Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“Dammit, do I look like I’m joking?” he hissed furiously.

“Do you actually believe that Banbury tale?” Anne exclaimed, not sure whether he might. “There are countless places where the Duke of Claymore would go, were he in need of a rest. The very last I can think of is here, with winter coming on.”

“Be that as it may, I can only tell you what he told me. His grace feels the need to escape from the pressures of his life, and he has chosen to do it here. Since only I—and now you—know who he is, I trust that neither of us will deprive him of his privacy by giving his identity away.”

* * *

Upstairs in the solitude of her rooms, Lady Anne sought to come to grips with the furor in her mind. Feverishly, she thought back to the night of the Armands’ masquerade when Whitney had asked the name of the tall, gray-eyed man with Marie St. Allermain. Anne was absolutely positive the man had been the duke; it was common knowledge that the gorgeous St. Allermain was Claymore’s mistress, and that she never honored any other man with her company. The duke, of course, was not so singular in his attentions, and frequently escorted other beautiful women when St. Allermain was on tour in Europe.

Very well, Anne thought, dismissing St. Allermain from her mind, Claymore had been at the masquerade, and Whitney had asked about him. But they couldn’t have spent any time together, or Whitney would have known who he was without having to ask. And Claymore could not have followed Whitney here—he was here before she arrived. Therefore, it must be mere coincidence that Whitney had inquired about him at the Armands’, and he was now in quiet seclusion.

Lady Anne felt much better, but only for an instant. Tomorrow night Clayton Westmoreland and Whitney would be introduced to each other. Whitney would attract him, of that Anne had no doubt. What if he chose to pursue her? Anne shuddered, then stood up, and her feminine jaw was hardened with resolve. She had no desire to make an enemy of the powerful Duke of Claymore by giving his identity away, but if she suspected that Whitney might be falling victim to his legendary charm and good looks, she would reveal not only his identity to Whitney, but a full accounting of his past female conquests and behavior!

Not for one moment would Anne allow herself to hope that Claymore might meet Whitney and tumble into love with her, ignore the fact that she was neither wealthy (by his standards) nor of aristocratic lineage, and offer her marriage. No indeed! There were hundreds of embarrassed mamas with heartbroken daughters who’d been foolish enough to hope that!

* * *

Lady Anne undressed and went to bed, but Clayton Westmoreland’s presence in the district kept her lying awake for hours. Nor could Whitney sleep. She was dreamily contemplating tomorrow night’s party, when Paul would see her for the first time, elegantly gowned and grown to womanhood.

Three miles away, the objects of both their thoughts were together at Clayton’s temporary home, relaxing over a brandy after a game of cards. Stretching his legs toward the fire, Paul savored the taste of the amber liquid in his glass. “Are you planning to attend the Stone affair tomorrow night?” he asked.

Clayton’s expression was guarded. “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, myself,” Paul chuckled. “Unless Whitney’s done a complete turnabout, it should be an entertaining evening.”

“Unusual name—Whitney,” Clayton remarked with just the right degree of mild curiosity to encourage his guest to continue.

“It’s a family name. Her father was bent on having a boy, as I understand it, and he hung the name on her anyway. He nearly got his wish, too. She could swim like a fish, climb like a monkey, and handle a horse better than any female alive. She showed up in men’s pants one day—another, she set off on a raft saying that she was sailing for America on an adventure.”

“What happened?”

“She came to the end of the pond,” Paul said, grinning. “To give her credit, the chit has—had—a pair of eyes that were something to behold, the greenest green you’ll ever see.” Paul gazed into the fire, smiling with an old memory. “When she left for France four years ago, she asked me to wait for her. First proposal I ever got.”

Dark brows lifted over inscrutable gray eyes. “Did you accept?”

“Hardly!” Paul laughed, taking a long swallow of brandy. “She was barely out of the school room and determined to compete with Elizabeth Ashton. If Elizabeth came down with a case of mumps, Whitney wanted a worse case. God! She was a tangle-haired ruffian. Never conformed to a single rule of propriety in her life.” Paul fell silent, remembering the day she had left for France, when he had brought her the little pendant. But I don’t want to be just your friend, she had pleaded desperately. The smile faded from his face. “For her father’s sake,” he said with feeling, “I hope she’s changed.”

Clayton eyed Sevarin with amusement, but said absolutely nothing.

After his guest had left, Clayton relaxed back in his chair and thoughtfully swirled the brandy in his glass. At best, this masquerade of his was risky, and the more people he came into contact with, the greater his chances of being discovered.

Yesterday, he had received a jolt when he learned that the Emily Archibald he’d been hearing so much about was married to a remote acquaintance of his. That problem had been handled with a five-minute private meeting with Michael Archibald. Not for a moment had the baron believed his explanation about “needing a rest,” Clayton knew, but Michael was too much of a gentleman to pry, and honorable enough to keep Clayton’s identity secret.

Lady Anne Gilbert’s arrival with Whitney today was another unforeseen complication, but according to Martin Stone’s second note of the day, Lady Anne had accepted the explanation that he was here for a rest.

Clayton stood up and dismissed those incidents. If his identity was revealed, he would be deprived of the pleasure of pursuing Whitney as an ordinary country gentleman, but the legal agreement was already signed, and the money accepted by Stone who, from the looks of things, was busily spending as much of it as he could. Therefore, Clayton’s ultimate objective was absolutely secure.

10

* * *

Whitney threw open the windows and inhaled the wonderful fresh country air. While Clarissa helped her into a chic turquoise riding habit, Whitney’s traitorous mind suggested again and again that she pay a morning call on Paul. Each time, she firmly thrust the notion aside. She would ride over and see Emily.

The stable where the horses were kept was situated down a path and off to the left, screened from view of the main house by a tall boxwood hedge. Twenty stalls ran the length of the building on both sides. A wide, overhanging roofline provided shade and protection to the building’s equine occupants. Halfway there, Whitney stopped to let her gaze rove appreciatively over the lovely, familiar landscape.

In the distance a newly whitewashed fence stretched in a broad oval, marking the boundary of the timing track where her grandfather used to test the speed of his horses before deciding which to take to the races. Behind the track, hills rolled gently at first, dotted with oak and sycamore trees, then became steeper, ending in a densely wooded rise along the north

east boundary of the property.

As Whitney approached the stable, she was amazed to see that every stall along this side was occupied. A brass nameplate was bolted to each door, and Whitney stopped at the last stall on the corner, glancing at the name on the plate. “You must be Passing Fancy,” she said to the beautiful bay mare as she stroked her satiny neck. “What a pretty name you have.”

“Still talking to horses, I see,” chuckled a voice behind her.

Whitney swung around, beaming at the ramrod-straight figure of Thomas, her father’s head groom. Thomas had been her girlhood confidant and a sympathetic witness to some of her most infamous outbursts of temper and unhappiness. “I can’t believe how full the stable is,” she said after they had exchanged greetings. “What on earth do we do with all those horses?”

“Exercise them mostly. But don’t stand out there. I’ve something to show you.” Wonderful smells of oil and leather welcomed Whitney as she stepped into the cool stable, blinking to adjust to the dim light. At the end of the corridor, two men were attempting to soothe a magnificent black stallion who was crosstied, while a third tried to trim his hooves. The stallion was a flurry of movement, shaking and tossing his head, rearing the few inches off the ground that the slack in the ropes allowed. “Dangerous Crossing,” announced Thomas proudly. “And a right fitting name for him, too.”

Already Whitney could feel those splendid muscles flexing beneath her. “Is he broken to ride?”

“Sometimes,” Thomas chuckled. “But most of the time he tries to break the rider. Moodiest animal in the world. One day you think he’s ready to give in and start responding, the next he’ll try to rub you off on the fences. Gets himself all worked up over something, and he’ll charge like he’s half bull.” Thomas raised his crop to point to another stall and the frenzied horse tripled his efforts to break free.