Whitney, My Love (10 page)

"Read the letter, Madame. He says as plainly and as
rudely as can be that she's to leave here in one month to the day, without
excuses or delay."

Anne did as he said, her eyes moving dully over the
lines. "He says she is to spend the remaining time saying farewell to her
friends and visiting her favorite modistes and milliners." She tried to look
encouraged. "He must have changed in the last four years-he'd never have
thought of Whitney requiring time to order her clothing here in Paris, where
fashions are so far advanced. Edward," she said, "do you suppose that he
could have received an offer for Whitney from that young man she adored so
much when she was a girl?"

"He's received no marriage proposal," Edward snapped,
"or he would have been gloating about it in this damned letter, thinking he
had succeeded where he believes we've failed." He turned his back to his
wife. "You may as well tell her now and have done with it. I'll be up in a
bit."

Whitney stood numbly, trying to assimilate the news she
thought she'd longed to hear. "I-I'm happy to be going home, Aunt Anne," she
managed finally. "It's just that. . ." Her voice trailed off.

Happy to be going home? Terrified of going home!
Terrified that now the chance was being given to her, she might fail. It was
one thing to languish in Paris, surrounded by men who flattered and admired
her, another to go home and try to make Paul see her with their eyes. There
was her father to cope with, and Margaret Merryton, and everyone's mothers,
who had always made her feel lower than an insect. But here, there was Aunt
Anne and Uncle Edward who loved her and laughed with her, who made her life
warm and happy.

Her aunt turned her face to the windows, but Whitney saw
a tear trickle down her cheek. She bit her lip; if Aunt Anne had misgivings
about her returning to England, then surely it was too soon to go. She
wasn't ready to confront everyone yet. She turned to the mirror, hoping to
find some reassurance in her appearance. In Paris, gentlemen said she was
beautiful. Would Paul think so? The mirror promptly quashed that idea! It
was happening already, she realized in panic. Before she even left, she
could feel her facade falling away. She was plain, awkward, too tall-even
her fingers were fidgeting nervously as they used to do. And there--on the
bridge of her nose-she could still see faint traces of the freckles she
loathed. Oh the devil! Whitney thought, suddenly impatient with herself.
Freckles do not reappear before one's eyes; fingers do not have to fidget,
and she would not, would not, begin inventorying her faults and shortcomings
as she had in the old days!

Her stomach ceased its frantic churning. Inside of her,
something else began to blossom: hope. Her lips curved into a soft smile. I
am going home, she thought. I am going home to Paul-home to show everyone
how much I've really changed. I am actually going home!

But going home also meant leaving her beloved aunt and
uncle.

She turned away from the mirror and saw her aunt's
shoulders shaking with silent weeping. "I feel as if I'm being severed in
half," Anne choked.

"I love you, Aunt Anne," Whitney whispered, hot tears
rushing to her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. "I love you so much."
Aunt Anne opened her arms, and Whitney fled into them, trying to comfort and
be comforted.

Pausing outside Whitney's bedroom, Edward squared his
shoulders and carefully schooled his desolate features into a fixed, bright
smile. Clasping his hands behind his back, he strolled into the room.
"Having a good time, ladies?" he ventured with forced joviality, glancing
from one weeping woman to the other.

Two teary, anguished faces gaped at him in utter
disbelief. "Having a good. . . ?" Anne echoed incredulously. She looked at
Whitney and Whitney looked at her. Suddenly they began to giggle, then the
giggles burst into great, gusty laughs. "Yes ... er ... well, good. Glad to
see it," Edward murmured, bewildered by his ladies' excessively unstable
behavior. Then he cleared his throat. "We'll miss you, child. You've been a
blessing and a joy to us both."

Whitney's gaiety fled, and fresh tears stung her eyes.
"Oh Uncle Edward," she whispered brokenly, "I shall never, never love any
man as much as I love you."

To his acute dismay, Edward felt his eyes misting. He
opened his arms wide, and his niece came into them. When at last the storm
of emotions had passed, the three of them stood looking sheepishly at one
another, each clutching a handkerchief. Edward was the first to speak. "Well
now, England isn't the end of the world, is it?"

"It-it isn't exactly next door, either," Whitney said,
dabbing at her eyes.

"You have friends there," Edward reminded her. "And of
course, that young man you admired so much is there too-the blond fellow who
didn't have brains enough to recognize a jewel when she was right under his
nose. What was his name?"

"Paul," Whitney provided with a teary smile.

"The man's a fool-he should have snatched you up
before." Edward paused, then watching her very closely, he said, "I expect
he will now."

"I hope so," Whitney said fervently.

"I rather thought you did, child," he said with an
I-told-you-so look at Anne. "In fact, I've often wondered if the reason
you've never found any of your suitors here acceptable is because you've
always wanted to go back to England and bring Mm up to scratch. That's what
you're going to do, isn't it?"

"I intend to try," Whitney admitted, puzzled because her
uncle suddenly looked like a small mischievous boy.

"In that case," he continued, "I expect you'll get
yourself betrothed before the snow falls."

"If I can," Whitney said, smiling eagerly.

Jamming his hands into his pants pockets, he seemed to
consider an idea. "I rather think at a time like that, a lass should have a
woman to advise her. It might take a lot of planning to snare such a laggard
as . . . er . . . ?"

"Paul," Whitney provided breathlessly.

"Right, Paul. You know my dear," he said thoughtfully,
"you might like to have your aunt come with you." He peered over his
spectacles at Whitney. "Would that please you?"

"Yes!" she shrieked, laughing. "Yes, yes, yes!"

Edward hugged her and looked over her shoulder at his
beaming wife. The smile of gratitude that she gave him was compensation
enough for his sacrifice. "I've been postponing a journey to Spain," he
said. "When the two of you leave, I'll be about the kingdom's business
there. After a stop or two along the way, I'll come to England to
congratulate that laggard you'll be betrothed to, and I'll bring your aunt
back home with me when I leave."

Now that he had the satisfaction of outmaneuvering
Martin Stone by sending Anne along to be certain Whitney got off to the
right start, Edward relented on his original decision about the extravagant
sum Martin had sent for Whitney to spend. Accordingly, his ladies set out on
a round of shopping excursions which began in the morning and ended with
just enough time to dress for the evening's festivities or collapse in bed.

Nicolas DuVille's parents held a lavish party in
Whitney's honor the night before Lady Anne and Whitney were to leave. All
evening, Whitney dreaded saying goodbye to Nicki, but when the time came, he
made it relatively easy.

They had stolen a few moments alone together in one of
the anterooms of his parents' spacious house. Nicki was standing by the
fireplace, one shoulder propped against the mantle, idly contemplating the
drink in his hand. "I'll miss you, Nicki," Whitney said softly, unable to
endure the silence.

He looked up, his expression amused. "Will you, cherie?"
Before she could answer, he added, "I shall not miss you for very long."

Whitney's lips trembled with surprised laughter. "What a
perfectly unchivalrous thing to say!"

"Chivalry is for callow youths and old men," Nicki told
her with a teasing inflection in his voice. "However, I shan't miss you for
long, because I intend to come to England in a few months."

Whitney shook her head, and in sheer desperation said, "Nicki,
there is someone else. At home, I mean. At least, I think there is. His name
is Paul and . . ." She trailed off, bewildered by Nicki's slow grin.

"Has he ever come to France to see you?" he asked
carefully.

"No, he wouldn't even think of such a thing. You see, I
was different then-you know, childish, and he only remembers me as a
reckless, unruly, inelegant young girl who . . . Why are you grinning like
that?"

"Because I am delighted," Nicki said, laughing softly.
"Delighted to learn, after so many weeks of wondering who my rival is, that
he is some English idiot whom you haven't seen in four years, and who hadn't
sense enough to anticipate the woman you would become. Go home, cherie," he
chuckled, putting his glass down and drawing her tightly against him. "You
will soon discover that in matters of the heart, memories are much kinder
than reality. Then, in a few months, I will come, and you will listen to
what I wish to say."

Whitney knew he intended to declare himself, just as she
knew it would be futile to argue the point now. Her memories would not prove
better than reality, because none of her memories were good ones. But she
didn't want to explain to Nicki how shockingly she had behaved, and why Paul
couldn't possibly have imagined she would turn out to be a presentable young
woman.

Besides, Nicki wouldn't have listened; he was already
bending his head to claim her lips in a long, violently sweet\

Chapter Nine

ENGLAND 1880

IN THE DEEPENING DUSK OF A SPLENDID SEPTEMBER DAY,
Whitney gazed out the coach window at the achingly familiar scene. She was
only a few miles from home.

Uncle Edward had insisted that they travel in style,
which meant that, in addition to their coach, there were two more, heavily
loaded with trunks and valises, and a fourth carrying Aunt Anne's maid and
Clarissa, Whitney's own maid. Besides the four coachmen and four postillions,
there were six outriders, three in front and three bringing up the rear.
Altogether they combined to make a rather spectacular caravan, and Whitney
wished that Paul could see her returning in such grand style.

The coach swayed as they turned north onto the private
drive leading up to her home. Whitney's hands shook as she drew on her lilac
gloves so that she would look absolutely perfect when she saw her father.

"Nervous?" Anne smiled, watching her.

"Yes. How do I look?"

Lady Anne gave her a thorough appraisal from the top of
her head where a fragile filigree clip held her heavy mahogany tresses off
her forehead, past her glowing face, to the fashionable lilac traveling
costume she was wearing. "Perfect," she said.

Lady Anne pulled on her own gloves, feeling almost as
nervous as Whitney looked. In order to eliminate the possibility that Martin
Stone might somehow object to her accompanying Whitney home, Edward had
decided the best course was for her to arrive unexpectedly with Whitney,
leaving Martin with no choice but to make her welcome. At the time, Anne had
recognized the wisdom in her husband's thinking, but as her confrontation
with Martin approached, she was miserably uncomfortable at being an
uninvited houseguest.

Their coaches drew up before the wide steps at the front
of the house. The footman opened the door and let down the steps, and both
women watched Martin making his decorous way toward the coach. Whitney
gathered her skirts so that she could step down and threw a smiling look at
Anne.

From within the coach, Anne watched eagerly as Martin
came face to face with the gorgeous, elegant young woman who was smiling
dazzlingly at him. In a stiff, self-conscious voice, he spoke to the
daughter he hadn't seen in four years. "Child," said he, "you've grown even
taller."

"Either that, Papa," Whitney returned gravely, "or you
have shrunk."

Lady Anne's muffled laugh announced her presence in the
coach, and she reluctantly climbed down to confront her host. She had not
expected effusive cordiality-Martin was never effusive, and rarely
cordial-but neither had she expected him to gape at her, while his
expression went from thunderstruck to alarmed to irritated. "Good of you to
see Whitney home," he managed finally. "When d'you plan to leave?"

"Aunt Anne is going to remain with me for two or three
months, until I'm settled again," Whitney interjected hastily "Isn't that
kind of her?"

"Yes, kind," he agreed, looking definitely irked. "Why
don't you both relax before supper . . . have a rest, or supervise the
unpacking, or something. I have a note to write. I will see you later," he
added, already starting for the house.

Whitney was torn between mortification over the way her
father was treating her aunt, and a nostalgic joy at being home again. As
they mounted the staircase, she let her gaze wander over the familiar old
house with its mellow, oak-panelled walls lined with English landscapes and
trained portraits of her ancestors. Her favorite painting, a lively hunt
scene in the cool morning mist, was in its place of honor on the balcony,
hanging between a pair of Chippendale sconces. Everything was the same, yet
different. There seemed to be three times as many servants as they'd ever
had before, and the house shone from the painstaking labor of many extra
hands. Every inch of parquet floor, every bit of panelled wall was glowing
with newly applied polish. The candleholders lining the hall were gleaming,
and the carpet beneath her feet was new.