Whitney, My Love (29 page)

"Everything is going to be fine," her aunt soothed,
smoothing the soft tangles from Whitney's hair.

When the last rush of tears subsided, Whitney found she
felt immensely better. She dried her eyes and smiled ruefully. "Isn't this
the most wretched coil, Aunt Anne?"

Her aunt fervently agreed that it was, then disappeared
into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a soft cloth wrung out in cold
water. "Here, darling, press this against your eyes so they won't be
swollen."

"I am going to marry Paul," Whitney said in a muffled
voice, obediently holding the damp cloth to her face. "I have planned to
since I was a child! But even if I hadn't, I wouldn't wed that. . . that
degenerate lecher!" Whitney pulled the cloth away in time to see her aunt
quickly smother a frown. "You are on Paul's side, aren't you, Aunt Anne?"
she questioned anxiously, scrutinizing her aunt's noncommittal face.

"I'm on your side, darling. Only yours. I want what's
best for you." Anne started for the door. "I'll send Clarissa in to you.
It's nearly noon, and his grace sent word he would arrive at one o'clock."

'"His grace!'" Whitney repeated, infuriated by this
reminder of Clayton's lofty rank. All other noblemen were referred to merely
as "his lordship" and addressed as "my lord," but not a duke. Because a duke
outranked all other noblemen, he must be addressed much more respectfully-as
"your grace."

"Whitney, shall I have your new challis pressed?" Anne
persisted.

Whitney glanced bleakly out the window. Half the sky
promised a bright, sunny day, while the other half was dark and overcast.
The wind was up and the trees were swaying fitfully. She didn't think this
was the time to look her best; in fact, since she didn't want Clayton
Westmoreland's admiration, she ought to look her worst! She would wear
something drab and, more important, something he hadn't paid for. "No, not
the challis. I'll think of something else."

By the time Clarissa came in, Whitney had decided what
to wear, and the idea filled her with grim, perverse satisfaction.
"Clarissa, do you remember the black dress Haversham used to wear when she
scrubbed the stairs? Will you see if you can find it."

Clarissa's kindly face was furrowed with bewildered
sympathy. "Lady Gilbert told me what happened last night, child," she said.
"But if you mean to antagonize the man, you may be making a terrible
mistake."

The compassion Whitney saw in her faithful maid's plump
face almost reduced her to tears again. "Oh, Clarissa, please don't argue
with me," Whitney begged. "Just say you'll help me. If I look ugly enough,
and if I'm very strong and very clever, I may be able to make him decide to
give up and go away."

Clarissa nodded, her voice gruff with repressed tears.
"I've never failed to stand by you, and I have the white hairs to prove it.
I'll not abandon you now."

"Thank you, Clarissa," she whispered humbly. "Now I know
I have at least two friends to stand by me. Three with Paul."

An hour and fifteen minutes later, bathed and seated at
her dressing table, Whitney flashed an approving smile in the mirror as
Clarissa twisted her heavy hair into a thick knot and secured it with a
slender black ribbon. The severe hairdo accented Whitney's classically
sculpted features and high cheekbones. Her wide green eyes, with their heavy
fringe of sooty lashes, seemed enormous in her pale face and added to the
overall effect of fragile, ethereal beauty. Whitney, however, thought she
looked ghastly. "That's perfect!" she said. "And you needn't rush so-his
grace can cool his heels and wait for me. That's part of my plan. I intend
to teach him some distasteful lessons about me, and the first one is that
I'm not the least impressed by his illustrious name and title, nor have I
any intention of leaping to his commands."

At one-thirty, Whitney went down to the small salon
where she had deliberately instructed the butler to install Mr. Westland
when he arrived. Pausing with her hand on the brass door handle, she lifted
her chin and swept silently inside.

Clayton was standing with his back partially to her,
impatiently slapping his tan gloves against his muscular thigh, while be
gazed out the windows overlooking the front lawns. His broad shoulders were
squared, his jaw set with implacable determination, and even in this pensive
pose, he seemed to emanate the restrained power and unyielding authority she
had always sensed-and feared-in him.

Drop by precious drop, Whitney felt her confidence
draining away. How could she have deluded herself into believing she could
sway him from his purpose? He was no foppish, romantic young gallant to be
put off with a cool smile or polite indifference. Not once since she'd met
him had she ever emerged the victor in any conflict with him. Bracingly,
Whitney reminded herself that she only had to cope with him alone until Paul
came back.

She dosed the door behind her, and the latch clicked
into place. "You sent for me?" she said in a flat, emotionless voice.

For the past twenty minutes, Clayton had been struggling
with his mounting annoyance at being made to wait in a small stuffy room
like a beggar hoping for a handout. He had told himself a dozen times that
Whitney had been hurt and humiliated last night, and that today she would
undoubtedly demonstrate her rebellion against him by doing whatever she
could to defy and provoke him.

As he turned at the sound of her voice, he reminded
himself that no matter what she said or did, he would be patient and
understanding. But when he looked at her, it was all he could do to bridle
his temper. Her chin held defiantly high, she stood before him, decked out
like a servant in a long, shapeless, threadbare black dress. A white apron
was tied around her slender waist, and her lustrous, hair was hidden beneath
a mob cap. "You've made your point, Whitney," he told her curtly. "Now I'll
make mine. I will not have you dressed like that ever again!"

Whitney bristled at his tone. "We are all your servants
in this house. And I am the lowliest servant of all, for I'm nothing but a
bondservant whom you purchased from the debtor's block."

"Don't use that tone of voice with me," he warned. "I'm
not your father."

"Of course you aren't," she mocked. "You're my owner."

In three long strides, Clayton closed the distance
separating them. Furious that her anger was ricocheting off her stupid
father onto him, he grasped her hard by the upper arms, longing to shake her
until her teeth rattled. Beneath the harsh grip of his hands, he could feel
her body tense, bracing for violence.

She lifted her head, and his anger slowly drained away.
Although her glorious green eyes were glaring defiance at him, they were
sparkling with suppressed tears, shining with pain that he had caused. The
translucent skin beneath them was smudged with dark shadows, and her
normally glowing complexion was drained of color. Gazing down at her lovely,
rebellious face, he asked quietly, "Does the mere thought of being my wife
bring you such misery, little one?"

Whitney was shocked by his unexpected gentleness and,
worse, completely at a loss as to how to answer. She wanted to appear
haughty, coldly remote-anything but "miserable," tot that was tantamount to
"weak" and "helpless." On the other hand, she could scarcely say No, the
idea doesn't make me miserable.

A discordant note of laughter echoed through the hall,
followed by footsteps and chattering voices as three of the Stones'
houseguests passed the salon on their way to the dining room. "I want you to
come outside with me," Clayton said.

He didn't ask, he stated, Whitney noted angrily.
Outside, they crossed the drive and walked across the sloping front lawn
toward the pond in the center. Beneath a graceful old elm near the edge of
the pond, Clayton stopped. "At least we can hope for some privacy out here,"
he said.

It was on the tip of Whitney's tongue to retort that the
last thing in the world she wanted was privacy with him, but she was in such
an emotional turmoil that she couldn't trust herself to speak.

Stripping off his jacket, he placed it on the grass
beneath the tree. "I think we could discuss this better if we sat down," he
said, inclining his head toward the jacket. "I prefer to stand," Whitney
said with cold hauteur. "Sit!"

Infuriated by Us imperious tone, Whitney sat-but not on
his jacket. Instead, she dropped to the grass, curled her legs beneath her,
and stared straight ahead at the pond.

"You're quite right," Clayton observed drily. "The
damage to those rags you're wearing is much less important than soiling one
of my favorite jackets." So saying, he picked up his jacket and put it
around her stiff shoulders, then settled himself beside her.

"I'm not cold," Whitney informed him, trying to shrug
his jacket off.

"Excellent. Then we can dispense with this absurd cap
you're wearing." He reached up and snatched the little mob cap from her
hair, and Whitney's temper ignited, sending a rush of hot color to the soft
curve of her cheek. "You rude overbearing. . ." She clamped her mouth closed
in frustrated rage at the glint of laughter in his gray eyes.

"Do go on," Clayton encouraged. "I believe you left off
at 'overbearing.'"

Whitney's palm positively itched to slap that mocking
grin from his face. She drew a long, rasping breath. "I wish I could find
the right words to tell you just how much I loathe you, and everything you
represent."

"I'm sure you'll go on trying until you do," he remarked
agreeably.

"Do you know," Whitney said, staring fixedly at the
pond, "I hated you from the first moment I met you at the masquerade, and
the feeling has intensified with every encounter since then."

Pulling his knee up, Clayton rested his wrist on it and
studied her impassively for a long, silent moment. "I'm very sorry to hear
that," he said softly. "Because I thought that you were the loveliest, most
enchanting creature God ever created."

Whitney was so startled by the gentle caress in his
voice that she snapped her head around and searched his face for signs of
sarcasm.

Reaching out, he traced his forefinger along the curve
of her cheek. "And there have been times, when you were in my arms, that you
gave no sign of this hatred you insist you've always felt. In fact, you
seemed to enjoy being there."

"I have never enjoyed your attentions! In fact I've
always found them . . ." Whitney groped desperately for the right word,
hampered by the knowledge that they both knew her traitorous body had
responded to his caresses. "I've always found them-most disturbing!"

He slowly brushed his knuckles along her chin, up to her
earlobe, sending shivers down her spine. "Those times were 'disturbing' for
me as well, little one," he murmured quietly.

"Yet you persisted in doing it, although I told you not
to!" she blazed. "Even now, this very minute, I can tell you're just waiting
for another opportunity to-to pounce on me!"

"True," he admitted with a throaty chuckle. "I'm drawn
to you like a moth to a flame. Just as you are to me."

Whitney thought she was going to explode. "Why you
conceited bas-"

His forefinger pressed against her trembling lips,
silencing her. Grinning, he shook his head. "It grieves me to deprive you of
one of your epithets, but I have it on the best authority that there is no
question of my legitimacy."

Her life was in tatters and he was laughing! Flinging
off his restraining hand, Whitney scrambled to her feet and said woodenly,
"If you don't mind, I'm tired. And I'm going inside. I can't share your
humor in all of this. I have been sold by my own father to a stranger, an
arrogant, cold-hearted, selfish fiend, who, without a care for my feelings-"

Panther-quick, Clayton rolled to his feet, his hands
locking like slave manacles on her arms as he pulled her around to face him.
"Allow me to help you itemize my crimes against you, Whitney," he said with
cool calm. "I am so cold-hearted that I saved your father from debtor's
prison by paying all his debts. I am so selfish that I've stood by, watching
you flirt with Sevarin, so arrogant that I let you sit next to him at that
goddamned picnic and snipe at me, when the taste of your mouth was still
warm on mine. And why have I done this? Because in my cruel, fiendish way, I
want to give you the protection of my name, an unassailable position at the
pinnacle of society, and a pampered life replete with every luxury within my
power to grant you." He looked at her levelly. "For this, do you honestly
think I deserve your bitterness and animosity?"

Whitney's shoulders drooped. She swallowed and looked
away, her spirit shattered. She felt confused and miserable, no longer
entirely right-yet not completely wrong either. "I-I don't know what you
deserve."

He tipped her chin up. "Then I'll tell you," he said
quietly. "I deserve nothing-except to be spared the hatred and blame for
your father's drunken blundering last night. That's all I ask of you for
now."

To Whitney's mortification, tears welled up in her eyes.

Brushing them away with her fingertips, she shook her
head, declining his proffered handkerchief. "It's only that I'm tired. I
didn'tt sleep very well last night."

"Nor did I," he said feelingly, escorting her back to
the house. Sewell opened the front door, and from the salon came peals of
laughter and loud, jesting remarks on the progress of the whist games
apparently in progress. "We'll ride tomorrow morning. But if we aren't going
to provide the main topic of conversation for your houseguests, I think it
would be best if I met you down at the stables. At ten o'clock."

In her room, Whitney untied the white apron and pulled
off the ugly black dress. Even though it was not yet two, she felt limp and
exhausted. She knew she should put in an appearance downstairs, but she
recoiled from the thought of the false smile she would have to wear and the
gay chatter she would have to listen to; besides, if just one person said so
much as a word about the Duke of Claymore, she was positive she would have
hysterics!