Authors: Judith McNaught
When Clayton seemed perfectly agreeable to letting her
go with Marcus Rutherford, Whitney hastily took matters into her own hands.
"My Lord Rutherford," she said, her pleading gaze directed at Clayton.
"We-we wish to keep our forthcoming marriage a secret for a while."
She looked so distressed that Clayton reluctantly
relinquished his plan to present her to everyone as his betrothed. "It's to
remain a secret for a white, Marcus," be said.
"You must be mad," Lord Rutherford returned, but he
released Whitney's hand. "You'll never keep this prize of yours a secret for
a day. In fact"--he glanced in the direction of the crowd below which was
now openly watching what was transpiring on the balcony-"you'll never manage
such a feat for even an hour." He waited a moment, obviously hoping that
Clayton would relent, then turned to leave them, saying over his shoulder,
"You win at least allow me to confide in Lady Rutherford? She's already
charged me to discover who this beautiful young woman with you is."
Before Whitney could object, Clayton nodded his assent.
With a feeling of impending disaster, she turned a despairing took on him
and said, "Now watch what happens." Lord Rutherford strode directly to a
stunning redhead, drew he-aside and said something to her, and that lady
turned to gaze in astonished welcome at Clayton and Whitney while flashing
them a conspiratorial smile. Precisely as Whitney expected, the moment Lord
Rutherford left her side, Lady Rutherford hurried over to another woman and
bent low to whisper in her ear, and that lady's head swivelled to Clayton
and Whitney, pausing for a split-second before she raised her fan and leaned
close to speak to the lady beside her.
Cold terror strangled Whitney's voice. "So much for
secrecy." She choked out the words, and searched for someone to ask where
she could freshen up. Too stricken to care what Clayton would think of her
actions, she fled to the designated room and closed the door, leaving him
standing alone on the balcony.
Her eyes were glazed with panic as she stared blindly at
her reflection in one of the mirrored walls. This was a calamity! A
disaster! The guests at this ball knew Clayton; they were his friends and
acquaintances. In another fifteen minutes, every one of them would know that
he was betrothed to her, and within a week, everyone in London would know
it. When she eloped with Paul, they would also realize that she had scorned
Clayton, fled to escape him and their forthcoming marriage. Dear God! Before
this was over, Clayton was going to be publicly humiliated. She couldn't
bear to do that to him. Even if she could, she would be afraid to do it. If
she publicly shamed him, his vengeance would surely crash down on her with a
savagery that would be devastating. She shivered, thinking of Clayton's
inevitable fury and the awesome power he possessed to retaliate against her
and her family, even Aunt Anne and Uncle Edward.
Sternly, determinedly, Whitney fought to bring her
rioting panic under control. She couldn't continue to hide in this room like
an hysteric, and she couldn't leave the ball. Hugging her arms around
herself, she began to pace slowly across the crimson carpet, struggling
against her quaking fear and forcing herself to think logically, clearly. In
the first place, she reminded herself, Clayton had avoided matrimony for
years. If he didn't marry her, wasn't it likely that everyone would assume
she'd lost whatever appeal she had for him, and that he and not she had
cried off? Of course they would-particularly when they discovered that she
had neither wealth nor aristocratic lineage.
The painful knot in her stomach began to dissolve. After
a few minutes of additional contemplation, she realized that when Clayton
had refused to allow Lord Rutherford to introduce her as his intended bride,
he had relegated their betrothal to the status of an unconfirmed rumor. And
wasn't London, like Paris, always buzzing with rumors that were soon
forgotten? Emily said it was. She felt much, much better.
Her heart gave a funny little lurch when she remembered
how very proud of her Clayton had seemed when he introduced her to Lord
Rutherford as his fiancee. Never in all these weeks had Clayton mentioned
love, or even that he cared for her, yet there was no mistaking that
expression on his face tonight; he did care for her, and more than a little.
She didn't want to repay him by embarrassing him. She owed him more than to
shame him by cowering in this room. At least for this evening she could
surely pretend that she returned his affection.
Having made that decision, Whitney composed her features
and carefully studied her reflection in the mirror. A perfectly poised young
woman looked back at her, her chin resolutely high.
Satisfied, she reached for the door handle just as
female voices sounded from the adjoining room where champagne had been
placed on a small gilded table between a pair of silk settees. "Her gown is
Parisian," a woman pronounced,
"But with a name like Whitney Stone, she must be as
English as we," a second voice reminded, adding, "do you believe the rumor
that they're betrothed?"
"Absolutely not. If the girl had wits enough to wring an
offer from Claymore, you can be certain she'd also be smart enough to make
sure he sent a notice straight to the Times, I can't see Claymore crying off
an engagement once it was announced."
Chiding herself for eavesdropping, Whitney started to
leave but paused when the outer door again opened and a third voice chimed
in. "They're betrothed, you may rely on it," the newcomer declared
emphatically. "Lawrence and I have just had a word with his grace, and I'm
absolutely convinced it's true."
"Do you mean," the first voice gasped, "that Claymore
confirmed the betrothal?"
"Don't be silly. You know how maddeningly uninformative
Claymore always is when he knows one most wants to pry into his affairs."
"Well then, what makes you so certain he's betrothed to
her?"
"Two things. First of all, when Lawrence asked where
they'd met, Claymore grinned in a way that made Vanessa Standfield
positively livid-you do recall that Vanessa told everyone that he was on the
verge of offering for her before he unexpectedly left for France? Well, now
poor Vanessa looks an utter fool, because it's obvious that he left for
France to join Miss Stone. He admitted he met her there several years ago.
Anyway, when Claymore talks about Miss Stone, he positively beams with
pride!"
"I can't credit the image of Claymore 'beaming,'" the
second voice said skeptically.
"Then merely think of it as a gleam in his eye."
"That I can credit," laughed the voice. "Now, what was
the second reason?"
"It was the look the duke gave Esterbrook when
Ester-brook asked him for an introduction to Miss Stone. Believe me, there
was enough ice in his grace's expression to send Esterbrook scurrying for a
fire where he could warm himself."
Unable to remain any longer, Whitney opened the door. A
secret smile touched her lips and eyes and, as she passed the three
thunderstruck women, she graciously inclined her head.
Clayton was standing precisely where she had left him on
the balcony, but surrounded now by two dozen men and women. Even so, Whitney
had no trouble spotting him because he was taller than everyone else. She
was trying to decide whether she should remain where she was, or go to
Clayton's side, when he looked up and saw her standing there. Without a word
of explanation, he merely inclined his head to those gathered around him,
and strolled out of their midst to Whitney.
As they descended the curving staircase to the ballroom,
the musicians on the raised dais broke into a majestic waltz, but instead of
dancing, Clayton led her toward an alcove which was partially concealed from
the ballroom by a curtain swept gracefully to one side. "Don't you want to
dance?" Whitney asked curiously.
He chuckled and shook his head. "The last time we
waltzed you tried to leave me in the middle of the dance floor."
"Which was no more than you deserved," Whitney teased,
carefully ignoring the watchful stares of the guests.
They stepped into the alcove and Clayton picked up two
glasses of sparkling champagne from the tray on the table beside her.
Handing one to her, he inclined his head toward the smiling people who were
already bearing down on the alcove. "Courage, my sweet." He grinned. "Here
they come." Whitney drained the contents of her champagne glass and plucked
another off the silver tray. For courage.
They converged on the alcove in a ceaseless stream, in
groups of six and eight, demanding good-naturedly to know where Clayton had
been and pressing invitations on him. They treated Whitney with a
combination of carefully concealed speculation and extreme friendliness, yet
there were several times when Whitney sensed a jealous malevolence in the
attitudes of some of the women. And no wonder, she thought, smiting to
herself as she admired Clayton over the rim of her fourth glass of
champagne. He looked breathtakingly handsome in the elegant black evening
attire that fit his tall, broad-shouldered frame to perfection. No doubt
many of the women here had yearned to have him at their side, to bask in the
aura of restrained power and masculine vitality that emanated from him, and
to know the spell of those bold gray eyes capturing and holding theirs.
As she thought it, he glanced down at her in the midst
of a conversation with his friends, and a glow of warmth and happiness
surged through Whitney that had nothing to do with the champagne she had
consumed. Seeing him like this, relaxed and laughing among these glittering
members of London's haute ton who admired him and courted his friendship,
Whitney could hardly believe this urbane, sophisticated nobleman was the
same man who had raced after her on Dangerous Crossing and talked about
prehistoric rocks with her tiresome uncle.
When at long last there was a brief moment of privacy,
Whitney slanted an audacious smile at him. "I would say that the consensus
is that I am probably your mistress."
"As it happens, you're wrong," Clayton said, his gaze
dropping to the near empty champagne glass in her hand. "Have you eaten
anything tonight?"
"Yes," Whitney said. She was puzzled by his concern, but
she dismissed it because the music was beginning again and Lord Rutherford
and five other men were bearing down on her with the obvious intention of
asking her to dance.
Clayton followed her from the alcove and leaned a
shoulder negligently against a pillar, raising his glass of champagne to his
lips while he watched her making her graceful way toward the dance floor.
Whitney might think these people believed she was his mistress, but Clayton
was making certain they realized she was his fiancee. They all knew he was
not in the habit of gazing fondly at the women he escorted to balls, or
holding up pillars while he watched them dance. By doing that now, he was
deliberately announcing their engagement as dearly and emphatically as if it
had been printed in the Times.
Just why it was so important to claim Whitney as his
tonight, was something that eluded him. He told himself that it was because
he didn't want Esterbrook and the others panting after her, but it was more
than that. She was in his blood. Her smile warmed his heart, and her most
innocent touch sent desire raging through his veins. There was a provocative
sensuality about her, a natural, unaffected sophistication and exhilarating
liveliness that drew men to her, and he wanted every one of them to know,
here and now, that she was his.
He watched her, his mind drifting to the night soon to
come, when that glorious mantle of shimmering dark hair would be spilling
over his bare chest and her silken body would writhe to sweet ecstasy
beneath his. In the past, he had preferred his women to be experienced in
the art of lovemaking; fiery, passionate creatures who knew how to give
pleasure and receive it, women who could admit their desire to themselves
and to him. But now he was outrageously pleased that Whitney was a virgin.
In fact, it gave him intense pleasure to contemplate their wedding night
when he would guide her gentry, tenderly from girl to woman, until she was
moaning with rapture in his arms.
Three hours later, Whitney had danced with more men than
she could possibly remember and drunk more champagne than she had ever
consumed. She was feeling decidedly gay and definitely tight-headed-so much
so that not even Clayton's frown of displeasure when she accepted this, her
second dance with Lord Esterbrook, could dampen her spirits. In fact she was
quite convinced that nothing could spoil her enjoyment of the evening, until
she glanced over Lord Esterbrook's shoulder and saw that, for the first time
all night, Clayton was dancing with someone other than her. The young woman
in his arms, whose eyes were turned laughingly up to his was a lushly
beautiful blonde whose slender, voluptuous curves were draped in an
exquisite gown of sapphire-blue, with diamonds and sapphires twined in and
out among her shining curls. A blinding streak of jealousy suddenly ripped
through Whitney.
"Her name is Vanessa Standfield," Lord Esterbrook
provided with a hint of malicious satisfaction in his voice.
"They make a very striking couple," Whitney managed.
"Vanessa certainly thinks so," Esterbrook replied.
Whitney's eyes clouded as she recalled the conversation
she'd overheard much earlier between the three women in the withdrawing room
upstairs. Vanessa Standfield had been expecting an offer from Clayton just
before he left for France. No doubt, Clayton had given her very good reason
to believe he cared, Whitney thought with a fresh stab of painful jealousy
as she watched him grinning at the gorgeous blonde. But then she reminded
herself that Clayton had offered for her and not Vanessa Standfield, and in
a dizzying shift of mood she felt perfectly wonderful again. "Miss
Standfield is very beautiful," she said.