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
"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
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