Whitney, My Love (53 page)

"You are positively glowing!" Aunt Anne smiled, coming
into the salon and hugging Whitney tightly. She stripped off her gloves and
pulled Whitney down on the settee beside her. "Really, darling," she said
with laughing severity, "I began to wonder if the two of you were going to
be able to tear your eyes from one another in that church."

Whitney beamed. "I could never hide anything from you,
could I?"

"Darling, you didn't manage to hide it from anyone. Half
the people there were craning their necks to watch the two of you outside,
after the wedding." Whitney looked so horrified that her aunt burst out
laughing. "And you may as well know that there were at least two dozen
people from London at the wedding who recognized him. The crowd started
buzzing with his name the moment he walked into church. By the tune I left,
everybody knew who he was, including all your neighbors from home. I'm
afraid 'Mr. Westland' has been unmasked."

Whitney heard that with an inward burst of pride. She
wanted everybody to know who he was, and she wanted all of them to know she
was betrothed to him. She wanted to shout it to the world!

They chatted gaily for an hour and a half before Whitney
remembered to inquire about Uncle Edward.

"He's in Spain," her aunt said with a tolerant smile.
"His two letters were almost as uninformative as yours are, but I gathered
that there was some calamity brewing there, and he was dispatched with haste
and secrecy to try to smooth matters before they got out of hand. He
promised to be here in six weeks. Apparently none of my letters ever reached
him."

After a moment, she said, "Would you mind very much if I
didn't attend the banquet tonight? I only came to the wedding because you
never mentioned Claymore in your letters, and I wanted to see for myself how
the two of you were getting on. Since it's obvious that you're both in
perfect accord, I would like to start back to Lincolnshire at once. My
cousin is a sweet, helpless creature, and she's become quite dependent on me
for company. As soon as you and his grace decide to put London out of its
suspense and announce your betrothal, I'll return and we can start preparing
for your wedding."

The day fled so quickly that Whitney could hardly
believe it when it was time to hug her aunt goodbye. "By the way," Aunt Anne
said, lingering at the front door. "Your father brought two more trunks of
your clothes. I sent them upstairs and Clarissa is unpacking them. Oh-and
your father said there's some mail for you, too."

Whitney flew upstairs and slid into the chair at the
dressing table. While Clarissa fussed with the roses in her hair, Whitney
joyously imagined her reunion with Clayton tomorrow. He would come to see
her early, of course, and they . . . She noticed the thick packet propped
against her mirror. She picked it up and opened it, dreamily extracting some
official-looking documents. At first glance they were filled with so many
"parties of the first part" and "parties of the second part," and
"whereas's" and "wherefore's," that Whitney thought the packet must have
been intended for Lord Archibald and put in her room by mistake. She flipped
to the last page and a signature leapt out at her: Clayton Robert
Westmoreland, Ninth Duke of Claymore. Dismissing Clarissa, she slowly began
to read the documents.

They set out in cold legal terms that she was no longer
betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, that his offer of marriage was herewith
withdrawn, and that whatever "monies, jewels, considerations, tokens, etc.,"
the Stone family had received from the duke were to be retained by them and
considered as gifts.

Whitney's hand shook violently as she unfolded a note in
Clayton's bold handwriting enclosed with the documents: "Please accept my
sincere wishes for your happiness and convey them to Paul. The enclosed bank
draft is intended as a present." A bank draft for �10,000 slid from
Whitney's numb fingers onto the floor white nausea surged in her throat.
Clayton had used her to satisfy his vengeance and lust. Now he was paying
her off with a generous check as if she were a common trollop or one of his
mistresses, and suggesting that she give her soiled body to Paul in
marriage. "Oh my God!" Whitney whispered. "Oh my God!"

Emily tapped on her door and asked if she were ready to
leave.

"I'll be down in a few minutes," Whitney called
hoarsely. "Emily," she added, dragging her voice through the constricted
pain in her chest. "Do ... do you know how the duke came to be at the
wedding? I mean, did Elizabeth decide to invite him, after all?"

Emily sounded both guilty and gay. "Yes. And aren't you
glad now that she did?"

The room reeled and tilted. Whitney started to lurch
from her chair, thinking that she was going to be ill, but her legs refused
to move. Gulping long uneven breaths of air, she stayed where she was. The
tumultuous upheaval settled slowly, leaving a dull, throbbing ache that was
intensified with every moment.

Clayton hadn't come to the wedding to see her, he'd been
invited! Whitney realized with a blinding streak of suffocating humiliation.
Since his note and documents were dated weeks ago, he would naturally think
she'd known about them today, when she saw him. Wild, hysterical laughter
welled up within her. He had simply been attending the wedding-and how
gratified he must have been when she had smiled adoringly at him!

She hadn't merely smiled at him, Whitney remembered with
a fresh streak of mortified fury-she had leaned against him! She had let him
put his arm around her and hold her! And that vile, conceited, arrogant
lecher probably thought she was inviting him to use her body again! He was
probably planning to take her home with him after the banquet and,
considering the way she had acted, he would be confident she was willing to
go.

The banquet. Whitney put her face in her hands and
moaned aloud. Clayton was going to be at the banquet. She would have to face
him there.

When she joined Emily and her husband downstairs,
Whitney was a little pale and there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, but
her head was high and her delicate chin was stubbornly set. Outwardly she
was composed and very calm -but it was the deadly calm that precedes a
hurricane white it gathers force, preparing to strike.

The first thing she did when she arrived at the huge
home of Elizabeth's paternal grandparents, was to smile her very best smile
at the two handsomest groomsmen. Clayton had accused her once of trying to
collect as many fawning admirers as she could squeeze around her skirts, and
for a beginning, that was exactly what she intended to do.

As she stood between both groomsmen in the receiving
line, she spoke to each guest as they made their way past-but if the guest
happened to be a bachelor, Whitney was her most dazzlingly vivacious self.
Within fifteen minutes, she had caused a tie-up in the proceedings, and she
was surrounded by six gentlemen all of whom were vying for her attention.
Only once did her composure slip a notch, and that was when Paul bent over
her hand. Her bright smile faded uncertainly as she gazed into his handsome
face, but he looked so sheepish and so contrite, that she immediately
decided to add him to her entourage. Tightening her fingers a little on his,
she drew Paul into the circle of men surrounding her.

Now she was fortified, surrounded. Insulated from
Clay-ton. For the moment, this was ail she needed.

Clayton arrived just as the receiving line disbanded. He
paused in the doorway, his tall, commanding frame clad in an elegantly
tailored black suit and waistcoat. Whitney watched his glance slide over the
guests, then instantly halt when it reached her. A rosy peach tint suffused
her high cheekbones as she shifted her gaze from Clayton to the men around
her. "We are quite ignoring the bride," she teased with a gorgeous smile,
and without a backward glance she led her entourage toward Elizabeth.

Clayton was positive she had seen him, and his eyes
darkened with surprise and puzzlement as he watched her walk away. After a
moment, he realized that Whitney had an obligation to attend the bride, and
he felt slightly better, but as he watched her laughing gaily with the men
who trailed after her, no dammit, flirting with them, his patience began to
fray.

A footman appeared beside him bearing a tray, and
Clayton took a glass of champagne, his hungry gaze following Whitney. She
knew he was here, and she was obviously waiting for the appropriate moment
to come to him. He ached to touch her, longed to hear the soft music of her
voice, had been driven half out of his mind these past two hours just
thinking of being near her again.

Dinner was announced, but Clayton hung back, hoping that
Whitney might come to him before she went in to the banquet. "Ah-Claymore!
Good to see you again," a jovial masculine voice said at his elbow.

Clayton glanced briefly at the short, elderly man beside
him, recognizing him as Lord Anthony, an old friend of his father's.

"How's your lovely mother?" Lord Anthony asked, sipping
from his champagne.

Clayton watched Whitney walk into the banquet room; she
was not going to come to him. "She's well," he answered absently. "And
yours?"

"I imagine she's about the same," Lord Anthony replied.
"She's been dead for thirty years."

"Good," Clayton said. "Glad to hear it." He put his
glass down and strolled off to take his assigned place at one of the banquet
tables.

In the true spirit of a matchmaker, Elizabeth had
contrived to place Clayton at the table facing the bridal party's, directly
across from Whitney. Clayton ate little of his meal, and what he did eat, he
couldn't taste. He was too preoccupied with an elusive and beautiful young
woman who owned his heart, but who seemed either afraid, or unwilling, to
meet his gaze. He watched her chatting playfully with the groomsmen on
either side of her, winding them around her slender fingers, and jealousy
pulsed through his veins.

To add to his mounting frustration, he was seated
between two matrons who had discovered his title and immediately singled him
out as a prospective husband for their unmarried daughters. "My Marie plays
the pianoforte like an angel," one mother said. "You must come to one of our
musicales, your grace."

"My Charlotte sings like a bird!" the other mother
instantly countered.

"I'm tone deaf," Clayton drawled without taking his eyes
from Whitney.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guests adjourned
to the ballroom. Peter guided Elizabeth to the center of the floor and they
danced together, their fine young bodies moving in perfect harmony with each
other, then the newly married couple was joined by the bridal party, who
also danced together When the required first dance was finished, Clayton
waited for Whitney to come to him. Instead she drifted into the arms of
another groomsman, and then another, smiling into their eyes in a way that
made Clayton want to wring her neck!

She was dancing the fourth dance with Paul Sevarin, when
it finally dawned on Clayton that Whitney was waiting for him to come to
her, and he was dumbstruck at his own stupidity. She had taken the first
step toward a reconciliation at the church, and naturally she expected him
to take the next one. The instant the dance ended, Clayton strode directly
to her. "Good to see you again, Sevarin," he lied politely as he firmly
placed Whitney's hand on his arm. "I believe the next dance is mine," he
added, covering her long fingers with his and drawing Whitney onto the dance
floor.

Although she didn't object, Clayton was a little taken
aback by the courteous, but impersonal smile she gave him as she turned into
his arms for the waltz.

She was slimmer than before, and Clayton drew her
protectively closer to him. It was his fault that she had lost weight. "Are
you enjoying yourself?" he asked, his voice unfamiliar to her with its tone
of tenderness and guilt.

Whitney nodded brightly. She nodded because she couldn't
trust her voice. From the moment he had walked into this house, her senses
had been screamingly aware of his presence. She felt as if she were dying
inside, slowly and painfully suffocating. He had stolen her virginity and
then coldly withdrawn his offer of marriage, suggested calmly that she marry
Paul and then tossed his money in her face to appease her. And even so, it
was all she could do not to humble herself at his feet, to plead with him to
tell her why, to beg him to want her again. Only one thing kept her silent
and upright: pride-outraged, stubborn, courageous, abused pride. Her face
ached with the effort it took to smile, but she had been smiling all night,
and she was going to keep right on doing it until Clayton walked out of this
room. And then she was going to die.

For the first time since he had met her, Clayton didn't
know what to say to her. He felt as if he were in a dream, and he was afraid
to speak lest he say the wrong thing and break the spell. He thought of
apologizing for ravaging her, but in view of the crime he had committed
against her an apology was ludicrously inadequate. What he really wanted to
say was, "Marry me tomorrow," but having already deprived her of her wedding
night, Clayton was resolutely determined that she would have a spectacular
wedding, complete with all the splendor and trappings, all the glittering
pomp and circumstance, that she was entitled to enjoy as the bride of a
duke.

Since he couldn't beg her forgiveness, or ask her to
marry him at once, he decided to say the only other thing that mattered to
him. Gazing down at her bent head, he said the words he had never spoken to
another woman. Very quietly and very tenderly, he said, "I love you."

He felt the emotional impact his words had on her
because she went rigid in his arms, but when she lifted her beautiful face
the laughter in her expression almost made him stumble.