“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 framed 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 pannelled 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 still 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 that 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 I didn’t give you gray hair while 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.”
For 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 sure 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 he 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.
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 the 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 I 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 second note of the day, 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.
10
* * *
Whitney threw open the windows and inhaled the wonderful fresh country air. While Clarissa helped her into a chic turquoise riding habit, Whitney’s traitorous mind suggested again and again that she pay a morning call on Paul. Each time, she firmly thrust the notion aside. She would ride over and see Emily.
The stable 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 north
east boundary of the property.
As Whitney approached the stable, she was amazed to see that every stall along this side was occupied. A brass nameplate 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 exchanged greetings. “What on earth do we do with all those horses?”
“Exercise them mostly. But don’t stand out there. I’ve something to show you.” Wonderful smells of oil and leather welcomed Whitney as she stepped into the cool stable, blinking to adjust to the dim light. At the end of the corridor, two men were attempting to soothe a magnificent black 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.