Whitney, My Love

Chapter Twelve

THE MORNING OF THE PICNIC DAWNED BRILLIANT BLUE, WITH A fresh cool breeze that carried the scent of fall.

Whitney bathed and washed her hair, then debated what to wear. Paul would undoubtedly call for her in the carriage, but Whitney had a deep yearning to ride beside him on horseback, as they occasionally had in years past. Her mind made up, she snatched a buttercup-yellow riding habit from the wardrobe.

She was ready when she heard Paul's carriage coming to a stop directly below her open bedroom window, but she made herself pace the length of her room ten times before she hurried out into the hallway and across the balcony.

Paul watched her coming down the stairs, a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her jaunty yellow riding habit and the yellow-and-white dotted silk shirt that peeked from beneath her open jacket. Around her neck she had tied a matching dotted scarf, knotting ft on the side, with the ends flipped over her right shoulder. "How can you look so lovely so early?" he asked, taking both her hands in his as she stepped onto the polished foyer floor.

Whitney suppressed the urge to fling herself into his arms and smiled up at him instead. "Good morning," she said softly. "Shall we ride, rather than take the carriage? The stable is filled with horses, and you may have year choice."

"I'm afraid you'll have to ride over without me. I'll need the carriage to escort those females who seem to live in constant terror of falling from a horse." He inclined his head toward a dark shadow near the front door. "Clayton will ride with you and show you where we'll be."

Whitney panicked at the lump of disappointment and alarm swelling in her throat. She couldn't believe Paul was doing this. Since he'd invited her, and since the picnic was in her honor, his first obligation was to escort her there. Besides, only one of the girls in the neighborhood was afraid of horses-Elizabeth Ashton. She had a terrible feeling that appointing Clayton Westland as her substitute escort was Paul's way of demonstrating to her that he would not play the part of jealous suitor. Last night he had realised that she was trying to make him jealous, and this morning he was showing her that it hadn't worked.

With a sublime effort, Whitney forced herself to shrug lightly and smile. "You'll miss a lovely ride then. It's much too fine a day to be cooped up in a carriage."

"Clayton will show you the place," Paul repeated, studying her composed features. Drily, he added, "1 gather that you two know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?"

Whitney dragged her gaze toward the tall figure lounging in the doorway, and gritted her teeth to hide her loathing.

"I'm sure your father won't object if Clayton rides one of your horses," Paul said, already starting to leave.

Outside on the fourth step, he turned. "Take good care of my girl," he called to Clayton, and then he was gone, leaving Whitney slightly pacified and thoroughly mystified at being first cavalierly handed over into Clayton's custody, and then called "my girl."

Her bemused thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice she despised saying a quiet, "Good morning." Resentfully, Whitney snapped her attention to Clayton, who was still standing in the doorway. Biting back three nasty responses to his simple greeting, she passed a disdainful glance over his immaculate white shirt, which was open at the collar, his gray riding breeches, and his gleaming black boots. "Can you ride?" she asked icily.

"Good morning," he repeated with calm emphasis, still smiling at her.

Whitney clamped her mouth shut and brushed past him into the brilliant sunlight, leaving him to follow her or stay in the house, she didn't care which.

As she marched down the path leading around the back of the house toward the stable, he remained a pace behind her, but halfway there, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Smiling down at her, he said, "Do you treat every gentleman who steals a kiss from you with such animosity-or only me?"

Whitney looked at him with withering scorn. "Mr. West-land, in the first place, you are no 'gentleman.' In the second, I don't like you. Now, please get out of my way."

He remained there, studying her stormy face in thoughtful silence. "Kindly move out of the way and let me pass," Whitney repeated.

"If you will keep still long enough to allow me to do it, I would like to apologize for last night," he said calmly. "I can't remember the last time I apologized for anything, so I may be a bit awkward about it."

What an arrogant, conceited beast he was to think he could take liberties with her and then placate her with a few lukewarm words of apology. By telling her to "keep still" he completely banished Whitney's momentary inclination to hear him out anyway, and get it over with. "I won't accept any apology from you, awkward or otherwise. Now get out of my way!"

His face darkened with annoyance, and Whitney could almost feel his struggle to hold his temper in check. She glanced toward the stable to see if anyone would be within hearing if she needed help. Thomas was there, trying to hold a furious Dangerous Crossing who was lurching and trying to rear.

And revenge took the shape of a fiery black stallion.

The smile Whitney turned upon the angry man before her was dazzling and genuine. "My manners have not been entirely beyond reproach either," Whitney said, trying desperately to look ruefully apologetic when she felt like laughing. "If you wish to apologize, I shall be most willing to accept it." Instantly, he looked suspicious, so Whitney prodded, "Or have you changed your mind?"

"I haven't changed my mind," he said quietly. Putting his hand beneath her chin, he tipped it up and said, "I am truly sorry if I frightened you last night. It was never my intention to hurt you, and I would like for us to be friends."

Whitney resisted the urge to slap his hand away and appeared to consider his offer. "If we're going to be friends, we should have something in common, should we not? I particularly love to ride. Are you an adequate horseman?"

"Adequate," he confirmed, subjecting her to a cool, appraising look.

Eager to be free of his scrutiny, Whitney pulled away and started down the path toward the stable. "I'll see to a horse for you," she called over her shoulder. Clayton Westland was going to have to ride that stallion, or else admit he was afraid to try it. Either way, his monstrous ego was going to take a beating, and Whitney felt he deserved every bit of what was in store for him.

By the time she reached Thomas, she was breathless from running. She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, saw that Clayton was less than five paces behind her, and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. "Have Dangerous Crossing saddled immediately, Thomas. Mr. Westland insists on riding him."

"What?" Thomas gasped, staring at Westland. "Are you certain?"

"Positive!" Whitney said, laughing silently as Thomas turned and walked into the stable. Feeling extremely pleased with herself, Whitney clasped her hands behind her back and strolled over to the white corral fence to stand beside Clayton, "I've arranged for you to ride our very finest horse," she told him.

Clayton studied her bright smile, but his attention was diverted by the sound of a scuffle from within the stable. Two violent oaths from a groom were followed by a yowl of pain, and Dangerous Crossing erupted into the enclosure, flinging one groom against the fence, then kicking savagely at the other.

"Isn't he wonderful?" Whitney rhapsodized, casting a mirthful sideways glance at her intended victim. At that moment, the horse changed direction, charging for the rail where they stood, then swung around. Whitney jumped back just as his rear feet punched out, exploding against the fence like the crack of a cannon. With a tremor in her voice, she explained, "He's … ah … very spirited."

"So I see," Clayton agreed, shifting his impassive gaze from the nervous, sweating stallion to Whitney.

"If you're afraid to ride the stallion, simply say so," Whitney generously suggested. "I'm sure we can find you a more suitable mount. . . like Sugar Plum." Fighting back her laughter, she nodded sweetly toward the old brood mare who was nibbling contentedly at grass, her belly hanging down, and her backbone sticking up. Clayton followed her gaze, and a look of cold revulsion crossed his features. Instantly, Whitney decided it would be much more satisfying if Clayton Westland had to jog up to the picnickers on the ancient mare. "Thomas!" Whitney called, "Mr. Westland has decided to ride Sugar Plum instead, so-"

"The stallion will do," Clayton snapped at Thomas, then he swung his icy gaze on Whitney.

Defensively, she said, "Why don't you just tell me where the picnic is, and I'll go on ahead."

"I have no intention of doing that, nor do I intend to gratify your wish to see me lying on the ground under the stallion's hooves." Jerking his head toward Khan, who was being led out of the stable, he said curtly, "Get on your horse and keep him at the rail out of my way. I'm going to have enough on my hands without having to worry about you."

His arrogant assumption that he could ride the stallion wiped out Whitney's momentary trace of guilt. She mounted Khan and guided him to the rail at the far end of the enclosure. Transferring Khan's reins to her teeth, she reached

up behind her neck, gathered her hair into a fist at her nape and then tugged her scarf loose, using it to tie her hair back.

Grooms and stablekeeps and three gardeners hurried to the enclosure, positioning themselves along the fence for the best view. Thomas and two grooms held the stallion's head while Clayton ran his hand along the horse's sleek neck, speaking quietly to him. The remembered feel of that same hand fondling her breast made Whitney flush with anger.

Clayton put his foot in the stirrup, then eased up and over, settling slowly, carefully into the saddle, avoiding any sudden movement that might add to the stallion's alarm. In spite of his caution, Dangerous Crossing snorted and jerked wildly at the men holding him. The last man who had used that particular saddle was shorter than Clayton and, for a moment, it looked to Whitney as if Crossing were going to rid himself of his unwelcome burden while the stirrup leathers were being lengthened.

Whitney laughed at the way the stallion was turning and twisting about. At any second, she expected Clayton to give up and dismount. Instead he gathered the reins and the grooms turned the stallion loose, then leapt out of the way.

All Clayton's attention was concentrated on the nervous, sweating stallion beneath him. "Easy now," he soothed, loosening the reins very slightly. Dangerous Crossing jerked his head furiously, trying to get the bit between his teeth as he danced sideways across the enclosure, threatening first to rear and then trying to get his head down to buck. "Easy now . . . Easy . . ." The voice calmed the horse's ragged nerves; the light contact on his reins held him firmly but not harshly under control.

Whitney watched in wide-eyed astonishment as the stallion fretted a bit and then smoothed out, easing into a flashy trot across the length of the enclosure. The stallion's ears were forward, and he looked as if he were almost enjoying himself, proud to be bearing the burden of the tall man atop him- until Clayton brushed the stallion's flank with the crop, signaling for a canter. Instantly Crossing jerked his head, bunching his hindquarters to buck.

"It's the crop, sir," Thomas called happily. "Drop it- that's all that's worrying him now."

For the moment, Whitney dismissed her grievances against the man. She was too She a horsewoman herself to pretend to be unimpressed by what she had just witnessed. Clayton's expert handling of Dangerous Crossing filled her with admiring respect, and she made no effort to conceal it as the stallion trotted toward her. Her mouth curved into a smile as she started to pay him the tribute he deserved-only to have Clayton slap the crop into her outstretched hand and snap, "Sorry to disappoint you. Find someone else to play your nursery games with next time."

"You monster!" Whitney hissed, raising her arm; the crop sliced the air, missed Clayton's shoulder, and bit into the stallion's flank. Raging and violent, the stallion threw himself into the air, broke for the fence as if be were going to crash through it, and at the last possible moment, leapt it instead with the bit in his teeth-completely out of control.

"Oh dear God," Whitney whispered, watching horse and rider tearing across the rolling landscape. In belated shame, she looked away. The silent punishment she was heaping on herself for her childish attempt at vengeance was reinforced by Thomas, who flung himself across the corral, his face purple with fury. "Is this what you learned in France-to bring injury to strangers! Is it?" he roared. "No one will ever mount that horse again, you little fool!" He turned and ran for a mount to pursue the stallion.

It was all Whitney could do not to go after Thomas and explain that she'd intended to hit the rider, not the horse. Never the horse. Off to her distant left, the stallion was rapidly diminishing to a speck on the horizon, and there was no way to tell if the rider was still up. Glancing about her, Whitney saw disapproval on every servant's face before their eyes slid away from her.

She couldn't bear to remain here and suffer their silent accusation. She turned Khan and cantered from the enclosure, but once outside its boundary, she realized she hadn't any idea where to go. She drew Khan to a halt and hesitated.

She really ought to stay here and face the results of her wretched conduct. Would they bring Clayton back on a litter? If so, she must remain to lend whatever assistance she could.

She turned Khan back toward the stable, then brought him up short again. Could Clayton possibly remain on Dangerous Crossing and bring him back? She hoped so, but if that should be the case, Whitney had no desire to be present when he did return. Just imagining his righteous wrath made her hands tremble with fear. "Coward!" she hissed at herself, turning Khan and starting for the Sevarin house where she could inquire about the location of the picnic.

Khan tossed his head, tugging at the reins, eager for a run, but Whitney had no heart for speed, and she kept him at a sedate walk. Never had she felt so thoroughly obnoxious. Why, she wondered miserably, had she made a mess of her life the moment she set foot in England? How she hated herself for lapsing into the childish tempers she'd indulged in as a girl. After several minutes of harsh self-recrimination, her present predicament again intruded on her thoughts. How to atone for this calamity? Would the horse hurt himself and have to be destroyed? Whether the animal was injured or not, her father would never forgive her for her actions.

Her father! For the first time in her life, she'd seen approbation in his eyes when he looked at her, and now everything would be ruined. He would despise her for mistreating the horse, and if she tried to explain that she had meant to hit the man, he'd be even more furious. Somehow, she had to keep the tale from him. None of the servants would tell him, of that Whitney was reasonably certain. Clayton Westland might, but perhaps if she begged him not to, pleaded with him not to …

Her unhappy reflections were interrupted by the sound of hooves beating a quick staccato behind her, and Whitney looked over her right shoulder, gaping at the sight of Clayton atop a lathered Dangerous Crossing who was closing rapidly on her.

Out of pure reflex, Whitney raised her crop to send Khan bolting ahead, then checked herself and dropped her arm.

She would stay here and face the man, admit her fault-a lot of good it would do to deny it anyway!

As Clayton drew abreast, Whitney beheld a face of such dark, menacing rage that she shuddered. In one fluid motion, Clayton swooped down, grabbed Khan's right rein, end hauled both horses to a sharp stop. "You can let go of my rein," Whitney said softly. "I'm not going to run."

"Shut up!" he hissed. Since he maintained his hold on Khan's rein, Whitney had no choice but to ride quietly beside him while he let Dangerous Crossing cool. In the oppressive silence, she tried to think cf something to say to break the tension, but the only thing she could think of was to comment on how well Clayton had managed the stallion. Under the circumstances, however, she didn't think this was an appropriate time to say, "Well done, Mr. Westland!"

At the remains of an old stone wall a few yards from where they'd first met beside the stream, Clayton halted the horses and dismounted. He tied the stallion with swift, precise movements then strode to Whitney, jerked Khan's left rein from her hand, and tied him on the opposite side of the wall from the stallion. He tamed on his heel, snapped, "Get down!" to Whitney, and stalked toward the old sycamore tree atop the knoll.

Whitney took judicious note of the taut set of his jaw, his long, purposeful strides, and felt the first tendril of fear coil in the pit of her stomach. "I prefer to stay here," she said unsteadily, watching him over her shoulder.

As if he didn't hear her, he flung his riding gloves to the grass and jerked off his jacket. He sat down with his back against the tree and drew one leg up at the knee, resting his arm across it. In a voice like the crack of a whiplash, he said, "I told you to get down off that horse."

Whitney reluctantly did as she was bidden and slid awkwardly down from Khan, stepped onto the boulder next to her, then gingerly to the ground. She waited there beside her horse, enduring the icy blast of his gaze. It dawned on her that he was striving for control of his anger, and Whitney prayed be would gain it. His eyes raked over her, riveting on a spot just below her right hand. Following his stare, Whitney realized she still held the crop, it slid from her numbed fingers.

"I believe there are several things which you enjoy as much as riding," he remarked with scathing sarcasm.

Whitney nervously clenched and unclenched her hands.

"Come, come, don't be shy," he prodded in a soft, menacing voice. "You're a young woman of many pleasures -you enjoyed humbling me into an apology, did you not?"

Whitney nodded, then winced at the blaze of fury her answer ignited in his hard features. Quickly she tried to shake her head to cover the admission she'd just made.

"No, don't deny it. You enjoyed it tremendously. And I think we can assume that besides riding and apologies, you also enjoy using the crop. Correct?"

How could she answer these questions? Whitney thought frantically. She flicked a glance at Khan, longing to flee.

In a silky, dangerous voice, he warned, "Don't try it."

Whitney stayed where she was. She didn't think she could get away, knew, in fact, that if she tried, she'd only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn't let him vent his wrath now, he'd undoubtedly go to her father. She steeled herself to endure the rest of his verbal assault.

"You wanted us to have something in common if we were going to be friends. You wanted us to enjoy the same things, didn't you?"

Whitney swallowed convulsively and nodded.

"Pick up the crop!" he clipped.

Cold fear raced down Whitney's spine, and her pulse accelerated wildly. In all her life, she'd never encountered such controlled, purposeful rage. She bent down and picked up the crop with shaking fingers.

"Bring it to me," he rapped. Whitney froze at the sudden, blinding realization of what he intended, and he said in a terrifyingly pleasant tone, "Which will you have, your father or me? Do we settle this between us now, or would you prefer that I take it up with him?"

Whitney frantically considered her choice: physical punishment meted out by this man whom she despised, or the mental anguish of reopening old hostilities with her father. Her choice was really no choice at all.

Rather than give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her quaking fear, Whitney reverted to an old girlhood habit of putting her chin up and assuming an appearance of remote indifference. Haughtily, she walked over and held the crop out to him like a queen bestowing the sword of knighthood, her disdainful green eyes clashing with his icy gray ones.

"Now we are both going to share your favorite amusements: Riding, using the crop, and apologizing. You will 'ride' my knee, I will use the crop, and you are going to apologize. Do you understand the rules of our little game?"

Whitney's gaze slid unwillingly to the black riding crop in his hand, then jerked back to his tanned face. She did not deign to reply.

"Lie across my lap, Whitney." He politely extended his hand to assist her, and in her terror, Whitney unthinkingly accepted it. She knelt beside him, glaring at him in stiff hatred. Cocking a dark eyebrow, he nodded meaningfully at his lap.

Drowning in an ocean of mortification, Whitney lowered herself into the humiliating position. His hard thighs pressed against her churning stomach; a beetle scurried through the blades of grass inches from her nose.

Above her, she heard his voice. "I will stop when you apologize. Not before." He raised his arm and Whitney wondered wildly how much protection her riding habit would provide, then had her answer as the crop whined through the air, slicing against her clothing, welting her tender flesh. He paused, waiting. For her apology.

Whitney gritted her teeth; he could beat her senseless but she'd never give him the satisfaction of an apology. Never! His arm came up another time, the crop landed mercilessly across her buttocks. Another pause . . .

Whitney counted through streaks of vivid pain-three times, four, five. By now she was sobbing. The sixth time her body jerked and a strangled cry wrenched from her. His arm lifted, and she screamed "Stop!" then cursed herself because he had already flung the crop away.

He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and turned her in his arms to sit across his lap. Whitney tried to pull away, but Ms arms tightened, and his hand lifted to hold her face pressed to his chest. Her ribs heaved and scalding tears raced down her cheeks, soaking through the front of his shirt as she wept, more from impotent fury than from pain. As if he were soothing a child, he began to stroke her hair. Whitney angrily shoved his hand away, but he ignored her and continued.

The minutes passed, and Whitney had just gotten control of herself when his hand touched her chin, tipping her face up to his. Glaring at him through a haze of wrathful tears, she whispered, "I hate you!"

"I know you do," he said quietly. It registered on Whitney that there was neither triumph nor satisfaction on his face and, since she could find nothing else in his expression to stoke the flames of her animosity, she looked away, staring fixedly off to the left, occasionally wiping at her tear-streaked face with her fingertips.

"Look at me," he ordered gently.

"No!" Whitney retorted. "If I do, I'll scratch your eyes out, so help me!"

"You're not nearly so angry with me as you are with yourself."

"How much would you care to bet?" Whitney snapped, but she could feel her anger ebbing as she looked at Dangerous Crossing, whose satin blackness was now splashed with huge, sweaty white patches. It was a miracle that the horse hadn't injured himself, that the rider had been expert enough to stay on him, and wise enough to continue riding him instead of returning him to the stable. It was amp; double miracle that both horse and rider hadn't been seriously injured.

He was right: she was bitterly angry with herself for what she had done even if her regret was more for the sake of the horse than the man. She finally realized that Clayton was waiting for her to apologize, and since she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, she said tonelessly, "I never meant to hit the horse, I meant to hit you. But either way, I suppose it was irresponsible and dangerous, a childish act deserving of a child's punishment." "Thank you for that," he said almost tenderly. To be guilty and punished, to feel remorse and then be forgiven was a sequence of events totally missing from Whitney's childhood experience. Whenever she had apologized to her father, he had listened and then launched into a fresh tirade about her misbehavior, and Whitney had expected about the same from Clayton. She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she saw and felt. His gray eyes were full of warmth, and he was smiling at her with gentle understanding.

Suddenly, Whitney felt as if they were the best, the closest, of friends-as if there was some special bond between them now. The feeling stunned her, then surged through her, sweeping everything away in its path. "I'm terribly sorry about …"

"No more," he interrupted softly. "It's forgotten." Whitney knew, as he slowly bent his head to her, that he was going to kiss her, but instead of drawing away she shyly lifted her face and met him halfway, somehow seeking proof of forgiveness. His lips came down to caress hers in a long, tender, undemanding kiss.

Even when the kiss deepened and her lips were being sensually shaped and molded to his, Whitney knew he would let her pull away if she tried. Instead her hands crept up his chest, twining around his neck, and everything changed.

His hands tugged the scarf loose from her hair and tangled in the luxuriant tresses. Tenderly cupping her face between both his hands, he gazed down into her melting green eyes. "My God, you are sweet," he whispered. Whitney's heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer as he slowly, deliberately buried his lips in hers once again. He kissed her long and lingeringly, slow, compelling kisses that made her head swim. His tongue flicked over her lips, teasing at first-then urging, insisting that she part them and, the moment she did, plunging inside to intimately explore her mouth while his hands moved down her back, finding the place where the crop had welted, lifting her up and tighter to him, then gently soothing away the sting.

Jolt after jolt of wild sensation rocketed through Whitney from her neck to her knees, leaving her trembling violently and clinging to him. The world tilted as he twisted her halfway around to lie in the grass beside him, wrapped in his strong arms. He leaned over her, and Whitney shook her head in feeble protest: "We can't …"

His mouth came down hard on hers, silencing her objection, taking her lips in a fierce, devouring kiss. He patted her lips, teasing and tormenting her with his tongue as it plunged gently, then retreated, until Whitney, in a fever of longing, touched her own tongue to his lips.

He groaned and crushed her tighter to the hard length of his body, drawing her tongue into his mouth and caressing it with his own. When his mouth left hers it was to explore her ear before tracing its way across her cheek and covering her lips again. His hand left a trail of glowing warmth as it slid down her throat, across her breasts, and he began unfastening her thin shirt, seeking the soft swells beneath.

The touch of his strong fingers on her naked flesh penetrated Whitney's passion-drugged senses, jerking her back to reality. Frantically, she shook her head, trying to tear her mouth from his as he pulled down her chemise, baring her swelling breasts to his hand.

"Don't," he commanded in a throbbing whisper, deepening the wildly consuming kiss while his hand fondled her breasts, pushing them upward, teasing the sensitive nipples until they stood erect and proud against his palm.

And then, without warning, he stopped.

Kissed and caressed into dazed insensibility, Whitney watched his smoldering gaze lift from her ivory breasts to her face. "If we don't stop now, little one," he murmured in an odd, strained voice, "I'm going to be too caught up in finishing what I began, to turn back." Bending his head, he kissed the top of each soft breast before reluctantly drawing up her chemise.

Lying beside her, propped up on an elbow, Clayton touched her cheek with a forefinger, lightly tracing the elegant curve of her cheekbone. He adored her spirit, her freshness; she was warmth and awakening passion, ready to be taken-as the throbbing ache in his loins reminded him. She was everything he had known she would be and much, much more: Headstrong, sweet, fiery-tempered, impertinent and witty … a treasure of exciting contrasts. His treasure!

Whitney basked in the warmth of his slow, lazy smile and reached up, laying her hand against his hard chest. He covered her hand with his, holding it pressed against his shirt over the steady thudding of his heart.

Dreamily, she heard the sounds of the early fall day drifting about them. A squirrel skittered up a tree with a nut to be stored for the winter. Crickets serenaded in hoarse harmony. One of the horses stamped fitfully. Whitney lay there, wondering why she'd never really noticed how extraordinarily handsome he was.

His next words brought her floating spirit plummeting back to earth: "It's time to go-there'll be explanations due everyone as it is." He chuckled at the look of disappointment that crossed her lovely forehead and pressed a bold kiss on the peak of her breast. "Brazen little hussy!" he teased.

Whitney lurched to a sitting position, her face flushed, and he began smoothing her hair. "Of course," she said, surging to her feet. "We-we should have left long ago."

Clayton reached for her but she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away. As she started to climb on her horse, he caught her at the waist and drew her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her from behind. "Little one," he chuckled, nuzzling her neck, "there will be many times to come when I will hold you much longer, and much closer." Soothingly, he added, "I promise."

Whitney could hardly believe her ears! After calling her a brazen hussy, he had sympathetically promised to provide further intimacies to satiate her lust! How could she have forgotten how utterly amoral, how supremely conceited he was? She pulled away and glanced at him over her shoulder. With as much disdain as she could muster in her humiliated confusion, she said, "Do you think so?"

Clayton's grin was tigerish. "Indeed I do."

"Don't depend on it," she said, turning her face away and gathering Khan's reins. He lifted her effortlessly into the sidesaddle and let his hand boldly rest on her thigh. Whitney's voice shook as she asked, "Where is the picnic?"

"At the little clearing between Sevarin's place and mine," he replied, swinging up onto Dangerous Crossing's back.

More than anything, Whitney wanted to gallop Khan away, to put as much distance between herself and Clayton Westland as possible. At the same tune, she wanted to conceal how deeply she was hurt. So, with brittle gaiety, she called, "See you there," and turned Khan into a tight circle, urging him into a hinging gallop. She rode with her hair tossing wildly behind her, letting the wind cool her flushed face.

She could have wept with shame. "Brazen little hussy" he'd called her, and hussy she'd been! Letting him kiss her in such a way-and oh, God, touch her like that. And that bastard thought he was rewarding her by promising to hold her much closer and much longer in the future! Where was her pride, her sense of right and wrong, to have allowed him such liberties? She fete like such a horrid fool for lying there desiring him. And he had known exactly how she felt. He was undoubtedly an expert at making women desire him.

In the distance ahead the picnickers came into view, their gaily-colored garments dotting the gently rolling hillside behind them. Even from so far away, Whitney could almost pick out Paul's silhouette. Paul! She groaned aloud thinking of how he would despise her if he ever learned what had just happened at the stream. She'd be ruined in Paul's eyes. In everyone's eyes.

Whitney glanced behind her and saw that Clayton was about ten lengths away. In a sudden frenzy to get to the picnic as quickly as possible, without appearing to be fleeing in panic, Whitney raised her crop in a gesture of challenge and called over her shoulder, "Shall we?"

"If you think you have a chance," Clayton laughed, then shouted, "I'll give you ten lengths. Go ahead." Whitney considered rejecting his offer of a handicap, but decided that where he was concerned, winning by any means available was acceptable. Leaning forward over Khan's neck, she tapped him with her heel, and he bolted forward. His strides lengthened out, and the ground flew by beneath her.

As she neared the picnickers, Whitney looked over her shoulder to see what kind of a lead she was holding. Disgust mingled with surprise, for the stallion had gained back nine of the ten paces. For a few seconds, Whitney thought she was still going to win, but at the very last moment, the stallion closed the gap and finished a nose in front of Khan.

The horses leapt about beneath them as a groom ran forward to take the reins, then help them dismount. Whitney settled her skirts and, pretending complete indifference to Clayton's existence, started to walk past him.

He leaned down from his horse and chucked her familiarly under the chin. "I won." He grinned.

The groom, who had bent to examine Khan's right front foot, glanced up and politely said, "The lady's horse was running with a stone in his hoof, sir."

Whitney was about to pounce on that excuse, but Paul's arrival interrupted her. "Where the deuce have you two been?"

"We had some trouble with the stallion," Clayton calmly replied as he dismounted.

Paul glanced skeptically from the docile black horse to Whitney's flushed, angry face. "I was worried about you," he said.

"Were you? There was no need," Whitney murmured, positive she looked as guilty as she felt.

He led her over to a light blue blanket, seated her beside Emily and Michael Archibald, then sat down next to her, with Elizabeth and Peter across from them.

Clayton accepted a glass of wine from a servant and sauntered over to the blanket directly across from theirs, seating himself beside Margaret Merryton and another couple. Whitney saw the bright smile that Margaret beamed on him as he settled beside her. If Margaret's eyes weren't perpetually narrowed with malice, Whitney thought, she would be a very pretty girl. Right now, however, the hazel eyes were slits of hatred as they turned toward Whitney. "If you were racing, you lost, Whitney." She smirked.

"We were, and she did," Clayton confirmed promptly, his laughing gaze daring Whitney to deny it.

"In the first place, my horse was running with a bad foreleg," Whitney retorted. "Secondly, if I'd been riding the stallion, I think I'd have won by a greater margin."

"If you'd been riding that stallion, young lady, we'd be summoning your relatives to your bedside," he contradicted, grinning.

"Mr. Westland," Whitney said, "I could handle that stallion and get a better performance from him than you did."

"If you think so, I'll ride one of my own horses, and you may test your skill with the stallion any time you want a rematch."

Goaded by the mocking amusement in his eyes, Whitney snatched up the gauntlet of challenge. "A flat course," she specified. "No high jumps. The stallion knows nothing about jumping yet."

"He did rather well in clearing several fences today, as I recall," Clayton reminded her drily. "However, it will be as you wish. You choose the course."

"Aren't you taking on a little more than you can handle?" Paul asked, his forehead furrowed in concern.

Whitney tossed a vengeful glance at Clayton and said with more conviction than she really felt, "Certainly not. I'll win easily."

"Are you planning to wear men's breeches and ride astride? Or will you go barefoot and try to stand on his back?" Margaret taunted viciously.

As if by mutual agreement, everyone else began talking at once, drowning out Margaret's voice, but Whitney heard snatches of what she was saying to Clayton and the other couple: "… disgraced her father . . . scandalized the village . . ."

The servants began to distribute baskets of cold chicken, ham, cheese, and apples and pears. Whitney determinedly shook off the pall of Margaret's spite and strove to make something enjoyable of what was left of her day. She listened to the light raillery Emily was exchanging with her husband, Michael. "Whitney and I made a bet when we were very young," she was telling him. "The first of us to marry had to pay the other a forfeit of Ј5."

"That's absolutely right!" Whitney smiled. "I had forgotten."

"Since it was I who influenced her to marry me," Michael Archibald said, winking at Whitney, "I suppose I am honor-bound to pay her forfeit."

"Indeed you are," Whitney returned. "And I hope that won't be the last time Emily allows you to influence her, my lord."

"So do I!" Baron Archibald replied with such exaggerated despair that Whitney burst out laughing.

Paul leaned close, and Whitney looked up at him, traces of laughter still lingering in her eyes. "Are you planning to allow me to influence you?" he asked.

It was so near to a declaration of his intentions that Whitney could hardly believe she'd heard him correctly. "That depends," she said in a whisper, unable to tear her gaze from his compelling blue eyes. A fierce gust of wind blew up, tossing her hair wildly about her face and shoulders. Absently, Whitney reached behind her for the yellow and white dotted scarf that should have been holding her hair back.

"Are you looking for this?" Clayton drawled, pulling her scarf from his pocket and holding it toward her.

Paul's jaw tightened, and Whitney snatched the scarf out of Clayton's hand. She knew that Clayton had just deliberately caused everyone to wonder not only about how her scarf came to be in his pocket, but about their delayed arrival at the picnic as well, and to her consternation, she felt a guilty flush creeping up her cheeks. The idea of doing him bodily harm filled Whitney with morbid delight. She would have thoroughly enjoyed running him through with a sword or blowing his head off with a gun or seeing him hanging from a tree.

Late in the afternoon when the last of the picnickers had departed, Paul instructed a groom to ride Khan, and he took Whitney home in his gleaming carriage. The horses pranced down the dry, dusty lane with Paul handling the reins in preoccupied silence.

"Paul, are you angry with me?" Whitney ventured cautiously.

"Yes, and you know why I am."

Whitney did know, and she was torn between worry and happiness. It was possible, just possible, that Clayton West-land was providing the impetus Paul needed to declare himself without delay. All day, Paul's loverlike jealousy had been unmistakable.

In the drive at the front of her house, Paul pulled the horses to a stop and turned toward her, resting his arm on the back of the seat behind her. "I don't remember telling you how beautiful you look today," he said.

"Thank you," Whitney replied with surprised pleasure.

He grinned suddenly. "I'll call for you at eleven tomorrow morning. We'll talk about it then."

"About how beautiful I looked today?" Whitney teased.

"No, about why I'm angry."

She sighed. "I'd rather talk about the other."

"I'm sure you would," Paul said with a chuckle as he climbed down and came around to help her alight.

Paul arrived at precisely eleven the following morning. In the doorway of the drawing room, Whitney stopped, scarcely able to believe he was actually here, calling for her, exactly as she used to dream he would be! He looked incredibly handsome as he laughed at some remark of Lady Anne's.

"I like your young man," Anne whispered to Whitney as she left.

"He isn't mine yet," Whitney whispered back, but she was smiling optimistically.

The sky was bright blue with a fresh breeze that gently ruffled Paul's blond hair as they toured the country roads in Paul's well-sprung carriage, talking and laughing, stopping occasionally to admire a particularly pleasing view of the hilly terrain stretching out on both sides of the road. A few of the trees were already exchanging the lush green leaves of summer for the bright golds and oranges of early fall, and for Whitney, it was a halcyon day.

Paul was charming and entertaining, treating her as if she were made of fragile porcelain, as if she weren't the same female who used to catapult from one misadventure to the next near calamity. And Whitney was scrupulously careful to say nothing which might remind him of the young girl she had been. Even now, years later, it still made her cringe with embarrassment when she recalled how she had tried to kiss him and begged him to wait for her.

They had luncheon with Paul's mother, and although Whitney had dreaded the idea at first, it turned out to be a very pleasant meal.

Afterward, they strolled across the lawn to the edge of the woods. At Paul's suggestion, Whitney sat on a swing suspended from a stout oak branch.

"Why were you and Westland so late getting to the picnic yesterday?" he demanded without preamble.

Whitney started, then shrugged, trying to appear bewildered and unconcerned, when she was neither. "We took the stallion and he gave us trouble."

"Whitney, I find that very difficult to believe. I've ridden with Westland; he's no novice around horses. And yesterday he seemed perfectly docile and well-mannered."

"Who seemed docile?" Whitney teased, trying desperately to lighten his mood. "The stallion? Or Mr. Westland?"

"I was referring to the stallion's behavior, but now that you've mentioned it, I would rather hear about Westland's."

"Paul, for heaven's sake!" she almost pleaded. "You know perfectly well that some horses are completely unpredictable and can give even the most experienced horsemen trouble managing them."

"Then perhaps you will explain to me why, if that horse is so damned difficult to handle, you agreed to ride him in a race against Westland?"

"Oh that. Well, he taunted me until I could hardly refuse." Through her lowered lashes, Whitney stole a glance at Paul's grim, dubious expression. Under the circumstances, she thought it might be wise-even expected-for her to display a degree of righteous indignation. "Paul, I can't abide the man, and I-I don't think it's nice of you to quiz me like this. It's unfair and improper."

Unexpectedly, he grinned. "I never thought I'd see the day when you were conscious of propriety." Without warning, he pulled her off of the swing and into his arms. "God, you are beautiful!" he whispered.

Whitney caught her breath and held it, thinking stupidly over and over, He's going to kiss me! She was so nervous that she felt a giggle welling up inside of her as his head slowly descended to hers. But at the first brush of his warm, smooth lips on hers, all traces of laughter vanished.

She tried to keep her hands at her sides, but they slid of their own volition part way up his chest. She held back as best she could, afraid to abandon herself to the kiss for fear that Paul might somehow be offended by the depth of her feeling. But Paul wouldn't let her remain uninvolved. He tightened his arms, holding her imprisoned against the hard wall of his chest, kissing her expertly, his mouth moving insistently over hers, sometimes teasing and gentle, then hungry and demanding. By the time he finally let her go, Whitney's legs were weak. With a sinking heart, she realized that she had just been kissed by someone who knew a great deal about kissing and who undoubtedly had stored up a wealth of practice. No wonder he had always been so popular, so sought after and dreamed about, by the girls in the neighborhood.

He was watching her, his expression pleased and confident. "You do that very well," Whitney complimented, hoping to sound as if she were competent to judge.

"Thank you," Paul said, looking mildly irritated. "Is that conclusion based upon your vast experience in France?"

Whitney sat down on the swing, smiled at him, and said absolutely nothing. Pushing hard with the toe of her slipper, she sent the swiag backward. On the second sweep, Paul's strong hands shot out, caught her at the waist and plucked her unceremoniously off her moving chair and into his arms. "You infuriating, outrageous brat." He chuckled. "If I don't watch myself I'll be more insane about you than those mincing fops in Paris were."

"They weren't," Whitney protested weakly as his mouth covered hers, "mincing fops."

"Good," he murmured huskily, "because I would hate being in such poor company."

Whitney's heart somersaulted. "Meaning?" she whispered against his lips.

"Meaning," Paul answered, his arms tightening around her, his mouth beginning to move hungrily over hers, "I already am insane about you."

Two hours later, Whitney floated dreamily into the house, inquired after her aunt and was informed by Sewell that her aunt, her father, and Mr. Westland were together in her father's study. She shot a cautious glance down the hall to be certain she hadn't been seen, then hurried up the stairs to her room. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would spoil her happiness, and seeing Clayton Westland was about the only thing that could do it. With a sigh of relief, Whitney closed the door to her room and flopped across the bed, hugging her memories of the afternoon to her heart.

Tears sparkled in Lady Anne's eyes as she curtsied stiffly to the Duke of Claymore in Martin's study. With long, determined strides he turned and left the room, and still she stood there, her chest painfully constricted around a knot of emotion.

Chair legs scraped against the floor as Martin Stone stood up and came around from behind his desk. "I would not have told you about all this yet; however, his grace felt that you should be made aware of the arrangements. I hope I don't have to remind you that you gave your solemn word to remain silent about everything we discussed?"

Anne stared at him, her throat filled with tears. She started to raise her hand in a helpless, beseeching gesture, then let it drop to her side.

Apparently encouraged by her silence, Martin softened his tone slightly. "I will admit to you that I was not best pleased when I saw that you had accompanied Whitney, but since you're here, you could be of great assistance. I want you to express approval of the duke to Whitney. She respects your opinion, and the sooner she develops a fondness for him, the better off we'll all be."

At last, Anne found her voice. "Develops a fondness for him?" she echoed in terse disbelief. "Whitney loathes the air he breathes!"

"Rubbish! She scarcely knows him."

"She knows him well enough to despise him. I have it from her own lips."

"Then I shall rely upon you to change her opinion."

"Martin, are you blind? Whitney is in love with Paul Sevarin."

"Paul Sevarin is hard put to hold his own place together," Martin snorted. "All he could offer her is a life as a house drudge."

"Nevertheless, it is still Whitney's decision to make."

"Poppycock! The decision was mine to make, and I made it."

Anne opened her mouth to argue, but Martin cut her off in a savage voice. "Let me explain something to you, Madam. I signed a legal agreement drawn up by Claymore's attorneys, and I accepted Ј100,000 from the duke as his part of the bargain. I have already paid off my creditors and spent more than half the money. Half," he emphasized. "If Whitney should refuse to honor the agreement, I can't return the man's money. In which case, Claymore could, and would, bring me up on charges of fraud, theft, and God knows what else. And if that doesn't concern you, let me put it a different way: Just how happy do you think Whitney would be married to Sevarin, while everyone for a hundred miles sniggers and gossips about her father who is rotting away in a dungeon?"

Having delivered this diatribe, he stalked to the door. "I shall expect your cooperation in all this, for Whitney's sake, if not for mine."