Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“Thank you,” Whitney said civilly. Pushing back the wide hood, she unfastened the satin frog closing at her throat, releasing the cape with as much speed as possible. The touch of his hands reminded her of the way he had held and caressed her the day of the picnic, the way he had promised to hold her much closer for far longer as if he were offering a sweet to a child. Conceited ass!

Her father detained her aunt to admire some carved ivory objects adorning a hall table while Clayton showed Whitney to a medium-sized room that apparently served as a combined salon and study.

A fire burned cheerily on the wide hearth, chasing away the night chill and adding its lively glow to the light of the candles in sconces above the mantle. The room was sparsely but rather grandly furnished to suit masculine tastes. One wall was taken up by a long, richly carved oak cabinet which bore a pair of massively splendid sterling silver candelabra, one at each end. The top of the cabinet was inlaid with marble squares, each of which was surrounded by strips of intricately carved wood. In the center stood an enormous sterling tea service unlike any Whitney had ever seen. It was so immense that Sewell, their butler, would never be able to lift it, let alone carry it with dignity. Whitney smiled a little as she visualized the ever-correct Sewell staggering into a room, laboring beneath the weight of the tray.

“Dare I hope that smile denotes a softening in your opinion of me?” Clayton drawled lazily.

Whitney snapped her head around. “I have no opinion of you,” she lied.

“You have a very strong opinion of me, Miss Stone,” he said, chuckling as he seated her in a comfortable wingback chair upholstered in soft burgundy leather. Instead of sitting down across from her in the other wingback chair, the man had the unmitigated gall to perch atop the arm of hers and casually stretch his right arm across the back of it.

“If there is a shortage of comfortable seating, I will be happy to stand,” Whitney said coldly, already starting to rise.

Clayton’s hands caught her shoulders, pressing her back into the chair as he compliantly stood up. “Miss Stone,” he said, grinning, and gazing down into her angry upturned face, “you have the tongue of an adder.”

“Thank you,” Whitney said calmly. “And you have the manners of a barbarian.”

Inexplicably, he threw back his head and shouted with laughter. Still chuckling, he reached down and affectionately rumpled the shining hair atop her head, which brought Whitney surging to her feet, torn between slapping his face and giving him a swift kick in the shin. Her father and aunt found them still standing face to face, Clayton’s expression boldly admiring, while Whitney glared at him in frigid silence.

“Well, I see you two are having a devilish pleasant chat,” her father announced jovially, which made Clayton’s lips twitch and Whitney almost, but not quite, burst out laughing.

Dinner was a feast that would have done credit to a royal chef. Whitney toyed with the delicious lobster in light wine sauce, feeling vastly uncomfortable seated at the opposite end of the table from Clayton, as if she were mistress of his home. He was playing the host tonight with a natural relaxed elegance that Whitney reluctantly admired, and even Lady Anne had unbent completely as she carried on an animated political discussion with him.

During the fifth course, Whitney broke her long-enduring self-imposed silence. Clayton had taunted and goaded her all evening until she finally jumped into the conversation in order to argue in favor of educating females in the same manner as males. “What use is geometry to a woman who will spend her time embroidering handkerchiefs for her husband?” he had challenged.

Whitney accused him of thinking like his grandfather, and he laughingly retaliated by calling her a bluestocking.

“Blasted bluestocking,” Whitney amplified with an amused smile. “It is what gentlemen such as you, who cherish antiquated ideas, call any female whose vocabulary contains more than the three acceptable phrases.”

“And what three phrases would those be?”

“The phrases are ‘yes, my lord’; ‘no, my lord’; and ‘as you wish, my lord.’?” She lifted her chin and said, “I find it sad that most of my sex have been trained from babyhood to sound exactly like witless female butlers.”

“So do I,” Clayton admitted quietly. Before Whitney had recovered from her astonishment, he added, “However, the fact remains that no matter how well-educated a woman is, she will someday have to submit to the authority of her lord and master.”

“I don’t think so,” Whitney said, ignoring her father’s anguished, quelling looks. “And what’s more, I shall never, ever call any man my lord and master.”

“Is that right?” Clayton mocked.

Whitney was about to answer when her father suddenly launched into a monologue on the merits of irrigating farms, which surprised Whitney and visibly annoyed Clayton.

During dessert, Clayton again returned his attention to her. “I was wondering if there is any particular game you would enjoy playing after dinner.” His gray eyes locked onto hers in silent, laughing communication as he added meaningfully, “. . . other than those little ‘games’ you and I have already played together?”

“Yes,” Whitney said, boldly returning his gaze. “Darts.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his features. “If I had any darts, which I don’t, I wouldn’t care to be within your range, Miss Stone.”

“For a mere female, I have an excellent aim, Mr. Westland.”

“Which is why,” he said pointedly, “I would not care to be within your range.” Grinning, Clayton lifted his glass to her in a gesture of salute. Whitney accepted his tribute for their verbal swordplay with an exaggerated nod of condescension, then favored him with an irrepressible sidewise smile.

Clayton watched her, wanting more than anything to thrust his other two dinner guests out the front door and snatch Whitney into his arms, to kiss the laughing mischief from her lips until she was clinging to him, melting with desire. He leaned back in his chair, absently fingering the stem of his wineglass, while he relished the knowledge that tonight he had finally battered down her wall of cold indifference. Just why Whitney had retreated behind it the day of the picnic, and remained aloof and distant until an hour ago, was still a question to which he would someday demand an answer. Darts! he thought with an inward grin. He ought to wring her lovely neck.

After the meal, a servant escorted Martin and Lady Anne from the dining room, but Clayton placed a restraining hand on Whitney’s arm when she started to follow them. “Darts!” he chuckled. “What a bloodthirsty wench you are!”

Whitney, who had been on the verge of smiling back at him, went scarlet. “Your way with words must make you the envy of all your friends,” she flared. “In our brief acquaintance you’ve referred to me first as a hussy and now as a wench. Think what you will of me, but in future, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your opinions to yourself!” Shamed and guilt-stricken because she felt she had earned both names, Whitney tried to pull her arm free, but his hand tightened.

“What the devil are you talking about? Surely, you can’t think I meant an insult with either name?” He saw the flushed, hurt look which she tried to hide by turning her face away. “My God, that is exactly what you think,” he said softly. Putting his hand against her cheek, he forced her to look at him. “I beg your forgiveness, little one. I’ve moved too long in circles where it is fashionable to speak boldly, and where the women are as frank as the men with whom they flirt.”

Although she’d never been exposed to the daringly fast set, evidently he had, and Whitney knew that the women were shockingly outspoken and behaved with wanton abandon, flirting openly, and even taking lovers. Suddenly she felt foolish and unsophisticated. “It isn’t just the names,” she protested defensively. “It’s the day of the picnic, too, and the way you . . .” Her voice faltered when she recalled that she had been a willing participant in the heated kisses they exchanged. “I’ll strike a bargain with you,” she offered after a moment. “You fo

rget everything I’ve done, and I’ll forget what you’ve done, and we’ll start again. Providing, of course, that you give me your solemn word that you won’t try to do what you did to me by the stream.”

His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “If you’re referring to the crop, surely you don’t think—”

“Not that. The other.”

“What? Do you mean kiss you?”

When Whitney nodded, he looked so utterly astounded that she burst out laughing. “Now, don’t tell me I’m the first female you’ve ever met who didn’t want you to kiss her?”

He lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug that dismissed her question. “I admit to being somewhat spoiled by women who seemed to enjoy my . . . attentions. And you,” he added, smashing her momentary sense of triumph, “have been too long surrounded by besotted fools who kiss the hem of your skirts, begging your permission to be your lord and master.”

Whitney’s smile was filled with confident amusement. “I told you, I will never call any man my lord. When I marry, I shall be a good and dutiful wife—but a full partner, not an obedient servant.” In the doorway of the salon, he glanced down at her with an odd combination of humorous skepticism and absolute certainty. “A good and dutiful wife? No, little one, I’m afraid not.”