* * *
Paul’s message arrived at eleven o’clock the following morning. Dressed warmly against the frosty chill of the cloudy day, Whitney raced Khan around the hillside and galloped into the overgrown yard of the deserted cottage. She tied Khan beside Paul’s horse, then shoved open the creaky door of the cottage. The timid little fire Paul had built snapped and flickered on the hearth but did little to dispel the chilly gloom of the single empty room. At a movement behind her, Whitney whirled nervously. “Paul!”
“I believe you were expecting me,” he teased. Straightening from his lounging position against the wall, he opened his arms and said, “Come here.”
Whitney went to him and automatically turned her face up for his kiss, while her mind sorted through various ways to begin.
“I’ve missed you, brat,” he murmured in her hair. “Have you missed me?”
“Yes,” she answered absently, pulling away from his arms. She had to explain slowly, not heap all their tangled problems on him in the first minute. She moved toward the center of the room, then turned to face him. “Paul, I have some things to tell you which you are going to find”—she searched madly for the right word—“surprising.”
“Go on,” Paul urged, grinning. “I like surprises.”
“Well, you aren’t going to like this one!” she burst out helplessly. “You know Mr. Westland?”
Paul nodded.
“And do you recall at my father’s party, how everyone was gossiping about the Duke of Claymore, Clayton Westmoreland?”
“I do,” Paul said.
“Well, Mr. Westland is actually Westmoreland.”
“The duke who disappeared?” Paul said, his expression a mixture of amusement, curiosity, and disbelief. “The duke who owns fifty estates, four hundred of the best horses in Europe, and who is, if my memory of the party gossip is correct, on the verge of marrying no less than fifty ravishingly beautiful females? That duke?”
Temporarily sidetracked, Whitney said, “Actually he only has seven estates. He may have four hundred horses, I don’t know. But I do know that he is on the verge of marrying only one female. Now Paul,” she said soothingly, her voice shaky with nerves, “I know you will find this as disconcerting as I did at first, but I am the female he’s on the verge of marrying.”
Paul’s lips twitched with laughter as he came forward to draw her into his arms. “If he persists in his suit,” he teased, running his thumb along her chin, “I’ll tell him what I’ve just discovered—that when you are left to your own company, you drink the cooking sherry.”
“Are you implying that I’m foxed?” Whitney gasped in disbelief.
“Drunk as a wheelbarrow,” he joked, then he sobered. “Stop trying to make me jealous. If you’re angry because I’ve been gone so long, then simply say so.”
In sheer frustration, Whitney lurched back and stamped her foot. “I am not trying to make you jealous! I am trying to make you understand that I’ve been betrothed to Clayton Westmoreland since this past June.” There, it was out!
“I beg your pardon?” Paul said, staring at her.
“Actually, I think it was July,” Whitney rambled on disjointedly. “Do you think it’s important?”
For the first time Paul took her seriously. “You accepted Westland?”
“Not Westland, Westmoreland,” Whitney emphasized. “And I didn’t accept him, my father did.”
“Then tell your father to marry him,” Paul said tautly. “You love me, it’s as simple as that.” His blue eyes narrowed on her in confused irritation. “You’re playing games and I don’t like it. None of this makes sense.”
“I can’t help it,” Whitney shot back, stung. “It’s the truth.”
“Then will you kindly explain to me how you happen to have been engaged since July to a man you didn’t meet until September.”
Now he was deadly serious and Whitney almost wished he weren’t. Drawing a long, unsteady breath, she said, “I was introduced to him in France, but I didn’t pay any attention to his name, nor did I remember his face. The next time I saw him was at a masquerade in May, and I couldn’t see his face then either. At the masquerade, he decided he wanted to marry me, but he knew that my uncle was turning down all my suitors—because I wanted to come back here and marry you—so he came here and paid my father £100,000 for me, then he had my father send for me and he moved into the Hodges place.”
“Do you really expect me to believe all that?” Paul snapped.
“Not really,” Whitney said miserably, “but it’s the truth. I had no idea what had been done until the night you left. I went downstairs to tell my father and aunt that you and I were going to be married, and Clayton was there. The next thing I knew, my father was shouting at me that I was betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, who turned out to be Clayton, and then everything got even worse.”
“I find it impossible to see how this could get worse,” Paul answered sarcastically.
“Well, it has. Clayton took me to London with him three days ago, and he told one of his friends that we were going to be married—”
“Then you have agreed to marry him?” Paul said icily.
“No, of course not.”
Paul turned on his heel and walked over to the fireplace. Propping his booted foot against the grate, he stared down into the fire, leaving Whitney gazing helplessly at his back. Suddenly he stiffened, and when he turned his face was white with shocked alarm. “What do you mean he paid your father for you?” he demanded. “It is customary for the father to dower the daughter, and not the reverse.”
Whitney realized at once where his thoughts had drifted, and her heart turned over in pity for Paul, and for herself. “I don’t have any dowry, Paul. My father had lost that and my inheritance as well.”
Paul leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes, his broad shoulders drooping despondently.
The time had come for Whitney to commit herself to the path she had chosen, and she went to him with legs that felt like lead. Her mind screamed that she didn’t have to do this, but her heart wouldn’t let her desert him. Not now, not after seeing this tortured expression on his face. “Paul, my father told me how difficult your circumstances are, and it doesn’t matter to me, please believe that. I will marry you anyway. But we will have to act quickly. Clayton will be in London for six more days and in that time, we can elope to Scotland. By the time Clayton discovers what—”
“Elope!” Paul’s voice lashed out and his fingers bit viciously into her arms. “Are you out of your mind? My mother and sisters would never be able to hold up their heads.”
“No,” Whitney whispered hoarsely. “The shame will be mine.”
“Damn your shame!” he snapped, shaking her. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? I have just spent a small fortune on five horses and a phaeton!”
How was that her fault? Whitney wondered, recoiling from the blaze in his eyes. And then she knew. Bitter resentment twined around her heart like sharp steel bands, wringing a ragged, choking laugh from her. “You spent the ‘fortune’ you thought I had—the dowry you imagined I would bring, didn’t you?”
Paul didn’t have to answer; she could see the truth in his flaring eyes. Angrily flinging his hands away, she stepped back. “Five minutes after I accepted you, you were mentally spending my money, weren’t you? You couldn’t even wait to talk to my father first! You ‘loved’ me so much that you didn’t bother to stay here with me and ask his consent. All you cared about was the money, and you didn’t even spend it on important things. Your lands are mortgaged, your house is in disrepair . . . Paul,” she whispered, her green eyes glittering with tears, “what sort of man are you? Are you so spineless and so irresponsible that you would have married me just for money to spend on horses you don’t even need?”
“Don’t be an idiot!” Paul snapped, but his face was flushed with guilty embarrassment. “I loved you. I’d never have asked you to marry me otherwise.”
“L
ove!” Whitney scoffed bitterly. “None of you know the meaning of the word! My father ‘loves’ me and he sold me to save himself. All you care about is how much money I’m worth to you. At least Clayton doesn’t insult my intelligence by claiming to love me. He bought me like a bondservant, and now he expects me to live up to the bargain, but he doesn’t pretend to ‘love’ me.”
Paul’s breath came out in a ragged sigh. “I’ll think of something, but eloping is out of the question. Will Westland . . . Westmoreland . . . give you up?”
Whitney looked at him and stubbornly lifted her chin. “No,” she said proudly, and at that moment, she would have given him that answer even if she believed otherwise. Turning, she stalked to the door, then paused to look at him over her shoulder. “Elizabeth Ashton is still available,” she said bitterly. “I’m certain her dowry could cover your extravagances on this last trip. You’d better start thinking of ways to regain her favor so that you can get your hands on her money.”
“Shut up!” Paul snapped. “Or I’ll do just that.”
Whitney slammed the door on his last word, but not until she gained the privacy of her own room did she allow the tears to come. Sinking down onto her bed, she wept all her heartbroken disillusionment into her pillow. She cried for herself, for her empty dreams and the misplaced devotion she’d lavished on Paul all these years. She cried because she had been willing to destroy her reputation for Paul, and all he had cared about was his mother and sisters. But most of all, she cried with rage at her own stupidity.
When Clarissa brought a dinner tray to her room that night, Whitney’s eyes were puffy and her chest ached, but the storm of misery and animosity was mostly past. She ate alone, her thoughts in a swirling, melancholy turmoil that began nowhere and ended nowhere.
By noon the next day, Whitney was no longer angry with Paul. In fact, she was feeling strangely guilty. She had always imagined him as her modern-day knight in shining armor, courageous, romantic, and gallant, and it really wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t live up to that illusion. She felt a growing sense of shame and responsibility for the unwitting part she’d played in his worsened financial circumstances. She had exerted every wile she possessed to make him offer for her, and by accepting his offer, she’d inadvertently caused him to spend money she didn’t have.
Late in the afternoon, as she wandered aimlessly among the last blooms in the rose garden, Whitney’s active mind turned from the contemplation of problems to the consideration of solutions. Soon a hazy plan took shape. Elizabeth loved Paul, of that Whitney was certain. Surely there must be something Whitney could do to smooth things over with Elizabeth, so that she would be receptive to Paul if he chose to renew his interest in her.
Whitney hesitated and pulled her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. Considering the chaotic state of her own affairs right now, she was the last person on earth capable of taking a guiding hand in someone else’s romance. Nevertheless, it was her responsibility, and besides, she had never been able to stand meekly by and hope that fate would make the right things happen.
With a vitality that had been dormant for many days, Whitney decided to take matters into her own hands. She went into the house and dashed off a note to Elizabeth, then she paced across her bedroom, wondering if Elizabeth would flatly decline her invitation. There had been so much competitive jealousy on Whitney’s part in years gone by, so many pranks and tricks, that poor Elizabeth would be understandably suspicious of any overture by Whitney to befriend her at this late date.
Whitney was so convinced that Elizabeth would refuse to come that she jumped when Elizabeth’s soft voice spoke from the doorway of the bedroom. “You—you asked me to come?” Her blue eyes were darting nervously around the room, and she looked ready to bolt.
Whitney fixed a reassuring smile on her face and said graciously, “Yes, and I’m so happy that you have. May I take your gloves and bonnet?” As she reached out, Elizabeth nervously clapped both her hands to the crown of her bonnet, clutching it protectively to her curls, and Whitney recalled another bonnet of Elizabeth’s—a little straw confection with pink ribbons that Paul had once complimented years ago. Five minutes later, the bonnet was discovered beneath the treads of the chair in which Whitney was rocking. Elizabeth was thinking of it too, Whitney realized, and a flush crept up her cheeks when she remembered poor Elizabeth’s shriek of dismay.
“I—I prefer to keep it on,” Elizabeth said.
“I don’t blame you,” Whitney sighed. For the next half hour, Whitney served tea and kept up a one-sided conversation of trivialities in an attempt to put Elizabeth at ease, but Elizabeth replied in monosyllables and continued to perch on the edge of her chair as if she were going to fly from the room at the first loud noise.
Finally, Whitney went to the point. “Elizabeth,” she said, finding it very awkward to confess her foibles to the female she had always viewed as her arch-rival. “I owe you an apology for a grave injustice I’ve done you recently, as well as for some horrid things I did to you when we were young. About Paul—” she blurted out. “I know how you must hate me, and I don’t blame you, but I would like to help you.”
“Help me?” Elizabeth repeated blankly.
“Help you marry Paul,” Whitney clarified.
Elizabeth’s blue eyes widened. “No! No, really, I couldn’t,” she stammered, blushing gorgeously.
“Of course you could!” Whitney declared, passing her a tray of little pastries. “You’re a very beautiful girl and Paul has always . . .”
“No,” Elizabeth contradicted softly, shaking her blond head. “You are more in the way of being beautiful. I am only, well, pretty, at best.”
After taking this monumental step in befriending Elizabeth, Whitney wasn’t about to have her generosity outdone. “You have beautiful manners, Elizabeth. You always do and say the proper thing at the proper time.”
“The properly dull thing,” Elizabeth argued prettily. “Not lively and interesting things like you say.”
“Elizabeth,” Whitney said, unable to suppress her amusement, “I was always perfectly outrageous, while you were always perfectly perfect.”
Elizabeth relaxed back in her chair and giggled. “There, you see! I would have only said ‘thank you’ but you always say unusual things.”
“Do not pay me another compliment,” Whitney warned with a laughing look. “I won’t be outdone, you know, and we will be here all night admiring one another.”
Elizabeth sobered and said, “I’m very happy about you and Paul.” At Whitney’s stunned glance, she explained, “Everyone knows your betrothal is supposed to be a secret, but since everyone is talking about it, I didn’t think you would mind if I mentioned it.”
“What do you mean, everyone is talking about it?” Whitney said hoarsely. “Who else knows?”
“Well, let me think. Mr. Oldenberry, the apothecary, told Margaret and me. He said he heard it from Lady Eubank’s maid, who heard it from Lady Eubank, who heard it from Paul’s own mama. I suppose everyone in the village knows.”
“But it isn’t true!” Whitney cried desperately.
Elizabeth’s pretty face fell. “Please don’t say it isn’t true!” she implored agitatedly. “Not now, not when Peter is almost to the point of offering.”
“Who is Peter going to offer for?” Whitney asked, momentarily diverted.
“For me. But he won’t if Paul is unattached. You see, Peter is shy, and he’s always believed I have a secret tendre for Paul, which isn’t in the least true. But even if it was, my papa would never permit me to marry Paul because he’s a shocking spendthrift and his lands are mortgaged.”
Whitney slumped back in her chair and gaped at Elizabeth.
“Peter Redfern shy?” she echoed. “Elizabeth, are we talking about the same Peter Redfern? The one who tried to box my ears the day of the picnic when you fell out of the tree?”
“Well, he’s shy around me,” Elizabeth said.
In speechless disbelief, Whitne
y pictured Peter’s freckled face and thinning red hair, and tried to imagine how he could have won the heart of a fragile, ethereal beauty like Elizabeth, who had always had Paul at her beck and call. “Do you honestly mean to tell me,” Whitney uttered, “that you’ve been in love with Peter all these years?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth admitted brokenly. “But if you tell everyone that you and Paul aren’t going to be married, then Peter will just stand back, the way he always has, and let Paul take his place. And then I’ll—I’ll—” Elizabeth groped for her lacy handkerchief and promptly trailed off into dainty tears.
Whitney cocked her head to one side. “However do you manage to cry like that?” she asked admiringly. “I always gasp and snort and my eyes spill over like fountains.”
Elizabeth giggled tearily and dabbed at her eyes before lifting them pleadingly to Whitney. “You said you’d done me injustices and you were sorry. If you truly mean it, couldn’t you wait just a few days before crying off with Paul? Peter is going to say he wants to marry me any moment now, I can tell.”
“You don’t realize what you’re asking of me,” Whitney said, tensing. “If a certain person were to hear the gossip and believe I’ve truly betrothed myself to Paul, my life wouldn’t be worth a farthing.” Elizabeth looked on the verge of a fresh bout of tears and Whitney stood up, torn between the certainty that a few days really wouldn’t make a difference and the inexplicable fear that they could result in disaster. “I’ll give you three days before I put a stop to the gossip,” Whitney reluctantly conceded.
Long after Elizabeth’s departure, Whitney sat in her room, thinking and worrying. If everyone, including the servants, was openly gossiping about her “betrothal” to Paul, Clayton would certainly hear of it as soon as he returned. He had made it very clear that he wouldn’t tolerate people believing she had ever been betrothed to anyone but him, and Whitney tried to think of some proof she could offer him that none of this was her fault—that she had, in fact, told Paul she wouldn’t marry him, exactly as she had promised Clayton she would.