Chapter Twenty-Four
Whitney held out her hands to the little girl and spun them around and around until they were both horribly dizzy. Little Mabel laughed and laughed when released.
“Again. Again,” she begged as she rushed at Whitney.
“Oh no,” Whitney said as she steadied herself against a low wall. “I think that is enough spinning for this morning. I need to sit down a moment.”
Mabel hugged her legs tightly. “I want to stay with you.”
“Let’s find a good spot in the shade, shall we.” Whitney smoothed the girl’s hair back from her hot face, collected her sketchbook, and looked around the garden. The Taverhams’ guests were spread everywhere in the formal gardens. Small groups of people had gathered together, taking advantage of the warm day, fine food, and comfortable chairs strewn about to talk or relax in the perfect weather.
The children ran between them, playing their own games, grasping at crumbs of conversation thrown their way by the adults. But most of the children were more interested in each other than the adults. That was usually the way with children; however, today young Mabel had attached herself to Whitney and refused to be drawn away.
Whitney did not mind the company, but choosing a place slightly away from the other guests was essential. Mabel was something of a chatterbox and was quite often warned to be quieter. Whitney liked her chatter, though. The girl was inquisitive about everything girls usually took no notice of. She had a fine mind that needed stimulation. The child reminded Whitney of herself at that age. Orphaned and eager.
Whitney could draw well enough while the girl prattled on, and preferred privacy anyway to complete her sketches, of which Mabel was one subject.
Tomorrow was the day she would leave her friends behind, and the thought of it made her momentarily sad, a feeling she quickly shook off. It was impossible to achieve her objectives if she allowed timidity or apprehension to slow her down.
They found an empty square of blanket and sank to the ground under the shade of a tree. As soon as they’d chosen their place, a servant hurried over, tray of food, pitcher and two glasses in hand, and offered to bring anything else they required. Whitney requested two pillows—one for her back, and the other for Mabel to rest her head upon should she lie down.
When the man returned, Whitney and Mabel settled in to a generous feast, washed down with Twilit Hill’s excellent mulberry wine and water for Mabel.
Mabel all but sat in her lap after they’d eaten in her eagerness to be friendly. “Do you have a daughter?”
Whitney smiled at the question and shifted the girl a bit farther away from her elbow. She set her sketchbook against her knees. “I don’t.”
“Do you want one? She could be your friend too and you would never be lonely.”
Whitney stroked the girl’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “I’m not lonely, my dear, but perhaps when I’m older I will want a child.”
The girls face fell.
Whitney hugged the girl to her side quickly. Mabel was a pretty little thing with a heart easily disappointed. “I have good reasons. I am not married, for one, and two, I don’t have a home.”
Mabel gasped. “Are you an orphan?”
“I suppose I am still,” she confessed. “My parents died when I was a little older than you. I only have one older cousin, and although he would prefer that I lived with him, I wish to travel.”
“Where is your cousin?”
“He is at home with his wife and daughter, I imagine.”
“Did they leave you behind because you were bad?”
“No, she is very good indeed,” Exeter answered before she could.
Whitney looked up at the Duke of Exeter, who had wandered in their direction. He was grinning down on them, obviously very amused with himself today, judging by that smile.
“We parted ways in London when I came to visit Lady Taverham. After this visit is over, I’m off to see the world.”
Exeter surprised her by sitting on the other side of the blanket, stretching out in front of them. “She’s very brave,” he told Mabel before winking. “Most ladies are not as adventurous as our Miss Crewe.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the compliment. She thought she was brave sometimes, too, but it was the “our Miss Crewe” that made her nervous. She was her own person. She answered to no man, or woman for that matter. She made her own way, paid her own bills now, and would decide the course of her life without interference.
Mabel, eager to act as hostess, offered the duke the platter. There were only a few little bits left to tempt him. “Are you hungry?”
“I could be persuaded to eat.” He selected a piece of cheese and ham and thanked the girl.
Whitney turned the page and made a few small adjustments to a sketch she’d started of the duke earlier in the week. She had not quite captured the warmth in his expression well enough in her opinion.
Mabel returned to her side. “I think Whitney should get married,” she exclaimed.
The duke chuckled. “Do you now?”
“Yes, and then she could have a daughter. She could look after you, too.”
The duke appeared to be highly amused, given the way he pressed his lips together and his eyes sparkled with mirth. Whitney hurriedly tried to capture his emotions on the page. She almost had his image perfect when he spoke again.
“What do you say, Miss Crewe? Is she right? Should I marry?”
Whitney had only been listening with half an ear, and frowned at him. “Hmm, you could if that is what you wish for. Just make sure to ask the right woman.”
Mabel pushed the tray under his nose. “I would look after you. I’d be the best daughter ever.”
Whitney’s breath caught at the plea in the little girl’s voice, and she set her sketch aside. “Darling, of course you would, but you are a daughter already. Lord and Lady Carrington love you very much, and I don’t think they could part with you for any reason.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears, and then she crumpled against Whitney’s side. “They don’t want me anymore,” she whispered.
“Why do you say that?”
“They’re always talking about having too many children underfoot.”
Whitney hugged the girl. “They do not mean it that way. But you must remember it takes a lot of work to support a large family. Everyone must help each other,” she reminded her.
“And we must be quiet,” Mabel whispered.
Clearly the girl had heard that request a lot lately and taken it to heart. Whitney remembered what the fear of being discarded had felt like too well. Her aunt Ester had abhorred noise of any sort, and Whitney had not been a quiet child, either. “Quiet, but not utterly silent.”
“Mabel,” Lady Carrington called. “Come over here for cake, sweetheart.”
“See, you are wanted. She made sure you would not miss out,” Whitney pointed out.
“I’ll be back,” Mabel promised without a backward glance, and then sped across the grounds to join the line of waiting children.
“Goodness, she’s fast on her feet,” Whitney exclaimed.
She smiled as the child was moved into her place in the line—by age, if Whitney was not mistaken—and waved back at her.
Whitney returned her attention to her sketches, checking each one off. The portrait for Lady Ettington was done and could be given away tonight, as could the one she’d just completed of the duke. She turned the page and found herself looking into Lord Acton’s eyes.
She was slightly ashamed of having drawn him again after promising that she never would. She couldn’t seem to help herself; no matter the time of day or night, the dratted man was always in her thoughts. Even when he was with Miss Quartermane, she could not forget the weight of his hand covering hers, or wrapped around her waist as they rode together. It was not right and it was not fair. If only she could have liked someone else, she might not be in such an uncomfortable position.
Whitney covered Lord Acton’s face with another page.
Exeter sat up suddenly, glancing around, and so did Whitney. Many of the guests appeared to be rushing away, most returning indoors with the children. She glanced up at the sky, noting there were still enough hours left to enjoy the countryside before darkness fell.
As far as she knew, there were no entertainments planned for that evening, so she could not understand why everyone was leaving.
“I wonder where everyone is going in such a hurry,” she mused, unwilling to follow them.
“I’ve no idea, but I am glad.” Exeter cleared his throat. “Do you really think it’s not too late for me to marry at my age?”
“You’re not old, Exeter, you are merely well seasoned.”
“Seasoned? That isn’t complimentary.”
She smiled, turning her pages. Yes, her work was complete on all but the family portrait for Lady Taverham. “On the contrary. Older timber burns hotter than greenwood.”
He laughed. “Then I will take that as a compliment after all.”
“You should. You are very handsome.”
“Do you think so?”
“Everyone says so.”
“I meant you.”
She looked at him more closely. “Your face is very pleasing to look at. Beyond that I will say no more, because I am sure you’ve heard it all before from your slavish admirers.”
“Slavish?” He frowned. “You make it sound as if they are mindless imbeciles.”
“Some of the more eloquent ones are. Make sure when you choose a wife that she is able to discuss more than the cut of your coat or the curve of your lips as you smile. Otherwise, you might find married life a touch, well…boring.”
“I will keep that in mind. What else should I look for in a wife?”
Whitney laughed and climbed to her feet unaided. She had to complete her work this afternoon. To delay, even for conversation with the duke, wasn’t in her best interests. “I really don’t know. I rarely play matchmaker.”
“But you have an idea?”
“Everyone has an idea of who would suit and who does not. Compatibility surely is more than a meeting of position, connections and pocketbooks.”
“I think so, too. I’ve little interest in marrying a woman whose only recommendation is her appreciation for my position in society.”
“I quite agree. A man or a woman’s standing in society can change so swiftly through no effort on their own. Take me. My father was a gentleman of modest income, his brothers were in trade. I am only wealthy now because they died and left me their fortunes. Thanks to my connection to Lord Louth, I am invited everywhere and my eccentricities are overlooked. Mostly,” she amended.
“But that is not all to recommend you,” Exeter murmured. “You make me laugh.”
“Anyone could make you laugh if they tried hard enough. Did I see that even Miss Quartermane managed it the other day?”
He conceded her point with a nod. “She surprised me by not being boring.”
“I’m glad,” Whitney murmured. “She likes you very much, I suspect.”
Whitney kicked herself for uttering that observation out loud. Alice was about to marry Lord Acton, and that was that.
She turned away, but Exeter stayed her with a light touch on her arm.
“I prefer your laugh to hers,” he confessed.
“I like yours, too,” Whitney promised. “When you exert yourself to make the attempt. But come tomorrow, you’re going to have to find someone new to amuse you.”
“So you are determined on going?” he asked.
“Of course,” she exclaimed with a frown. Had he suddenly become dense?
“And nothing could change your mind?” he pressed.
Her thoughts skipped back to Lord Acton, and for a moment she was almost temped to say yes. If, and it was an impossible if, Lord Acton somehow did not wed Miss Quartermane, she might have reason to stay for his sake. She knew the agonizing torture that came when someone you loved was dying very slowly before your eyes. Whitney did not care for Emily, but she did care a great deal for the earl. She wished there was a way to stay and be his friend through the hard weeks or months to come.
But he would have Alice to comfort him. To be his wife. Whitney was not needed here.
“I highly doubt it,” she warned. “It would take more than a few pretty words to convince me.”
“Perhaps this will change your mind.” Exeter leaned close, attention locked on her lips.
She was sure she uttered “stop” but before she knew it, she was in the duke’s arms, and the recipient of a passionate and lengthy kiss.