Whitney, My Love

Chapter One

ENGLAND
1816

AS THEIR ELEGANT TRAVELLING CHAISE ROCKED AND SWAYED
along the rutted country road, Lady Anne Gilbert leaned her cheek against
her husband's shoulder and heaved a long, impatient sigh. "Another whole
hour until we arrive, and already the suspense is positively gnawing at me.
I keep wondering what Whitney will be like now that she's grown up."

She lapsed into silence and gazed absently out the coach
window at the lush, rolling English countryside covered with wild pink
Foxglove and yellow Buttercups, trying to envision the niece she hadn't seen
in almost eleven years.

"She'll be pretty, just as her mother was. And she'll
have her mother's smile, her gentleness, her sweet disposition ..."

Lord Edward Gilbert cast a skeptical glance at his wife.
"Sweet disposition?" he echoed in amused disbelief. "That isn't what her
father said in his letter."

As a diplomat attached to the British Consulate in
Paris
, Lord Gilbert was a master of hints, evasions,
innuendoes, and intrigues. But in his personal life, he preferred the
refreshing alternative of blunt truth. "Allow me to refresh your memory," he
said, groping in his pockets and retrieving the letter from Whitney's
father. He perched his spectacles upon his nose, and ignoring his wife's
grimace, he began to read:

" 'Whitney's manners are an outrage, her conduct is
reprehensible. She is a willful hoyden who is the despair of everyone she
knows and an embarrassment to me. I implore you to take her back to
Paris
with you, in the hope that you may have more
success with the stubborn chit than I have had.' "

Edward chuckled. "Show me where it says she's
'sweet-tempered.'"

His wife shot him a peevish glance. "Martin Stone is a
cold, unfeeling man who wouldn't recognize gentleness and goodness if
Whitney were made of nothing else! Only think of the way he shouted at her
and sent her to her room right after my sister's funeral."

Edward recognized the mutinous set of his wife's chin
and put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of conciliation. "I'm no
fonder of the man than you are, but you must admit that, just having lost
his young wife to an early grave, to have his daughter accuse him, in front
of fifty people, of locking her mama in a box so she couldn't escape had to
be rather disconcerting."

"But Whitney was scarcely five years old!" Anne
protested heatedly.

"Agreed. But Martin was grieving. Besides, as I recall,
it was not for that offense she was banished to her room. It was later, when
everyone had gathered in the drawing room- when she stamped her foot and
threatened to report us all to God if we didn't release her mama at once."

Anne smiled. "What spirit she had, Edward. I thought for
a moment her little freckles were going to pop right off her nose. Admit
it-she was marvelous, and you thought so too!"

"Well, yes," Edward agreed sheepishly. "I rather thought
she was."

As the Gilbert chaise bore inexorably down on the Stone
estate, a small knot of young people were waiting on the south lawn,
impatiently looking toward the stable one hundred yards away. A petite blond
smoothed her pink ruffled skirts and sighed in a way that displayed a very
fetching dimple. "Whatever do you suppose Whitney is planning to do?" she
inquired of the handsome light-haired man beside her.

Glancing down into Elizabeth Ashton's wide blue eyes,
Paul Sevarin smiled a smile that Whitney would have forfeited both her feet
to see focused on herself. "Try to be patient, Elizabeth," he said.

"I'm sure none of us have the faintest idea what she is
up to,
Elizabeth
," Margaret
Merryton said tartly. "But you can be perfectly certain it will be something
foolish and outrageous."

"Margaret, we're all Whitney's guests today," Paul
chided. "I don't know why you should defend her, Paul," Margaret argued
spitefully. "Whitney is creating a horrid scandal chasing after you, and you
know it!"

"Margaret!" Paul snapped. "I said that was enough."
Drawing a long, irritated breath, Paul Sevarin frowned darkly at his
gleaming boots. Whitney had been making a spectacle of herself chasing after
him, and damned near everyone for fifteen miles was talking about it.

At first he had been mildly amused to find himself the
object of a fifteen-year-old's languishing looks and adoring smiles, but
lately Whitney had begun pursuing him with the determination and tactical
brilliance of a female Napoleon Bonaparte.

If he rode off the grounds of his estate, he could
almost depend on meeting her en route to his destination. It was as if she
had some lookout point from which she watched his every move, and Paul no
longer found her childish infatuation with him either harmless or amusing.

Three weeks ago, she had followed him to a local inn.
While he was pleasantly contemplating accepting the innkeeper's daughter's
whispered invitation to meet her later in the hayloft, he'd glanced up and
seen a familiar pair of bright green eyes peeping at him through the window.
Slamming his tankard of ale on the table, he'd marched outside, grabbed
Whitney by the elbow, unceremoniously deposited her on her horse, tersely
reminding her that her father would be searching for her if she wasn't home
by nightfall.

He'd stalked back inside and ordered another tankard,
but when the innkeeper's daughter brushed her breasts suggestively against
his arm while refilling his ale and Paul had a sudden vision of himself
lying entangled with her voluptuous naked body, a pair of green eyes peered
in through yet another window. He'd tossed enough coins on the planked
wooden table to mollify the startled girl's wounded sensibilities and
left--only to encounter Miss Stone again on his way home.

He was beginning to feel like a hunted man whose every
move was under surveillance, and his temper was strained to the breaking
point. And yet, Paul thought irritably, here he was standing in the April
sun, trying for some obscure reason to protect Whitney from the criticism
she richly deserved.

A pretty girl, several years younger than the others in
the group, glanced at Paul. "I think I'll go and see what's keeping
Whitney," said Emily Williams. She hurried across the lawn and along the
whitewashed fence adjoining the stable. Shoving open the big double doors,
Emily looked down the wide gloomy corridor lined with stalls on both sides.
"Where is Miss Whitney?" she asked the stableboy who was currying a sorrel
gelding.

"In there, Miss." Even in the muted light, Emily saw his
face suffuse with color as he nodded toward a door adjacent to the tack
room.

With a puzzled glance at the flushing stableboy, Emily
tapped lightly on the designated door and stepped inside, then froze at the
sight that greeted her: Whitney Allison Stone's long legs were encased in
coarse brown britches that clung startlingly to her slender hips and were
held in place at her narrow waist with a length of rope. Above the riding
britches she wore a thin chemise.

"You surely aren't going out there dressed like that?"
Emily gasped.

Whitney fired an amused glance over her shoulder at her
scandalized friend. "Of course not. I'm going to wear a shirt too."

"B-but why?" Emily persisted desperately.

"Because I don't think it would be very proper to appear
in my chemise, silly," Whitney cheerfully replied, snatching the stableboy's
clean shirt off a peg and plunging her arms into the sleeves.

"P-proper? Proper?" Emily sputtered. "It's completely
improper for you to be wearing men's britches, and you know it!"

"True. But I can't very well ride that horse without a
saddle and risk having my skirts blow up around my neck, now can I?" Whitney
breezily argued while she twisted her long unruly hair into a knot and
pinned it at her nape.

"Ride without a saddle? You can't mean you're going to
ride astride-your father will disown you if you do that again."

"I am not going to ride astride. Although," Whitney
giggled, "I can't understand why men are allowed to straddle a horse, while
we-who are supposed to be the weaker sex-must hang off the side, praying for
our lives."

Emily refused to be diverted. "Then what are you going
to do?"

"I never realized what an inquisitive young lady you
are, Miss Williams," Whitney teased. "But to answer your question, I am
going to ride standing on the horse's back. I saw it done at the fair, and
I've been practicing ever since. Then, when Paul sees how well I do, he'll-"

"He'll think you have lost your mind, Whitney Stone!
He'll think that you haven't a grain of sense or propriety, and that you're
only trying something else to gain his attention." Seeing the stubborn set
of her friend's chin, Emily switched her tactics. "Whitney, please-think of
your father. What win he say if he finds out?"

Whitney hesitated, feeling the force of her cither's
unwaveringly cold stare as if it were this minute focused upon her. She drew
a long breath, then expelled it slowly as she glanced out the small window
at the group waiting on the lawn.

Wearily, she said, "Father will say that, as usual, I
have disappointed him, that I am a disgrace to him and to my mother's
memory, that he is happy she didn't live to see what I have become. Then he
will spend half an hour telling me what a perfect lady Elizabeth Ashton is,
and that I ought to be like her."

"Well, if you really wanted to impress Paul, you could
try . . ."

Whitney clenched her hands in frustration. "I have tried
to be like
Elizabeth
. I wear
those disgusting ruffled dresses that. make me feel like a pastel mountain,
I've practiced going for hours without saying a word, and I've fluttered my
eyelashes until my eyelids go limp."

Emily bit her Up to hide her smile at Whitney's
unflattering description of Elizabeth Ashton's demure mannerisms, then she
sighed. "I'll go and tell the others that you'll be right out."

Gasps of outrage and derisive sniggers greeted Whitney's
appearance on the lawn when she led the horse toward the spectators. "She'll
fall off," one of the girls predicted, "if God doesn't strike her dead first
for wearing those britches."

Ignoring the impulse to snap out a biting retort,
Whitney raised her head in a gesture of haughty disdain, then stole a look
at Paul. His handsome face was taut with disapproval as his gaze moved from
her bare feet, up her trousered legs, to her face. Inwardly, Whitney
faltered at his obvious displeasure, but she swung resolutely onto the back
of the waiting horse.

The gelding moved into its practiced canter, and Whitney
worked herself upward, first crouching with arms outstretched for balance,
then slowly easing herself into a standing position. Around and around they
went and, although Whitney was in constant terror of falling off and looking
like a fool, she managed to appear competent and graceful.

As she completed the fourth circle, she let her eyes
slant to the faces passing on her left, registering their looks of shock and
derision, while she searched for the only face that mattered. Paul was
partially in the tree's shadow, and Elizabeth Ashton was clinging to his
arm, but as Whitney passed, she saw the slow, reluctant smile tugging at the
corner of his mouth, and triumph unfurled like a banner in her heart. By the
time she came around again, Paul was grinning broadly at her. Whitney's
spirits soared, and suddenly all the weeks of practice, the sore muscles and
bruises, seemed worthwhile.

At the window of the second floor drawing room
overlooking the south lawn, Martin Stone stared down at his performing
daughter. Behind him, the butler announced that Lord and Lady Gilbert had
arrived. Too enraged at his daughter to speak, Martin greeted his
sister-in-law and her husband with a clenched jaw and curt nod.

"How-how nice to see you again after so many years,
Martin," Lady Anne lied graciously. When he remained icily silent, she said,
"Where is Whitney? We're so anxious to see her."

Martin finally recovered his voice. "See her?" he
snapped savagery. "Madam, you have only to look out this window."
Bewildered, Anne did as he said. Below on the lawn there stood a group of
young people watching a slender boy balancing beautifully on a cantering
horse. "What a clever young man," she said, smiling.

Her simple remark seemed to drive Martin Stone from
frozen rage to frenzied action as he swung on his heel and marched toward
the door. "If you wish to meet your niece, come with me. Or, I can spare you
the humiliation, and bring her here to you."

With an exasperated look at Martin's back, Anne tucked
her hand in her husband's arm and together they followed Martin downstairs
and outside.

As they approached the group of young people, Anne heard
murmurings and laughter, and she was vaguely aware that there was something
malicious in the tone, but she was too busy scanning the young ladies'
faces, looking for Whitney, to pay much heed to the fleeting impression. She
mentally discarded two blondes and a redhead, quizzically studied a petite,
blue-eyed brunette, then glanced helplessly at the young man beside her.
"Pardon me, I am Lady Gilbert, Whitney's aunt. Could you tell me where she
is?"

Paul Sevarin grinned at her, half in sympathy and half
in amusement. "Your niece is on the horse, Lady Gilbert," he said.

"On the-" Lord Gilbert choked.

From her delicate perch atop the horse, Whitney's eyes
followed her father's progress as he bore down on her with long, rapid
strides. "Please don't make a scene, Father," she implored when he was
within earshot.

"I make a scene?" he roared furiously. Snatching the
halter, he brought the cantering horse around so sharply that he jerked it
from beneath her. Whitney hit the ground on her feet, lost her balance, and
ended up half-sprawling. As she scampered up, her father caught her arm in a
ruthless grip and hauled her over toward the spectators. "This-this thing,"
he said, thrusting her forward toward her aunt and uncle, "I am mortified to
tell you is your niece."