Whitney, My Love (16 page)

They stepped into the safety of the brightly lit house,
and Whitney jerked her arm away, her voice a furious whisper. "You must be
Satan's own son!"

"My father would have been disappointed to think so,"
Clayton replied with an infuriating chuckle.

"Your father?" Whitney scoffed, stepping away from him.
"If you think your mother even knew his name, you deceive yourself!"

There was a moment of stunned silence white it
registered on Clayton that he had just been called a bastard, followed by a
shout of laughter as her ladylike slur on his legitimacy sank in. He was
still grinning as he strolled along in her indignant wake, admiring the sway
of her slender hips.

Blind with anger, Whitney stormed up to a group of
middle-aged guests, which included her aunt, and stared past them, oblivious
to their conversation. How she loathed and despised Clayton Westland! If it
was the last thing she ever did, she would repay him for this night, for
putting his filthy, debauched hands on her, for causing her to appear a
harlot in front of Paul.

It was at least an hour later when Paul's deep voice
said very quietly near her ear, "Come and dance with me." His hand had
already taken possession of her elbow, and Whitney walked beside him. She
was so afraid of seeing condemnation on his face that even when they were
dancing she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Does a man have to take
you out to the balcony to get your attention, Miss Stone?" he taunted.

Whitney's gaze flew to his, and she discovered to her
intense relief that the scene he had witnessed on the balcony had obviously
annoyed him, but there was no disgust in his expression.

"Would you prefer a stroll in the night air?" he mocked.

"Please don't tease me about that," she half pleaded,
half sighed. "It's been a long evening, and I'm exhausted."

"I'm not surprised," he said with heavy irony, but when
Whitney flushed with embarrassment, he relented. "Do you think you could
recover from your 'exhaustion' by tomorrow morning-in time for a picnic
with, say, ten people, in your honor?"

Lady Eubank and Aunt Anne had been right! Whitney
realized jubilantly. "I would love it," she admitted with a bright, happy
smile.

When the dance ended, Paul led her to a relatively quiet
corner of the room. He stopped a footman bearing a tray of champagne, took
two glasses, and gave one to Whitney. Leaning his shoulder against a pillar,
he grinned down at her. "Shall I invite Westland?"

Whitney's first instinct was to grab his lapels and
scream no! But one look at that confident grin of his, and she chose a wiser
course. She shrugged and even managed to smile. "By all means, invite him if
you wish."

"You wouldn't object?"

Whitney gave him an innocent stare. "I can't think why I
should. He's, well, very handsome . . ." She looked down at her glass to
hide her grimace of revulsion. "And charming, and.. ."

"Miss Stone," Paul said, subjecting her to an amused
scrutiny, "you wouldn't by any chance be trying to make me jealous, would
you?"

"Are you?" Whitney countered with a mutinous smile.

He didn't answer, but Whitney was almost certain that he
was. Either way, the balance of the evening was the way she used to dream it
would be. Paul remained at her side most of the time, and when he did leave
her, it wasn't to return to Elizabeth.

Dismissing his valet, Clayton poured himself a light
brandy. Inwardly, he smiled at the bizarre turn his courtship had taken
tonight. Never in his wildest imaginings had he visualized anything quite
like this! Nevertheless, he was extremely pleased by what he had learned on
Amelia Eubank's balcony a few hours ago. None of Whitney's suitors in France
had been permitted the liberties he had taken; she had been shocked by his
intimate kiss and outraged when his hand touched her breast.

God, what an enchanting creature she was-part angel,
part spitfire; artlessly sophisticated, with a ripe, opulent beauty that
made his blood stir hotly.

Lifting his glass, he frowned into the contents. He had
treated her badly tonight. Tomorrow, he would have to find a way to make
amends.

Chapter Twelve

THE MORNING OF THE PICNIC DAWNED BRILLIANT BLUE, WITH A
fresh cool breeze that carried the scent of fall.

Whitney bathed and washed her hair, then debated what to
wear. Paul would undoubtedly call for her in the carriage, but Whitney had a
deep yearning to ride beside him on horseback, as they occasionally had in
years past. Her mind made up, she snatched a buttercup-yellow riding habit
from the wardrobe.

She was ready when she heard Paul's carriage coming to a
stop directly below her open bedroom window, but she made herself pace the
length of her room ten times before she hurried out into the hallway and
across the balcony.

Paul watched her coming down the stairs, a look of
unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her jaunty
yellow riding habit and the yellow-and-white dotted silk shirt that peeked
from beneath her open jacket. Around her neck she had tied a matching dotted
scarf, knotting ft on the side, with the ends flipped over her right
shoulder. "How can you look so lovely so early?" he asked, taking both her
hands in his as she stepped onto the polished foyer floor.

Whitney suppressed the urge to fling herself into his
arms and smiled up at him instead. "Good morning," she said softly. "Shall
we ride, rather than take the carriage? The stable is filled with horses,
and you may have year choice."

"I'm afraid you'll have to ride over without me. I'll
need the carriage to escort those females who seem to live in constant
terror of falling from a horse." He inclined his head toward a dark shadow
near the front door. "Clayton will ride with you and show you where we'll
be."

Whitney panicked at the lump of disappointment and alarm
swelling in her throat. She couldn't believe Paul was doing this. Since he'd
invited her, and since the picnic was in her honor, his first obligation was
to escort her there. Besides, only one of the girls in the neighborhood was
afraid of horses-Elizabeth Ashton. She had a terrible feeling that
appointing Clayton Westland as her substitute escort was Paul's way of
demonstrating to her that he would not play the part of jealous suitor. Last
night he had realised that she was trying to make him jealous, and this
morning he was showing her that it hadn't worked.

With a sublime effort, Whitney forced herself to shrug
lightly and smile. "You'll miss a lovely ride then. It's much too fine a day
to be cooped up in a carriage."

"Clayton will show you the place," Paul repeated,
studying her composed features. Drily, he added, "1 gather that you two know
each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?"

Whitney dragged her gaze toward the tall figure lounging
in the doorway, and gritted her teeth to hide her loathing.

"I'm sure your father won't object if Clayton rides one
of your horses," Paul said, already starting to leave.

Outside on the fourth step, he turned. "Take good care
of my girl," he called to Clayton, and then he was gone, leaving Whitney
slightly pacified and thoroughly mystified at being first cavalierly handed
over into Clayton's custody, and then called "my girl."

Her bemused thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice
she despised saying a quiet, "Good morning." Resentfully, Whitney snapped
her attention to Clayton, who was still standing in the doorway. Biting back
three nasty responses to his simple greeting, she passed a disdainful glance
over his immaculate white shirt, which was open at the collar, his gray
riding breeches, and his gleaming black boots. "Can you ride?" she asked
icily.

"Good morning," he repeated with calm emphasis, still
smiling at her.

Whitney clamped her mouth shut and brushed past him into
the brilliant sunlight, leaving him to follow her or stay in the house, she
didn't care which.

As she marched down the path leading around the back of
the house toward the stable, he remained a pace behind her, but halfway
there, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Smiling down at her, he
said, "Do you treat every gentleman who steals a kiss from you with such
animosity-or only me?"

Whitney looked at him with withering scorn. "Mr.
West-land, in the first place, you are no 'gentleman.' In the second, I
don't like you. Now, please get out of my way."

He remained there, studying her stormy face in
thoughtful silence. "Kindly move out of the way and let me pass," Whitney
repeated.

"If you will keep still long enough to allow me to do
it, I would like to apologize for last night," he said calmly. "I can't
remember the last time I apologized for anything, so I may be a bit awkward
about it."

What an arrogant, conceited beast he was to think he
could take liberties with her and then placate her with a few lukewarm words
of apology. By telling her to "keep still" he completely banished Whitney's
momentary inclination to hear him out anyway, and get it over with. "I won't
accept any apology from you, awkward or otherwise. Now get out of my way!"

His face darkened with annoyance, and Whitney could
almost feel his struggle to hold his temper in check. She glanced toward the
stable to see if anyone would be within hearing if she needed help. Thomas
was there, trying to hold a furious Dangerous Crossing who was lurching and
trying to rear.

And revenge took the shape of a fiery black stallion.

The smile Whitney turned upon the angry man before her
was dazzling and genuine. "My manners have not been entirely beyond reproach
either," Whitney said, trying desperately to look ruefully apologetic when
she felt like laughing. "If you wish to apologize, I shall be most willing
to accept it." Instantly, he looked suspicious, so Whitney prodded, "Or have
you changed your mind?"

"I haven't changed my mind," he said quietly. Putting
his hand beneath her chin, he tipped it up and said, "I am truly sorry if I
frightened you last night. It was never my intention to hurt you, and I
would like for us to be friends."

Whitney resisted the urge to slap his hand away and
appeared to consider his offer. "If we're going to be friends, we should
have something in common, should we not? I particularly love to ride. Are
you an adequate horseman?"

"Adequate," he confirmed, subjecting her to a cool,
appraising look.

Eager to be free of his scrutiny, Whitney pulled away
and started down the path toward the stable. "I'll see to a horse for you,"
she called over her shoulder. Clayton Westland was going to have to ride
that stallion, or else admit he was afraid to try it. Either way, his
monstrous ego was going to take a beating, and Whitney felt he deserved
every bit of what was in store for him.

By the time she reached Thomas, she was breathless from
running. She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, saw that Clayton was
less than five paces behind her, and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper.
"Have Dangerous Crossing saddled immediately, Thomas. Mr. Westland insists
on riding him."

"What?" Thomas gasped, staring at Westland. "Are you
certain?"

"Positive!" Whitney said, laughing silently as Thomas
turned and walked into the stable. Feeling extremely pleased with herself,
Whitney clasped her hands behind her back and strolled over to the white
corral fence to stand beside Clayton, "I've arranged for you to ride our
very finest horse," she told him.

Clayton studied her bright smile, but his attention was
diverted by the sound of a scuffle from within the stable. Two violent oaths
from a groom were followed by a yowl of pain, and Dangerous Crossing erupted
into the enclosure, flinging one groom against the fence, then kicking
savagely at the other.

"Isn't he wonderful?" Whitney rhapsodized, casting a
mirthful sideways glance at her intended victim. At that moment, the horse
changed direction, charging for the rail where they stood, then swung
around. Whitney jumped back just as his rear feet punched out, exploding
against the fence like the crack of a cannon. With a tremor in her voice,
she explained, "He's ... ah ... very spirited."

"So I see," Clayton agreed, shifting his impassive gaze
from the nervous, sweating stallion to Whitney.

"If you're afraid to ride the stallion, simply say so,"
Whitney generously suggested. "I'm sure we can find you a more suitable
mount. . . like Sugar Plum." Fighting back her laughter, she nodded sweetly
toward the old brood mare who was nibbling contentedly at grass, her belly
hanging down, and her backbone sticking up. Clayton followed her gaze, and a
look of cold revulsion crossed his features. Instantly, Whitney decided it
would be much more satisfying if Clayton Westland had to jog up to the
picnickers on the ancient mare. "Thomas!" Whitney called, "Mr. Westland has
decided to ride Sugar Plum instead, so-"

"The stallion will do," Clayton snapped at Thomas, then
he swung his icy gaze on Whitney.

Defensively, she said, "Why don't you just tell me where
the picnic is, and I'll go on ahead."

"I have no intention of doing that, nor do I intend to
gratify your wish to see me lying on the ground under the stallion's
hooves." Jerking his head toward Khan, who was being led out of the stable,
he said curtly, "Get on your horse and keep him at the rail out of my way.
I'm going to have enough on my hands without having to worry about you."

His arrogant assumption that he could ride the stallion
wiped out Whitney's momentary trace of guilt. She mounted Khan and guided
him to the rail at the far end of the enclosure. Transferring Khan's reins
to her teeth, she reached

up behind her neck, gathered her hair into a fist at her
nape and then tugged her scarf loose, using it to tie her hair back.