Whitney, My Love (13 page)

"Well, at least she cared enough about you to want to
correct you, which is more than I can say of anyone else here."

"But we were in church," Whitney cried desperately.

Anne's smile was sympathetic but firm. "I'll admit she's
a trifle deaf and very outspoken. But four years ago, when all your
neighbors came to see me, Lady Eubank was the only person who had a kind
word to say about you. She said you had spunk. And she has a great deal of
influence with everyone else hereabouts."

"That's because they're all frightened to death of her."
Whitney sighed.

When Lady Anne and Whitney walked into the salon, the
dowager Lady Eubank was examining the workmanship of a porcelain pheasant.
Grimacing to show her distaste, she replaced the object atop the mantle and
said to Whitney, "That atrocity must be to your father's liking. Your mother
wouldn't have had it in her house."

Whitney opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't think of
a reply. Lady Eubank groped for the monocle dangling from a black ribbon
over her ample bosom, raised it to her eye and scrutinized Whitney from the
top of her head to the tip of her toes. "Well, miss, what have you to say
for yourself?" she demanded.

Fighting down the childish urge to wring her hands,
Whitney said formally, "I am delighted to see you again after so many years,
my lady."

"Rubbish!" said the dowager. "Do you still chomp your
nails?"

Whitney almost, but not quite, rolled her eyes. "No,
actually, I don't."

"Good. You have a fine figure, nice face. Now, to get
down to the reason for my visit. Do you still mean to get Sevarin?"

"Do I-I what?"

"Young woman, I am the one who's supposed to be deaf.
Now do you, or do you not, mean to get Sevarin?"

Whitney frantically considered and cast aside half a
dozen responses. She glanced beseechingly at her aunt, who gave her a
helpless, laughing look. Finally, she clasped her hands behind her back and
regarded her tormentor directly. "Yes. If

I can."

"Ha! Thought so!" said the dowager happily, then her
eyes narrowed. "You aren't given to blushing and simpering, are you? Because
if you are, you may as well go back to France. Miss Elizabeth has tried that
for years, and she's yet to snare Sevarin. You take my advice, and give that
young man some competition! Competition is what he needs-he's too sure of
himself with the ladies and always has been." She turned to Lady Anne. "For
fifteen years, I have listened to my tiresome neighbors foretelling a dire
future for your niece, Madam, but I always believed there was hope for her.
Now," she said with a complacent smirk, "I intend to sit back and laugh
myself into fits watching her snap Sevarin up right in front of their eyes."
Raising her monacle to her eye, she gave Whitney a final inspection, then
nodded abruptly. "Do Not Fail Me, Miss."

In amazed disbelief Whitney stared at the empty doorway
through which the dowager had just passed. "I think she's a little mad."

"I think she's as wily as a fox," Lady Anne replied with
a fault smile. "And I think you'd be wise to take her advice to heart."

Trancelike, Whitney sat before her dressing table
mirror, watching Clarissa deftly twist her heavy hair into elaborate curls
entwined with a rope of diamonds--her last, and most extravagant purchase
made with the money her father sent her to spend in Paris. As Clarissa
teased soft tendrils over her ears, the night breeze wafted the curtains,
raising bumps on Whitney's arms. Tonight was going to be unseasonably cool,
which suited Whitney perfectly, for the gown she wanted to wear was of
velvet.

As the gown was being fastened up the back, Whitney
heard the sound of carriages making their way along the drive, the echo of
muted laughter, distant but distinct, drifting through the open windows.
Were they laughing as they recounted her old antics? Was that Margaret
Merryton or one of the other girls, sniggering about the shameful way she
used to behave?

Whitney didn't notice when Clarissa finished and quietly
left the room. She felt cold all over, frightened, and more painfully unsure
of herself than ever before in her life. Tonight was the night she had been
practicing for and dreaming of all these years in France.

She wandered over to the windows, wondering distractedly
what Elizabeth would wear tonight. Something pastel, no doubt. And demurely
fetching. Parting the ivory and gold curtains, she stared down, watching the
carriage lamps twinkling as they approached along the sweeping drive. One
after another, in amazing numbers, they rolled to a stop at the steps. Her
father must have invited half the countryside, she thought nervously. And of
course, they had all accepted his invitation. They would all be eager to
look her over, to search for some flaw, some sign of the unruly girl she'd
been before.

Two steps into Whitney's room, Anne came to an abrupt
halt, a slow, beaming smile working its way across her face. In profile,
Whitney's finely sculpted features looked too lovely to be real. Anne took
in everything, from the shadows of thick lashes on glowing magnolia skin, to
the diamonds glittering amidst her shiny mahogany curls and peeping from
beneath the soft tendrils at her ears. Her curvaceous form was draped in an
emerald-green velvet gown with a high waist. The bodice was molded firmly to
her breasts, exposing a daring amount of flesh above the square neckline. As
if to atone for the gown's immodest display of bosom, the sleeves were
fitted tubes of emerald velvet which did not allow so much as a glimpse of
skin from shoulder to wrist, where they ended in deep points at the tops of
her hands. Like the front, the back of the gown was elegant in its
simplicity, falling in velvet folds.

A carriage drew up below, and Whitney watched a tall,
blond man bound down and offer his hand to a beautiful blond girl. Paul had
arrived. And he had come with Elizabeth. Jerking away from the window,
Whitney saw her aunt and visibly jumped.

"You took positively breathtaking!" Lady Anne whispered.
"Do you really like it-4he dress, I mean?" Whitney's voice was raspy and
tight with mounting tension.

"Like it?" Anne laughed. "Darling, it's you! Daring and
elegant and special." She extended her hand from which dangled a magnificent
emerald pendant. "Your father asked me this morning what color your gown
was, and he just brought me this to give to you. It was your mother's," Anne
added when Whitney stated at the glittering jewel.

The emerald was easily an inch square, flanked by a row
of glittering diamonds on all four sides. It was not her mother's; Whitney
had spent hours, long ago, lovingly touching all the little treasures and
trinkets in her mother's jewel case. But she was too nervous to argue the
point. She stood rigidly still while her aunt fastened the pendant.

"Perfect!" Anne exclaimed with pleasure, studying the
effect of the glowing jewel nestling in the hollow between Whitney's
breasts. Linking her arm through Whitney's, Anne took a step forward. "Come,
darling-it's time for your second official debut." Whitney wished with all
her heart that Nicolas DuVille were here to help her through this debut,
too.

Her father was pacing impatiently at the foot of the
stairs, waiting to escort her into the ballroom. When he saw her coming down
the steps toward him, he halted in mid-stride, and the stunned admiration on
his face bolstered Whitney's faltering confidence.

Under the wide arched entrance to the ballroom, he
stopped and nodded at the musicians in the far alcove, and the music ground
to an abrupt hate. Whitney could feel the eyes swerving toward her, hear the
roar of the crowd dying swiftly as the babble of voices trailed off in
ominous silence. She drew a long, quivering breath, focused her eyes
slightly above everyone's heads, and stepped down the three shallow steps,
allowing her father to lead her toward the center of the room.

Staring, watchful silence followed her and, at that
moment, had she been able to find the strength, Whitney would have picked up
her skirts and fled. She clung to the memory of Nicolas DuVille, of his
proud, laughing elegance, and the way he had escorted her everywhere. He
would have leaned over and whispered in her ear, "They are nothing but
provincials, cherie! Just keep your head high."

The crowd parted as a young, red-haired man shoved his
way through-Peter Redfern, who had teased her unmercifully as a child, but
had also been one of her few friends. At five and twenty, Peter's hairline
had receded slightly, but the boyishness that was so much a part of him was
still there. "Good God!" he exclaimed with unconcealed admiration when he
was standing directly in front of her. "It is you, you little ruffian! What
have you done with your freckles?!"

Whitney gulped back her horrified laughter at this
undignified greeting and put her hand in his outstretched palm. "What," she
countered, beaming at him, "have you done with your hair, Peter?"

Peter burst out laughing, and the silent spell was
broken. Everyone started talking at once, closing in on her and exchanging
greetings.

Anticipation and tension were building apace, but
Whitney restrained the urge to turn and look for Paul as the minutes ticked
past and she continued making the same mechanical responses, over and over
again. Yes, she had enjoyed Paris. Yes, her Uncle Edward Gilbert was well.
Yes, she would be pleased to attend this card party or that dinner party.

Peter was still beside her a quarter of an hour later
while Whitney was speaking with the apothecary's wife. From her left, where
all the local girls and their husbands were standing, Whitney heard Margaret
Merryton's familiar, malicious laugh. "I heard she made a spectacle of
herself in Paris and is all but shunned from polite society there," Margaret
was telling them.

Peter heard her too, and he grinned at Whitney. "It's
time to face Miss Merryton. You can't avoid her forever. And anyway, she's
with someone you haven't met yet."

At Peter's urging, Whitney reluctantly turned to face
her childhood foe.

Margaret Merryton was standing with her hand resting
possessively on Clayton Westland's claret-colored sleeve. This afternoon,
Whitney would have sworn that nothing, nothing could make her dislike
Clayton Westland more than she did, but seeing him with Margaret, knowing he
was listening to her vituperative comments, turned Whitney's initial dislike
into genuine loathing.

"We were all so disappointed that you weren't able to
find a husband in Prance, Whitney," Margaret said with silken malice.

Whitney looked at her with cool disdain. "Margaret,
every time you open your mouth, I always expect to hear a rattle." Then she
picked up her skirts, intending to turn and speak to Emily, but Peter caught
her elbow. "Whitney," he said, "allow me to introduce Mr. Westland to you.
He has leased the Hodges place and is just back from France."

Still stinging from Margaret's cruel remarks, Whitney
jumped to the conclusion that if Clayton Westland had just returned from
France, he must be the one who had provided Margaret with the lie that
Whitney was an outcast there. "How do you like living in the country, Mr.
Westland?" she inquired in a voice of bored indifference.

"Most of the people have been very friendly," he said
meaningfully.

"I'm certain they have." Whitney could almost feel his
eyes disrobing her as they had at the stream. "Perhaps one of them will even
be 'friendly' enough to show you the boundary of your property, so that you
don't embarrass yourself by trespassing on ours, as you did earlier today."

A stunned silence fell over the group; the amusement
vanished from Clayton Westland's expression. "Miss Stone," he said in a
voice of strained patience, "we seem to have gotten off on a rather bad
foot." Inclining his head toward the dance floor, he said, "Perhaps if you
will do me the honor of dancing..."

If he said anything more, Whitney didn't hear it,
because directly behind her and very close to her ear an achingly familiar,
deep voice said, "I beg your pardon, I was told Whitney Stone was to be here
tonight, but I don't recognize her." His hand touched her elbow, and
Whitney's pulse went wild as she let Paul slowly turn her around to face
him.

She lifted her eyes and gazed up into the bluest ones
this side of heaven. Unconsciously, she extended both her hands, feeling
them clasped firmly in Paul's strong, warm ones. In the last four years, she
had rehearsed dozens of clever things to say when this moment finally
arrived; but looking up at his beloved, handsome face, all she could say
was, "Hello, Paul." A slow, appreciative smile worked its way across his
face as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. "Dance with me," he said
simply.

Trembling inside, Whitney stepped into Paul's arms and
felt his hand glide around her waist, gathering her closer. Beneath her
fingertips, his beautiful dark blue jacket seemed to be a living thing that
her fingers ached to slide over and caress. She knew that now was the time
to be the poised, light-hearted female she'd been in Paris, but her thoughts
were jumbled and erratic, as if part of her was fifteen years old again. All
she wanted to say was, "I love you. I have always loved you. Now do you want
me? Have I changed enough for you to want me?" "Did you miss me?" Paul
asked.

Warning bells went off in Whitney's head as she heard
the thread of confidence in his tone. Instinctively, she gave him a
provocative sidewise smile. "I missed you desperately!" she declared with
enough extra emphasis to make it seem a gross exaggeration.

"How 'desperately'?" Paul persisted, his grin widening.

"I was utterly desolate," Whitney teased, knowing full
well that Emily had regaled him with stories of her popularity in Paris. "In
fact, I nearly wasted away in loneliness for you."