Whitney, My Love (23 page)

Beside his carriage, Paul paused, reached to take the
reins from the groom, then paused again. He stood motionless, his back to
her, and as Whitney watched him, she began uttering feverish, pleading,
disjointed prayers.

In tense silence, afraid to hope and unable not to, she
watched Paul slowly turn and gaze up at her . . . and then begin retracing
his steps. By the time he was near enough for Whitney to see his face, her
knees were quaking so badly that she could scarcely stand.

"Miss Stone," he said in a laughter-tinged voice, "it
has just occurred to me that I have only two choices where you are
concerned. I can either avoid all future contact with you, and thus put an
end to my torment-or I can marry you in order to prolong it."

Gazing into his teasing blue eyes, Whitney realized he
had already made his choice. She tried to smile at him, but she was so
relieved that her voice filled with tears. "You know you would never be able
to forgive yourself if you took the coward's way out."

Paul burst out laughing and opened his arms, and Whitney
collapsed against him, laughing and crying at the same time. She pressed her
cheek against the steady, rhythmic thudding of his heart, revelling in the
feel of his strong arms holding her tightly, possessively to him.

She felt as if she were encased in a golden haze of
security, for Paul had just given her a gift as priceless as his love, and
she was so grateful to him that she could have sunk to her knees and wept
with gratitude: Paul loved her, he wanted to marry her-and that was proof,
real, incontrovertible proof, that she had really changed in France. She
wasn't just a polished counterfeit dressed in the height of fashion and
masquerading as a young lady of refinement, as she had often feared. She
wasn't a hopeless misfit anymore. She was real. She was worthy. The
villagers would no longer snigger about the fool she had made of herself
ovsr Paul Sevarin; they would smile now and say Mr. Sevarin had always liked
her, they would say he'd merely been biding his time, waiting for her to
grow up. She could live here among the people she had always wanted to like
her. She had redeemed herself in their eyes, and in her father's too. She
was so relieved that she felt like sobbing.

"Let's find your father," Paul said.

Whitney lifted her head and stared at him in happy
incomprehension. "Why?"

"Because I would like to get the formalities over with
and I can hardly ask your aunt for your hand in marriage. Not," he added
ruefully, "that I wouldn't prefer to do it that way if I could."

"Sewell, where is my father?" Whitney said anxiously as
they stepped into the house.

"On his way to London, Miss," the butler replied. "He
left a half hour ago."

"London?" Whitney gasped. "But I thought he wasn't
planning to leave until tomorrow? Why did he leave today instead? Is he
returning any sooner?"

Sewell, who always knew everything, claimed to know
nothing. Whitney watched him pad away down the hall, his long coattails
flapping, and felt like the sun had just set on her happiness.

Paul looked like a man who had braced himself to face an
unpleasant confrontation and having been granted a temporary reprieve,
didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed that he couldn't get it
over with. "When is he coming back?"

"Not for five whole days," Whitney said, her slender
shoulders drooping. "Just in time for a surprise party in honor of his
birthday." She groaned in dismay. "His cards have already been sent to those
of my relatives who have a distance to travel Unless he returns earlier in
the afternoon than we expect, you won't be able to speak to him until the
following day. Sunday, after church?" she ventured, brightening a little.

Paul slowly shook his head, deep in thought. "I want to
settle the deal on a matched pair of Ainsleys-two splendid purebreds, you'll
love them. And if I'm going to have enough time to reach the auction at
Hampton Park, I've got to leave on Saturday, the day your father returns."

Whitney tried not to sound as disappointed as she felt.
"How long will you be gone?"

"Less than a fortnight-nine or ten days, no more."

"That seems like forever."

Paul took her in his arms. "To prove how honorable my
intentions are, I'll be on hand all day Saturday, in case your father should
return early enough for me to speak to nun. That's only five days away.
And," he added, chuckling at her desolate look, "I'll even delay my
departure so that I can spend a few hours at his birthday party-assuming
that you intended to invite me?"

Whitney nodded, smiling.

"Then, if there isn't an opportunity to speak with him
during his party, and I rather doubt there will be, you can tell him after
the party that I'm going to pay the formal call as soon as I return. Now"-he
grinned-"does that sound like a man who wants to escape wedlock?"

After Paul left, Whitney deliberated over telling Aunt
Anne the news and tentatively decided against it. She wanted to clasp her
joy to herself for now, and she felt a superstitious fear of telling anyone
of her forthcoming betrothal to Paul before Paul himself had actually asked
for her hand. Besides, her father would undoubtedly return early enough on
Saturday for Paul to speak with him. Then they could announce their
betrothal at the birthday party that very night.

Feeling vastly cheered by the thought, Whitney went into
the house to join her aunt for lunch.

As was his habit, Clayton was perusing his mail while he
ate his lunch. In addition to the usual business correspondence and
invitations, there were letters from his mother and brother. Clayton
grinned, thinking of the surprise in store for his mother when she learned
that he was finally going to marry and provide her with the grandchildren
she'd been plaguing him to give her. He would give her about six of them, he
decided with a silent chuckle, and he hoped they would all have Whitney's
green eyes.

He was still smiling as he initialed the ticket from the
London jeweler for the emerald pendant Whitney had worn the night of her
homecoming party.

Laying that aside, he began reading a long missive from
his secretary requesting instructions on how to proceed on matters as
diverse as the pensioning off of an old family retainer, to the divestiture
of a large block of shares in a shipping company. Beneath each inquiry,
Clayton wrote precise, detailed instructions.

In the doorway, the butler cleared his throat. "Mr.
Stone is here to see you, your grace," he explained when Clayton looked up.
"Naturally, I informed him that you were dining, but the man insists his
reason for calling is extremely urgent and cannot wait."

"Very well, show him in here," Clayton said with an
irritated sigh. With Whitney, Clayton had all the patience in the world;
with his future father-in-law, he had none. In fact, it was all he could do
to stomach the man.

"I had to come before I started for London," Martin
explained as he hastened across the room and seated himself at the table
across from the duke. "We've got a beastly mess on our hands, and it's going
to get messier if you-we-don't do something about it at once."

Clayton nodded a curt dismissal to the footman who had
been serving him his lunch and waited until the servant had closed the door
behind him, before shifting his impassive gaze to his unwelcome visitor.
"You were saying, Martin?"

"I was saying that something has come up. A
complication. It's Sevarin. He was with Whitney when I left."

"I told you I'm not worried about Sevarin," Clayton said
impatiently.

"Then you'd better start worrying about him," Martin
warned, looking anguished and angry at the same time. "When Whitney was
fifteen years old, she got some bee in her bonnet about snatching Sevarin
away from the Ashton girl, and even though it's taken her five years-five
years!-she's still hell-bent on pulling it off. And she's about to. You mark
my words, that poor devil is thinking of marrying her. He's only a hair's
breadth from offering for her. God knows why, because she'd drive him mad.
She drives me mad."

Clayton's voice was heavy with ironic amusement.
"Speaking as the 'poor devil' who has already offered for her, I can only
applaud Sevarin's taste. However, as I've told you several times, I can
handle Whitney and-"

Martin looked as if he were going to explode from
frustration. "You can't handle her. You think you can, but you don't know
her as I do. Dammit, she's a stubborn, willful chit and always has been.
Once she gets some maggot in her head- like marrying Sevarin-she'll follow
through with it no matter what."

Reaching into his pocket, Martin found a handkerchief
and swiped at the film of nervous perspiration standing on his forehead,
then he continued, "Once she brings Sevarin to the point of wanting to marry
her, she may feel she's accomplished her goal, and forget all about him
after that. On the other hand," he emphasized in a dire tone, "if that
hellion of mine takes it into her head to actually marry him, you'll end up
dragging the chit to the altar while she fights you every step of the way.
Do you understand what I am trying to say?"

A pair of cool gray eyes regarded him dispassionately.
"Yes."

"Good, good. Then the thing to do is prevent Sevarin
from mentioning marriage to her, and the way to do it is to tell Whitney at
once that she's been betrothed to you since July. Tell Sevarin that. Tell
everyone that. Announce your engagement immediately."

"No."

"No?" Martin repeated in bewilderment. "Then what are
you going to do about Sevarin?"

"What do you suggest I do?"

"I told you!" said Martin desperately. "Order Whitney to
give up whatever scheme she has in mind for Sevarin and command her to
prepare herself to be wed to you at once!"

Clayton had a difficult time keeping his face straight.
"Martin, have you ever actually 'commanded' your daughter to do something
she didn't want to do?"

"Of course I have. I'm her father."

Amusement tugged at the corner of Clayton's lips. "And
when you 'commanded' her, did Whitney dutifully accept your authority, and
do as she was bidden?"

Martin slumped back in his chair, his face flushed with
chagrined defeat. "The last time I 'commanded' my daughter to do my bidding
she was fourteen years old," he admitted. "I ordered her to emulate the
Ashton girl, and for two months afterward, Whitney curtsied me to death. She
curtsied into and out of every room in the house. She curtsied to the butler
and the cook, she curtsied to the horses. Every damn time I looked at the
chit, she dropped whatever she was doing and curtsied to me. The rest of the
time she did that ridiculous thing with her eyelashes . . . you know,
fluttering them. She said she was obeying my order to emulate the Ashton
girl."

"Whitney will do my bidding," Clayton said in a tone
that brooked no further debate. "But until I am ready to tell her about our
betrothal, no one is to tell her about it. When I think the time is correct,
I will do so. Is that perfectly clear, Martin?"

Martin nodded resignedly.

"Fine," Clayton said, picking up an envelope from the
stack of correspondence and opening it.

Running a nervous finger between his neckcloth and
throat, Martin said, "There's just one more thing. A small thing."

"Yes, go on," Clayton said without looking up from his
correspondence.

"It's Lady Anne Gilbert. She has some ridiculous notion
that Whitney dislikes you. Fd like you to convince her that you can overcome
that problem."

"Why?"

"Because my servants inform me that she is sending
letters directed to her husband at consulates all over Europe. I assume she
wants to find him and bring him here at once."

The duke's face hardened with such cold displeasure that
Martin pressed back in his chair. "Are you telling me that she is opposed to
the marriage?"

"My God, no! I didn't mean that," Martin exclaimed
desperately. "Anne Gilbert's a sensible woman, but she's soft where
Whitney's concerned. After you told her what we'd done-you and I-and her
shock had passed, she admitted that it was a brilliant match. She said you
were the best catch in all Europe, and that there is no more aristocratic,
important family in England than the Westmorelands."

"I'm delighted that Lady Gilbert is so sensible,"
Clayton said, somewhat mollified.

"Not that sensible!" Martin contradicted. "She's up in
the boughs over the way we went about the matter without Whitney's
knowledge." Bitterly, he added, "She accused me of being a cold, heartless
father without a grain of human sensitivity!" Stung by the look of agreement
on the duke's face, Martin burst out defensively, "She accused you of being
dictatorial and autocratic. She said she doesn't like your reputation with
the ladies above hah7, and that you are entirely too good-looking for
comfort. In short, Lady Gilbert thinks Whitney is too good for both of us."

"I'm surprised my little gift to you of �100,000 didn't
soften her feelings," Clayton drawled cynically.

"She called it a bribe," Martin announced, then shrank
back at the frigid look in "the duke's eyes. "Lady-Lady Gilbert needs
assurance that you won't force Whitney to marry you without first giving her
ample time to develop a tendre for you. If she doesn't receive this
assurance from your own lips, I think she means to urge her husband to use
his influence to block the marriage. He has contacts in the highest circles,
and his opinions carry much weight with people who count."

Unexpectedly, the duke's ominous expression lightened
with genuine amusement. "If Lord Gilbert wants to maintain his influence in
those circles, he won't want to make an adversary of me. At the risk of
sounding immodest, Martin, I am one of those 'people who count.'"