Whitney, My Love (62 page)

Lady Gilbert was not to be so easily pacified. With a
brief glance of apology to Clayton, she burst out, "They most certainly were
not 'ideally suited!'"

"Of course they were!" Edward defended stoutly. "What
possible objection could you have to a match with Claymore?" Suddenly, a
look of amused understanding crossed his face. "So you were worried about
his reputation, were you? Lord, Madam," he chuckled tolerantly, momentarily
oblivious to the presence of the Westmoreland family in the room, "haven't
you ever heard the saying that 'reformed rakes often make the best
husbands'?"

"Why, thank you, Lord Gilbert," Clayton said wryly.

Lord Gilbert cast a puzzled look at Stephen who was
suddenly seized with a fit of strangled laughter, then continued speaking to
his wife. "I thought they would make an excellent match the night I saw them
together at the masquerade, and I knew something was in the wind when I was
informed the Westmoreland solicitors were making inquiries about Whitney in
Paris. Then I thought Martin had spoiled everything by sending for her, but
when I got your letter and you said Claymore was in residence not three
miles away from Stone's doorstep, I knew exactly what was happening."

"Oh no you didn't!" Lady Anne exclaimed heatedly. "I'll
tell you what happened. From the moment Whitney clapped eyes on his grace in
England, she was at daggers-drawn with him. And . . ."

Lord Gilbert turned his head and peered sternly at
Whitney over the top of his spectacles. "Oh, so Whitney was the problem, was
she?" He transferred his gaze to Clayton and said, "Whitney needs a husband
who'll keep a firm hand on the reins. That's why I was in favor of your suit
from the very beginning."

"Why, thank you, Uncle Edward," Whitney said
ungratefully.

"It's the truth and you know it, m'dear." To Lady Anne,
he added, "She's much like you in that respect."

"How very kind of you to say so, Edward," Anne said
tartly.

Edward glanced from his wife's indignant face to
Whitney's rebellious one, and then toward Clayton, who was regarding him
with a dark brow arched in sardonic amusement. He looked at Stephen
Westmoreland, whose shoulders were rocking with silent laughter, and then at
the duchess who was much too polite to show any emotion at all. "Well," said
he to the duchess with a sigh, "I can see that I've now offended everyone.
Amazing, is it not, that I am purported to be a competent diplomat?"

The duchess broke into a smile. "I am not in the least
offended, Lord Gilbert. I have a decided partiality for rakes. After all, I
was married to one, and I have raised"-she looked meaningfully at
Stephen-"two."

Chapter Thirty-two

THE ANNOUNCEMENT IN THE PAPERS OF THE BETROTHAL OF THE
Duke of Claymore to Miss Whitney Allison Stone struck London with the force
of a hurricane, and Whitney was caught in its backlash.

Invitations to every conceivable social function arrived
daily at the Archibalds' house in staggering numbers. Between the parties in
their honor, which Whitney and Clayton had to attend, and the extensive
wedding preparations which required every available minute of her time,
Whitney was feverishly busy and almost limp with exhaustion. Added to that
was the anxiety which increased as her wedding day- ergo, her wedding
night-approached.

Often she lay awake in Emily's guest room, telling
herself sternly that if other women could endure the sexual act, she could
too. Besides, she repeatedly reminded herself, the act itself, and the awful
pain that accompanied it, didn't last all that long. And she adored Clayton,
so if he wished to do that to her, then she would bear the pain to make him
happy, and hope that it happened with minimal frequency. Yet she hated
knowing not only the day, but practically the hour, when he was going to do
it to her again.

In one of her more philosophical moments, she decided
that the reason virginity was so prized for a bride was because early man
must have realized that a bride who knew what was in store for her on her
wedding night, would not be smiling quite so radiantly when she walked down
that aisle!

Unfortunately, by the time the wedding was a week away
her philosophical attitude had deserted her entirely, and her dread was
steadily mounting. To make matters worse, as their wedding day approached,
Clayton's attentions became decidedly more ardent-and therefore, more
frightening.

Even her ivory wedding gown, which was hanging in her
dressing room, sent a trill of fear up her spine when she looked at it,
because it reminded her of the ivory satin gown that Clayton had torn from
her body. Not that she was idiotic enough to think that the gentle,
understanding man she worshiped was going to tear her clothes from her on
their wedding night-but neither did she think Clayton was likely to allow
her to keep them on for very long either.

Surreptitiously, she began watching Emily when Michael
asked her if she were ready to retire. Emily didn't seem to dread going to
their bedroom. Neither, Whitney recalled, had Aunt Anne tried to evade
retiring with Uncle Edward. Why then, was Whitney the only woman who winced
at the thought of the pain which came with the marital act? The more Whitney
considered it, the more horrifyingly convinced she became that there was a
physical defect within her which made the act hurt her, and only her, so
dreadfully.

To add to her misery, as her wedding day bore down 01
her, her agitated mind began tormenting her with constant visions of that
terrible night when Clayton had cruelly and deliberately shamed her with his
hands and mouth and body. The humiliation of that night came back to haunt
her, magnifying her remembered physical pain until she was a mass of fear
and trepidation.

Five days before the wedding, she was simply too worn
down to attend the ball being given by one of Clayton's friends. The next
day she sent Clayton a note, asking him to excuse her from an afternoon
party at the Rutherfords'.

Clayton, who had removed to his townhouse in Upper Brook
Street to be near Whitney during the weeks preceding the wedding, read her
brief note declining the Rutherfords' party with a faint frown of
bewilderment. After a moment's thought, he ordered his carriage brought
round and went directly to the Archibald townhouse where he was informed
that Miss Stone was in the Blue -Salon, and that Lord and Lady Archibald
were out for the day.

Whitney picked up a fresh piece of stationery, dipped
her quill into the ink pot, and continued with the exhausting task of
writing notes of appreciation for the awesome number of wedding gifts which
had been arriving in droves for weeks. In the doorway of the salon, Clayton
stopped and gazed at her. She was seated at a desk, her dark chestnut hair
twisted into thick curls bound with narrow green ribbons. Her head was bent
slightly as she wrote, her flawless profile turned to him. With the sun
streaming in the window beside her, Clayton thought she looked so fragile
and lovely that she seemed ethereal. "Problems?" he said after a long
moment, closing the doors behind him. He crossed to her, took her by the
hand and pulled her gently, but firmly, out of her chair and over toward the
sofa. "Young lady, is it your intention to treat me as a bystander in all of
this, and only remember my existence when you walk down the aisle?"

Whitney sank down beside him. "I'm sorry about the
Rutherfords' affair," she said with a tired smile that made Clayton
instantly regret his mild reprimand. "It's just that I'm so busy with
everything, that even I feel like a bystander at times." Turning her face
into the comforting curve of his shoulder and neck, she said, "I missed you
terribly last night-did you have a pleasant time at the ball?"

Clayton tilted her chin up. "Not without you," he
murmured as his mouth covered hers. "Now, show me how much you missed me . .
."

Within moments, Whitney's tension and exhaustion had
melted away in the heat of Clayton's passionate kiss*. In a kind of sensual
haze, she was dimly aware that he was inexorably drawing her down to lie
beside him on the silk sofa, but with his lips moving persuasively against
hers, and his tongue teasing and exploring, the shift in her position
scarcely seemed to matter.

Her senses swam dizzily, assaulted by his deep kisses
and the gentle, arousing things he whispered against her parted lips as he
kissed her. "I can't get enough of you," he murmured, leaning over her.
"I'll never get enough of you." His hand roamed possessively over the
sensitive skin above her bodice, his fingers nimbly unfastening the row of
tiny buttons at the front of her lime-wool dress. Before Whitney could
react, her chemise was down and his mouth was moving leisurely toward her
naked, exposed breasts. "The servants!" she gasped.

"They're scared to death of me," Clayton said. "They
wouldn't come in here to warn us of a fire."

His tongue touched a rosy nipple, and Whitney struggled
in genuine, frantic earnest. "Don't! Please!" she said hoarsely, lurching
into a sitting position and clutching her open bodice, clumsily refastening
it.

Clayton started to reach for her, but she leapt off the
sofa. Amazed, he sat up and stared at her. She looked slightly flushed, very
beautiful-and frightened half to death! "Whitney?" he said cautiously.

She jumped, took three steps backward, then sank onto
the sofa across from him, her expression tortured and embarrassed. As
Clayton watched, she started to speak, changed her mind, then ran her hand
over her forehead. Finally, she raised pleading green eyes to his and drew a
long, unsteady breath. "There's something I've wanted to ask you-a favor.
But it's dreadful and embarrassing. It's about our wedding. Night."

Frowning with worry over the tension and anxiety he saw
on her face, Clayton leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.
"What favor do you want to ask of me?" he said quietly.

"Promise me you won't be angry when you hear it?"

"You have my word," Clayton assured her calmly.

"Well, you see," she began hesitantly, "I-I would like
to be able to really look forward to our wedding. But I can't, because I
keep thinking about what is going to happen-you know-later that night. Other
brides don't understand, not exactly, but I do now and I-" She was as pink
as roses when she trailed off into pathetic silence.

"What is it that you wanted to ask of me?" Clayton said,
but he already knew-God help him, he already knew.

"I was wondering if you might agree to wait," she
explained miserably. "I mean, agree not to do that to me on our wedding
night." Unable to meet his steady gaze any longer, Whitney looked away in
sheer embarrassment. Uninformed she might be about some things, but she knew
full well that wives made no such bargains with husbands, and that marriages
were consummated on the wedding night. Why, in days gone by, a marriage was
consummated with observers in the room, in the old-and thank heavens,
antiquated-custom of "bedding" the newly wedded couple. A wife's duty, her
vows, required that she submit to her husband in all things, and that
included satisfying his passion.

"Are you absolutely certain this is the way you want
it?" Clayton asked after a long silence.

"Positive," Whitney whispered, her eyes downcast.

"What if I refuse to agree?"

Staring at her hands, Whitney swallowed. "Then I'll
submit to you."

"Submit to me?" Clayton repeated, stunned and a little
irritated by her choice of words. He could hardly believe that after eight
weeks, Whitney still thought of the final culmination of their desires as
some form of punishment to which she must "submit." She always came eagerly
into his arms, returning his kisses with a fervor and hunger that almost
matched his. And whenever he held her, she instinctively fitted her
voluptuous body to the contours of his. What in the living hell did she
imagine he was going to do on their wedding night-turn into a crazed animal
and tear her clothes off again? "Is it me you're afraid of, little one?" he
asked quietly.

Her gaze flew to his and her response was emphatic. "No!
I couldn't bear it if you thought that. I know you aren't going to-to treat
me the way you did before. It's just that I feel embarrassed, because I know
exactly what you are going to do to me. And there's something else
too-something terrible that I should have told you weeks ago. Clayton, I
think I am malformed in some way. You see, it-what you did to me that
night-hurt dreadfully. And I don't think other females feel such pain or . .
."

"Don't!" Clayton interrupted harshly, unable to bear
hearing how badly he had hurt her. With an inward sigh, he accepted this as
the penalty he was going to have to pay for his callous cruelty that night.
And in view of what he had actually done to her, it seemed a small price, at
that. "I will give you my word to wait, on two conditions," he told her
quietly. "The first is that, after our wedding night, the option of choosing
the time is mine."

She nodded so eagerly and looked so relieved that
Clayton almost smiled.

"The second condition is that you promise that during
the next few days you will seriously consider what I am about to say."

Again she nodded.

"Whitney, what occurred between us before was nothing
more than an act of outrage on my part; it was not 'making love,' it was an
act of selfish revenge."

She was listening, and Clayton realized she was trying
to understand, but to her at this point, an act was an act, and if it was
painful and humiliating before, it would be again. "Come here," he said
gently. "I can explain better with a small demonstration."

Apprehension flitted across her face, but she obediently
crossed to sit beside him. Clayton tipped her chin up and kissed her deeply
and tenderly. Her response was longer than usual in coming, but when it did,
it was exquisitely warm and filled with love. "Do you remember the first
time I ever kissed you, on the balcony at Lady Eubank's house?" he asked,
drawing back and searching her eyes. "I was punishing you for trying to use
me to make Sevarin jealous-remember?"