“Not at all,” Whitney said with a disheartened sigh. “If you remember, Paul always used to ignore me.”
“Yes, I know,” Emily said, laughing softly. “But back then, he wasn’t watching you the entire time he did it. The whole time he was talking to me just now, he was watching you. And at your party the other night, he watched you constantly when you weren’t looking.”
Whitney jerked Khan to a halt. “Did he truly? Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain, silly. I was watching him, watching you.”
“Oh, Emily,” Whitney laughed shakily. “I wish you didn’t have to go back to London next week. When you’re gone, who will tell me the things I want to hear?”
11
* * *
By the night of Lady Eubank’s party, Whitney had worked herself into a knot of anticipation and foreboding. She was ready early, waiting for her aunt in the hall in a gown of midnight-blue chiffon spangled with glittering silver flecks. Diamonds and sapphires twinkled at her ears and throat, and winked from her elegant Grecian curls.
“Aunt Anne,” she said in the carriage on the way to Lady Eubank’s, “do you think Paul truly loves Elizabeth?”
“If he did, I believe he would have offered for her long ago,” Anne replied, pulling on her gloves as their carriage turned into the long drive at Lady Eubank’s great old mausoleum of a house. “And your friend Emily is absolutely correct—he watched you constantly the night of your party, when he thought no one was looking.”
“Then why is he taking so long to do something about it?”
“Darling, only consider the awkward position he is in. Four years ago, everyone knew that he barely tolerated your devotion. Now he is faced with the problem of reversing himself completely and openly courting you.” She smiled at Whitney’s glum look. “If you want to speed things up, I think you ought to take Lady Eubank’s advice and give him some competition.”
Three hours later, Whitney was beginning to agree. She was popular and sought after by every eligible man present . . . except the one who mattered.
Across the room from Whitney, surrounded by several of the local girls, Clayton bent his head toward Margaret Merryton, smiling to conceal his impatience with her ceaseless chatter.
After spending the past few days in London on an emergency business matter, he’d returned just in time tonight to change and come to this little gathering of Amelia Eubank’s. And that outrageous old harridan had greeted him in the entryway and announced that she would appreciate it if he would be especially attentive to Miss Stone tonight, and thus provide some romantic competition for Sevarin. As a result, Clayton was not in the best of moods.
Rudely turning her back on the woman who was talking to her, Amelia Eubank raised her monocle and scanned the knots of guests until her gaze fell upon the Duke of Claymore, who was surrounded by several of the local girls, all vying for his attention. Claymore, she noted, was treating them with amused tolerance, but his attention was on the only female in the room who seemed immune to his magnetism—Whitney Stone.
Amelia dropped her monocle, letting it dangle from its black ribbon over her ample bosom. Through a distant connection of her deceased husband, Amelia could claim a slight kinship with the duke, and when Claymore had arrived at her home several weeks ago, announcing his intention to take up residence five miles from her under the name Westland “in order to take a much needed rest,” she had immediately assured him of her discretion.
Now, however, an intriguing idea occurred to her, and her eyes took on a speculative gleam as she watched the duke watching Miss Stone. She paused a moment to contemplate how utterly unethical and devious her scheme was, and then, with a pleased little smile, she leaned back and instructed a footman to bring Miss Stone to her immediately, and then to ask Mr. Westland to join them.
Whitney was dancing with Emily’s husband when a footman appeared at her elbow and said that Lady Eubank wished to see her at once. Excusing herself to Lord Archibald, Whitney obeyed Lady Eubank’s imperative summons with feelings of distinct apprehension, an apprehension which immediately turned to alarm when the dowager hoisted herself out of her chair and said irritably, “I told you competition is what Sevarin needs, and your best friend’s husband is not competition. I want you to make up to Mr. Westland. Bat your eyes at him, or whatever it is you young gels do to attract a man.”
“No, I can’t. Really, Lady Eubank, I’d rather—”
“Young woman,” she interrupted, “I will have you know that I’m giving this party for the sole purpose of helping you secure Sevarin. Since you seem so foolish about how to go about it, you’ve left me no choice but to step in. Clayton Westland is the only man here whom Sevarin will consider a rival, and I’ve sent a footman for him.” Whitney blanched, and Lady Eubank glowered at her. “Now, when Mr. Westland comes, you can either look at him the way you’re looking at me—in which case, he will probably offer to take you to a physician—or you can smile at him, so that he will offer to take you out on the balcony instead.”
“I don’t want to go out on the balcony!” Whitney hissed desperately.
“You will,” her ladyship predicted, “when you turn around and observe how charmingly Elizabeth Ashton is strolling in that direction on Sevarin’s arm.”
Whitney turned and saw that Paul and Elizabeth were indeed strolling toward the balcony doors. Discouraged, Whitney recognized the sense in what Lady Eubank was trying to force her to do, but she was reluctant to stoop to outright scheming. Not that her hesitancy mattered, because Lady Eubank had neatly taken the choice out of her hands and was already saying to a faintly smiling Clayton, “Miss Stone was just mentioning that she is excessively overheated from all her dancing, and that she would enjoy a stroll on the balcony.”
Clayton Westland glanced toward the balcony doors, and in the space of an instant, Whitney watched his lazy smile harden into a mask of ironic amusement. “I’m sure she would,” he said sarcastically.
He took her elbow in a none too gentle grasp, and said, “Shall we go, Miss Stone?” Whitney let him guide her through the throngs of chattering guests and around the perimeter of the buffet table. So lost was she in thoughts of Paul that she didn’t notice that she was being led toward the French doors that stood at right angles to the ones Paul and Elizabeth had used. If they went this way, Whitney realized that they would emerge around the corner—and out of sight—of Paul and Elizabeth.
“Where are we going?” Whitney asked quickly, starting to draw back.
“As you can see, we are going out onto the balcony,” her escort said coolly. Tightening his hold on her elbow, he opened the French doors with his free hand, propelled her outside and closed them behind her. Without a word, he dropped her arm and strolled over to the stone balustrade. Perching his hip on it, he regarded her in silence.
Whitney stood there, miserable because Lady Eubank’s plan had failed, embarrassed because she had participated in it, and still determined to somehow carry it off if possible. “Perhaps we could stroll around to the other side?” she suggested.
“We could, but we aren’t going to,” Clayton almost snapped. He gazed at her, knowing she was trying to use him as a decoy and growing more impatient and annoyed with her as each second passed. She looked like a wild young temptress with the moonlight gleaming on the silver spangles of her gown as it blew gently in the midnight breeze, but she was his temptress. He had even paid for the gown she was wearing.
After a few moments, an idea occurred to him. Leaning back, he looked around the corner of the balcony, ascertained that Sevarin and Elizabeth Ashton were standing at the balustrade, then returned his undivided attention to the lovely young woman who was now nervously fingering the folds of her gown. “Well, Miss Stone?” he drawled in a voice just raised enough to carry around the corner.
Whitney jumped at the sound of her name. “Well what?” she questioned, starting to move forward in the hope of peeking around the corner and seeing what Paul and
Elizabeth were doing. In this she was instantly thwarted, because Clayton abruptly stood up and strolled toward her, effectively blocking her view of everything but his chest and shoulders. “Well what?” Whitney repeated, automatically stepping back in an effort to widen the space between them. Before she realized what was happening, she had backed into the shadowy stone wall of the house.
“Now that I’ve brought you out here,” Clayton began conversationally, “what do you want me to do next?”
“Next?” Whitney repeated cautiously.
“Yes, next. I want to be certain I understand my part in this little game we’re playing. I imagine I’m supposed to kiss you, in order to make Sevarin jealous, is that it?”
“I wouldn’t let you touch me to save me from drowning!” Whitney retorted, stunned into anger.
Ignoring that completely, he said thoughtfully, “I don’t mind playing my part, but I can’t help wondering if I’m going to enjoy it. Am I going to kiss an amateur, or have you been kissed often enough to know how it’s supposed to be done? How many times have you been kissed?”
“I’ll wager you live in constant terror of being mistaken for a gentleman!” she snapped to cover her growing alarm. His hands locked on her arms and he began drawing her toward his chest. Giving up her futile struggle, she glared murderously at the laughter glinting in his eyes. “Take your hands off me!”
“Are the times you’ve been kissed too numerous to count? Or were they all so meaningless that you can’t recall them?”