Whitney, My Love (57 page)

Whitney swallowed and replied in a barely audible
whisper, "My aunt is very well, thank you. And you?"

Clayton nodded curtly. "As you can see, I have survived
our last encounter without scars."

Vanessa, who apparently recognized Whitney as her rival
for Clayton from the Rutherfords' ball, gave Whitney a feint inclination of
her elegantly coiffed head and said with a frosty smile, "Esterbrook was
introduced to you at Lord and Lady Rutherford's affair, Miss Stone." She
paused as if trying to recall the occasion more clearly. "Yes, I remember
that he spoke of you at some length to many of us."

Realizing that Vanessa was waiting for an answer,
Whitney said cautiously, "That was very kind of him."

"As I recall, what he said was not in the least kind,
Miss Stone."

Whitney stiffened at Vanessa's unexpected and unprovoked
attack, and Stephen waded into the deafening silence. "We can all discuss
our mutual acquaintances at dinner," he announced cheerfully, "providing
that I can convince my beautiful guest to dine with us."

Whitney shook her head in a desperate, emphatic no. "I
really can't stay. I-I'm sorry."

"Ah, but I insist." He grinned. Arching a brow at his
white-faced brother, he said, "We both insist, don't we?"

To Stephen's infinite disgust, Clayton didn't bother to
second the invitation. Instead he merely glanced over his shoulder and
nodded curtly to the servant hovering in the doorway, indicating that
another place should be set at the table. Without another word, he turned on
his heel and strode to the sideboard where he snatched a bottle of whiskey
and a glass.

Stephen seated himself beside Whitney, then looked
around to where Clayton stood, his tall frame rigid with anger, his back to
them as he poured himself a drink. "Me too, big brother," he called
good-naturedly.

Clayton threw Stephen a look of unwavering distaste and
said in a voice of tightly controlled fury, "I am certain, Stephen, that
included among your other brilliant talents is the ability to pour your own
drink."

"Correct," Stephen said serenely, getting up from the
settee where he was seated beside Whitney. "Ladies?" he offered. "A glass of
wine?"

Vanessa and Whitney both accepted, and the duchess
stifled the urge to request a full bottle.

Stephen strolled over to the sideboard, poured himself
some whiskey, and began filling three crystal glasses with wine, blithely
ignoring the simmering rage emanating from his brother. Under his breath,
Clayton snapped, "Is there the slightest chance that you don't know who she
is-to me?"

"Not the slightest." Stephen grinned imperturbably,
picking up three of the four glasses. As he turned toward the ladies he said
in a carrying voice, "Will you bring Whitney's glass, Clay? I can't manage
all four. '

Carrying her wineglass, Clayton bore purposefully down
on Whitney, and she unconsciously pressed further back into the seat
cushions, searching his forbidding countenance for some sign that he still
cared for her. But there was none.

In a state of acute misery, she absently sipped her wine
surreptitiously studying Clayton, who was seated across from her beside
Vanessa, with his gleaming booted foot resting casually atop the opposite
knee, his long legs encased in superbly tailored gray trousers. Seeing him
here, relaxed and at home in the splendor of this white-and-gold room, he
was every inch the aloof, elegant nobleman, the master of all he surveyed.
Never had he looked more handsome-or more unattainable. And to make
everything worse, Vanessa Stand-field, who was draped in flowing blue silk,
was more haughtily, breathtakingly beautiful than Whitney had realized that
night at the Rutherfords' ball.

In the hour before dinner was announced, Stephen carried
the greatest share of the conversational burden, with Vanessa contributing
two more pointed insults aimed at Whitney. Clayton spoke in clipped, abrupt
phrases only when absolutely necessary, and Whitney replied to Stephen's
light banter with weak monosyllables. The duchess had three more glasses of
wine and said nothing at all to anyone.

Curled into a tight ball of suspended anguish, Whitney
silently counted the minutes until dinner could be finished and the ordeal
over, so that she could creep away. She now knew she should never have come.
It was too late.

Mercifully, dinner was announced shortly thereafter.
Clay-ton rose, and without so much as a glance in Whitney's direction, he
offered his arm to his mother and, with Vanessa on the other, escorted both
women from the room.

Whitney stood and took Stephen's arm, her gaze clinging
hopelessly to Clayton's back. She started to follow in his wake, but Stephen
stopped her. "Damn Vanessa!" he laughed softly. "I could strangle her. It's
time for us to change our strategy-although everything has been going well
so far."

"Strategy?" Whitney gasped. "Going well?"

"Perfectly. You've been sitting here looking beautiful
and vulnerable, and Clayton can't tear his eyes off you when he thinks you
aren't looking. But it's time for you to do something to get him off alone
with you."

Whitney's heart soared precariously. "He can't tear his
eyes-? Oh, Stephen, are you certain? I don't think he even knows I'm here."

"He knows you're here," Stephen said, laughing. "Not
that he doesn't wish to God you weren't! In fact, I can't recall ever seeing
him this furious. Now it will be up to you to push his anger beyond the
limits of his control."

"What?" Whitney whispered. "Dear God, why?"

They had reached the entrance of the dining room, but
Stephen turned and paused before a portrait on the wall opposite the double
doors; their backs were in full view of the diners who were already seated
at the table. He gestured at the painting as if pointing out its merits to
Whitney. "You have to make him furious enough to leave the table and take
you with him. If you don't, as soon as dinner is over, he'll find some
excuse to draw Vanessa and my mother off somewhere else, and simply leave
you with me."

The prospect of actively trying to engage Clayton in
verbal combat filled Whitney with an odd mixture of fear and anticipation.
She reminded herself of what Emily had said about not being meek, and told
herself bracingy that if demure Elizabeth Ashton could do it, so could she.
"Stephen," she said suddenly, "why are you doing this?"

"There's no time to go into that now," Stephen replied,
guiding her toward the dining room. "But remember this-no matter how angry
he is, my brother is in love with you. And if you can get him alone, I think
you'll be able to prove it to him."

"But your mother will think I'm the gauchest female
alive if I deliberately provoke him."

Stephen grinned boyishly at her. "My mother will think
you are brave and wonderful. Just as I do. Now courage, young lady! I'm
expecting to see more of the gay, spirited female I watched at the
Kingsleys' the other night."

There was just time for Whitney to flash an astonished,
grateful look at him as he led her to her place at the table. As Stephen
seated her, Clayton remarked with withering sarcasm, "It's kind of you
finally to join us."

"It was kind of you to ask me, your grace," Whitney
returned pointedly.

Clayton ignored her and nodded to the servants to begin
serving. He was seated at the head of the table, with his mother on his
right, and Vanessa on his left. Whitney was next to the duchess, and Stephen
took a place opposite Whitney, beside Vanessa.

As the servant poured champagne into Whitney's glass,
Clayton drawled caustically, "Leave the bottle next to Miss Stone. She is
overly fond of champagne, as I recall."

Whitney's spirits gave a leap of joy-Clayton was no
longer able to ignore her! Surely he must still care for her to be angry
enough to say such a thing. She smiled enchantingly at him over her glass
and sipped the bubbly wine. "Not overly fond of champagne. Although at times
it does help to reinforce one's courage."

"Really? I wouldn't know."

"Ah yes, you prefer whiskey to reinforce yours," she
quipped as he lifted his glass to his mouth. His eyes narrowed ominously and
Whitney quickly looked away. Please love me, she implored him silently.
Don't make me go through this for nothing.

"Do you play the pianoforte, Whitney?" the duchess
asked, nervously stepping in to cover the charged silence.

"Only if I wish to give offense," Whitney replied with a
shy smile.

"Do you sing then?" her grace persisted in sheer
desperation.

"Yes," Whitney laughed, "but without the slightest
attention to tune, I'm afraid."

"Really, Miss Stone," Vanessa drawled, "it's
extraordinary to meet a gently reared Englishwoman who has not been taught
either to sing or to play. Exactly what are your accomplishments?"

"Whitney is a proficient flirt," Clayton interjected
scathingly, answering Vanessa's question himself. "She is conversant in
several languages and could undoubtedly do a creditable job of cursing
fluently in all of them. She plays a fair game of chess, a poor game of
solitaire, and is a capable horsewoman when deprived of her crop. She claims
to excel with a slingshot-a talent for which I can't vouch firsthand, and
she is a convincing actress-a talent for which I can. Have I treated you
fairly, Whitney?" he snapped.

"Not entirely, your grace," Whitney said softly,
stinging from the cruel whips of his words even though she was smiling.
"Surely my chess game is better than 'fair.' And if you doubt my skill with
the slingshot, I shall be pleased to demonstrate it to you-providing that
you volunteer to be my target, as I have just been yours."

Stephen gave a sharp crack of laughter and his mother
croaked, "Have you attended many social functions since you've come back
from France?"

Whitney felt Clayton's scorching gaze on her and could
not quite meet it. "Many parties and balls. Although no one has given a
masquerade, and I particularly enjoy them. I believe my lord duke enjoys
them equally-"

"Do you also enjoy weddings?" Vanessa asked her
smoothly. "If so, we shall be certain to invite you to ours."

The silence of an ancient tomb settled over the table
Whitney tried valiantly to continue eating but could not swallow past the
lump of desolation swelling in her throat. She looked miserably at Stephen,
who shrugged imperturbably, and arched a brow in Clayton's direction. She
knew that Stephen meant for her to continue, but she couldn't now. It was
over. As transparent as it would be to everyone when she pleaded sudden
illness, Whitney couldn't bear to stay at that table. She was too bruised
and battered to care that everyone would know that the announcement of
Clayton and Vanessa's betrothal was the reason she was leaving.

She took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table
beside her plate. As she reached down to slide her heavy chair back, a
feminine hand suddenly came to rest over hers. The duchess gave her fingers
a brief, encouraging squeeze, then held them tightly in a gesture that
clearly said, "Stay and finish what you have begun."

Whitney smiled uncertainly, hesitated, then replaced her
napkin. She glanced at Clayton, who was moodily contemplating the wine in
his glass, then at Vanessa. Whitney couldn't bear to think of Clayton
married to such a haughty beauty-not when she herself loved him so much, and
had come this far, in this embarrassing fashion, to tell him so. She thought
of Clayton holding Vanessa in his arms and kissing her in that intimate way
of his, and that made Whitney angry and jealous enough to stay.

Vanessa put her hand on Clayton's arm. "I hope you
aren't angry with me for blurting out our secret in front of a stranger."

"I'm certain he isn't in the least angry, Miss
Standfield," Whitney said quietly, but her eyes were on Clayton. "We all do
foolish things when we're in love. Don't we, your grace?"

"Do we?" Clayton countered repressively. "I hadn't
noticed."

"Then you either have a very short memory," Whitney
challenged softly, "or a very convenient one. Or perhaps you've never been
in love, after all."

Clayton's wineglass slammed on the table. "Precisely
what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Whitney withered before the blast of those gray eyes.
"Nothing," she lied softly.

The clink of silver began again. She watched Clayton's
hand flexing on his goblet of wine, clenching it and loosening, then
clenching again, and she knew he was wishing that her neck, not his goblet,
were in his grip. After several minutes, his mother nervously cleared her
throat, and cautiously said to Whitney, "Tell me, my dear, were things very
different here in England when you returned?"

Whitney started to reply impersonally, but then she
realized that the duchess had just unknowingly given her exactly the opening
she needed. Since Clayton wasn't willing to let her explain in private,
perhaps she could at least make him partially understand, here, at the
table. "Very different!" she said with feeling. "You see, shortly after I
returned to England, I discovered that while I was still in France my father
had arranged for my marriage to a man I had scarcely met, and did not even
recognize when I saw him again here." "How distressing," replied the duchess
with a dawning look of understanding.

"Indeed it was-particularly because I have a freakish
streak in my nature which positively rebels against being coldly ordered
about by anyone. And the man I was to marry, although he was kind and
understanding in many ways, was quite horridly arbitrary and imperious about
the betrothal. He acted as if I had no choice in the matter whatever."

"These arranged marriages can be difficult to adjust to
at first," the duchess agreed. "What did you do then?"

"She betrothed herself to another man who was thoroughly
spineless and an idiot!" Clayton announced coldly.