Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

* * *

Paul’s message arrived at eleven o’clock the following morning. Dressed warmly against the frosty chill of the cloudy day, Whitney raced Khan around the hillside and galloped into the overgrown yard of the deserted cottage. She tied Khan beside Paul’s horse, then shoved open the creaky door of the cottage. The timid little fire Paul had built snapped and flickered on the hearth but did little to dispel the chilly gloom of the single empty room. At a movement behind her, Whitney whirled nervously. “Paul!”

“I believe you were expecting me,” he teased. Straightening from his lounging position against the wall, he opened his arms and said, “Come here.”

Whitney went to him and automatically turned her face up for his kiss, while her mind sorted through various ways to begin.

“I’ve missed you, brat,” he murmured in her hair. “Have you missed me?”

“Yes,” she answered absently, pulling away from his arms. She had to explain slowly, not heap all their tangled problems on him in the first minute. She moved toward the center of the room, then turned to face him. “Paul, I have some things to tell you which you are going to find”—she searched madly for the right word—“surprising.”

“Go on,” Paul urged, grinning. “I like surprises.”

“Well, you aren’t going to like this one!” she burst out helplessly. “You know Mr. Westland?”

Paul nodded.

“And do you recall at my father’s party, how everyone was gossiping about the Duke of Claymore, Clayton Westmoreland?”

“I do,” Paul said.

“Well, Mr. Westland is actually Westmoreland.”

“The duke who disappeared?” Paul said, his expression a mixture of amusement, curiosity, and disbelief. “The duke who owns fifty estates, four hundred of the best horses in Europe, and who is, if my memory of the party gossip is correct, on the verge of marrying no less than fifty ravishingly beautiful females? That duke?”

Temporarily sidetracked, Whitney said, “Actually he only has seven estates. He may have four hundred horses, I don’t know. But I do know that he is on the verge of marrying only one female. Now Paul,” she said soothingly, her voice shaky with nerves, “I know you will find this as disconcerting as I did at first, but I am the female he’s on the verge of marrying.”

Paul’s lips twitched with laughter as he came forward to draw her into his arms. “If he persists in his suit,” he teased, running his thumb along her chin, “I’ll tell him what I’ve just discovered—that when you are left to your own company, you drink the cooking sherry.”

“Are you implying that I’m foxed?” Whitney gasped in disbelief.

“Drunk as a wheelbarrow,” he joked, then he sobered. “Stop trying to make me jealous. If you’re angry because I’ve been gone so long, then simply say so.”

In sheer frustration, Whitney lurched back and stamped her foot. “I am not trying to make you jealous! I am trying to make you understand that I’ve been betrothed to Clayton Westmoreland since this past June.” There, it was out!

“I beg your pardon?” Paul said, staring at her.

“Actually, I think it was July,” Whitney rambled on disjointedly. “Do you think it’s important?”

For the first time Paul took her seriously. “You accepted Westland?”

“Not Westland, Westmoreland,” Whitney emphasized. “And I didn’t accept him, my father did.”

“Then tell your father to marry him,” Paul said tautly. “You love me, it’s as simple as that.” His blue eyes narrowed on her in confused irritation. “You’re playing games and I don’t like it. None of this makes sense.”

“I can’t help it,” Whitney shot back, stung. “It’s the truth.”

“Then will you kindly explain to me how you happen to have been engaged since July to a man you didn’t meet until September.”

Now he was deadly serious and Whitney almost wished he weren’t. Drawing a long, unsteady breath, she said, “I was introduced to him in France, but I didn’t pay any attention to his name, nor did I remember his face. The next time I saw him was at a masquerade in May, and I couldn’t see his face then either. At the masquerade, he decided he wanted to marry me, but he knew that my uncle was turning down all my suitors—because I wanted to come back here and marry you—so he came here and paid my father £100,000 for me, then he had my father send for me and he moved into the Hodges place.”

“Do you really expect me to believe all that?” Paul snapped.

“Not really,” Whitney said miserably, “but it’s the truth. I had no idea what had been done until the night you left. I went downstairs to tell my father and aunt that you and I were going to be married, and Clayton was there. The next thing I knew, my father was shouting at me that I was betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, who turned out to be Clayton, and then everything got even worse.”

“I find it impossible to see how this could get worse,” Paul answered sarcastically.

“Well, it has. Clayton took me to London with him three days ago, and he told one of his friends that we were going to be married—”

“Then you have agreed to marry him?” Paul said icily.

“No, of course not.”

Paul turned on his heel and walked over to the fireplace. Propping his booted foot against the grate, he stared down into the fire, leaving Whitney gazing helplessly at his back. Suddenly he stiffened, and when he turned his face was white with shocked alarm. “What do you mean he paid your father for you?” he demanded. “It is customary for the father to dower the daughter, and not the reverse.”

Whitney realized at once where his thoughts had drifted, and her heart turned over in pity for Paul, and for herself. “I don’t have any dowry, Paul. My father had lost that and my inheritance as well.”

Paul leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes, his broad shoulders drooping despondently.

The time had come for Whitney to commit herself to the path she had chosen, and she went to him with legs that felt like lead. Her mind screamed that she didn’t have to do this, but her heart wouldn’t let her desert him. Not now, not after seeing this tortured expression on his face. “Paul, my father told me how difficult your circumstances are, and it doesn’t matter to me, please believe that. I will marry you anyway. But we will have to act quickly. Clayton will be in London for six more days and in that time, we can elope to Scotland. By the time Clayton discovers what—”

“Elope!” Paul’s voice lashed out and his fingers bit viciously into her arms. “Are you out of your mind? My mother and sisters would never be able to hold up their heads.”

“No,” Whitney whispered hoarsely. “The shame will be mine.”

“Damn your shame!” he snapped, shaking her. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? I have just spent a small fortune on five horses and a phaeton!”

How was that her fault? Whitney wondered, recoiling from the blaze in his eyes. And then she knew. Bitter resentment twined around her heart like sharp steel bands, wringing a ragged, choking laugh from her. “You spent the ‘fortune’ you thought I had—the dowry you imagined I would bring, didn’t you?”

Paul didn’t have to answer; she could see the truth in his flaring eyes. Angrily flinging his hands away, she stepped back. “Five minutes after I accepted you, you were mentally spending my money, weren’t you? You couldn’t even wait to talk to my father first! You ‘loved’ me so much that you didn’t bother to stay here with me and ask his consent. All you cared about was the money, and you didn’t even spend it on important things. Your lands are mortgaged, your house is in disrepair . . . Paul,” she whispered, her green eyes glittering with tears, “what sort of man are you? Are you so spineless and so irresponsible that you would have married me just for money to spend on horses you don’t even need?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Paul snapped, but his face was flushed with guilty embarrassment. “I loved you. I’d never have asked you to marry me otherwise.”

“L