“Whoa! Easy now. Easy,” gasped one of the struggling stableboys. “Master Thomas, could you put that crop behind you?”
Quickly tucking the crop behind him with an apologetic look at the sweating stableboy, Thomas explained to Whitney, “This animal hates the sight of the crop. George there tried to back him off a fence with it last week and nearly ended up making the acquaintance of his Creator. Never mind the stallion, I’ve got something else to show you.” Thomas steered Whitney toward the opposite entrance to the stable where another stable boy was leading—or being led by—a magnificent chestnut gelding with four snowy white feet.
“Khan?” Whitney whispered. Before Thomas could answer, the chestnut nuzzled her at the hip, looking for the pocket where she used to hide his treats when he was a colt. “Why you beggar!” she laughed. She smiled over her shoulder at Thomas. “How does he go? He was much too little to saddle when I left.”
“Why don’t you try him out and see for yourself?”
Whitney needed no more encouragement. With her crop clenched between her teeth, she reached up to tighten the turquoise ribbon that held her hair at the nape. Dangerous Crossing lunged backward, kicking out at the men, creating a furor. “Hide the crop!” Thomas warned sharply, and Whitney quickly complied.
Khan pranced sideways with anticipation as he was led outdoors. Thomas gave Whitney a leg up, and she landed gracefully in the sidesaddle. Turning Khan toward the open gate, she said, “I’m a little out of practice. If he comes back without me, I’ll be between here and Lady Archibald’s father’s house.”
As Khan trotted up the drive to Emily’s house, a curtain shifted at a wide bow window. A moment later the front door opened, and Emily came flying outside. “Whitney!” she cried joyously, flinging her arms around her and returning Whitney’s hug. “Oh Whitney, let me see you.” Laughing, Emily backed up, still clasping both Whitney’s hands in hers. “You’re absolutely beautiful!”
“You’re the one who looks wonderful,” Whitney said, admiring Emily’s light brown hair cut fashionably short and threaded with a ribbon.
“That’s because I’m happy, not because I’m beautiful,” Emily argued.
Arm in arm the girls strolled into the drawing room. A slender, sandy-haired man in his late twenties stood up, his hazel eyes smiling as Emily breathlessly began the introduction. “Whitney, may I present my husband—”
“Michael Archibald,” he finished before his wife put the barrier of his title in Whitney’s way. It was a simple, unaffected gesture of open friendliness, and Whitney appreciated the subtle thoughtfulness, as did his beaming wife.
Shortly thereafter, he excused himself and left the girls to talk, an activity in which they engaged eagerly for two hours.
“Paul was here this morning,” Emily said as Whitney reluctantly rose to leave. “He came over to speak to my father about something.” A guilty smile flitted over Emily’s pretty features. “I . . . well . . . I didn’t think it would hurt if I—very casually, you understand—repeated some of the things Monsieur DuVille had mentioned about how popular you are in France. Although,” Emily added as her smile vanished, “I’m not sure Monsieur DuVille did you a favor talking about you like that in front of Margaret Merryton. He flayed her alive with tales of your conquests, and now she hates you even more than she ever did.”
“Why?” Whitney asked as they walked down the front hall.
“Why has she always hated you? I suppose because you were the wealthiest of all of us. Although, now that she’s preoccupied with your new neighbor, maybe she’ll be nice for a change, instead of so hateful.” At Whitney’s puzzled look, Emily explained. “Mr. Westland, your new neighbor. From what Elizabeth was telling me yesterday, Margaret considers him her exclusive property.”
“How is Elizabeth?” Whitney asked, forgetting about Margaret entirely at the mention of her rival for Paul’s love.
“As pretty and sweet as ever. And you may as well know that Paul escorts her practically everywhere.”
Whitney thought about that as she galloped diagonally across an unplanted field belonging to Emily’s father. Elizabeth Ashton had always been everything Whitney wanted to be—ladylike, demure, blond, petite, and sweet.
The wind tore at her hair, tugging it loose from the velvet ribbon, tossing it wildly about. Beneath her, Whitney could feel Khan gathering and flexing gracefully as he flew over the ground with amazing speed. Regretfully, she eased him back into a canter, slowing him to a walk as they entered the woods to follow a path that existed now only in Whitney’s memory. Rabbits scampered in the underbrush, and squirrels darted up the trees as they wound their way through the dense growth. A few minutes later, they crested the hill, and Whitney guided Khan carefully down the steep slope where a small meadow was bordered by a wide brook that ran through the northern section of her father’s property.
Dismounting, Whitney looped Khan’s reins around a sturdy oak, waited a minute to be certain that he would stand quietly, then patted his sleek neck and struck out across the meadow toward the stream. As she walked, she stopped now and then to gaze around her with older, more appreciative eyes, and to savor the scent of late summer wildflowers and fresh clover. She did not, however, look up and over her shoulder, and so she didn’t notice the solitary horseman who was motionless atop a great sorrel stallion, watching every step she took.
Clayton grinned when Whitney stripped off her turquoise jacket and slung it jauntily over her right shoulder. Free of all the restrictions of Parisian society, her walk was an easy, swinging gait that was both lively and seductive, sending her luxuriant mane of hair swaying to and fro as she strolled toward the stream. She sauntered up a gentle knoll that sloped toward the water’s edge. Seating herself beneath an ancient, gnarled sycamore standing sentinel atop the knoll, she pulled off her riding boots, peeled her stockings down, and tossed them over by the boots.
His horse moved restlessly beneath him while Clayton debated whether or not to approach his quarry. When she hitched her skirts up and waded into the stream, he chuckled and made his decision. Angling his horse back into the trees, he descended through the woods toward the meadow below.
Wading in this stream, Whitney quickly decided, was not quite as enjoyable as she remembered it. For one thing, the water was freezing cold, and beneath her feet the rocks were sharp and slippery. Gingerly, she waded back to the bank, then stretched out on the grass. Her hair tumbled to the sides, floating on the water’s rippling surface as she lay propped up on her elbows, her chin cupped in her hands, lazily raising and lowering her wet calves, letting the breeze dry them. She was watching the minnows darting in the shallows and trying to imagine the moment when Paul would see her for the first time tonight, when a slight movement near the sycamore tree to her left drew her attention.
From the corner of her eye, Whitney glimpsed a pair of expensive brown riding boots polished to a mirror shine. She froze, then rolled over and quickly raised herself to a sitting position, drawing her knees up against her chest, hastily tugging her sodden skirts down around her bare ankles.
The man was standing with one shoulder negligently propped against the sycamore tree, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Fishing?” he inquired, as his gaze roamed over every warm curve of her body, lingered momentarily on her bare toes peeping out from beneath the wet hem of her riding skirts, then moved upward in a leisurely inspection of her feminine assets that left Whitney feeling as if she’d just been stripped of all her clothing.
“Spying?” she countered coldly.
He didn’t deign to reply, but looked at her in ill-concealed amusement. Whitney lifted her chin and haughtily returned his gaze. He was very tall, easily 6 feet 2 inches, lean and superbly fit. His jaw was firm and well carved, his nose straight. The breeze lightly ruffled his hair which was a thick, coffee-brown. Beneath dark brows, his gray eyes observed her with frank interest. His clean-shaven face was very handsome—Whitney allowed him that—but there was an aggressive viri
lity in his bold gaze, and an uncompromising authority, an arrogance, in the set of his jaw, that was not at all to Whitney’s liking.
“No, I was trying to be alone, Mr. . . . ?”
“Westland,” he provided, his gaze dipping to touch the rounded fullness of her breasts where they pressed against her sheer white shirt.
Whitney crossed her arms protectively over her bosom, and his smile widened knowingly. “Mr. Westland!” she snapped angrily, “your sense of direction must be nearly as poor as your manners!”
Her tart reprimand only seemed to push him nearer the brink of outright laughter. “Really, why is that, Ma’am?”
“Because you are trespassing,” Whitney said. When he still showed no inclination to leave or apologize, Whitney knew she would have to be the one to go. Gritting her teeth, she glanced disgustedly toward her stockings and boots.
He straightened from his lounging position and stepped over to her, extending his hand. “May I help you?” he offered.
“You certainly may help me,” Whitney replied, her smile deliberately cold and ungracious. “Get on your horse and go away.”
Something flickered in his gray eyes, but his smile remained, and his hand was still outstretched. “Here is my hand, take it.” Whitney ignored it and rose to her feet unassisted. It was impossible to put on her stockings without exposing her legs to the man who was leaning against the tree watching her, so she pulled on her boots and stuffed the stockings in her jacket pocket.
Walking quickly over to Khan, she picked up her crop and, stepping onto a fallen stump, hoisted herself into the saddle. His horse, a beautifully muscled sorrel, was tied beside her. She turned Khan in a tight circle, urging him into a lunging gallop around the woods.
“A pleasure meeting you again, Miss Stone,” Clayton chuckled aloud. “You little hellcat,” he added appreciatively.
Once out of sight, Whitney slowed Khan to a loping canter. She could hardly believe Mr. Westland was the neighbor her father held in such high esteem. She grimaced, recalling that he was invited to her party tonight. Why, the man was insufferably rude, outrageously bold, and infuriatingly arrogant! How could her father like him?
She was still wondering about that when she wandered into the sewing room and sat down beside her aunt. “You will never guess who I have just met,” she was telling her aunt when Sewell, the old family butler, circumspectly cleared his throat and announced, “Lady Amelia Eubank asks to see you.”
Whitney blanched. “Me? Dear God, why?”
“Show Lady Eubank into the rose salon, Sewell,” Lady Anne said, curiously studying Whitney, who was looking wildly around the room for a place to hide. “What on earth has you looking so alarmed, darling?”
“You just don’t know her, Aunt Anne. When I was little she used to shout at me not to chomp my nails.”
“Well, at least she cared enough about you to want to correct you, which is more than I can say of anyone else here.”
“But we were in church,” Whitney cried desperately.
Anne’s smile was sympathetic but firm. “I’ll admit she’s a trifle deaf and very outspoken. But four years ago, when all your neighbors came to see me, Lady Eubank was the only person who had a kind word to say about you. She said you had spunk. And she has a great deal of influence with everyone else hereabouts.”
“That’s because they’re all frightened to death of her,” Whitney sighed.
When Lady Anne and Whitney walked into the salon, the dowager Lady Eubank was examining the workmanship of a porcelain pheasant. Grimacing to show her distaste, she replaced the object atop the mantle and said to Whitney, “That atrocity must be to your father’s liking. Your mother wouldn’t have had it in her house.”
Whitney opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of a reply. Lady Eubank groped for the monocle dangling from a black ribbon over her ample bosom, raised it to her eye and scrutinized Whitney from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. “Well, miss, what have you to say for yourself?” she demanded.
Fighting down the childish urge to wring her hands, Whitney said formally, “I am delighted to see you again after so many years, my lady.”
“Rubbish!” said the dowager. “Do you still chomp your nails?”
Whitney almost, but not quite, rolled her eyes. “No, actually, I don’t.”
“Good. You have a fine figure, nice face. Now, to get down to the reason for my visit. Do you still mean to get Sevarin?”
“Do I—I what?”
“Young woman, I am the one who’s supposed to be deaf. Now do you, or do you not, mean to get Sevarin?”
Whitney frantically considered and cast aside half a dozen responses. She glanced beseechingly at her aunt, who gave her a helpless, laughing look. Finally, she clasped her hands behind her back and regarded her tormentor directly. “Yes. If I can.”
“Ha! Thought so!” said the dowager happily, then her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t given to blushing and simpering, are you? Because if you are, you may as well go back to France. Miss Elizabeth has tried that for years, and she’s yet to snare Sevarin. You take my advice, and give that young man some competition! Competition is what he needs—he’s too sure of himself with the ladies and always has been.” She turned to Lady Anne. “For fifteen years, I have listened to my tiresome neighbors foretelling a dire future for your niece, Madam, but I always believed there was hope for her. Now,” she said with a complacent smirk, “I intend to sit back and laugh myself into fits watching her snap Sevarin up right in front of their eyes.” Raising her monacle to her eye, she gave Whitney a final inspection, then nodded abruptly. “Do Not Fail Me, Miss.”
In amazed disbelief Whitney stared at the empty doorway through which the dowager had just passed. “I think she’s a little mad.”
“I think she’s as wily as a fox,” Lady Anne replied with a faint smile. “And I think you’d be wise to take her advice to heart.”
* * *
Trancelike, Whitney sat before her dressing table mirror, watching Clarissa deftly twist her heavy hair into elaborate curls entwined with a rope of diamonds—her last, and most extravagant purchase made with the money her father sent her to spend in Paris. As Clarissa teased soft tendrils over her ears, the night breeze wafted the curtains, raising bumps on Whitney’s arms. Tonight was going to be unseasonably cool, which suited Whitney perfectly, for the gown she wanted to wear was of velvet.
As the gown was being fastened up the back, Whitney heard the sound of carriages making their way along the drive, the echo of muted laughter, distant but distinct, drifting through the open windows. Were they laughing as they recounted her old antics? Was that Margaret Merryton or one of the other girls, sniggering about the shameful way she used to behave?
Whitney didn’t notice when Clarissa finished and quietly left the room. She felt cold all over, frightened, and more painfully unsure of herself than ever before in her life. Tonight was the night she had been practicing for and dreaming of all these years in France.
She wandered over to the windows, wondering distractedly what Elizabeth would wear tonight. Something pastel, no doubt. And demurely fetching. Parting the ivory and gold curtains, she stared down, watching the carriage lamps twinkling as they approached along the sweeping drive. One after another, in amazing numbers, they rolled to a stop at the steps. Her father must have invited half the countryside, she thought nervously. And of course, they had all accepted his invitation. They would all be eager to look her over, to search for some flaw, some sign of the unruly girl she’d been before.
Two steps into Whitney’s room, Anne came to an abrupt halt, a slow, beaming smile working its way across her face. In profile, Whitney’s finely sculpted features looked too lovely to be real. Anne took in everything, from the shadows of thick lashes on glowing magnolia skin, to the diamonds glittering amidst her shiny mahogany curls and peeping from beneath the soft tendrils at her ears. Her curvacious form was draped in an emerald-green velvet gown with a high waist. T
he bodice was molded firmly to her breasts, exposing a daring amount of flesh above the square neckline. As if to atone for the gown’s immodest display of bosom, the sleeves were fitted tubes of emerald velvet which did not allow so much as a glimpse of skin from shoulder to wrist, where they ended in deep points at the tops of her hands. Like the front, the back of the gown was elegant in its simplicity, falling in velvet folds.
A carriage drew up below, and Whitney watched a tall blond man bound down and offer his hand to a beautiful blond girl. Paul had arrived. And he had come with Elizabeth. Jerking away from the window, Whitney saw her aunt and visibly jumped.
“You look positively breathtaking!” Lady Anne whispered.
“Do you really like it—the dress, I mean?” Whitney’s voice was raspy and tight with mounting tension.
“Like it?” Anne laughed. “Darling, it’s you! Daring and elegant and special.” She extended her hand from which dangled a magnificent emerald pendant. “Your father asked me this morning what color your gown was, and he just brought me this to give to you. It was your mother’s,” Anne added when Whitney stared at the glittering jewel.
The emerald was easily an inch square, flanked by a row of glittering diamonds on all four sides. It was not her mother’s; Whitney had spent hours, long ago, lovingly touching all the little treasures and trinkets in her mother’s jewel case. But she was too nervous to argue the point. She stood rigidly still while her aunt fastened the pendant.
“Perfect!” Anne exclaimed with pleasure, studying the effect of the glowing jewel nestling in the hollow between Whitney’s breasts. Linking her arm through Whitney’s, Anne took a step forward. “Come, darling—it’s time for your second official debut.” Whitney wished with all her heart that Nicolas DuVille were here to help her through this debut, too.
Her father was pacing impatiently at the foot of the stairs, waiting to escort her into the ballroom. When he saw her coming down the steps toward him, he halted in mid-stride, and the stunned admiration on his face bolstered Whitney’s faltering confidence.
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