Authors: Judith McNaught
"I have to start back to London tonight," he
interrupted.
"Tonight?" Whitney repeated, sitting bolt upright. "How
long will you be gone?"
"A week."
Elation began to pulse through Whitney's veins and she
quickly turned her face from him. If Clayton was in London, Paul and she
could elope to Scotland without having to fear that he would learn of their
elopement in time to come after them. His going to London now was a stroke
of luck beyond any she could have hoped for. It was a boon! It was a
blessing!
It was a calamity.
The relief she'd been feeling turned to panic, and
Whitney's head began to pound with renewed vigor. Dear God, Clayton was
going back to London. As gentlemen did, he would probably spend his evenings
at his clubs, dining or gambling with his friends and acquaintances. In
those clubs there were bound to be men who had attended the Ruther-fords'
ball and heard the rumor of his betrothal In the club's atmosphere of easy
camaraderie, his friends would naturally press him to confirm or deny the
rumor. And Whitney could almost imagine Clayton grinning and telling them
that it was true. And if he did, he would look like an utter fool when she
eloped with Paul instead.
Awash with misery, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed. As
much as she feared Clayton's vengeance, which would now be far more awesome
because he would feel publicly humiliated, she dreaded even more being the
cause of that public humiliation. She couldn't bear the thought of this
proud man becoming the object of derision and pity. He had done nothing to
deserve that. Last night she had seen how respected and admired he was by
everyone. Now, because of her, he would be humbled before them.
Whitney clasped her clammy palms together in her lap.
Perhaps she could prevent a public scandal. Paul was due home tomorrow. If
they eloped tomorrow night, she could notify Clayton in London almost at
once, and the sooner he knew of her elopement, the fewer people he would
tell that he had offered for her.
Naturally, she would make certain her message didn't
reach him in time for him to come after her. Tuning, she decided with a lump
growing in her throat, was going to be essential. No matter how travel-weary
Paul might be, they would have to leave within hours of his return. Once
Clayton learned of her elopement, he wouldn't tell anyone he was betrothed
to her. He could pass the betrothal rumor off with one of his mocking smiles
and simply appear at some public function with one of those beautiful women
who panted after him. And that would be that! Everyone would believe that
his betrothal to a penniless nobody like Whitney Stone had merely been a
joke, a ridiculous rumor.
Paul. Her heart sank when she thought of telling him
they had to elope. He wouldn't want to do it; he would be concerned about
the damage to her reputation that an elopement would cause. He had been so
happy the night of her father's party, telling her about the plans he had
for them, the improvements he would make to his house and lands to please
her.
Clayton's hand cupped her chin and Whitney jumped
nervously. "When Sevarin returns," he said in a tone that brooked no
argument, "I want you to inform him at once that you aren't going to marry
him. I will not tolerate people believing that my future wife has been
engaged to another man. Give Sevarin any reason you wish for declining his
offer, but tell him immediately. Is that understood?"
"Yes," Whitney whispered.
Clayton gave her a long, penetrating look. "I want your
word on it."
"I-" Whitney swallowed, profoundly touched that he was
crediting her with having a sense of honor as strong as his own. She dragged
her eyes to his, feeling utterably vile for betraying his trust. "I give you
my word."
His expression softened and he looked at her with
unbearable gentleness. "I know how hard it will be for you to tell him,
little one. I promise I'll make it up to you someday." Tears burned the
backs of her eyes and the muscles of her throat constricted as he tenderly
traced the elegant curve of her cheek. "Forgive me?" he asked her softly.
Forgive him? Whitney's emotions were waning so fiercely
inside of her that for one second, she actually considered turning into his
strong arms and sobbing out her confused sorrow. Instead she nodded and
gazed at him, trying to memorize his handsome face as it was now-because if
she ever saw him again, she knew his expression would be one of icy rage.
They were turning up the road toward her house, and
Whitney numbly pulled on her gloves.
"Why are you going back to London so quickly?" she asked
as the time to bid him a final, painful goodbye drew nearer with each
moment.
"Because I met with my Business managers early this
morning and there are some decisions which I must make, once I've met with
some people in the city. It's purely a matter of choosing which are the best
investments in which to place a rather large sum of money," he reassured
her, and with a grin he added, "Contrary to the gossip you heard about me at
your father's party, I don't lead a life of leisurely debauchery. I have
seven estates, a thousand tenants, and a hundred business interests, all of
which are suffering from the lack of my attention-which has been devoted
almost exclusively to you, my pet."
The coach drew to a stop in front of her house, and a
footman came to open the door and let down the steps. Whitney began to rum
toward the door, but Clayton's quiet voice stopped her. "My business affairs
won't require that I remain in London for that long, but I thought you would
want some time alone after you confront Sevarin. Unless you send word to me
in London, I'll remain there until Sunday-a week from tomorrow."
As he told her how to reach him in London, Whitney heard
the guarded hope in his voice that she would indeed send for him before the
week was out, and she laid a trembling hand on his sleeve, aching to plead
for his forgiveness and understanding. "Clayton, I-" She saw his pleasure at
her voluntary touch and her use of his given name, and her voice broke.
"Have a pleasant trip," she managed to say, pulling away and blindly
climbing down from the coach.
As soon as she reached her room, Whitney sent a note
round to Paul's house with instructions that no matter what time Mr. Sevarin
returned, he was to be given it. In it, she asked him to send word to her
that he was back and then to go immediately to the old gamekeeper's cottage
where she would join him. There, at least, she would have some privacy so
that she could explain her predicament. Explain her predicament! How in the
world was she ever going to find the words to do that? she wondered
dejectedly.
By nightfall there was still no word from Paul.
Twice as she dressed for bed, Whitney almost went down
the hall to enlist her aunt's aid in the elopement. Each time, her better
judgment warned that Aunt Anne would never consent to an elopement no matter
how urgent Whitney's reasons might be. Aunt Anne would think only of the
irreversible damage the elopement would do to Whitney's reputation. She
would never understand that Whitney couldn't, she just couldn't take the
coward's way out now and let Paul down, even if she wanted to-which she
didn't, Whitney told herself without much conviction. He loved her. He was
counting on her.
Since she couldn't trust Clarissa with her secret
either, Whitney slowly packed her necessities and hid the case, then she
climbed into bed and gazed at the ceiling. Of all the unpleasant tasks
facing her, the one she dreaded most was writing the note she would have to
send to Clayton in London.
Mentally she worded and reworded it. It preyed on her
mind until she finally decided to get it over with and dragged herself out
of bed. "Paul and I have eloped," she wrote. "I hope some day you will find
it in your heart if not to forgive me, at least to understand."
Forgive? Understand? Never would Clayton do so. She sat
at her desk and stared at the note, imagining Clayton's reaction to it. At
first he would smile, thinking that she was sending word to him to return
early, and then his smile would fade ...
Shivering as if the blast from those glacial gray eyes
were already levelled on her, Whitney crawled back into bed and huddled
under the covers. She wasn't certain she had the courage to elope or even if
she wanted to elope.
Tears trickled down her cheeks and dampened her pillow
as she thought of the tall, gray-eyed man whom she would have to face when
she returned from her elopement-a forceful, vital man who would turn away
from her in disgust and loathing, who would never again laugh with her,
never hold her in his strong arms, and never again call her "little one" in
that tender way of his.
Paul's message arrived at eleven o'clock the following
morning. Dressed warmly against the frosty chill of the cloudy day, Whitney
raced Khan around the hillside and galloped into the overgrown yard of the
deserted cottage. She tied Khan beside Paul's horse, then shoved open the
creaky door of the cottage. The timid little tire Paul had built snapped and
flickered on the hearth but did little to dispel the chilly gloom of the
single empty room. At a movement behind her, Whitney whirled nervously.
"Paul!"
"I believe you were expecting me," he teased.
Straightening from his lounging position against the wall, he opened his
arms and said, "Come here."
Whitney went to him and automatically turned her face up
for his kiss, while her mind sorted through various ways to begin.
"I've missed you, brat," he murmured in her hair. "Have
you missed me?"
"Yes," she answered absently, pulling away from his
arms. She had to explain slowly, not heap all their tangled problems on him
in the first minute. She moved toward the center of the room, then turned to
face him. "Paul, I have some things to tell you which you are going to
find"-she searched madly for the right word-"surprising."
"Go on," Paul urged, grinning. "I like surprises."
"Well, you aren't going to like this one!" she burst out
helplessly. "You know Mr. Westland?"
Paul nodded.
"And do you recall at my father's party, how everyone
was gossiping about the Duke of Claymore, Clayton Westmoreland?"
"I do," Paul said.
"Well, Mr. Westland is actually Westmoreland."
"The duke who disappeared?" Paul said, his expression a
mixture of amusement, curiosity, and disbelief. "The duke who owns fifty
estates, four hundred of the best horses in Europe, and who is, if my memory
of the party gossip is correct, on the verge of marrying no less than fifty
ravishingly beautiful females? That duke?"
Temporarily sidetracked, Whitney said, "Actually he only
has seven estates. He may have four hundred horses, I don't know. But I do
know that he is on the verge of marrying only one female. Now Paul," she
said soothingly, her voice shaky with nerves, "I know you will find this as
disconcerting as I did at first, but I am the female he's on the verge of
marrying."
Paul's lips twitched with laughter as he came forward to
draw her into his arms. "If he persists in his suit," he teased, running his
thumb along her chin, "I'll tell him what I've just discovered-that when you
are left to your own company, you drink the cooking sherry."
"Are you implying that I'm foxed?" Whitney gasped in
disbelief.
"Drunk as a wheelbarrow," he joked, then he sobered.
"Stop trying to make me jealous. If you're angry because I've been gone so
long, then simply say so."
In sheer frustration, Whitney lurched back and stamped
her foot. "I am not trying to make you jealous! I am trying to make you
understand that I've been betrothed to Clayton Westmoreland since this past
June." There, it was out!
"I beg your pardon?" Paul said, staring at her.
"Actually, I think it was July," Whitney rambled on
disjointedly. "Do you think it's important?"
For the first time Paul took her seriously. "You
accepted Westland?"
"Not Westland, Westmoreland," Whitney emphasized. "And I
didn't accept him, my father did."
"'Then tell your father to marry him," Paul said tautly.
"You love me, it's as simple as that." His blue eyes narrowed on her in
censorious irritation. "You're playing games and I don't like ft. None of
this makes sense."
"I can't help it," Whitney shot back, stung. "It's the
truth."
"Then will you kindly explain to me how you happen to
have been engaged since July to a man you didn't meet until September."
Now he was deadly serious and Whitney almost wished he
weren't. Drawing a long, unsteady breath, she said, "I was introduced to him
in France, but I didn't pay any attention to his name, nor did I remember
his face. The next time I saw him was at a masquerade in May, and I couldn't
see his face then either. At the masquerade, he decided he wanted to marry
me, but he knew that my uncle was turning down all my suitors-because I
wanted to come back here and marry you-so he came here and paid my father
�100,000 for me, then he had my father send for me and he moved into the
Hodges place."
"Do you really expect me to believe all that?" Paul
snapped.
"Not really," Whitney said miserably, "but it's the
truth. I had no idea what had been done until the night you left. I went
downstairs to tell my father and aunt that you and I were going to be
married, and Clayton was there. The next thing I knew, my father was
shouting at me that I was betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, who turned out
to be Clayton, and then everything got even worse."
"I find it impossible to see how this could get worse,"
Paul answered sarcastically.
"Well, it has. Clayton took me to London with him three
days ago, and he told one of his friends that we were going to be married-"
"Then you have agreed to marry him?" Paul said icily.