Whitney, My Love (56 page)

Stephen gave her a mocking, sideways glance. "Clay
wouldn't care two hoots about the gossip, as you well know."

"Time to get up," Emily announced gaily, throwing back
the curtains. "It's past noon and there's been no word from his grace
telling you to stay away."

"I didn't go to sleep until dawn," Whitney mumbled, then
she sat bolt upright in bed, catapulting from deep sleep to total awareness
in the space of an instant. "I can't do it!" she cried.

"Of course you can. Just swing your feet over the side
of the bed. It works every time," Emily teased.

Whitney pushed the covers aside and slid from the bed,
her mind groping frantically for ways to extricate herself from the arranged
meeting with Clayton. "Why don't we spend the day shopping and see that new
play at the Royal?" she suggested desperately.

"Why don't we wait until tomorrow and begin shopping for
your trousseau instead?"

"We are both candidates for Bedlam!" Whitney cried.
"This entire scheme is insane. He won't listen to me, and even if he does,
it won't change anything. I've seen the way he looks at me now-he despises
me."

Emily shoved her in the direction of the bath. "That's
encouraging. At least he feels something for you." She came back, just as
Whitney finished dressing.

"How do I look?" Whitney asked uncertainly, turning in a
slow circle for Emily's inspection. Her gown of rich aquamarine velvet had
long sleeves and a low square-cut bodice. Her heavy mahogany hair had been
brushed until it shone, then pulled back off her forehead, and fastened at
the crown with an aquamarine and diamond clip, letting the rest fall in
natural waves that curled at the ends halfway down her back. The lush gown
was enticing and yet demure; the hair style framed her slightly flushed
face, setting off her heavily fringed green eyes and finely sculpted
features, giving her a softly vulnerable appearance.

Solemnly Emily said, "You look like a beautiful temple
goddess about to be sacrificed to the bloodthirsty gods."

"You mean I look frightened?"

"Panic-stricken." Emily crossed to Whitney and took her
cold, clammy hands in her own. "You've never looked better, but that's not
going to be enough. I've met the man you're going to see, and he'll not be
swayed by a poor-spirited, terrified young woman with whom he is still
furious. He loved you for your spirit and courage. If you go to him all
meekness and timidity, you'll be so different from the girl he loved, that
you'll fail. He'll let you explain and apologize, then he'll thank you, and
say goodbye. Do anything: argue with him, make him angrier if you must, but
don't go there looking frightened. Be the girl he loved-smile at him, flirt
with him, argue or fight with him-but don't, please don't be meek and
supplicating."

"Now 1 know how poor Elizabeth must have felt when I
made her defy Peter." Whitney half sighed, half laughed. But her chin came
up and she was once again regal and proud.

Emily walked her out to Michael's coach and Whitney gave
her a fierce hug. "Whatever happens, you've been wonderful."

The coach pulled away with a much calmer Whitney and
left behind a wildly nervous Emily.

After an hour of her journey, Whitney's fragile serenity
began to slip, and she tried to calm herself by imagining their meeting.
Would Clayton open the door himself, or would he have the butler show her
into a private room? Would he make her wait? Would he stalk in and loom over
her, his handsome face cold and hard while he waited for her to finish so
that he could thrust her out the door? What would he be wearing? Something
casual, Whitney thought with a sinking heart, as she glanced down at her
gorgeous finery-which he had paid for.

With firm determination, she pulled her mind away from
this nonsensical preoccupation with the possible dissimilarities in their
attire and concentrated on their meeting again. Would he be angry-or would
he be merely cool? Oh God! she thought miserably, let him be angry or even
furious; let him storm at me or say terrible things to me; but please,
please don't let him be coldly polite, because that will mean he doesn't
care anymore.

A terrible premonition of failure quivered through her.
If Clayton still cared about her, he would never have waited impassively for
her to come to him today; he would have at least sent her a terse note
acknowledging that he would be there at five.

The coach made a sharp eastward turn and approached a
pair of gigantic iron gates barring their way. He'd had the gates closed
against her! Whitney thought frantically. A gatekeeper dressed in burgundy
cloth trimmed in gold braid stepped out of the gatekeeper's house and spoke
to the Archibalds' coachman.

An audible sigh of relief escaped Whitney as they were
permitted to pass, and the coach lurched forward onto the smooth, private
road. They swayed gently along the curving drive bordered with wide sweeping
lawns and huge formal parks dotted with leafless trees. The gently rolling
landscape seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

They clattered over a wide bridge whose arches spanned a
deep flowing stream, and at long last a magnificent house with immense
expanses of mullioned windows and graceful balconies came into view. It
loomed against a backdrop of clipped lawns, rising to a height of three
stories in the center. Gigantic wings swept forward on both sides of the
main structure, creating a terraced courtyard that was the size of a London
park.

So bleak had been her mood the last time she had seen
this house, Whitney could scarcely remember it. She laid her head back and
closed her eyes in sublime misery: Had she called the house "dingy," or was
that his word? Her own large house would fit into one of the wings with room
enough left over for four more like it. She felt as if she were coming to
see a stranger; whoever owned this palatial estate was not the carelessly
unaffected man who'd raced against her on Dangerous Crossing or taught her
to gamble with cards and chips.

Darkness had settled on the November afternoon, and the
windows of the great house were aglow with lights when the coach pulled to a
stop and the coachman climbed down and lowered the steps for Whitney to
alight.

Comfortably ensconced in the white and gold salon at the
front of the house, Stephen glanced away from his mother's anxious face and
considered with distracted admiration the eighteenth-century furnishings
covered in white silks and brocades. A magnificent Axminister carpet
stretched across the seventy-foot length of the room, and the walls were
papered in white watered silk, with paintings by Rubens, Reynolds, and
Cheeraerts hanging in ornate gold gilt frames.

His gaze shifted restlessly to the clock, and he rose to
pace impatiently. As he passed the wide bow windows, he saw the coach pulled
up in the front drive and, with a quick grin over his shoulder at his
mother, he strode from the room.

The butler was just opening the front door as Stephen
stepped into the foyer with a welcoming smile on his face, expecting to see
his brother with Vanessa Standfield. He halted in surprise, staring instead
at a vaguely familiar, beautiful girl wrapped in a blue-green velvet cape
lined with white ermine. When she reached up and pushed the hood back onto
her shoulders, Stephen's pulse gave a wild leap of recognition. "My name is
Miss Stone," she told the butler in a soft, musical voice. "I believe his
grace is expecting me."

In that brief flash of tune, Stephen thought of his
brother's anguished drunken ramblings, debated whether it was likely Clay
was bringing home a wife or only a fiancee, considered the wisdom of
involving himself in his brother's personal life, and on a wild impulse,
made his decision.

Stepping quickly forward to intervene before the butler
could say that his master wasn't at home, Stephen put on his most engaging
smile and said, "My brother is expected at any minute, Miss Stone. Would you
like to come in and wait?"

Two very conflicting reactions flickered across the
beautiful young woman's face: disappointment and relief. She shook her head.
"No. Thank you. I sent word yesterday that I would like a few moments of his
time, and asked that he let me know if today wouldn't be convenient. Perhaps
some other day..." she murmured, half turning to leave.

Stephen reached out and firmly grasped her elbow. The
reaction earned him a surprised look from the young woman, which deepened to
astonishment as Stephen gently-but forcibly-drew her back into the entrance
foyer. "Clay was delayed and didn't return yesterday," Stephen explained
with a disarming smile. "So he doesn't know you intended to call on him
today." Before she could utter a protest, he reached up and politely lifted
the aquamarine velvet cape off her shoulders, then he handed it to the
butler.

Whitney's gaze was riveted on the immense marble
staircase which swept in a wide graceful half circle, terminating in an arc
along the broad balcony above. She remembered how Clayton had carried her up
that staircase, and she recalled vividly how brutal his rage could be.
Abruptly, she turned toward the door. "Thank you for inviting me to stay,
Lord Westmoreland."

"Stephen," he corrected.

"Thank you, Stephen," she said, taken aback when he
insisted she use his given name. "But I've decided not to wait. If I could
have my cape, please?" She looked at the butler, who looked at Stephen, who
firmly shook his head, whereupon the butler crossed his arms over his chest
and simply pretended not to have heard her request.

"I would like you to stay," Stephen said, his voice
firm, but his smile cordial.

Bewildered laughter crept into Whitney's voice as she
accepted Stephen's outstretched arm. "I don't think I've ever been made to
feel quite so welcome, my lord."

"Westmorelands are famous for their hospitality,"
Stephen lied with a roguish grin as he drew her inexorably toward the salon
where his mother was waiting.

At the sight of the duchess seated on one of the
settees, Whitney drew back in startled embarrassment.

"My mother and I will both be pleased to have you wait
for Clay with us," Stephen urged gently. "I know he will be delighted to see
you, Miss Stone, and that he would never forgive me for letting you go
before he returned."

Whitney halted and stared at him. "Lord Westmoreland,"
she began with a hint of a smile touching her soft lips.

"Stephen," he corrected.

"Stephen-I think you ought to know that there's every
chance your brother won't be in the least 'delighted' to see me."

"I'll risk it," Stephen said with a grin.

Whitney was overawed by the white-and-gold room, but she
carefully refrained from gazing at the intricately carved plasterwork on the
ceilings and the masterpieces displayed in ornate gold frames along the
walls while Stephen led her to his mother.

"Mother, may I present Miss Stone," Stephen said. "Since
Clay did not return last night, he is unaware of Whitney's intention to
call, but I have persuaded her to stay and wait with us until he arrives."

As Whitney curtsied to the duchess, she heard the
emphasis Stephen placed on her first name-which she hadn't told him-and she
saw the duchess's blank, answering look.

"Are you a friend of my son's, Miss Stone?" the duchess
politely inquired as Whitney took the indicated seat across from her.

"Occasionally we have been friends, your grace," Whitney
replied honestly.

The duchess blinked at the unusual response, studied the
jade-green eyes regarding her solemnly from beneath a heavy fringe of dark
lashes, then suddenly half rose from her chair, caught herself, and sat back
down. Her gaze flew to Stephen, who nodded imperceptibly at her.

Cheerfully ignoring his mother's apprehensive glances,
he relaxed back in his chair and listened while she and Whitney discussed a
variety of topics, from Paris fashions to London weather.

After nearly an hour the front door was swung wide and
voices drifted in from the entryway. The words were inaudible, but there was
no mistaking the soft murmur and throaty laughter of a woman as she answered
Clayton. Stephen saw Whitney's stricken expression as she realized that
Clayton was accompanied by a female. Rising quickly, he flashed a
sympathetic, encouraging look at her and then carefully placed himself so
that he was standing in front of her, blocking her from Clayton's view to
give her time to compose herself.

"I'm sorry we're late. We were delayed," Clayton said to
his mother as he leaned down and pressed a tight kiss on her forehead.
Teasingly he added, "I trust you had no trouble finding your rooms without
me?" Turning aside, he drew Vanessa toward. "Mother, may I present Vanessa .
. ."

Stephen expelled his breath in a rush of relief when
Clayton finished. "Standfield."

Vanessa sank into a deep curtsy before the duchess and
when the two ladies had exchanged the proper civilities, Clayton waved a
casual arm in Stephen's direction and laughingly added, "Vanessa, you
already know Stephen." With that he turned back to his mother and bent tow,
speaking quietly to her.

"A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Standfield," Stephen
said with amused formality.

"For heaven's sake, Stephen," Vanessa laughed. "You and
I have been on a first-name basis forever."

Ignoring that, Stephen reached behind him, touched
Whit-ney's arm, and she rose with quaking reluctance to her feet. "Miss
Standfield," Stephen raised his voice slightly, "may I present Miss Whitney
Stone ..."

Clayton jerked erect and swung around.

"And this stony-faced gentleman," Stephen continued
lightly to Whitney, "is my brother. As you know."

Whitney actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in
Clayton's eyes as they raked over her. "How is your aunt?" he inquired
icily.