Whitney, My Love

"And so would I," A

Whitney nodded, her face flushed with mortification. Now her aunt would think her a bluestocking-another black mark against her. "Also Latin, Italian, French, and even some German," she confessed.

"Good God," A

"Despite what Father thinks, Aunt A

"You sound ashamed of your accomplishments, when you should be proud."

Whitney gazed out at her home, nestled in the valley below. "I'm sure you know everyone thinks it's a waste of time to educate a female in these things. And anyway, I haven't a feminine accomplishment to my name. I can't sew a stitch that doesn't look as if it were done blindfolded, and when I sing, the dogs down at the stable begin to howl. Mr. Twittsworthy, our local music instructor, told my father that my playing of the pianoforte gives him hives. I can't do a thing that girls ought to do, and what's worse, I particularly detest doing them."

Whitney knew her aunt would now take her in complete dislike, just as everyone else always did, but it was better this way because at least she could stop dreading the inevitable. She looked at Lady A

A

Whitney was more inclined to think of herself as a chunk of coal, but rather than disillusion her aunt, she kept silent. After her aunt left, Whitney picked up her book, but soon her mind wandered from the printed page to dreamy thoughts of Paul.

That night when she came down to the dining room, the atmosphere in the room was strangely charged, and no one noticed her sauntering toward the table. "When do you plan to tell her she's coming back to France with us, Martin?" her uncle demanded angrily. "Or is it your intention to wait until the day we leave and then just toss the child into the coach with us?"

The world tilted crazily, and for one horrible moment, Whitney thought she was going to be sick. She stopped, trying to steady her shaking limbs, and swallowed back the aching lump in her throat. "Am I going somewhere, Father?" she asked, trying to sound calm and indifferent.

They all turned and stared, and her father's face tightened into lines of impatience and a

Carefully avoiding meeting anyone's eyes, lest she break down then and there, Whitney slid into her chair at the table. "Have you informed my aunt and uncle of the risk they are taking?" she asked, concentrating all her strength on preventing her father from seeing what he had just done to her heart. She looked coldly at her aunt and uncle's guilty, embarrassed faces. "Father may have neglected to mention you're risking disgrace by welcoming me into your home. As he will tell you, I've a hideous disposition, I'm rag-ma

Her aunt was watching her with naked pity, but her father's expression was stony. "Oh Papa," she whispered brokenly, "do you really despise me this much? Do you hate me so much that you have to send me out of your sight?" Her eyes swimming with unshed tears, Whitney stood up. "If you . . . will excuse me … I'm not very hungry this evening."

"How could you!" A

"You refine too much upon her words, Madam," Martin said icily. "I assure you that what has her looking so distraught is not the prospect of being parted from me. I have merely put a premature end to her plans to continue making a fool of herself over Paul Sevarin."

Chapter Two

THE NEWS THAT MARTIN STONE'S DAUGHTER WAS BEING PACKED off to France poste haste spread through the countryside like a fire through dry brush. In a sleepy rural area where the gentry were usually aloof and reserved, Whitney Stone had again provided everyone with a delicious morsel of excitement.

On the cobbled streets of the village and in households wealthy and poor, females of all ages gathered to savor this latest piece of gossip. With great relish and at greater length, they discussed every scandalous escapade of Whitney's scandal-ridden life, begi

Only when those events had been recalled in detail, did they allow themselves to conjecture over Martin Stone's reason for finally sending her off to France.

In general, they felt that the outrageous child bad probably pushed her poor, beleaguered father too far when she appeared in men's trousers. Because she had so many other shortcomings, there was some disagreement over exactly what had driven her father to take such sudden action, but if there was anything they all agreed upon, it was that Paul

Sevarin would be vastly relieved to have the girl out from under his feet.

During the next three days, Martin Stone's neighbors arrived at his house in droves, ostensibly to visit with Lady Gilbert and to bid Whitney goodbye. On the evening before their departure for France, A

She stood when they were finally ready to leave, and bade them a curt goodbye; then she sank into a chair, her eyes bright with angry determination. By constantly criticizing his daughter in front of other people, Martin Stone had made his own child a target for village ridicule. All A

In the doorway of the salon, the butler cleared his throat. "Mr. Sevarin is here, my lady."