Whitney, My Love (54 page)

"I am not in the least surprised to hear it," she teased
breezily. "I seem to be all the rage this season-particularly with tall
men." She tipped her head to the side, considering the possible reasons for
such a thing. "I believe it is probably because I am rather tall for a
woman. It must be quite awkward for tall men to be forever bent over, trying
to speak to tiny women. Or," she added jokingly, "it could be because I have
very good teeth. I take excellent care of them and-"

"Don't!" Clayton commanded, trying to stop her banter.

"I shall never brush them again," Whitney agreed with
sham solemnity.

Clayton gazed down at her entrancing cream and roses
face and wondered how in the hell he had started to speak of love and ended
up in an inane discussion of personal hygiene. If his emotions weren't in
such a turmoil, if he weren't trying so desperately to make things right
between them, he would have noticed that her overbright eyes were sparkling
with suppressed tears, not laughter, and that the muscles in her slim throat
were constricting spasmodically. But he was in a turmoil, and he didn't
notice. "Elizabeth is a beautiful bride," he said, trying to guide their
discussion around to marriage.

Whitney laughed. "All brides are beautiful. It was
decreed centuries ago-by a duke, no doubt-that all brides must be beautiful.
And blush."

"Will you blush?" he asked tenderly.

"Certainly not," she said, managing to smile despite the
catch in her voice. "I have nothing left to blush about. Not that I mind,
you see, because I've always harbored a secret contempt for females who
blush and swoon at the slightest provocation."

Clayton's frustrated confusion reduced his voice to a
tense whisper. "What's wrong? You weren't like this when you were in my arms
outside the church-"

Whitney's jade green eyes widened in apparent
bewilderment "Was that you?"

Ignoring the wild curiosity they were generating among
the wedding guests, Clayton jerked her hard against his chest. "Who in the
living hell did you think it was?"

Whitney felt as if her heart was breaking. "Actually, I
couldn't be absolutely certain who it was. It might have been ..." She
inclined her head toward the two groomsmen who'd been dancing attendance on
her all night. "John Clifford or Lord Gilmore. They say they 'adore' me. Or
it might have been Paul. He 'adores' me. Or it could have been Nicki, he-"

In one swift motion, Clayton whirled her off the dance
floor and thrust her away. He stared down at her with cold savage contempt,
his voice dangerously low, hissing with fury. "I thought you were a woman
with a heart, but you're nothing but a common flirt!"

Whitney lifted her chin in scornful amusement. "I'd
hardly say I was common; after all, I've fleeced you out of �110,000, and
even so, all I have to do is smile, and you still come straight to heel,
just as you did today. We are neither of us common, my lord," she taunted.
"I am an accomplished flirt and you are a sublime fool."

For a split second, Whitney thought he was going to
strike her. Instead he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away. She
watched him stalk past the staring guests, past the servants stationed at
the doors and knew that he had just left her life forever. Forcing back her
damned up tears, she searched the crowd for Emily. "Emily," she mumbled
brokenly, keeping her face down, "please explain to Elizabeth that I-I felt
quite violently ill. I'll-I'll send your driver back with your carriage as
soon as he leaves me at your house."

"I'll come with you," Emily said quickly.

"No, I prefer to be alone. I have to be alone."

Later that night Emily and Michael both paused outside
Whitney's door, listening to the wrenching sound of grief being poured into
a pillow. "Let her be," Michael advised compassionately. "She'll cry it all
out of her system."

However, when Whitney failed to appear for breakfast the
next morning, Emily went up to her room and found her sitting in bed, her
knees drawn up to her chest as if she were trying to curl into a cocoon. She
looked pate and fragile but when she saw Emily, she managed a wan smile.
"How do you feel?" Emily asked softly.

"I-I'm much better today."

"Whitney, what happened last-"

"Don't!" Whitney implored tightly. "Please don't." When
Emily nodded, the tension in Whitney's face gave way to gratitude and she
relaxed against the pillows. "I've decided to begin enjoying the remainder
of my time in London. Would you object if I had callers in occasionally?"

"Of course not. In fact, Lord Gilmore and the other
groomsmen are downstairs right now, hoping to see you." Despite Emily's
determined cheerfulness, her voice wavered and she sat down beside Whitney,
putting her arm around her. "Michael and I both want you to stay with us as
long as you can. He understands that you're more like my sister than my
friend."

Whitney gave her a hard hug arid tried to laugh.
"Sisters argue abominably. Friends are better."

Chapter Twenty-eight

THAT DAY BEGAN A MONTH OF FRENETIC SOCIAL activity for
Whitney. With courage and determination, she purposely kept herself too busy
to think. Each night she fell into bed exhausted, and slept until it was
time to dress for the next day's engagements. Nicki was her favorite and
most frequent escort, but two of the groomsmen and the other eligible
gentlemen she'd met at Emily's party and Elizabeth's wedding were frequently
at her side, as well. With Emily normally acting as chaperone, she was
escorted to rout parties, to musicales, the opera, the theatre, and balls.
And she met more eligible men at those places, who then appeared with
gratifying predictability at the Archibald townhouse to invite her to more
parties and more balls.

If Paris had welcomed her, London embraced her with
outstretched arms, for her charm and her wit were even more rare here.
Whispers began and heads turned when she walked into a room. Her humor was
softer now, and shy men who would have been terrified to approach her
before, flocked around her.

She was courted and sought after. And she was unhappy
beyond words.

She was never alone. And she was never at peace.

Occasionally at one of these functions, Whitney would
hear Clayton's name mentioned, and she would the a little inside.

But no one who saw her dazzling smile brighten even more
would have guessed she cared.

Only once during that first month did Whitney even come
close to encountering Clayton. The young viscount who was her escort for
that particular evening handed her into his closed carriage and announced
with obvious pride that tonight he was going to escort her to "the ball of
the year," then he had turned to his coachman and instructed, "Number 10
Upper Brook Street."

The address struck Whitney like a pitcher of ice water
in her face. Number 10 Upper Brook Street was Clayton's London address, the
address he'd given her long ago, in case she wanted to reach him. "I detest
large parties," she desperately informed him. "They give me the vapors!"

"But Claymore gives the best parties in London!" he
objected with equal vehemence. "And last week, you said you adored large
parties."

"That was last week. This week the noise makes me quite
ill!"

The viscount undoubtedly found her recently acquired
allergy to noise rather extraordinary, but Miss Stone was beautiful and
entertaining. And very popular. He took her to the opera instead.

That marked the end of Whitney's good fortune: she saw
Clayton the following night. She was at the theatre with Nicki, seated in a
private box with an excellent view of the stage and the five tiers of seats
above it. Just before the play began, her curl caught in her amethyst
brooch, and Nicki leaned across to help untangle it. As he did so, Whitney's
gaze wandered aimlessly across the crowd-then riveted in stricken paralysis
on Clayton and Vanessa Standfield, who were just entering a box nearby which
was already occupied by the Rutherfords. Clayton's hand was resting
familiarly on Vanessa Standfield's waist as the two couples exchanged gay
greetings. Unable to tear her eyes away, Whitney watched them take their
seats. She saw Vanessa speak to Clayton, who leaned closer, the better to
hear her, and whatever she said to him made him throw back his head and
burst out laughing.

Her body trembling violently, Whitney watched as the

Rutherfords turned to Clayton and Vanessa, obviously
curious about the reason for his hilarity. Clayton spoke, and he must have
repeated what Vanessa said, because Vanessa blushed gorgeously, and the
Rutherfords also joined in the laughter.

In the rows of seats below and the tiers above, heads
were twisting and turning, and Whitney heard the murmurings about "Claymore"
and "his grace" and "the duke." Clayton's presence in the theatre (and
Vanessa's with him) was being duly noted by all.

"Cherie, are you ill?" Nicki asked, frowning at
Whitney's paleness.

Thinking that she was going to be sick, Whitney started
to rise. As she did so, Clayton glanced up and saw her. His eyes turned as
flinty as steel, and his expression changed from icy distaste to bored
contempt. And then he simply looked away. Whitney told herself that she had
to stay in that box until the play was over, that she wouldn't, wouldn't let
Clayton see that she was affected by his presence. She left ten minutes
after the curtain went up. She left because tears had started to stream down
her cheeks, and because she was so jealous, so unbearably, agonizingly,
helplessly jealous that she couldn't bear to remain.

Two nights later, Nicki escorted her to their second
party of the evening. Arriving extremely late, Whitney handed her fur cape
to the butler, then took Nicki's arm as he led her through the throngs of
departing guests who were all waiting for their conveyances to be brought
round. Near the rear of the group, Whitney saw Clayton helping Vanessa with
her wrap, grinning down at her in that bold, intimate way of his, and her
fingers tightened convulsively on Nicki's arm.

"Where are you leading me next, my lord?" Vanessa asked
Clayton as Whitney tried helplessly to move past them.

"Astray," Clayton told her with a blunt chuckle. He
glanced up and saw Whitney standing directly in front of him, but this time
Clayton didn't bother to communicate his loathing. He merely looked through
her as if she didn't exist for him, and then he turned his attention back to
Vanessa. On a cold, blustery December afternoon two weeks later.

Nicki proposed. Without flowery, fervent professions of
his affection, Nicki gathered a pale Whitney into his arms and said simply,
"Marry me, love."

His quiet offering of himself nearly destroyed Whitney's
fragile grip on her emotions. "I-I can't, Nicki," she whispered, trying to
smile at him despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "I wish with all my
heart that I loved you, but it would be wrong for me to marry you, feeling
the way I do."

"I know exactly how you feel, cherie," he said gently,
tipping her chin up. "But I'm willing to gamble that if you marry me and
come back to France, I can make you forget him."

Whitney reached up and laid her hand against his jaw.
Nicki had been someone she could count on and trust. If she refused him now,
he would leave, but she couldn't bring herself to give him false hope. "My
dear, good friend," she whispered brokenly. "I will love you forever, but
always as my friend." Tears glittered on her tang lashes, and Whitney's
voice shook. "I cannot tell you how . . . how honored I am that you would
have me for your wife ... or how much you have meant to me these past years.
Oh Nicki, thank you. Thank you-for being all the things you are." Pulling
out of his arms, she turned and fled.

She ran blindly up the stairs, holding back her tears
until she heard the front door close behind him. And then they came,
streaming down her cheeks as she covered her face with her hands and rushed
past Emily and Michael's open door, down the hall to the bedroom which had
become her private hell, to weep out the misery which seemed to have no end.

Emily turned on Michael, her eyes wide with alarm. "Dear
God!" she cried. "What could have happened now? If Clayton Westmoreland has
done anything else to her, I'll strangle him with my bare hands."

Michael drew Emily back into their bedroom and firmly
closed the door. "Emily," he said cautiously, "Claymore married Vanessa
Standfield at her home four days ago. Everyone who is in a position to know
has been talking about it."

"I refuse to believe it!" Emily burst out. "Ever since I
came to London years ago, I've heard endless gossip about him, and it's
scarcely ever been true."

"Perhaps. But this time I believe it. And whether it's
true or not, what difference does it make? Whitney has forgotten him
completely these last weeks."

"Oh, Michael!" Emily said miserably. "How can you be so
utterly blind?" Without waiting for her stunned husband to reply, she pulled
the door open and walked determinedly down the hall to the blue guest
bedroom. She tapped once on Whitney's door and when there was no answer,
boldly opened it and stepped into the room. Whitney was lying in a crumpled
heap on the bed, her eyes tightly closed, her face streaked with tears.

"Why are you crying?" Emily asked in a kind but firm
tone.

Whitney's eyes flew open and she sat up in embarrassed
surprise, groping for her handkerchief. "It seems to be the thing I do best
lately," she said ruefully, dabbing at her eyes.

"This is the silliest thing I've ever heard. I've known
you since we were babies, and I can't ever remember you shedding so much as
one tear until a few weeks ago. Now, Miss Stone," she demanded, "why are you
crying?"

"Nicki proposed," Whitney sighed, too exhausted to try
to evade the question.