Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

Stephen reached out and firmly grasped her elbow. The reaction earned him a surprised look from the young woman, which deepened to astonishment as Stephen gently—but forcibly—drew her back into the entrance foyer. “Clay was delayed and didn’t return yesterday,” Stephen explained with a disarming smile. “So he doesn’t know you intended to call on him today.” Before she could utter a protest, he reached up and politely lifted the aquamarine velvet cape off her shoulders, then he handed it to the butler.

Whitney’s gaze was riveted on the immense marble staircase which swept in a wide graceful half circle, terminating in an arc along the broad balcony above. She remembered how Clayton had carried her up that staircase, and she recalled vividly how brutal his rage could be. Abruptly, she turned toward the door. “Thank you for inviting me to stay, Lord Westmoreland.”

“Stephen,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Stephen,” she said, taken aback when he insisted she use his given name. “But I’ve decided not to wait. If I could have my cape, please?” She looked at the butler, who looked at Stephen, who firmly shook his head, whereupon the butler crossed his arms over his chest and simply pretended not to have heard her request.

“I would like you to stay,” Stephen said, his voice firm, but his smile cordial.

Bewildered laughter crept into Whitney’s voice as she accepted Stephen’s outstretched arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever been made to feel quite so welcome, my lord.”

“Westmorelands are famous for their hospitality,” Stephen lied with a roguish grin as he drew her inexorably toward the salon where his mother was waiting.

At the sight of the duchess seated on one of the settees, Whitney drew back in startled embarrassment.

“My mother and I will both be pleased to have you wait for Clay with us,” Stephen urged gently. “I know he will be delighted to see you, Miss Stone, and that he would never forgive me for letting you go before he returned.”

Whitney halted and stared at him. “Lord Westmoreland,” she began with a hint of a smile touching her soft lips.

“Stephen,” he corrected.

“Stephen—I think you ought to know that there’s every chance your brother won’t be in the least ‘delighted’ to see me.”

“I’ll risk it,” Stephen said with a grin.

Whitney was overawed by the white-and-gold room, but she carefully refrained from gazing at the intricately carved plasterwork on the ceilings and the masterpieces displayed in ornate gold frames along the walls while Stephen led her to his mother.

“Mother, may I present Miss Stone,” Stephen said. “Since Clay did not return last night, he is unaware of Whitney’s intention to call, but I have persuaded her to stay and wait with us until he arrives.”

As Whitney curtsied to the duchess, she heard the emphasis Stephen placed on her first name—which she hadn’t told him—and she saw the duchess’s blank, answering look.

“Are you a friend of my son’s, Miss Stone?” the duchess politely inquired as Whitney took the indicated seat across from her.

“Occasionally we have been friends, your grace,” Whitney replied honestly.

The duchess blinked at the unusual response, studied the jade-green eyes regarding her solemnly from beneath a heavy fringe of dark lashes, then suddenly half rose from her chair, caught herself, and sat back down. Her gaze flew to Stephen, who nodded imperceptibly at her.

Cheerfully ignoring his mother’s apprehensive glances, he relaxed back in his chair and listened while she and Whitney discussed a variety of topics, from Paris fashions to London weather.

After nearly an hour the front door was swung wide and voices drifted in from the entryway. The words were inaudible, but there was no mistaking the soft murmur and throaty laughter of a woman as she answered Clayton. Stephen saw Whitney’s stricken expression as she realized that Clayton was accompanied by a female. Rising quickly, he flashed a sympathetic, encouraging look at her and then carefully placed himself so that he was standing in front of her, blocking her from Clayton’s view to give her time to compose herself.

“I’m sorry we’re late. We were delayed,” Clayton said to his mother as he leaned down and pressed a light kiss on her forehead. Teasingly he added, “I trust you had no trouble finding your rooms without me?” Turning aside, he drew Vanessa forward. “Mother, may I present Vanessa . . .”

Stephen expelled his breath in a rush of relief when Clayton finished. “Standfield.”

Vanessa sank into a deep curtsy before the duchess and when the two ladies had exchanged the proper civilities, Clayton waved a casual arm in Stephen’s direction and laughingly added, “Vanessa, you already know Stephen.” With that he turned back to his mother and bent low, speaking quietly to her.

“A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Standfield,” Stephen said with amused formality.

“For heaven’s sake, Stephen,” Vanessa laughed. “You and I have been on a first-name basis forever.”

Ignoring that, Stephen reached behind him, touched Whitney’s arm, and she rose with quaking reluctance to her feet. “Miss Standfield,” Stephen raised his voice slightly, “may I present Miss Whitney Stone . . .”

Clayton jerked erect and swung around.

“And this stony-faced gentleman,” Stephen continued lightly to Whitney, “is my brother. As you know.”

Whitney actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in Clayton’s eyes as they raked over her. “How is your aunt?” he inquired icily.

Whitney swallowed and replied in a barely audible whisper, “My aunt is very well, thank you. And you?”

Clayton nodded curtly. “As you can see, I have survived our last encounter without scars.”

Vanessa, who apparently recognized Whitney as her rival for Clayton from the Rutherfords’ ball, gave Whitney a faint inclination of her elegantly coiffed head and said with a frosty smile, “Es

terbrook was introduced to you at Lord and Lady Rutherford’s affair, Miss Stone.” She paused as if trying to recall the occasion more clearly. “Yes, I remember that he spoke of you at some length to many of us.”

Realizing that Vanessa was waiting for an answer, Whitney said cautiously, “That was very kind of him.”

“As I recall, what he said was not in the least kind, Miss Stone.”

Whitney stiffened at Vanessa’s unexpected and unprovoked attack, and Stephen waded into the deafening silence. “We can all discuss our mutual acquaintances at supper,” he announced cheerfully, “providing that I can convince my beautiful guest to dine with us.”

Whitney shook her head in a desperate, emphatic no. “I really can’t stay. I—I’m sorry.”

“Ah, but I insist.” He grinned. Arching a brow at his white-faced brother, he said, “We both insist, don’t we?”

To Stephen’s infinite disgust, Clayton didn’t bother to second the invitation. Instead he merely glanced over his shoulder and nodded curtly to the servant hovering in the doorway, indicating that another place should be set at the table. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode to the sideboard where he snatched a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

Stephen seated himself beside Whitney, then looked around to where Clayton stood, his tall frame rigid with anger, his back to them as he poured himself a drink. “Me too, big brother,” he called good-naturedly.

Clayton threw Stephen a look of unwavering distaste and said in a voice of tightly controlled fury, “I am certain, Stephen, that included among your other brilliant talents is the ability to pour your own drink.”

“Correct,” Stephen said serenely, getting up from the settee where he was seated beside Whitney. “Ladies?” he offered. “A glass of wine?”

Vanessa and Whitney both accepted, and the duchess stifled the urge to request a full bottle.