Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter, then he shook his head and regarded her with a thoughtful, almost tender expression. “Miss Stone,” he asked with amused gravity, “hasn’t anyone taught you that noble titles are to be revered, not laughed at?”

“They did try,” Whitney admitted, with a laughing look.

“And?”

“And, as you can see, they failed.”

For a long moment, his gaze lingered on the elegant perfection of her glowing face, then settled on her entrancing green eyes. “But the initial clue that I am not a duke is the absence of a quizzing glass?” he said rather absently.

Whitney toyed with the ribbons of her mask and smiled as she nodded. “You would have it with you at all times.”

“Even riding to a hunt?” he persisted.

She shrugged lightly. “If you were a duke, you’d be too stout to ride.”

In a deceptively casual move, he captured her wrists, drawing her forward so that her hip pressed against his hard thigh. “Even in bed?” he asked softly.

Whitney, who had been paralyzed into inaction by his unexpected move, flung off both his hands and fixed him with an icy stare while a dozen scathing remarks tumbled to be first from her lips.

Just as she opened her mouth, he stood up, looming over her. “May I get you a glass of champagne?” he offered soothingly.

“You may go straight to—” Swallowing her outrage in deference to his daunting height and powerful shoulders, Whitney nodded. “Please,” she choked.

He stood there for a moment, his imperturbable gray gaze studying Whitney’s stormy green eyes, then he turned, striding off toward the house for her champagne.

The moment he walked through the archway, Whitney’s breath came out in a long rush of relief. Whirling around, she hurried across the lawn, entering the ballroom on the opposite side.

From that point on, her evening declined. She was tense and jumpy, half expecting the black-cloaked figure she would always think of as “Satan” to accost her in the ballroom, even though he remained well away from her, surrounded by a small group of people who were talking and laughing with him.

As she waited with her aunt and uncle to take leave of their host and hostess, Whitney surreptitiously watched Satan’s tall figure moving along the line of departing guests in front of them. His head was bent low as he listened attentively to the blond woman who was smiling up at him. He laughed at something she said, and Whitney flushed as she recalled the way he had laughed with her in the garden. Irritably, she wished he’d remove his mask so she could see his face, then she wondered who the blond woman with him was. His mistress, she decided uncharitably, for he’d never waste a moment’s time with any female unless she was willing to play that role, at least for one night!

Without warning he turned, and for the second time that evening, Whitney was caught in the act of staring at him. His gaze captured hers, and Whitney raised her chin, trying to stare him out of countenance. A strange, unfathomable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he slowly inclined his head toward her. Angrily, Whitney jerked her gaze away. Arrogant, conceited—she couldn’t think of enough terrible things to call him in her mind.

“What in the world is the matter, darling?” Aunt Anne whispered beside her.

Whitney started nervously, then cautiously tipped her head in the direction of the front door where Satan was now placing an elegant cape around the blonde’s shoulders. “Do you know who he is, Aunt Anne?”

Her aunt studied the couple for a moment, started to shake her head in the negative, then stopped abruptly as the blonde reached up and swept off her demi-mask. “That’s Marie St. Allermain—the famous singer,” Anne whispered. “I’m certain of it.” Whitney saw an odd, awed expression cross her aunt’s face as she scrutinized the dark-haired man in the black cape. “And if she is St. Allermain, then he would have to be . . . my God! It is!”

Anne’s gaze swung sharply to her niece, but Whitney was watching Satan move his hand in a light caress over the blonde’s back as he guided her out of the front door. She remembered how those same hands had drawn her to him and flushed with outraged shame.

“Why do you ask?” Anne said tightly.

The last thing Whitney wanted to do was admit to anyone that she’d been foolish enough to go into the garden with a man whom she was now certain she’d never met before. “I—I thought he was someone I know, but I realize now that he isn’t,” Whitney answered and was greatly relieved when her aunt seemed willing to drop the subject.

As a matter of fact, Anne was delighted to drop the subject. She had planned and dreamed too long to see Whitney become just another conquest of the Duke of Claymore. Marie St. Allermain had been his mistress for nearly a year, and rumor had it that he had even accompanied her to Spain when she sang in a command performance before the king and queen two months ago.

For years, gossip had linked the man with every beautiful female of suitable lineage in Europe, but marriage was not among the things he offered. Behind that handsome nobleman there was a trail of young women’s broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that would make any sensible woman with an unmarried female relation shudder! He was the last man on the continent in whom Anne wanted Whitney to show any interest.

The last man in the entire world!

7

* * *

Exactly four weeks after the Armands’ masquerade, Matthew Bennett left his office and stepped into a splendid burgundy-lacquered coach with the Westmoreland ducal crest emblazoned in gold on the door panel. He placed his deerskin case containing the reports on Miss Whitney Allison Stone on the seat beside him, then stretched his long legs out in the duke’s luxurious coach.

For nearly a century, Matthew’s forebears had been entrusted with the private legal affairs of the Westmoreland family, but since Clayton Westmoreland’s principal residences were in England, it was Matthew’s father in the London office of the firm who was personally acquainted with the duke. Until now, Matthew’s only contact with the current Duke of Claymore had been in writing, and Matthew was especially anxious to make a good impression today.

The coach had been climbing steadily, winding gently around green sloping hills splashed with wildflowers, when the French country house of the duke finally came into view. Matthew gazed at it in wonder. Situated atop the verdant hills, the sweeping two-story stone-and-glass structure was surrounded by terraces overlooking the panorama that stretched below in every direction.

At the front of the house, the coach drew to a stop, and Matthew picked up his case and walked slowly up the terraced stone steps. He presented his card to the liveried butler and was shown into a spacious library lined with books which were recessed into shallow alcoves in the walls.

Alone for the moment, Matthew looked with awe at the priceless artifacts reposing on gleaming rosewood tables. A magnificent Rembrandt hung above the marble fireplace, and part of one wall was covered with a glorious collection of Rembrandt’s etchings. One long wall was entirely constructed of huge panes of glass with French doors opening out onto a broad stone terrace that afforded a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside.

At the opposite end of the room, angled toward the windows, was a massive oak desk, intricately carved around the edges with leaves and vines. Mentally, Matthew placed the desk as late sixteenth century and, judging from the splendid craftsmanship, it had probably graced a royal palace. Walking across the thick Persian carpet, Matthew sat down in one of the high-backed leather chairs facing the desk, and placed the deerskin case on the floor beside him.

The library doors opened, and Matthew came swiftly to his feet, stealing a quick, appraising look at the dark-haired man upon whom his future depended. Clayton Westmoreland was in his early thirties, uncommonly tall, and decidedly handsome. There was a vigorous purposefulness in his long, quick strides that bespoke an active, athletic life, rather than the indolence and overindulgence that Matthew normally ascribed to w

ealthy gentlemen of the peerage. An aura of carefully retained power, of forcefulness, emanated from him.

A pair of penetrating gray eyes levelled on him, and Matthew swallowed a little nervously as the duke came around behind the desk and took his seat. The duke nodded at the chair across the desk, inviting Matthew to be seated, and said with calm authority, “Shall we begin, Mr. Bennett?”

“Certainly,” Matthew said. He cleared his throat. “As you instructed, your grace, we have made inquiries into the young woman’s family and background. Miss Stone is the daughter of Susan Stone—who died when Miss Stone was five years old—and Martin Albert Stone, who is still living. She was born on June thirtieth, eighteen hundred, at the family home near the village of Morsham, approximately seven hours from London.

“The Stone estate is small but productive, and Martin Stone has lived in the usual style of the landed gentry. However, about four years ago, his financial situation altered drastically. If you recall, that was when part of England was deluged with weeks of rainfall. Estates such as Stone’s which did not have adequate drainage facilities suffered badly, and Stone apparently suffered more than most because there was no alternate means of supporting the estate, such as livestock.

“Our reports indicate that Stone then made some extremely large and unwise investments in a variety of risky ventures and, when those failed, he doubled and tripled his investments in more ventures of a similar nature—apparently in the hope of recouping his losses. These ventures were all disastrous, and two years ago, he mortgaged his estate to gain enough capital to make the last—and largest—of the ventures. He invested all the funds in a colonial shipping company. Unfortunately, that failed as well.

“At this time, he is heavily mortgaged and deeply in debt, not only to the cent-per-centers in London, but to the local shopkeepers as well. The estate is quickly falling into disrepair, and there is only a skeleton staff of servants left on the place.”

Reaching into the deerskin case, Matthew extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is an itemized list of his creditors, although there are bound to be more that we didn’t discover in the brief period of time we had to make our investigation.” He slid the papers across the surface of the ornate desk, then waited for some reaction from the duke.

Leaning back in his chair, Clayton Westmoreland scanned the lists, his face impassive. “How bad?” he asked when he finished reading the last page.

“Altogether, I’d say he’s about £100,000 in debt.”

The staggering sum made no apparent impression on the duke, who handed the papers back to Matthew and abruptly switched the subject. “What were you able to learn about the girl?”

Who, Matthew wondered as he extracted the file marked “W. Stone,” should know more about the girl than the man whose mistress she was about to become? Although the duke had not actually said it, Matthew had already guessed that Claymore intended to take the young woman under discussion as his mistress, providing her with a comfortable establishment and an income of her own. He interpreted the duke’s interest in the girl’s family as curiosity over what kind of opposition, if any, he might expect from them.

To Matthew’s legal mind, Stone’s appalling financial situation already made the outcome of the matter a foregone conclusion: Matthew Stone would have to accept this chance to turn over the responsibility for his daughter’s support to Clayton Westmoreland. What choice had he? He could hardly continue to clothe her and keep her amid the Quality for much longer. If Stone’s concern was for the girl’s reputation, his own was in far more jeopardy than hers. Once his creditors discovered his dire circumstances, as they would at any time now, he would be facing not only disgrace, but an unpleasant stay in debtor’s prison.

Matthew flushed as he realized that he’d been silently staring at the girl’s open file, and he began at once. “While it was difficult to learn much of a personal nature, without awakening unwanted suspicion, we did discover that Miss Stone was considered rather a difficult child, of an . . . er . . . unpredictable disposition. She is apparently well-read and uncommonly well-educated by a long string of tutors. She speaks fluent French, of course, as well as being proficient in Greek—enough so that she occasionally assists her uncle as translator during social functions where Greek diplomats are present. She reads Italian, Latin, and German; she may also speak them, but we aren’t certain.”

Matthew hesitated, feeling utterly absurd for telling Lord Westmoreland what he must already know. “Go on,” the duke said with a faint smile at Matthew’s obvious discomfiture.

Nodding uncomfortably, Matthew continued. “Many of the individuals we contacted mentioned that there was considerable dissension between the young lady and her father. A few of them put the blame at his door, but most sympathized with Martin Stone as an unfortunate man who had fathered a rebellious, unbiddable child. At the age of fourteen, Miss Stone evidently developed an . . . er . . . rather violent infatuation for a gentleman named Paul Sevarin. Sevarin was ten years her senior and apparently he was no more pleased with Miss Stone’s girlish attachment to him than her father was. Because of that, and because Stone apparently couldn’t deal with her any other way, her father eventually sent her to France with her aunt and uncle when she was nearly sixteen. They then presented her to French Society at the customary age of seventeen. Since that time, our sources indicate that she has enjoyed an extraordinary popularity here. Of course, if her father’s financial circumstances and her lack of a dowry were known, that situation would change drastically,” Matthew conjectured aloud, then he glanced apologetically at the duke, and returned to the facts at hand—

“Miss Stone has been on the verge of receiving numerous offers of marriage, but has discouraged those suitors as soon as their intentions became apparent to her. Those gentlemen who persisted to the point of actually speaking to her uncle, Lord Edward Gilbert, were turned down by him, apparently on behalf of Martin Stone. Her manners are reported to be perfectly acceptable to society, although somewhat out of the ordinary. Is there some mistake in this?” Matthew inquired when the duke burst out laughing.

“No. No mistake,” Clayton chuckled. “I’d say your information is entirely accurate.” In his memory, he could still see her green eyes glowing with laughter as she scoffed at noble titles—his in particular. “Is there anything else?” he asked finally.

“Only a few remarks, your grace. Her uncle, Lord Edward Gilbert, as you already know, is attached to the British Consulate here and enjoys an unblemished reputation. Miss Stone is reportedly on excellent terms with him, and with his wife, Lady Anne Gilbert. At present, it is the consensus of opinion that Nicolas DuVille is on the verge of offering for her hand—an offer which Lord Gilbert will undoubtedly find most acceptable. The DuVilles, as I’m sure you know, are one of France’s leading families, and Nicolas is their son and heir.”

Matthew closed the file. “That’s all we were able to learn in the time you allotted us, your grace.”

Leaving the solicitor to his own thoughts, Clayton got up and walked over to the wide sweep of windows overlooking the rolling green hills. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned a shoulder against the window frame and gazed at the magnificent view, while he considered for the last time the plan which, if put into words now, would become a reality.

Time after time, whenever he was in France and had seen Whitney, he had been drawn to her, laughing silently at some of the setdowns she gave her too persistent suitors. Twice they had been introduced; the first time she was too young for him to consider, and the second time she had been surrounded by a group of beaux all vying for her attention. She had flicked a distracted glance in his direction without really looking at him or listening to his name.

After that, he had avoided further contact with her, sensing that Whitney would require considerable time and courtship to lure into his arms. Of time, Clayton had little. When it came to courtship, he could not recall ever having had to actively court a woman in his adult life, at least

not a reluctant woman. They were all too ready and eager to court him.

And then, four weeks ago, he had stood in the Armands’ garden, drinking in her presence and fighting down the insane impulse to bend his head and slowly, endlessly, kiss the irreverent laughter from her soft, inviting lips, to carry her into the darkness and make love to her right there.

She was a natural temptress, alluring and provocative, with the smile of an angel, the slender, voluptuous body of a goddess, and an unspoiled charm that made him grin whenever he thought of her. And she had a sense of humor, and irreverent contempt for the absurd, that matched his own.

Clayton gave up trying to understand his reasons for the step he was about to take. He wanted her, that was reason enough. She was warm and witty and elusive as a damned butterfly. She would never bore him as other women had; he knew it with the wisdom born of years of experience with the fair sex.

His mind made up, he turned and strode briskly to the desk. “I will need some documents prepared, and there will have to be a transfer of a considerable amount of money when Stone accepts my offer.”

“If Stone accepts it,” Matthew corrected automatically.

The Westmoreland brow quirked in sardonic amusement. “He’ll accept it.”

Despite his nervousness today, Matthew was a respected legal advisor who had schooled himself never to show any emotion when dealing with delicate matters for a client. Nevertheless, when his grace began to dictate the terms under which a staggering sum of money was being offered to Martin Stone, Matthew raised his head and gaped in astonishment at the duke.

* * *

Clayton stood at the windows, absently watching the coach bearing Matthew Bennett back to Paris make its winding way down the hillside. Already he was impatient to have everything completed. He wanted Whitney, and he wanted her immediately, but he’d be damned if he’d court her in France, standing in line, playing the fop and bowing like an ass. That he would not do for any woman, even Miss Stone. Besides, he’d been away from England too long already. In order to manage his business affairs, he needed to be closer to London.