Whitney, My Love (14 page)

"Liar." He chuckled, his hand on her waist tightening
possessively. "That's not what I heard this morning. Did you, or did you
not, tell some French nobleman that if you were as impressed with his title
as you were with his conceit, you'd be tempted to accept his offer?"

Whitney nodded slowly, her tips twitching with laughter.
"I did."

"May I ask what his offer was?" Paul said.

"No, you may not."

"Should I call him out?"

Whitney felt as if she was dancing on air. Should he
call him out? Paul was flirting with her, actually fluting with her!

"How is Elizabeth?" Before the words were past her lips,
she cursed herself in French and English. And when she saw the satisfied
smile sweeping across Paul's face, she felt like stamping her foot in
self-disgust.

"I'll find her and bring her over, so you can see for
yourself," Paul offered, the knowing smile lingering in his eyes as the musk
wound to a close.

Whitney was still trying to recover from the humiliation
of her hideous blunder when she realized that Paul was guiding her directly
toward Clayton Westland's group. Until that moment, she'd entirely forgotten
that she'd turned her back on him when he was asking her to dance, and had
strolled off with Paul.

"I believe I stole Miss Stone away when you were about
to request a dance, Clayton," Paul said.

Considering her earlier rudeness, Whitney couldn't see
any way to avoid dancing with her loathsome neighbor now. She waited for
Clayton to repeat the invitation, but he did nothing of the sort. With
everyone witnessing her chagrin, Clayton let her stand there until she
flushed with angry embarrassment. Then he offered his arm and said in a
bored, unenthusiastic voice, "Miss Stone?"

"No, thank you," Whitney said coldly. "I don't care to
dance, Mr. Westland." Turning on her heel she walked off toward the opposite
end of the room, putting as much space as possible between herself and that
boorish clod, and joined a group of people that included Aunt Anne. She had
been standing there for perhaps five minutes when her father appeared at her
elbow and drew her away. "There is someone I want you to meet," he said with
gruff determination.

Despite his tone, Whitney could tell that he was very
proud of her tonight, and she accompanied him gladly as he skirted around
the perimeter of the ballroom . . . until she realized where he was taking
her. Directly ahead, Clayton Westland was engaged in laughing conversation
with Emily and her husband. Margaret Merryton still clung to his arm.

"Father, please!" Whitney whispered urgently, drawing
back. "I don't like him."

"Don't be absurd!" he snapped irritably, forcibly
pulling her the rest of the way. "Here she is," he told Clayton Westland in
a booming, jovial voice. He turned to Whitney and said, as if she were nine
years old, "Make your curtsy and say 'how do' to our friend and neighbor,
Mr. Clayton Westland."

"We've already met," Clayton said drily.

"We've met," Whitney echoed weakly. Her cheeks burned as
she endured Clayton's mocking gaze. If he said or did anything to embarrass
her in front of her father, Whitney thought she would murder him. For the
first time in her life, her father was seeing her as an accepted, and
acceptable, human being, and he was proud of her.

"Well good. Good," her father said, looking expectantly
from Whitney to Clayton. "Then why don't you two dance? That's what this
music is for-"

The reason they weren't going to dance, Whitney
instantly realized, was because it was obvious from Clayton's aloof
expression that he wouldn't ask her to dance again if someone held a gun to
his head. Feeling lower than an insect, Whitney made herself look
imploringly at him, and then at the dance floor, in an unmistakable
invitation to him.

His brows arched in ironic amusement. For one hideous
moment, Whitney thought he intended to ignore her invitation, but he
shrugged instead and, without so much as offering her his arm, he strolled
toward the dance floor, leaving her to follow or remain standing there.

Whitney followed him, but she loathed him every single
step of the way for making her do it. Trailing along in his wake, she stared
daggers at the back of his wine-colored jacket, but until he turned toward
her, she didn't realize that he was laughing-actually laughing at her
mortification!

Whitney stepped toward him, then right past him, fully
intending to leave him standing there in the middle of the dancers.

His hand shot out and captured her elbow. "Don't you
dare!" he growled, laughing as he drew her around to face him for the waltz.

"It was excessively kind of you to ask me to dance,"
Whitney remarked sarcastically as she stepped reluctantly into his arms.

"Wasn't that what you wanted me to do?" he asked with
mock innocence, and before she could answer, he added, "If I had only
realized that you prefer to do the asking, I'd not have wasted my other two
attempts."

"Of all the conceited, rude-" Whitney caught her
father's anxious stare and smiled brilliantly at him, to show what a
marvellous time she was having. The moment he looked away, she glared
murderously at her dancing partner and continued, "-unspeakable,
insufferable-" Clayton West-land's shoulders began to rock with laughter,
and Whitney choked on her ire.

"Go on," he urged with a broad grin. "I haven't had such
a trimming since I was a small boy. Now, where were you? I am 'unspeakable,
insufferable'-?"

"Outrageously bold," Whitney provided furiously, and
then for want of anything better, "-and ungentlemanly!"

"Now that puts me in a very difficult position," he
mocked lightly. "Because you've left me no alternative except to defend
myself by pointing out that your behavior to me tonight has been anything
but ladylike."

"Smile, please. My father is watching us," Whitney
warned, forcing her mouth into a smile.

Clayton complied immediately. His teeth flashed white in
a lazy grin, but his gaze dipped lingeringly to her soft tips.

The focal point of his gaze did not escape Whitney, who
stiffened in his arms. "Mr. Westland, I think this brief, unpleasant
encounter has gone on long enough!"

She jerked back, but his arm tightened sharply,
preventing her from puffing free. "I haven't any intention of either of us
becoming a spectacle, little one," he warned. Since Whitney had no choice
except to move where he led her, she ignored his improper endearment,
shrugged, and looked away. "Lovely evening, isn't it?" he drawled, and then
in a stage whisper, he added. "Your father is watching us again."

"It was a lovely evening," Whitney retorted. She waited
for Clayton's rejoinder and when, after several seconds, there was none, she
glanced uncertainly at him. He was watching her intently, but without a
trace of rancor over her jibe. Suddenly Whitney felt foolish and
bad-tempered. True, he had behaved outrageously this afternoon at the stream
but, considering the things she had done and said to him tonight, she had
not behaved any better. A rueful smile tit her eyes to glowing jade as she
looked at him. "I think it is your turn to be rude to me now," she offered
fairly. "Or have I lost count?"

His eyes smiled his approval at her sudden change of
attitude. "I think we're about even," he said quietly.

Something about his deep voice and gray eyes, about the
effortless ease with which he danced the waltz, stirred the ashes of some
vague memory. Forgetting that his eyes were locked to hers, Whitney gazed at
him, trying to grasp what was niggling at the back of her mind. "Mr.
Westland, have we ever met before?"

"If we had, I hate to think that you could forget it."

"I'm certain that if we had, I would remember," Whitney
said politely, and dismissed the idea.

True to his promise, Paul brought Elizabeth over when
Clayton and Whitney strolled off the dance floor. Elizabeth Ashton, Whitney
thought despairingly, looked like a beautiful, fragile china doll. She was
wrapped in a gown of ice-blue satin that complemented the pink of her cheeks
and the shining gold of her curls, and her voice was soft with amazed
admiration as she said, "1 can't believe it's you, Whitney."

There was the implication, of course, that Whitney had
been so unpresentable before that Elizabeth couldn't believe the change, but
watching her stroll away on Clayton's arm, Whitney didn't think Elizabeth
had meant to be insulting.

Since Elizabeth was dancing with Clayton Westland,
Whitney waited, hoping that Paul would ask her to dance again. Instead he
frowned and said abruptly, "Is it the custom in Paris for a man and woman
who have just been introduced to gaze into one another's eyes while they
dance?"

Whitney looked at him in startled surprise. "I-I wasn't
gazing into Mr. Westland's eyes. It was just that he seemed familiar to me,
and yet, I don't know him at all. Hasn't that ever happened to you?"

"It happened to me tonight," Paul said curtly. "I
thought you were someone I knew. Now I'm not certain I know you at all." He
turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Whitney staring after him. In
the old days, Whitney would have run after him to reassure him that it was
him she wanted, only nun, and not Clayton Westland. But these weren't the
old days and she was much wiser, so she smiled to herself and turned in the
opposite direction.

Even though Paul never approached her again, she was
perfectly happy to dance the night away with the local swains. Given a
choice between an overconfident Paul and an aloof, jealous one, Whitney
definitely preferred the latter. Lady Eubank was right, Whitney decided.
Competition was what Paul needed.

It was nearly noon when Whitney awoke the following day.
She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, positively certain that
Paul would come to call.

Paul didn't come, but several of her other neighbors
did, and she spent the afternoon trying to be charming and gay while her
spirits sank along with the setting sun.

When she went to bed that night she told herself that
Paul would surely come tomorrow. But tomorrow came and went without a sign
of him.

It was not until the day after, that Whitney saw nun,
and then it was purely by chance. She and Emily were riding back from the
village, their horses kicking up little puffs of dust as they walked along
the road. "Did you know that Mr. West-tend was called away to London the day
after your party?" Emily asked.

"My father said something about it," Whitney said, her
mind on Paul "I think he is expected back tomorrow. Why?"

"Because Margaret's mama told mine that Margaret has
been counting the hours until he returns. Apparently, Margaret's affections
are absolutely fixed on him and-" Emily stopped talking and squinted down
the road. "Unless I mistake my eyes," she said with a teasing glance at
Whitney, "we are about to encounter your prey."

Leaning forward, Whitney made out an elegant phaeton
tearing along at a spanking pace in their direction. There was scarcely time
for her to smooth the skirt of her riding habit before Paul was upon them.
He pulled up, greeted Whitney politely, and then devoted his complete
attention to Emily, flattering her with teasing gallantries until she
laughingly ordered him to desist because she was now a married woman.

Khan had taken an instant aversion to Paul's showy black
horse, and Whitney listened to their conversation while trying to keep Khan
under control. "Are you going to Lady Eubank's affair tomorrow?" she heard
him ask. When there was a lengthening moment of silence, she looked up to
find Paul's attention on her.

"Are you going to Lady Eubank's affair tomorrow?" he
repeated.

Whitney nodded, her heart doubling its tempo.

"Fine. I'll see you there." Without another word, he
flicked the reins, and the phaeton bowled off down the road. Emily turned,
watching the vehicle until it vanished from view. "If that wasn't the most
extraordinary encounter I have ever had in my Me, I can't imagine what was!"
she said. A slow smile dawned across her features as she looked at Whitney.
"Paul Sevarin just went to great pains to completely ignore you. Whitney!"
she said excitedly, "doesn't that strike you as rather odd?"

"Not at all," Whitney said with a disheartened sigh. "If
you remember, Paul always used to ignore me."

"Yes, I know." Emily said, laughing softly. "But back
then, he wasn't watching you the entire time he did it. The whole time he
was talking to me just now, he was watching you. And at your party the other
night, he watched you constantly when you weren't looking."

Whitney jerked Khan to a halt. "Did he truly? Are you
certain?"

"Of course I'm certain, silly, I was watching him,
watching you."

"Oh, Emily," Whitney laughed shakily. "I wish you didn't
have to go back to London next week. When you're gone, who will tell me the
things I want to hear?"

Chapter Eleven

BY THE NIGHT OF LADY EUBANK'S PARTY, Whitney had worked
herself into a knot of anticipation and foreboding. She was ready early,
waiting for her aunt in the hall in a gown of midnight-blue chiffon spangled
with glittering silver flecks. Diamonds and sapphires twinkled at her ears
and throat, and winked from her elegant Grecian curb.

"Aunt Anne," she said in the carriage on the way to Lady
Eubank's, "do you think Paul truly loves Elizabeth?"

"If he did, I believe he would have offered for her long
ago," Anne replied, pulling on her gloves as their carriage turned into the
long drive at Lady Eubank's great old mausoleum of a house. "And your friend
Emily is absolutely correct-he watched you constantly the night of your
party, when he thought no one was looking."

"Then why is he taking go long to do something about
it?"