Authors: Judith McNaught
Clayton did. And he wanted it so badly for her that his
own rampaging desire was secondary. "Soon, darling," he promised and began
to steadily quicken the rhythm of his driving strokes.
The volcano that had been threatening to erupt inside of
Whitney exploded with a force that tore a low scream from her throat.
Instantly Clayton throttled the scream with his mouth. When her tremors had
subsided he took her sweet lips in a long kiss, and with one deep thrust, he
poured his shuddering warmth at the mouth of her womb.
Afraid that his weight would crush her, Clayton gathered
her to him and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Lying there, with
Whitney cradled in his arms, his body still intimately joined to hers, he
experienced a joyous contentment, a languorous peace, unlike anything he had
ever known.
He half expected Whitney to fall asleep in his arms, but
after several minutes, she tilted her head back and raised shining green
eyes to his. Clayton brushed a wayward curl off her cheek. "Are you happy,
love?"
She smiled at him; the sated, happy smile of a woman who
knew. . . and who knows that she is beloved. "Yes," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead and she snuggled closer against
him, while he tenderly caressed the lovely contours of her back and hip,
waiting for her to fell asleep. Instead, she lapsed into silence, tracing
small circles on his chest, but she did not seem any more inclined toward
sleep than he. "What are you thinking about?" he asked her finally.
Whitney's gaze flew to his, then she buried her face
against his chest. "Nothing," she murmured unconvincingly.
Tilting her chin up, Clayton forced her to look at him.
He had no idea what she could be thinking, but after having just removed the
last barrier between them, he didn't want any new ones erected, ever.
"What?" he persisted with gentle firmness.
She bit her lip in a combination of shyness and
laughter. "I was thinking that if it had been like this-that other
time-instead of fleeing from here, I would have stayed and demanded that you
do the proper thing and marry me at once!"
She looked so beautiful that Clayton was torn between
laughing and kissing her. So he did both. It was heaven to hold her in his
arms like this, to be able to talk to her in the darkness and have her bare
arms around him. Clayton felt more in the mood for celebrating than
sleeping. When he looked down at her a while later and found her still
awake, gazing into the firelight, he said, "Do you want to sleep?"
"I don't think I could. I'm wide awake."
"Good, so am I." He grinned. "Will you light all three
of, those candles on the table beside you?"
"Your smallest wish is my command," his "obedient" wife
told him as she leaned up on an elbow and kissed him full on the mouth, but
before she turned over to light the candles, she carefully drew the sheet
up.
Clayton's lips twitched with laughter as she modestly
clutched it to the luscious breasts he had just fondled and kissed. He
propped their pillows up so that they could sit back against them, then he
relaxed back and pleasured himself with the sight of her. When she turned
from lighting the candles and saw him gazing at her, she self-consciously
ran her fingers through her tumbled tresses and gave the luxuriant mass a
hard shake that sent it spilling down her back. "Madam," Clayton reassured
her with a roguish grin, "you are beautiful en dishabille-if that sheet you
are trying to wear qualifies you for being in that fashionable state of
partial dress."
"I don't think it does," Whitney mused thoughtfully. "In
France and even here, it is all the rage for ladies to receive gentlemen en
dishabille, but I'm certain they must be wearing more than this." Then
Whitney realized with a rosy blush that Clayton undoubtedly knew a good deal
more about that particular "rage" than she did, and the thought made her
feel a little forlorn.
Everyone knew that Clayton had had mistresses before,
and married men frequently kept mistresses discreetly tucked away, too. It
crushed her to think of him doing the things he had just done with her, with
another woman, too. Emboldened by her distress and ashamed of her shocking
effrontery, Whitney said hesitantly, "Clayton, I think I would have a very
difficult time pretending not to notice . . . no, passively accepting...
accepting . . ."
"Accepting what?" Clayton whispered, his lips against
her temple.
"A mistress!" Whitney blurted.
Clayton's head jerked up. For a moment he stared blankly
at her, then he wrapped his arms around her and burst out laughing. But
because he knew she was genuinely distressed, he made his face more
appropriately solemn-as befitted the lifetime renunciation he was about to
make. Then, gazing into her glorious eyes, he said in quiet earnest, "I will
not take a mistress."
"Thank you," Whitney whispered. "I'm afraid I would feel
very strongly about it."
"I'm sure you would," he said, striving to keep his face
straight.
A few minutes later, Clayton remembered the velvet box
tucked away in the table beside the bed. Reluctantly easing his arm from
beneath her shoulders, he explained, "I have a gift for you."
Whitney remembered that she had one for him, too, and
was out of the bed in a flurry of long, shapely limbs and creamy curves. "I
asked Clarissa to put yours in my room," she explained as she started away
from the bed. Clayton was devouring the sight of her exquisite naked form
when she noticed his look, then hurtled herself toward the discarded lace
robe.
He presented her with a necklace of square-cut emeralds,
each surrounded with a row of glittering diamonds, and a matching bracelet
and ear drops. "Fit for a duchess," he whispered as he kissed her.
Whitney laughed as she handed him his gift. "Fit for a
duke," she said, sitting beside him with her legs curled beneath her,
watching him open it. Clayton snapped the lid up, then threw back his head
and shouted with laughter at the sight of the gorgeously made, solid-gold
quizzing glass she had given him. In exactly the same tone she had used at
the Armands' masquerade, she said, "A quizzing glass is an indispensable
affectation of royalty." Then she reached behind her and produced another
gift in a small velvet box. As she handed it to him, the laughter vanished
from her face, and her whole expression changed.
Clayton looked at her for a long moment before opening
the box, wondering why she suddenly seemed almost shy. Puzzled, he opened
the lid and beheld a magnificent ruby set in a heavy gold ring. He took the
ring from its bed of Mack velvet and it glittered in the dim light. Holding
it closer to the candles to admire it, he was about to ask her sentimentally
if she would like to put the ring on his finger, as he had placed her
wedding band on hers, when he caught sight of a small inscription on the
inside of the band. In handsome scroll were two words, the first of which
was underlined. "My lord."
He groaned and pulled her almost roughly down onto his
chest. "God, how I love you!" he whispered hoarsely as his mouth captured
hers.
When the kiss ended, Whitney remained in his arms, and
her long fingers lightly stroked the hair at his temple. Between the touch
of her hand and the feel of her breasts against his naked chest as she half
lay atop him, Clayton was acutely aware that his body was stirring to life
with alarming intensity. His senses were alive to every inch of her form
languorously stretched across him, but he didn't want to risk frightening
her with too much lovemaking their first night. He stirred and Whitney
raised herself up on her forearms, bracing them against his chest, affording
him a view of bet swelling breasts that made desire pour like boiling lava
through his veins.
"Am I too heavy?" she asked him softly.
"No, but I think you ought to get some sleep, my love,"
he suggested with a tinge of regret.
"I'm not in the least sleepy," his wife said.
She looked like an innocent goddess draped across him,
her softly tousled hair spilling over his shoulders. "You're certain you
don't want to sleep?" Clayton asked absently, brushing his knuckles over her
smooth cheek, marvelling at her vivid beauty. "Then what would you like to
do?"
In answer, Whitney looked at him and blushed, then she
quickly hid her overheated face against his shoulder.
A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as he shifted her
fully atop his aroused length and wrapped his arms around her. "I suppose we
could do that," he laughed huskily.
Chapter Thirty-four
A WEEK LATER THEY LEFT FOR FRANCE ON THEIR WEDDING TRIP.
They stayed one month. When they returned to London the
couple did not, as everyone expected they would, repair to the duke's
handsome mansion in Upper Brook Street. Instead they seemed to prefer the
seclusion and serenity of Claymore. They did, however, appear regularly at
social functions in town, sometimes arriving back at Claymore just as dawn
broke.
In a society where it was considered unfashionable for a
husband and wife to be too much in each other's company when they were out
together, the Duke and Duchess of Claymore created a fashion of their own.
For the duke and his duchess were rarely far from each other's side, and one
could scarcely fail to notice how desirable they made being together appear.
They were a striking couple, of course, the duke splendidly tall and
elegantly masculine, grinning that lazy, approving grin at his beautiful
young wife who seemed to be able to make him laugh with a joy that no one
had ever before observed. But it was more than what one saw, it was a
feeling that one had when watching them-as if the couple were joined
together by more than just affection or even wedlock. It was, the ton
remarked with collective sighs of surprise and occasional envy, a most
unusual marriage by modern standards. A few members of the haughty elite
quite forgot to be brittly sophisticated and even went so far as to muse
aloud that it was quite, quite obvious that the duke and duchess were in
love with each other.
Clayton harbored not the slightest doubt of the correct
term for what he felt. He loved Whitney with a passion and devotion that
were rooted deeply in his soul. He could not see, or hear, or touch her
enough to satisfy his craving for her. At night he would feel that hot need
rising within him that seemed to increase, instead of diminish each time he
exploded inside of her; and she would press herself against him as if she,
too, could not be near enough to him, for long enough. In bed she was a
passionate, irresistible mistress intent on pleasing him. Clayton taught her
in the first weeks of their marriage that there was no place for
embarrassment or shyness between them, and Whitney responded by abandoning
herself to his caresses. He allowed her to hold nothing back from him and,
after a few feeble attempts to hide her passionate responses to his
lovemaking, she surrendered herself willingly to the wild and stormy tides
that he caused to rise and crash until she cried out. And then he held her
in his arms, tracing the curves of her body, whispering until they both
slept, happy, peaceful, and sated.
Whitney's days were filled with contentment. Whenever
possible she would curl up in a corner of Clayton's spacious study during
the day, reviewing the household accounts, planning menus or simply reading,
stealing surreptitious, admiring glances at him as he leaned back in his
chair, going over the correspondence and reports on his business ventures.
Occasionally, Clayton would look up as if to reassure himself that she was
there, and grin at her, or give her a quick wink before turning his
attention back to the business at hand. In the beginning, Whitney had never
dreamed that he might like having her here. This was his private world where
he talked about staggering amounts of money with his business agents and
gambled in investments that she soon realized were amazingly perceptive and
prudent. He liked this work, though-he didn't have to do it. He told her
that one night. And Stephen told her once that in the last five years
Clayton had nearly doubled the vast Westmoreland wealth. He even handled
Stephen's investments for him and-surprise of surprises-now her father's as
well.
She loved listening to him meeting with his solicitors
and business acquaintances. She adored the thread of quiet authority in his
voice as he spoke with them. He was so quick, and sure, and decisive. He was
also devastatingly handsome, she thought with a burst of pride whenever she
looked at him. She felt cherished and protected when he was near-safe and
loved.
When she went shopping in town or to a play with Emily,
she missed the sound of his voice, his warm glances and engaging smile.
Her nights were a celebration of their love. Sometimes
he lingered over her as tenderly as he had on their wedding night. Other
times he teased her, deliberately tantalizing her, making her tell him
exactly what she wanted; then there were tunes when he took her swiftly,
almost roughly. And Whitney could never decide which way she loved the most.
At first she had been a little frightened of the stormy,
tumultuous passion she could arouse in him with a kiss, a touch, an intimate
caress. But it took very little time before she was shamelessly glorying in
his bold, virile masculinity. She was his-body, heart, and soul. She was at
peace with her world.
She was also pregnant five months later. Now when
Clayton slept cradling her in his arms, Whitney lay awake feeling both
excited and vaguely distressed. Her monthly flux was three weeks overdue,
yet for several reasons, she postponed telling Clayton. Therese DuVille had
confided to Whitney at the wedding that she was going to enjoy the rest from
her husband's amorous attentions that being enceinte would provide. Therese
might be looking forward to it, but Whitney definitely was not. On the other
hand, she didn't want to risk harming the baby if such might be the result
of their continued lovemaking. To complicate things, Clayton had never
voiced any desire for children, although it seemed to Whitney that all men
must want children-particularly men with titles to be passed on to their
heirs. When she missed her second monthly flux and began to experience
occasional queasiness and the yearning to nap in the middle of the day, she
was positive, but still she held her silence.