been at the masquerade, and Whitney had asked about him. But they couldn't have spent any time together, or Whitney would have known who he was without having to ask. And Claymore could not have followed Whitney here-he was here before she arrived. Therefore, it must be mere coincidence that Whitney had inquired about him at the Armands', and he was now in quiet seclusion here.

Lady Anne felt much better, but only for an instant. Tomorrow night Clayton Westmoreland and Whitney would be introduced to each other. Whitney would attract him, of that Anne had no doubt. What if he chose to pursue her? Anne shuddered, then stood up, and her feminine jaw was hardened with resolve. She had no desire to make an enemy of the powerful Duke of Claymore by giving his identity away, but if she suspected that Whitney might be falling victim to his legendary charm and good looks, she would reveal not only his identity to Whitney, but a full accounting of his past female conquests and behavior!

Not for one moment would Anne allow herself to hope that Claymore might meet Whitney and tumble into love with her, ignore the fact that she was neither wealthy (by his standards) nor of aristocratic lineage, and offer her marriage. No indeed! There were hundreds of embarrassed mamas with heartbroken daughters who'd been foolish enough to hope that!

Lady Anne undressed and went to bed, but Clayton Westmoreland's presence in the district kept her lying awake for hours. Nor could Whitney sleep. She was dreamily contemplating tomorrow night's party, when Paul would see her for the first time, elegantly gowned and grown to womanhood.

Three miles away, the objects of both their* thoughts were together at Clayton's temporary home, relaxing over a brandy after a game of cards. Stretching his legs toward the fire, Paul savored the taste of the amber liquid in his glass. "Are you planning to attend the Stone affair tomorrow night?" he asked.

Clayton's expression was guarded. "Yes."

"Wouldn't miss it, myself," Paul chuckled. "Unless Whitney's done a complete turnabout, it should be an entertaining evening."

"Unusual name-Whitney," Clayton remarked with just the right degree of mild curiosity to encourage his guest to continue.

"It's a family name. Her father was bent on having a boy, as I understand it, and he hung the name on her anyway. He nearly got his wish, too. She could swim like a fish, climb like a monkey, and handle a horse better than any female alive. She showed up in men's pants one day-another, she set off on a raft saying that she was sailing for America on an adventure."

"What happened?"

"She came to me end of the pond," Paul said, grinning. "To give her credit, the chit has-had-a pair of eyes that were something to behold, the greenest green you'll ever see." Paul gazed into the fire, smiling with an old memory. "When she left for France four years ago, she asked me to wait for her. First proposal I ever got."

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.