Authors: Judith McNaught
Whitney, who had been racking her brain for some excuse
to see Clayton other than the obvious one, slowly began to smile with
delight. Turning back to the desk, she picked up the quill and wrote his
name and title in the proper place on the seating diagram. "This should make
you the hostess of the year," she announced proudly, handing the diagram to
Emily. "And it will also make your mother-in-law positively envious!"
"The Duke of Claymore," Emily gasped. "But he'd think me
the most presumptuous person in the world. Besides, he'd not come-none of
our guests is his social equal, despite their titles."
"He'll come," Whitney assured her. "Give me a spare
invitation and a sheet of paper." After a moment's thought, Whitney wrote to
Clayton and explained that she had come to London to visit Emily, and that
she hoped very much that he would join her at the party. She enclosed the
invitation and gave it to one of the Archibalds' footmen with instructions
to take it to his grace's secretary, Mr. Hudgins, in Upper Brook Street and
to tell Mr. Hudgins that the note was from Miss Stone-which was how Clayton
had told her to reach him if she wanted him to come back early.
The footman returned a short time later with the
information that the duke had gone to his brother's country home, and would
be back in London early the next day-Saturday.
Emily looked simultaneously relieved and crestfallen.
"He'll be too weary to come to the party tomorrow night," she sighed. "He'll
be here," Whitney said with smiling certainty.
After dinner, Emily tried to open the subject of Paul,
and then the Duke of Claymore, but Whitney said very gently, and very
firmly, that she didn't want to discuss either of them just yet. To take the
sting out of her refusal to confide in her best friend, Whitney then regaled
her with an hilarious account of how she'd coerced poor Peter into offering
for Elizabeth. "Elizabeth and Peter, along with their parents, and Margaret
and Mrs. Merryton, all left the village this morning when I did," she
finished gaily. "They have come here to shop for Elizabeth's trousseau."
"If anyone had told me a few years ago that you would
someday be Elizabeth's bridesmaid, I'd have accused them of being deranged!"
Emily said with a laugh.
"I think Elizabeth means to ask you to be her matron of
honor," Whitney said. "The wedding is going to take place here in London,
since most of Elizabeth and Peter's relatives live here."
Not until Saturday afternoon did Whitney allow herself
to dwell on her forthcoming confrontation with Clayton tonight. She and
Clarissa spent the morning doing errands for Emily, and on the way back,
Whitney asked the Archibalds' driver to turn into the park and stop. She
left Clarissa in the open carriage and wandered along the path between the
neatly tended beds of chrysanthemums.
She had told Aunt Anne that Clayton didn't care for her,
but she knew that wasn't entirely true. He had said he "wanted" her, which
must mean he desired her. Whitney sat down on the park bench, a faint blush
staining her cheeks as she thought of his lips moving warmly on hers and his
hands caressing her body, molding her to his masculine frame.
She thought about the times they had been together,
beginning with the first time she'd seen him in England. He'd been standing
beside the stream with his shoulders propped against the sycamore, watching
her sunning her bare legs. He had already been betrothed to her that day,
and she had virtually ordered him oft her property. She felt a surge of
righteous indignation when she recalled the way he had used the crop on her
tender backside, but it dwindled away when she thought about what she'd done
to deserve it. A smile touched her lips as she recalled the night they bad
played chess at his house, and her flush deepened as she remembered the
stormy passion of his kisses before he took her home.
Clayton desired her. And he was very proud of her-she
had seen that at the Rutherfords' ball. He didn't love her, of course, but
he did care for her. He cared enough about her to be hurt by the dreadful
things she'd said to him that day beside the pavilion. Tenderness welled in
her heart as she remembered how furiously he'd rejected her kiss until he
finally lost control and his arms went around her, crushing her to him. And
she remembered how desolate she'd felt when she believed they were saying
goodbye forever.
Sternly, Whitney reminded herself of the arrogant,
tyrannical, and high-handed way he had negotiated their betrothal, and then
she shrugged the thought aside. He was all those things and more, yet she
cared for him too, and there was no point in denying it merely so that she
could keep the fires of her resentment and rebellion alive.
She cared for him, and if she hadn't been so obsessed
with marrying Paul, she would have realized it much sooner. Her mind shied
away from delving too deeply into the exact nature of her feelings for
Clayton; it seemed obscene to even consider the possibility that she loved
him, when three days ago, she'd thought she loved Paul. Besides, after
believing she was in love with Paul for all these years, only to discover
that she'd merely been blindly infatuated, she had little faith left in her
ability to judge her own emotions. But she did care tor Clayton, there was
no use denying it. She had always responded wantonly to his caresses and,
although he often made her furious, he made her laugh too.
They were going to be married. Clayton had decided that
last spring, and his indomitable will was going to prevail as surely as the
sun was going to set.
It was inevitable; she was ready to accept that now.
That handsome, powerful, sophisticated nobleman was going to be her husband.
He was also going to be furious tonight when she told him the villagers all
believed she was betrothed to Paul.
Sighing, Whitney scuffed at a pebble with the toe of her
slipper. Instinctively, she knew that she could assuage Clay-ton's anger
simply by telling him that she was willing to marry him whenever he wished.
Now, she had to decide what tone she would use when she told him. She could
salvage some of her pride by being coolly unenthusiastic and saying
something like, "Since I have no real choice except to marry you, we may as
well wed whenever you wish." If she told him in that way, Clayton would
undoubtedly look at her with that sarcastically amused expression which
never failed to irk her and reply with something equally unenthusiastic,
such as, "As you wish, Ma'am."
Whitney frowned unhappily. Although that would save a
bit of her pride, it was an awful way for two people to begin a
marriage-each pretending complete indifference. In all truth, she didn't
feel indifferent to him. These past days she had missed him more than she
would have believed possible; she had missed his quiet strength, his lazy
smile; she had missed the laughter they often shared; she had even missed
arguing with him!
Since she felt this way, it seemed not only silly, but
wrong, to pretend she hated the idea of marrying him. Mentally, Whitney
rehearsed a different way of telling him that she was ready to marry him.
Tonight, after she told him that everyone at home believed she was betrothed
to Paul, she could smile softly into those fathomless gray eyes of his and
say, "I suppose the best way to put a stop to the gossip would be for us to
announce our engagement." Her smile would tell him that she was
surrendering, unconditionally giving over in the battle of wills that had
waged between them all these weeks. True, her pride would suffer a bit, but
Clayton was going to be her husband, and he truly deserved to know that she
was willingly accepting him.
If she told him her decision in this manner, Instead of
replying with mocking sarcasm, Clayton would probably take her in his arms
and kiss her in that bold, sensuous way of his. Just thinking about it made
Whitney feel giddy.
The devil with her pride! Whitney decided. She would
take the latter course. As she walked back toward the carriage, anticipation
and happiness began to pulse through her veins.
When she returned to Emily's house, Whitney was informed
that Emily was in the salon with guests. Rather than intrude, Whitney went
up to the luxurious guest room she was temporarily occupying.
Emily came in just as she was removing her bonnet.
"Elizabeth, Peter, Margaret, and their mamas just left. Elizabeth asked me
to be in her wedding." Apprehensively, Emily added, "I-I invited them to our
party tonight. I couldn't possibly avoid it, with my whole household in an
uproar, obviously preparing for a party."
Whitney pulled off her gloves, a puzzled smile on her
lips as she studied Emily's worried expression. "Don't fret about it, we'll
just make a few changes to the seating for dinner. It's as simple as that."
"No, it isn't," Emily said bleakly. "You see, while they
were shopping, they encountered your friend, M. DuVille. He asked Margaret
about you, and Elizabeth told him that you were staying here with me, and
naturally he came here with them . . ."
Whitney felt a cloud of doom descending over her even
before Emily said, "I had to invite him too. I knew it might make things
awkward for you with the duke coming at your invitation, but I was
absolutely certain M. DuVille would decline on such short notice."
Whitney sank down on the bed. "But Nicki didn't decline,
did he?"
Emily shook her head. "I could cheerfully have strangled
Margaret. He was obviously interested only in you, but she was hanging on
his arm like a ... a leech, imploring him to come. I wish her parents would
marry her off to someone before she disgraces herself and them. She is the
most clinging, indiscriminate, vicious female alive, and Elizabeth is so
sweet, she lets Margaret trample all over her."
Unwilling to let anyone or anything dampen her joyous
anticipation of the night to come, Whitney gave Emily a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry about Margaret or Nicki. Everything's going to be fine."
Chapter Twenty-four
CLAYTON TOSSED THE REPORTS HIS BROTHER HAD ASKED HIM TO
read onto the opposite seat of his coach and leaned his head back, impatient
with himself for returning to the village a day ahead of schedule.
The horses slowed as they neared the cobbled street of
the village, and he leaned sideways, glancing out the window. Heavy clouds
roiled overhead, nearly obliterating the struggling sunlight of the early
Saturday afternoon. The road through the village was temporarily rendered
impassable by an overturned wagon and several abandoned vehicles whose
owners were trying to right the wagon and catch the fleeing sheep. "McRea!"
he called irritably, "when we get close to that snarl, stop and lend a hand.
Otherwise we'll be here all day."
"Aye, your grace," McRea called from his perch atop the
coach.
Clayton glanced at his watch and his mouth twisted with
wry derision. He was behaving like a besotted idiot, racing back here a day
early. Driven by a ridiculous eagerness to see Whitney, he had left his
brother's house at six o'clock this morning and headed straight here,
instead of spending the day in London as he'd originally planned. For seven
hours, he'd been travelling as if his life depended upon reaching her,
stopping only to change horses. He should never have given her this week by
herself, he told himself for the hundredth time. Instead of offering her
solitude, he should have offered her firm but gentle moral support. By now
she had probably worked herself into a fresh fit of rebellion because he had
forced her to turn down Sevarin. What a stubborn little fool she was to
persist in believing she loved that weakling. A beautiful, spirited,
magnificent little fool. If she cared a snap for Sevarin, she could never
respond to his own caresses the way she did.
Clayton's loins tightened as he recalled the way she had
j kissed him and pressed herself against him after the Rutherfords' ball
when he took her back to the Archibalds'. The champagne had loosened her
maidenly inhibitions, but the sweet desire she felt for him had been there
for many weeks. She wanted him, and if she weren't so damned stubborn, and
so young, she would have known it long ago. She wanted him all right-and he
wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his Me. He wanted to
fill her days with joy and her nights with pleasure, until she loved him as
much as he loved her.
Loved her? Clayton scowled darkly at the thought, and
then with a long, derisive sigh, he admitted the truth to himself. He was in
love with Whitney. At four and thirty years of age, after more women and
more affairs than he wanted to count, he had fallen victim to an
outrageously impertinent, gorgeous girl-woman who blithely incurred his
displeasure, mocked his title, and flatly refused to yield to his authority.
Her smile warmed his heart and her touch heated his blood; she could
enchant, amuse and infuriate him as no other woman had ever been able to do.
He couldn't imagine his future without her at his side.
Having admitted all that to himself, Clayton was even
more eager to reach her, to feast his eyes on her again and hold her in his
arms, to hear her musical voice and to know the exquisite sensation of her
slender, voluptuous body curved against his.
McRea pulled the coach to a stop in front of the
apothecary's shop and climbed down to help capture the last of the loose
sheep and put them in the righted wagon. Unable to endure the confinement of
the coach any longer, Clayton climbed down and joined the knot of spectators
who were watching the men scrambling after the loose sheep. A smile touched
his lips as the baker made a frantic lunge for one of the woolly beasts,
missed his target, and plowed into another villager who had just captured
one.
"Quite a comic spectacle, isn't it?" Mr. Oldenberry
said, coming out of his shop to stand beside Clayton and the other
onlookers. "You've missed the real excitement though," he added with a sly
poke in the ribs. "Whole town is buzzing with the news. Betrothals," he
added.