Whitney, My Love (12 page)

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."