Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“Are you planning to wear men’s breeches and ride astride? Or will you go barefoot and try to stand on his back?” Margaret taunted viciously.

As if by mutual agreement, everyone else began talking at once, drowning out Margaret’s voice, but Whitney heard snatches of what she was saying to Clayton and the other couple: “. . . disgraced her father . . . scandalized the village . . .”

The servants began to distribute baskets of cold chicken, ham, cheese, and apples and pears. Whitney determinedly shook off the pall of Margaret’s spite and strove to make something enjoyable of what was left of her day. She listened to the light raillery Emily was exchanging with her husband, Michael. “Whitney and I made a bet when we were very young,” she was telling him. “The first of us to marry had to pay the other a forfeit of £5.”

“That’s absolutely right!” Whitney smiled. “I had forgotten.”

“Since it was I who influenced her to marry me,” Michael Archibald said, winking at Whitney, “I suppose I am honor-bound to pay her forfeit.”

“Indeed you are,” Whitney returned. “And I hope that won’t be the last time Emily allows you to influence her, my lord.”

“So do I!” Baron Archibald replied with such exaggerated despair that Whitney burst out laughing.

Paul leaned close, and Whitney looked up at him, traces of laughter still lingering in her eyes. “Are you planning to allow me to influence you?” he asked.

It was so near to a declaration of his intentions that Whitney could hardly believe she’d heard him correctly. “That depends,” she said in a whisper, unable to tear her gaze from his compelling blue eyes. A fierce gust of wind blew up, tossing her hair wildly about her face and shoulders. Absently, Whitney reached behind her for the yellow and white dotted scarf that should have been holding her hair back.

“Are you looking for this?” Clayton drawled, pulling her scarf from his pocket and holding it toward her.

Paul’s jaw tightened, and Whitney snatched the scarf out of Clayton’s hand. She knew that Clayton had just deliberately caused everyone to wonder not only about how her scarf came to be in his pocket, but about their delayed arrival at the picnic as well, and to her consternation, she felt a guilty flush creeping up her cheeks. The idea of doing him bodily harm filled Whitney with morbid delight. She would have thoroughly enjoyed running him through with a sword or blowing his head off with a gun or seeing him hanging from a tree.

Late in the afternoon when the last of the picnickers had departed, Paul instructed a groom to ride Khan, and he took Whitney home in his gleaming carriage. The horses pranced down the dry, dusty lane with Paul handling the reins in preoccupied silence.

“Paul, are you angry with me?” Whitney ventured cautiously.

“Yes, and you know why I am.”

Whitney did know, and she was torn between worry and happiness. It was possible, just possible, that Clayton Westland was providing the impetus Paul needed to declare himself without delay. All day, Paul’s loverlike jealousy had been unmistakable.

In the drive at the front of her house, Paul pulled the horses to a stop and turned toward her, resting his arm on the back of the seat behind her. “I don’t remember telling you how beautiful you look today,” he said.

“Thank you,” Whitney replied with surprised pleasure.

He grinned suddenly. “I’ll call for you at eleven tomorrow morning. We’ll talk about it then.”

“About how beautiful I looked today?” Whitney teased.

“No, about why I’m angry.”

She sighed. “I’d rather talk about the other.”

“I’m sure you would,” Paul said with a chuckle as he climbed down and came around to help her alight.

* * *

Paul arrived at precisely eleven the following morning. In the doorway of the drawing room, Whitney stopped, scarcely able to believe he was actually here, calling for her, exactly as she used to dream he would be! He looked incredibly handsome as he laughed at some remark of Lady Anne’s.

“I like your young man,” Anne whispered to Whitney as she left.

“He isn’t mine yet,” Whitney whispered back, but she was smiling optimistically.

The sky was bright blue with a fresh breeze that gently ruffled Paul’s blond hair as they toured the country roads in Paul’s well-sprung carriage, talking and laughing, stopping occasionally to admire a particularly pleasing view of the hilly terrain stretching out on both sides of the road. A few of the trees were already exchanging the lush green leaves of summer for the bright golds and oranges of early fall, and for Whitney, it was a halcyon day.

Paul was charming and entertaining, treating her as if she were made of fragile porcelain, as if she weren’t the same female who used to catapult from one misadventure to the next near calamity. And Whitney was scrupulously careful to say nothing which might remind him of the young girl she had been. Even now, years later, it still made her cringe with embarrassment when she recalled how she had tried to kiss him and begged him to wait for her.

They had luncheon with Paul’s mother, and although Whitney had dreaded the idea at first, it turned out to be a very pleasant meal.

Afterward, they strolled across the lawn to the edge of the woods. At Paul’s suggestion, Whitney sat on a swing suspended from a stout oak branch.

“Why were you and Westland so late getting to the picnic yesterday?” he demanded without preamble.

Whitney started, then shrugged, trying to appear bewildered and unconcerned, when she was neither. “We took the stallion and he gave us trouble.”

“Whitney, I find that very difficult to believe. I’ve ridden with Westland; he’s no novice around horses. And yesterday he seemed perfectly docile and well-mannered.”

“Who seemed docile?” Whitney teased, trying desperately to lighten his mood. “The stallion? Or Mr. Westland?”

“I was referring to the stallion’s behavior, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I would rather hear about Westland’s.”

“Paul, for heaven’s sake!” she almost pleaded. “You know perfectly well that some horses are completely unpredictable and can give even the most experienced horsemen trouble managing them.”

“Then perhaps you will explain to me why, if that horse is so damned difficult to handle, you agreed to ride him in a race against Westland?”

“Oh that. Well, he taunted me until I could hardly refuse.” Through her lowered lashes, Whitney stole a glance at Paul’s grim, dubious expression. Under the circumstances, she thought it might be wise—even expected—for her to display a degree of righteous indignation. “Paul, I can’t abide the man, and I—I don’t think it’s nice of you to quiz me like this. It’s unfair and improper.”

Unexpectedly, he grinned. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were conscious of propriety.” Without warning, he pulled her off the swing and into his arms. “God, you are beautiful!” he whispered.

Whitney caught her breath and held it, thinking stupidly over and over, He’s going to kiss me! She was so nervous that she felt a giggle welling up inside of her as his head slowly descended to hers. But at the first brush of his warm, smooth lips on hers, all traces of laughter vanished.

She tried to keep her hands at her sides, but they slid of their own volition part way up his chest. She held back as best she could, afraid to abandon herself to the kiss for fear that Paul might somehow be offended by the depth of her feeling.

But Paul wouldn’t let her remain uninvolved. He tightened his arms, holding her imprisoned against the hard wall of his chest, kissing her expertly, his mouth moving insistently over hers, sometimes teasing and gentle, then hungry and demanding. By the time he finally let her go, Whitney’s legs were weak. With a sinking heart, she realized that she had just been kissed by someone who knew a great deal about kissing and who undoubtedly had stored up a wealth of practice.

He was watching her, his expression pleased and confident. “You do that very well,” Whitney complimente

d, hoping to sound as if she were competent to judge.

“Thank you,” Paul said, looking mildly irritated. “Is that conclusion based upon your vast experience in France?”