The entire conversation was excessively improper in the presence of ladies and, with great relief, Whitney saw that her aunt was going to intervene at last. “Mr. Merryton,” Aunt Anne said, waiting until she had his full attention. “Would you care to make it £10?”
A shocked silence followed her aunt’s unladylike proposition, and Whitney was grateful when Clayton’s choked laugh made it seem as if it was all in good fun. Aunt Anne then turned to Clayton. “And you, Mr. Westland?” she asked brightly. “Would you care to wager on Lady Standfield being the future Duchess of Claymore?”
Clayton’s lips twitched with amusement. “Certainly not. I have it from an unimpeachable source that Clayton Westmoreland has decided to wed an enchanting brunette he met in Paris.”
Whitney caught the sly, piercing look that Lady Eubank passed over Clayton, then forgot about it when someone else said, “There’s a remarkable similarity in your names, Mr. Westland. Are you by chance related to the duke in some way?”
“We’re closer than brothers,” Clayton answered promptly, with an arch grin to make it seem an outrageous jest. From there, the conversation drifted to inaccurate descriptions of the duke’s lavish estates, to the horses in his famous stables, and inevitably returned to more tales of his mistresses and conquests.
Clayton glanced at his future wife to see how attentively she was listening (and therefore how much further he was sinking in her estimation, by virtue of what she was hearing) and saw Whitney concealing a yawn behind her slender fingertips. Under cover of the group’s boisterous banter, Clayton leaned toward her and teased in a low voice, “Aren’t you concerned about the future Duchess of Claymore, my lady?”
Caught in the act of yawning, Whitney’s gaze flew guiltily to his face. She smiled that slow, unconsciously provocative smile of hers that sent a fresh surge of pure lust flaring through Clayton’s veins, while smoothing the satin skirt of her gown, preparatory to leaving. “Of course I’m concerned about her,” she whispered gravely. “I have the deepest sympathy for anyone who marries that disgusting, dissolute, amoral, lecherous seducer of women!” With that, she turned and headed for the ballroom to instruct the musicians to begin.
* * *
There hadn’t been the slightest opportunity for Paul to speak to Whitney’s father, and with a sinking heart, Whitney watched the hands on the clock lurch toward twelve midnight. During their only dance together, Paul and she had carefully chosen the precise moment of his departure, so that they might snatch a few stolen minutes to say good-bye. Excusing herself, Whitney picked up her skirts and discreetly followed well behind Paul as he strode from the room.
With a shoulder propped against a Gothic pillar, Clayton raised his glass to his lips and watched with a mixture of possessive pride and irritation as Whitney glanced secretively around, then started to follow Sevarin from the room. One of the guests waylaid her, and while Clayton looked on, Sevarin returned to the ballroom and, abandoning all pretense at discretion, took her by the arm and drew her away.
That particular proprietary gesture of Sevarin’s sent a stab of sharp anger through Clayton. Why, he wondered, was he standing here like a damned fool, tolerating the Merryton girl’s flirtatious advances, when his own betrothed was strolling away on another man’s arm? With a sardonic smile, he contemplated the satisfaction he could have by crossing the room in a dozen quick strides and informing Sevarin that he did not like another man’s hands on his betrothed. Then, in a few sentences, he could inform Whitney that his “disgusting, lecherous” attentions were permanently fixed on her and that she should prepare herself to be wed within the week!
He was seriously considering doing exactly that when Amelia Eubank bore down on him. “Margaret,” Amelia barked heartlessly, “stop hanging on Mr. Westland and go attend to your hair.”
Without a trace of sympathy, she watched the young woman blush furiously, then turn and leave. “Nasty chit,” Amelia said, directing her attention to Clayton. “The girl is nothing but malice and spite, held together by a core of viciousness. Her parents spend every penny they can scrimp together to send her to London and keep her in society. They can’t afford it, and she doesn’t belong there. She knows it too, and that makes her envious and mean.”
Realizing that he wasn’t paying any attention to her, Amelia craned her turbaned head in an effort to discover the object of his unwavering interest. Whitney Stone, she noticed with a tiny smile, was just returning to the ballroom, directly in his line of vision. “Well, Claymore,” she said, “if the ‘enchanting brunette’ you’ve decided upon is who I think it is, you’ve taken too long. Her betrothal to Sevarin is to be announced as soon as Sevarin returns.”
The duke’s eyes turned cold and cynical. “Excuse me,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. Putting his glass down, he walked away, leaving Amelia gazing after him with gleeful satisfaction.
Whitney felt Clayton’s light touch at her elbow and turned, her warm smile filled with gratitude. From the moment he’d diverted Uncle Hubert at the beginning of the evening, Clayton had carefully placed himself wherever a conversant, amiable, unattached gentleman was most needed. Without being told, he had recognized her need for help and come to her aid. “You must be exhausted,” he murmured in her ear. “Can’t you slip away and get some sleep now?”
“Yes, I think I will,” Whitney sighed. Nearly all the guests had already departed or retired upstairs for the night, and Aunt Anne seemed perfectly willing and able to function as hostess to those remaining. “Thank you for all your help tonight,” she said as she turned to leave. “I’m very grateful.”
Clayton watched her until she disappeared down the hall, then he strode purposefully toward Martin Stone. “I want a word with you and Lady Gilbert after your guests leave tonight,” he said curtly.
Just climbing the stairs was an effort for Whitney’s tired legs. Once she was in her room, it took ten minutes of struggling with the long row of tiny satin buttons down her back to unfasten her gown. She leaned forward to step out of it, and a shiny object tumbled from the gaping bodice of her chemise.
With infinite tenderness, Whitney picked up the opal ring from the carpet and looked at it. Paul’s ring, given to her as he left tonight. “To remind you that you’re mine,” he had whispered, pressing the ring into her palm.
A wild thrill of excitement shot through her now as she slowly placed the opal ring onto her finger. All the exhaustion she’d felt but a moment before seemed to melt away in a burst of joy.
She hummed softly as she wrapped herself in an oriental dressing gown of red silk and sat down at her dressing table to unpin and brush her hair. With each stroke of her ivory-handled brush through her long hair, the glittering opal seemed to catch fire and sparkle in the mirror. Laying the brush aside, Whitney held her hand out in front of her to better admire her betrothal ring. Her betrothal ring! “Mrs. Paul Sevarin,” she said softly, smiling at the sound of the wonderful words. “Whitney Allison Sevarin.” Something about that tickled her memory, and Whitney said it again, trying to recall . . .
With a joyous laugh, Whitney remembered and hurried over to her bookshelves. Taking down the leather-bound Bible from the shelf, she quickly fanned through the pages, but found nothing. Finally she grasped the book by its covers and turned it upside down, giving it a hard shake. A small scrap of paper, smudged and folded several times, drifted to the floor. Picking it up, Whitney smiled as she began to read:
“I, Whitney Allison Stone, being fifteen years of age and in full possession of my mind and all my faculties (despite what Papa says) do hereby Vow, Swear and Promise that I shall someday manage to make Paul Sevarin marry me. I shall also make Margaret Merryton and everyone else take back every single horrid thing they have said about me. Sworn this day and duly signed by the future Mrs. Paul Sevarin.”
Beneath the signature, she’d written “Whitney Allison Sevarin” and then, apparently carried away by her longing, had practiced the wished-for name at least a dozen more tim
es.
Reading that note after so many years, remembering the despair that had driven her to write it, made her joy at possessing Paul’s ring swell within her until Whitney thought she would burst if she couldn’t show her ring to someone and share her glad tidings.
Going to bed when she felt like this would be hopeless; she was more in the mood for singing and dancing! She had to tell someone, she just had to . . .
Whitney hesitated for a few minutes, and then happily decided to tell her father that Paul was going to offer for her. He would remember how she had chased after Paul years ago, and he would be gratified to know that at last, the villagers would no longer have any reason to ridicule her antics. Now, it was Paul Sevarin who was pursuing her. He wanted to marry her!
Whitney checked her appearance in the mirror, straightened the high mandarin collar of her red dressing robe, tightened the sash around her slender waist, and tossing her glossy hair off her shoulder, marched to her bedchamber door.
Trembling with anticipation and a bit of apprehension, she walked along the hall, her robe rustling behind her. In the aftermath of so much laughter and gaiety there was something almost melancholy about the silence now, but Whitney ignored the feeling as she raised her hand to tap on her father’s door.
“Your father is in his study, Miss.” The footman’s voice echoed hollowly from the darkened entrance foyer below.
“Oh,” Whitney said softly. Perhaps she ought to show her ring to Aunt Anne tonight, and wait until tomorrow to tell her father everything. “Has my aunt retired yet?”
“No, Miss. Lady Gilbert is with your father.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
Whitney hastened downstairs, knocked on the study door, and in response to her father’s call to enter, she swirled into the room, closing the door behind her. Flattening her palms against the thick oaken panel, she leaned against it. Her smiling gaze took in her father, seated behind his desk directly in front of her and, over to her left, Aunt Anne, who was watching her alertly from a wingback chair at right angles to the fireplace. With only the glow from the cheery little fire to illuminate the room, Whitney completely overlooked the shadowy form seated in the wingback chair opposite her aunt’s, with its high back concealing its occupant.
Her father’s voice was faintly slurred but friendly as he splashed brandy into his glass. “Yes, Daughter, what is it?”
Drawing a long, deep breath, Whitney plunged in. “I have something wonderful to tell you, Papa, Aunt Anne, and I’m so happy that you’re here together, so that I can share it with you both at the same time.”
Strolling over to her father, Whitney moved the brandy glass aside and perched a hip on his desk. For a moment she gazed fondly into his glassy-eyed, upturned face, then she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I, Whitney Stone, love you very much, Papa,” she said softly. “And I am deeply sorry for the grief I brought you when I was growing up.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, flushing.
“And,” Whitney continued, getting up and coming around the front of the desk so that she could face her aunt, “I love you too, Aunt Anne, but then you’ve always known that.”
She drew another long, quavering breath, and suddenly the words came tumbling out, gathering excited momentum. “And I also love Paul Sevarin. And Paul loves me and wants to marry me! And, Papa, when he returns, he’s going to ask your permission to do so. I know how— Is something wrong, Aunt Anne?”
Bewildered, Whitney stared at her aunt who had half-risen from her chair and was staring straight ahead with a look of such horrified alarm that Whitney leaned forward and peered into the shadows. She gasped when she saw Clayton Westland sitting there. “I—I beg your pardon! I’m sorry to have interrupted the three of you. As you’ve probably guessed Mr. Westland, I had no idea you were sitting there. But since you are,” Whitney persevered, determined to finish now that she’d begun, “I hope I can depend upon you not to mention my forthcoming betrothal to anyone. You see . . .” The screech of chair legs on the planked floor as her father heaved himself to his feet, checked Whitney in mid-sentence. The fury in his voice brought her whirling around to face him.
“How dare you!” he bellowed. “What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning?” Whitney echoed in bewilderment. Her father was standing with palms flat against the top of his desk, his arms trembling. “Paul Sevarin has asked me to marry him, that’s all.” In defiance of his thunderous glower, which she recalled so well as a child, Whitney added, “And I am going to do it.”
Slowly, distinctly, as if he were addressing an idiot, her father said, “Paul Sevarin hasn’t a pittance to his name! Do you understand me? His lands are mortgaged, and his creditors are hounding him!”
Despite her shock, Whitney managed to make her voice sound calm and reasonable. “I had no idea Paul was pressed for funds, but I can’t see why it should signify one way or another. I have money of my own from my grandmother. And there’s my dowry, besides. And whatever I have will be Paul’s.”
“You have nothing!” her father hissed. “I was in worse straits than Sevarin. The duns were after me. I used your inheritance and dowry to pay them.”
Recoiling as much from the vicious tone of his voice as the words he said, Whitney turned to her aunt, expecting her support. “Then Paul and I will have to live simply, without the luxuries my dowry and inheritance could have provided.”
Aunt Anne just sat there, clutching the arms of her chair.
In helpless confusion, Whitney turned back to her father. “Papa, you should have told me that you were in such trouble! Why, I—I spent a fortune on clothes and jewels and furs before I came home from France. If only I’d—”
It penetrated through the wave of guilt and alarm sweeping over her that there was something amiss in all of this, something that didn’t make any sense. Then it dawned on Whitney what it was. Cautiously, she said, “The stable is filled with new horses. The house and grounds are swarming with more servants than we could possibly need. If you are in such dire circumstances, why are we living in this extravagant manner?”
Her father’s face took on a frightening purple hue. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.
“Surely I have a right to an explanation,” Whitney persisted carefully. “You have just told me that I must marry Paul as a pauper, without dowry, and that my inheritance is gone. If all this is true, how do we manage to live like this?”
“My circumstances improved,” he hissed.
“When?”
“In July.”
Unable to keep the accusation from her voice, Whitney said, “Your circumstances improved in July, yet you aren’t going to replace my inheritance or my dowry?”
His fist crashed against the desktop; his roar reverberated through the room. “I’ll tolerate no more of this farce. You’re betrothed to Clayton Westmoreland. The arrangements have been made. The settlement has already taken place!”
The subtle difference in Clayton’s surname momentarily escaped Whitney’s notice as she groped frantically through the tumult in her mind. “But how—why—when did you do this?”
“In July!” he hissed. “And it’s settled, do you understand? The betrothal contract is signed! It’s final!”
Whitney stared at him through eyes huge with horror and disbelief. “Are you telling me that you did all this before I came home from France? You pledged my dowry and my inheritance to a perfect stranger, without consulting me or considering my feelings?”
“Damn you!” her father hissed between his clenched teeth. “I didn’t have a shilling to spare for a dowry! He made the settlement on me!”
“You must have been a very happy man in July,” Whitney whispered brokenly. “You finally managed to rid yourself of me forever, and this ‘gentleman’ actually paid you for me, and—oh God!” she cried. With sudden, heartbreaking clarity, all the pieces of the bizarre puzzle fell into place, presenting the whole gruesome picture, complete in e
very profane detail.
Closing her eyes against the scalding tears that threatened, she braced her hands on the desk for support. When she opened them, she saw her father through a bleary haze. “He has paid for all of this, hasn’t he? The horses, the servants, the new furniture, the repairs to the house . . .” She choked on her next words. “The things I bought in August in France. What I’m wearing now, he paid for that too, didn’t he?”
“Yes, dammit! I had lost everything. I had sold everything I could.”
A boulder settled where Whitney’s heart had been; cold fury dwelled where there had been love. “And when there was nothing else you could bear to part with, you sold me! You sold me to a perfect stranger for a lifetime!” Whitney stopped, drawing a long, anguished breath. “Father, are you certain you got the best price for me? I hope you didn’t take his first offer. Surely you haggled a little—”
“How dare you!” he thundered, slapping her across the face with a force that nearly sent her to her knees. His hand lifted to strike her again, but the biting wrath in Clayton Westmoreland’s voice checked him in mid-motion. “If you touch her again, Martin, I’ll make this the sorriest day of your life.”
Her father’s face froze, then sagged with defeat as he sank back into his chair. Whitney swung around on her “rescuer,” her voice shaking with fury. “You low, vile snake! What sort of man are you that you have to purchase a wife? What sort of animal are you that you had to buy her without ever having seen her? How much did I cost you?” she demanded.
Despite her haughty stance, Clayton saw that her beautiful eyes, which were hurling scornful daggers at him, were also glittering with unshed tears. “I am not going to answer that,” he said gently.
Whitney’s thoughts circled, looking for some crack in his armor of implacable calm, some spot where she could thrust the blade of her outrage. “You couldn’t have paid much,” she taunted. “The house you live in is no more than modest. Did you squander your entire pitiful fortune on acquiring me? Did my father drive a hard bargain or—”
Whitney, My Love Page 21