Authors: Judith McNaught
Laying her fork aside, Whitney perched her chin on her
folded hands, deliberately goading him with her wide, blank stare. "What
date?"
"Don't treat me like an imbecile! You know I'm referring
to a wedding date."
"Wedding?" Whitney repeated. "Did I forget to tell you?
There's not going to be a wedding." Tossing an apologetic glance at Aunt
Anne, Whitney rose from the table and left the room.
"Really, Martin, you are the greatest fool to push her
that way. What choice do you leave her except to defy you?" Distastefully,
Anne shoved her plate aside and followed Whitney.
After a moment, Martin also shoved his plate aside and
sent for his carriage in order to pay a morning call on his future
son-in-law.
By eleven o'clock Whitney's headache had abated, but her
mood had not improved. Seated across from Aunt Anne in the sewing room, she
listlessly worked at her embroidery frame. "I loathe needlework," she
observed unemotionally. "I have always loathed it. Even if I could do it
well, I'd still loathe it."
"I know," her aunt sighed, "but it keeps one's hands
busy." They both looked up as a footman came in with the mail and handed a
letter to Whitney. "It's from Nicki," Whitney said, brightening with
fondness at the memory of him. Eagerly she broke the seal and began to read
Nicki's bold, firm scrawl.
The smile faded from her face, and her head began to
pound with renewed vigor. Slumping back in her chair, she gazed in numb
horror at her aunt. "Nicki is arriving in London tomorrow."
Anne's embroidery needle froze in mid-stitch. "His grace
will not be pleased to have Nicolas DuVille here on our doorstep, pressing
his suit right beside Paul Sevarin."
Whitney was more concerned about sparing herself the
humiliation of having Nicki here as a houseguest, where he would inevitably
learn of her scandalous elopement with Paul next week. "It needn't come to
that," she said firmly, taking charge of the matter. She left the room,
returning a moment later with quill and parchment.
"What are you going to say?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it," Whitney announced,
dipping the quill into the inkpot and beginning to write, "I am going to
tell Nicki to remain in London. What sort of contagious disease do you
prefer? Malaria? The plague?" Seeing that her aunt was not sharing her
semi-hysterical humor, Whitney added more calmly, "I shall simply tell Nicki
that I have commitments away from here and won't be able to
see him this trip. I gather from what he wrote that he
is only going to be in England for a short time to attend some social
function at Lord Marcus Rutherford's-whoever that may be."
For want of any more helpful comment, Anne said, "Lord
Rutherford is connected with several of the best families in Europe,
including the DuVilles. Your uncle has often said he is the most astute man
in the government, and one of the most powerful, as well."
"Well, he certainly chose an inconvenient time to ask
Nicki to come to England," Whitney remarked as she sprinkled fine sand over
the note and rang for a footman to have it sent off at once.
Now that she'd taken matters into her own hands and done
something to help avert disaster, Whitney felt better. With great gusto she
applied herself to her needlework, but she had never been any good at it,
and the tiny perfect stitches she planned in her mind failed to materialize
on the cloth. In a fit of frustrated impatience, she ignored the ghastly
effect she was creating and simply enjoyed the act of stabbing at the cloth
with the needle.
Long after her aunt had gone down to lunch, she
continued. This stab was for fate, which out of sheer perversity, was
thwarting her at every turn. This stab was for Lord Rutherford, who was
responsible for Nicki coming to England. This stab was for her father-cruel,
heartless, unloving. This stab was for ... In her vengeful enthusiasm,
Whitney missed the fabric and yelped in pain as the needle pierced her left
index finger.
A throaty chuckle preceded a familiar, deep voice. "Are
you embroidering that cloth or assaulting it?"
Whitney surged to her feet in surprise, sending her
embroidery sliding to the floor. She had no idea how long Clayton had been
standing in the doorway watching her. All she knew was that he seemed to
fill the room with his compelling presence and that her spirits soared
crazily at the sight of him. Embarrassed by her reaction, she hastily
directed her attention to her finger where a minuscule drop of blood had
appeared.
"Shall I send for Dr. Whitticomb?" he offered. A smile
tugged at the corner of his handsome mouth as he added, "If you don't want
Whitticomb, I can send for 'Dr. Thomas' but I understand that his specialty
is more in the line of sprains and breaks. . ."
Whitney bit her bottom lip, trying desperately not to
laugh. "Actually, Dr. Thomas is very busy with another patient right now-a
sorrel mare. And Dr. Whitticomb was rather irritated over being sent here on
a fool's errand the last time. I doubt he'd be quite so gracious about being
summoned on a second one."
"Was it 'a fool's errand'?" Clayton asked quietly.
The laughter fled from Whitney's face and an
inexplicable guilt assailed her. "You know it was," she whispered, averting
her eyes.
Clayton studied her pale face with a slight, worried
frown. Despite her momentary gaiety, he could tell that she was as tense as
a tightly coiled spring. He wasn't concerned by her rebellious announcement
at breakfast this morning that there was not going to be a marriage, which
was what had sent her father scurrying to him in a state of wild agitation.
Martin Stone was a stupid bastard who continued trying to bully her, even
though it only made Whitney more hell-bent on defying him. For that reason,
Clayton had decided to do something to ease her plight and remove her from
her father's abrasive presence for a while.
He walked toward her, and she watched him warily. "I
have a favor to ask of you," Clayton said with quiet firmness. "I would like
you to accompany me to a ball in London. You can bring that peculiar little
abigail of yours-the stout woman with white hair who always scowls at me as
if she suspects I'm going to carry off the family silver."
"Clarissa," Whitney provided automatically, her mind
already searching for a suitable excuse not to accompany him.
Clayton nodded. "She can play duenna, so there'll be no
lack of a proper chaperone." Actually, Lady Gilbert would have been a far
more suitable chaperone, but he wanted Whitney to himself for a while. "If
we leave in the morning, the day after tomorrow, we can be in London by late
afternoon. That will give you time to visit with your friend, Emily, and
rest before the ball. I'm certain the Archibalds will be delighted to have
you stay for the night, and we'll return the following day." Before she
could refuse, which Clayton could see she was about to do, he added, "Your
aunt is even now writing a note to advise Emily Archibald of your arrival."
Wildly, Whitney wondered what madness had made Aunt Anne
agree to such a thing, and then she realized that her aunt was in no better
position to deny the Duke of Claymore anything than she herself was. "You
didn't have a favor to ask," Whitney corrected him irritably. "You had a
command to issue."
Clayton ignored her lack of enthusiasm for the ball-an
idea which he had only conceived after talking to her father this morning.
"I was hoping very much that you would like the idea," he said.
His gentle reply made Whitney feel churlish and rude.
Sighing, she accepted the inevitable. "Whose ball are we attending?"
"Lord Rutherford's." Clayton hadn't realty expected any
reaction to that, but even if he had, nothing would have prepared him for
what happened next. Whitney's eyes widened until they were huge green
saucers. "Whose?" she demanded in a choked whisper, and before he could
answer, she gave a stunned shriek of horrified laughter and literally
collapsed into his arms, convulsed with gates of mirth.
Her eyes swimming with tears of hilarity, she finally
leaned back in his arms and said, "You see before you a demented female who
is beginning to look upon life's tragedies as one great lark." Swallowing
another giggle, she said eagerly, "Does my aunt know yet? Whose ball we are
to attend?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
Whitney reached for Nicki's note and handed it to him.
"I wrote Nicki this morning and told him not to come-that I had other
commitments away from home."
Clayton skimmed the note and gave it back to her.
"Fine," he said curtly, annoyed because she called DuVille "Nicki," yet she
persisted in addressing him, to whom she was betrothed, only in formal
terms. With grim satisfaction, he realized that Whitney would beat his side
when DuVille saw her at the Rutherford's and his annoyance abated. Pressing
a light kiss on her forehead, he said, "I'll call for you at nine in the
morning, the day after tomorrow."
Chapter Twenty-one
TWO DAYS LATER, ON THE STROKE OF NINE O'CLOCK, WHITNEY
watched two shiny black travelling chaises draw up in the front drive.
Pulling on the aqua kid gloves that matched her travelling costume, she
trooped down the stairs to the entrance foyer with Clarissa marching beside
her. Aunt Anne and her father came to bid her farewell. Whitney ignored her
father and gave her aunt a fierce hug white Clayton excused himself to
escort Clarissa personally out to the chaise.
"Where is Clarissa?" Whitney asked a few minutes later
as Clayton handed her into his empty chaise.
Clayton, who had unceremoniously dispensed with the
irate, protesting chaperone by thrusting her into the other chaise with his
valet, said smoothly, "She is comfortably ensconced in the coach behind us,
undoubtedly browsing through the excellent books I took the liberty of
providing for her."
"Clarissa adores romances," Whitney remarked.
"I gave her The Successful Management of Large Estates
and Plato's Dialogues," Clayton admitted impenitently. "But then, I had
already put up the stairs and slammed the door before she ever had an
opportunity to see the titles."
Whitney burst out laughing and shook her head.
The chaises swayed gently as they turned from her drive
onto the rutted country road, and it occurred to Whitney that although the
chaise looked, from the outside, like hundreds of similar conveyances, it
was much more spacious and luxurious on the inside. The velvet squabs were
deeper and more comfortable, and the coach was so well sprung that it seemed
to float on its frame. Beside her, Clayton had ample room to stretch out his
long buckskin-clad legs without being cramped by the opposite seat, and
although his broad shoulders were almost touching hers, it was not a lack of
ample room that caused him to sit so close to her on the seat. Her pulse
stirred as the faint scent of his spicy cologne touched her nostrils, and
she hastily turned her head to concentrate on the lovely fall landscape
moving past.
"Where is your home?" she asked after a long,
comfortable silence.
"Wherever you are."
The quiet tenderness in his deep voice took her breath
away. "I-I mean where is your real home-Claymore?"
"An hour and a half drive from London in good weather."
"Is it very old?"
"Very."
"Then it must be quite dismal," Whitney reflected. He
shot her a quizzical look and she hastily explained, "I mean that most of
the old noble houses look very large and spacious from without, but inside
they seem dark and oppressive."
"There have been some modernizations and additions made
to Claymore." Dry amusement vibrated in his voice. "I don't think you'll
find it 'dingy.'"
Whitney instantly assumed that his ducal residence must
be palatial and extravagantly beautiful, but then she realized she would
never see it, and a strange depression settled on her. Clayton seemed to
sense her change of mood, and to Whitney's surprised delight he began
regaling her with hilarious stories of his boyhood and his brother, Stephen.
In all the time she had known him, he had never been so open with her, and
her mood lightened with every mile until they neared Emily's London
townhouse.
The sun was descending, and Whitney grew increasingly
tense as she stared out at the cobbled London streets. "What's wrong?"
Clayton asked beside her.
"I feet conspicuous, arriving at Emily's house with
you," Whitney admitted miserably. "It's going to seem very odd to her and to
Lord Archibald."
"Pretend we're going to be married," Clayton laughed.
Gathering her into his arms, he kissed her so long and so thoroughly that
Whitney almost believed it.
The Archibalds' townhouse was trimmed with ornamental
wrought iron and grillwork. Emily greeted them in the entry nail with
smiling graciousness, and although Whitney knew Emily must be shocked that
she had come to London with Clayton, she was relieved that Emily gave no
hint of it. After giving Whitney a warm hug, she escorted her quickly up to
a guest room, then went back downstairs to join her husband and Clayton in
the drawing room and fulfill her duties as a hostess.
When she returned a quarter of an hour later, her
serenity was gone and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Whitney, who
was helping Clarissa unpack, took one look at Emily's overbright eyes, and
braced herself. "It's him!" Emily burst out, leaning against the door,
gaping at Whitney. "He just told me who he really is. Michael has known all
along, but his grace had asked Michael to keep his identity a secret.
Everyone in London talks about him constantly, but I'd never seen him.
Whitney!" she exclaimed, her pretty face lit with unabashed pride in her
friend. "You are going to the Rutherfords' ball with the most eligible
bachelor in all Europe! The Rutherfords' ball," she repeated as if trying to
inspire enthusiasm in her friend. "Invitations to their parties are as
coveted as diamonds!"