He had accepted her word and trusted her to keep it, and Whitney wanted him to believe she had, but the only one who could prove it was Paul, and Paul was in no mood to aid her.
Whitney bit her lip, concerned with more than just the loss of her honor. Without the incentive of marrying Paul to give her courage, she now felt a deep-rooted, genuine fear of Clayton’s wrath. The more she pondered it, the more convinced she became that the best way to avert certain disaster was to go to London and explain to Clayton what was happening here. He would be far less angry hearing it from her than from strangers, and he would know she wasn’t to blame. After all, if she was truly planning to marry Paul, as the gossip had it, why would she return to London to see Clayton?
Resolutely, Whitney got up and went down the hall to her aunt’s room. She poured out the entire story, including the gossip about her betrothal to Paul and her abandoned plan to elope. Aunt Anne blanched but she remained silent until Whitney was finished. “What do you intend to do now?” she asked then.
“I think it would be best if I went to London and stayed with Emily. As soon as I arrive, I’ll notify his grace I’m there, and he’ll naturally come to see me. Then I’ll choose exactly the right moment to tell him about the gossip here. I don’t think he’ll care so much about the talk, so long as he believes it isn’t my fault.”
“I’ll come to London with you,” her aunt instantly volunteered.
“There’s no need for that. You’ve been longing to visit your cousin in Lincolnshire, and Emily would love for me to stay with her for a while. I’ll send you a note as soon as I know for certain the duke didn’t change plans and isn’t en route here, then you can leave straightaway for Lincolnshire. I wouldn’t want both of us to be gone if he were to return here unexpectedly and hear the gossip.”
Lady Anne smiled. “You’re right. Now, when you see him in London, what reason will you give him for being there?”
Whitney’s smooth forehead knitted in an irritated frown. “I suppose I’ll have to tell him the truth—that I was afraid he would come back to the village and believe that despite his warning, I hadn’t refused Paul. Although, I find it excessively galling to have to tear off to London like a rabbit frightened of incurring his wrath. That man walked into my life a few months ago, and I’ve been like a puppet obliged to dance to his tune ever since. I think I shall tell him that too!” Whitney finished mutinously.
“While you’re bent on being so honest about your feelings,” Aunt Anne suggested with a knowing gleam in her eyes, “why don’t you also tell him that you have developed a sincere affection for him and you are willing now to honor the betrothal contract? It will please him immensely to hear you say it.”
Whitney shot up off the sofa as if she’d been scorched. “I most certainly will not!” she declared hotly. “Considering that he never cared whether I wanted to marry him, and has never doubted for a minute that I would marry him, I fail to see why I should flatter his vanity now by professing to want to marry him. Besides, I haven’t made up my mind to marry him.”
“I think you have, darling.”
Her aunt’s quiet voice checked Whitney in mid-stride as she headed for the door. “And if it will make it easier for you to admit your own feelings, I will tell you that, in my opinion, that man loves you with an intensity that would astonish him if he but recognized it—and very likely flatter your vanity.”
“You’re wrong, Aunt Anne,” Whitney said tonelessly. “He has never even said he cares for me. I’m a possession he’s acquired, nothing more. Don’t ask me to crawl to him; I have very little pride left as it is, and I won’t sacrifice it to soothe his temper or flatter his ego.”
* * *
Elizabeth Ashton appeared at the house each afternoon to report her progress, but by the end of the third day, there was still no cause for celebration. Clarissa and Whitney were packing for the next day’s trip to London when Elizabeth trailed into the bedroom, a soldier returning in defeat from a battle that should have been easy for her to win. “Peter is no nearer declaring himself now than he was ten years ago,” she said glumly, flopping into a chair.
Whitney thrust an armload of underclothing into a trunk and gazed at Elizabeth in perplexed dismay. “Are you certain?”
“Positive,” Elizabeth said morosely. “I suggested we dine at my house tonight, without my parents, and do you know what he said? He said”—Elizabeth sighed heavily—“that he likes dining with my parents.”
“That idiot!” Whitney burst out irritably. Slowly she began to pace back and forth. “You may be ready to accept defeat, but I’m not—at least not from Peter Redfern, of all people! That dolt has worshipped you since we were children. What he needs is some sort of motivation to force him into declaring himself without delay.” Idly, Whitney shoved the fully packed portmanteau out of the way with her foot and frowned at the luggage scattered everywhere around the room. “I have it!” she burst out, whirling on Elizabeth with an impetuous, daring gleam in her green eyes that Elizabeth well remembered from days gone by. Terrified, she shrank back into her chair: “Whitney, whatever you’re thinking, we aren’t going to do it.”
“Oh yes, we are!” Whitney hooted triumphantly. “Miss Ashton, I hereby invite you to come to London with me.”
“But I don’t want to go to London,” Elizabeth sputtered desperately. “I want Peter.”
“Good, and you’re going to get him tonight. Now repeat after me, ‘Yes, I will go to London with you.’?”
“Yes, I will go to London with you,” Elizabeth parroted. “But I don’t want to.”
“Perfect, because you aren’t going to. But I have just asked you and you’ve accepted. This way, when you tell Peter you’ve agreed to come with me, you won’t be lying to him.” Advancing purposefully on a bewildered Elizabeth, Whitney caught her hand and pulled her over to the writing desk. “Now, write and tell Peter to join you here for supper with me tonight. Tell him . . .” Whitney hesitated, her forefinger pressed to her lips, then chuckled at her own stroke of genius. “Tell him that you and I are planning to do the most extraordinary thing together. That should petrify him.”
“Peter isn’t going to like our going to London together,” Elizabeth said.
“He’ll detest the idea!” Whitney agreed proudly. “Even though I’ve grown up, Peter still watches me as if he expects me to commit some outrageous act at any moment.”
For the first time in her sweet, acquiescent life, Elizabeth displayed a stubborn streak. “If Peter won’t approve, I won’t go.”
Stung by Elizabeth’s lack of appreciation for her brilliant plan, Whitney said, “You aren’t going. Don’t you see, Peter will be appalled at the idea of our going off together. He doesn’t think I’ve truly changed. He still thinks of me as the same hoyden who used to smite Reverend Snodgrass’s old mare on the rump with a slingshot.”
“You did that?” Elizabeth gasped.
“That, and a great many other things Peter knows about,” Whitney admitted impertinently. “He’ll try to dissuade you from coming with me, but you are to tell him that I am insisting. I’ll be right there to insist, and when Peter can’t talk either of us out of it, he’ll do the only thing he can do.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked, looking intrigued but dubious.
Whitney threw up her hands. “Why, he’ll propose, you widgeon!” Taking Elizabeth’s trembling hand in an affectionate, reassuring grasp, Whitney said, “Please, please trust me. Nothing wrings an offer so quickly from a man as the fear that you are going to leave him. And nothing makes a man quite so brave and bold as the opportunity to rescue an innocent female from ‘unsuitable companions,’—in this case, the unsuitable companion is me. Nicolas DuVille scarcely paid any attention to me unless he objected to some gentleman who was courting me, then he swooped down like an avenging angel to protect me from some man who was not nearly as dangerous a flirt as he! It was vastly amusing, I can tell you. Now please write that note. Before this night is over, P
eter will propose, you just wait and see.”
Reluctantly Elizabeth did as she was bidden and the note was dispatched to Peter with a footman.
Three hours later, against her protests, Elizabeth was draped in Whitney’s most daring gown, which had been temporarily shortened, and her golden curls had been tamed into a sleek chignon. Still objecting, she was led to a mirror by Clarissa and Whitney.
“Go ahead,” Whitney urged. “See how lovely you look—”
Elizabeth’s timid gaze traveled up the clingy folds of the elegant silk gown, past her slim hips and dainty waist, then riveted in shock on her exposed décolletage. Her hands flew to cover the tops of her breasts swelling above the bodice of the gown. “I can’t,” she gasped, blushing.
Whitney rolled her eyes. “Yes, you can, Elizabeth. Why in France, this gown would be considered only a tiny bit daring.”
A nervous giggle trilled from Elizabeth as she slowly lowered her hands. “Do you think Peter will like it?”