Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“I have a home there too, Paul. In some ways, more of a home than I have here.” He looked so upset that Whitney felt guilty, yet all he had to do to prevent her from going to France was propose, and he knew it.

“But your father is here,” he argued. “I’m here. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Of course it does,” Whitney whispered, looking away so he’d not see just how much it did mean. Why couldn’t he, why didn’t he, simply say “Marry me,” she wondered. Turning her back on him, she pretended to admire a scarlet rose.

“You can’t leave,” he said in a strained voice. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Whitney’s heart stopped beating, then began hammering wildly. She wanted to hurl herself into his arms, but it was too soon; his declaration was lukewarm, inconclusive. She took a step down the path and smiled flirtatiously over her shoulder. “I hope you’ll write and let me know—when you decide for certain.”

“Oh no, you don’t!” Paul laughed, capturing her arm and drawing her back. “Now, Miss Stone, do you, or do you not, love me?”

Whitney stifled her wild avowal of eternal love. “I think I do,” she said, twinkling.

Instead of pursuing the issue, as she expected, Paul abruptly dropped her arm, his expression turning remote, shuttered. “I have some things to do this afternoon,” he said coolly.

He was going to leave, she realized in shocked despair. She had the most horrible, humiliating feeling that he had seen through her ploy, that he knew she was trying to manipulate him, to force him.

They walked to the front of the house where his sleek new carriage waited on the circular drive below. Paul stayed only long enough to press a brief, formal kiss on her fingertips, then he turned and started to leave. One step away, he turned back again. “Exactly how much competition do I have, besides Westland?” he demanded.

Whitney’s spirits soared crazily. “How much would you like?” she smiled.

His eyes narrowed; he opened his mouth to speak then changed his mind, turned on his heel, and left.

Whitney’s smile faded. In tortured misery, she watched him bounding down the steps, her heart beating a funeral dirge in time to each long stride he took. She had forced him to reveal his intentions, and now she knew what they were. He intended to have a light, meaningless flirtation with her, and nothing more. He hadn’t wanted her before she went away, and he didn’t want her now.

Beside his carriage, Paul paused, reached to take the reins from the groom, then paused again. He stood motionless, his back to her, and as Whitney watched him, she began uttering feverish, pleading, disjointed prayers.

In tense silence, afraid to hope and unable not to, she watched Paul slowly turn and gaze up at her . . . and then begin retracing his steps. By the time he was near enough for Whitney to see his face, her knees were quaking so badly that she could scarcely stand.

“Miss Stone,” he said in a laughter-tinged voice, “it has just occurred to me that I have only two choices where you are concerned. I can either avoid all future contact with you, and thus put an end to my torment—or I can marry you in order to prolong it.”

Gazing into his teasing blue eyes, Whitney realized he had already made his choice. She tried to smile at him, but she was so relieved that her voice filled with tears. “You know you would never be able to forgive yourself if you took the coward’s way out.”

Paul burst out laughing and opened his arms, and Whitney collapsed against him, laughing and crying at the same time. She pressed her cheek against the steady, rhythmic thudding of his heart, revelling in the feel of his strong arms holding her tightly, possessively to him.

She felt as if she were encased in a golden haze of security, for Paul had just given her a gift as priceless as his love, and she was so grateful to him that she could have sunk to her knees and wept with gratitude: Paul loved her, he wanted to marry her—and that was proof, real, incontrovertible proof, that she had really changed in France. She wasn’t just a polished counterfeit dressed in the height of fashion and masquerading as a young lady of refinement, as she had often feared. She wasn’t a hopeless misfit anymore. She was real. She was worthy. The villagers would no longer snigger about the fool she had made of herself over Paul Sevarin; they would smile now and say Mr. Sevarin had always liked her, they would say he’d merely been biding his time, waiting for her to grow up. She could live here among the people she had always wanted to like her. She had redeemed herself in their eyes, and in her father’s too. She was so relieved that she felt like sobbing.

“Let’s find your father,” Paul said.

Whitney lifted her head and stared at him in happy incomprehension. “Why?”

“Because I would like to get the formalities over with and I can hardly ask your aunt for your hand in marriage. Not,” he added ruefully, “that I wouldn’t prefer to do it that way if I could.”

* * *

“Sewell, where is my father?” Whitney said anxiously as they stepped into the house.

“On his way to London, Miss,” the butler replied. “He left a half hour ago.”

“London?” Whitney gasped. “But I thought he wasn’t planning to leave until tomorrow? Why did he leave today instead? Is he returning any sooner?”

Sewell, who always knew everything, claimed to know nothing. Whitney watched him pad away down the hall, his long coattails flapping, and felt like the sun had just set on her happiness.

Paul looked like a man who had braced himself to face an unpleasant confrontation and having been granted a temporary reprieve, didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed that he couldn’t get it over with. “When is he coming back?”

“Not for five whole days,” Whitney said, her slender shoulders drooping. “Just in time for a surprise party in honor of his birthday.” She groaned in dismay. “The cards have already been sent to those of my relatives who have distance to travel. Unless he returns earlier in the afternoon than we expect, you won’t be able to speak to him until the following day. Sunday, after church?” she ventured, brightening a little.

Paul slowly shook his head, deep in thought. “I want to settle the deal on a matched pair of Ainsleys—two splendid purebreds, you’ll love them. And if I’m going to have enough time to reach the auction at Hampton Park, I’ve got to leave on Saturday, the day your father returns.”

Whitney tried not to sound as disappointed as she felt. “How long will you be gone?”

“Less than a fortnight—nine or ten days, no more.”

“That seems like forever.”

Paul took her in his arms. “To prove how honorable my intentions are, I’ll be on hand all day Saturday, in case your father should return early enough for me to speak to him. That’s only five days away. And,” he added, chuckling at her desolate look, “I’ll even delay my departure so that I can spend a few hours at his birthday party—assuming that you intended to invite me?”

Whitney nodded, smiling.

“Then, if there isn’t an opportunity to speak with him during his party, and I rather doubt there will be, you can tell him after the party that I’m going to pay the formal call as soon as I return. Now”—he grinned—“does that sound like a man who wants to escape wedlock?”

After Paul left, Whitney deliberated over telling Aunt Anne the news and tentatively decided against it. She wanted to clasp her joy to herself for now, and she felt a superstitious fear of telling anyone of her forthcoming betrothal to Paul before Paul himself had actually asked for her hand. Besides, her father would undoubtedly return early enough on Saturday for Paul to speak with him. Then they could announce their betrothal at the birthday party that very night.

Feeling vastly cheered by the thought, Whitney went into the house to join her aunt for lunch.

* * *

As was his habit, Clayton was perusing the mail while he ate his lunch. In addition to the usual business correspondence and invitations, there were letters from his mother and brother. Clayton grinned,

thinking of the surprise in store for his mother when she learned that he was finally going to marry and provide her with the grandchildren she’d been plaguing him to give her. He would give her about six of them, he decided with a silent chuckle, and he hoped they would all have Whitney’s green eyes.

He was still smiling as he initialed the ticket from the London jeweler for the emerald pendant Whitney had worn the night of her homecoming party.

Laying that aside, he began reading a long missive from his secretary requesting instructions on how to proceed on matters as diverse as the pensioning off of an old family retainer, to the divestiture of a large block of shares in a shipping company. Beneath each inquiry, Clayton wrote precise, detailed instructions.

In the doorway, the butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Stone is here to see you, your grace,” he explained when Clayton looked up. “Naturally, I informed him that you were dining, but the man insists his reason for calling is extremely urgent and cannot wait.”