Whitney, My Love (63 page)

She nodded. "I slapped you," she recalled with a smile

"Do you feel like slapping me now? Do you feel in any
way the same about this kiss as you did that first one?"

"No."

"Then believe me when I tell you that what will happen
between us the next time I take you to my bed will be as different from
before, as this kiss is from that first one."

"Thank you," she said with a beaming smile of relief.

She didn't believe him for a minute, Clayton knew. But
she was overjoyed with her "wedding night reprieve."

Chapter Thirty-three

AT THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN, WHITNEY CLIMBED FROM BENEATH
the cool sheets, groped for her dressing robe in the dark, then settled into
a chair at the windows to watch the sun rise over London on her wedding day.
She bent her head and tried to pray. But all her prayers began with "Thank
you" instead of "Please."

She heard the house slowly stirring to life, the sound
of servants moving about the halls, of footsteps passing her door. The
wedding was not to begin until three o'clock, and that seemed tike an
eternity from now.

For hours, time scarcely seemed to move, and then, just
after noon, time leapt forward, picking up extraordinary speed. People
scurried in and out of her bedroom, while Aunt Anne sat perched upon the
bed, watching Clarissa brush Whitney's thick mahogany tresses until they
shone. Emily came into the room wearing a dressing robe, ready to slip into
her gown, and Elizabeth was right on her heels. "Hello," Whitney said in a
quiet, joyous voice.

"Nervous or just not talkative?" Emily teased gaily.

"Neither. Just happy."

"Aren't you the tiniest bit nervous?" Elizabeth
persevered hopefully, darting a conspiratorial wink at Emily and Whitney's
aunt. "I hope his grace hasn't changed his mind."

"He hasn't." Whitney assured her with perfect serenity.

"Well!" Clayton's mother laughed, coming into the room,
"I can see things are not much different here than they are in Upper Brook
Street this afternoon. Stephen is driving Clay-ton to the brink of madness."

"Is Clayton nervous?" Whitney asked incredulously.

"Beyond belief!" her grace said, smiling and sitting
down beside Anne Gilbert on the bed.

"Why?" Whitney asked in alarm.

"Why? There are at least a dozen reasons why, and all of
them are either directly or indirectly related to Stephen. At ten o'clock
this morning, Stephen arrived at the house and told Clayton that as he
passed here, two travelling chaises were being loaded and that he was quite,
quite certain he saw you getting into one of them. Clayton was already
bounding down the stairs to come after you before Stephen shouted that he
was joking."

Whitney smothered a laugh and the duchess said, "You may
find that amusing, my dear, but Clayton did not. After that, Stephen
convincingly reported that he had discovered a nonexistent plot among the
groomsmen to kidnap Clayton and delay his arrival at the wedding. Which is
why all twelve of the groomsmen are now cooling their heels under Clay-ton's
watchful eye at his house. And that is only the beginning."

"Poor Clayton."

"Poor Stephen," the duchess corrected drily. "I came
here because I couldn't bear to watch my elder son murder my younger, which
is what Clayton was threatening-rather seriously, I might add-to do if
Stephen came within arm's reach of him again."

Time flew on rapid, beating wings, and suddenly Whitney
was fully dressed, walking into the bedroom for her aunt and her future
mother-in-law's inspection.

"Oh my dear child," the duchess gasped, her eyes shining
with wonder. "I have never seen anything like you in all my life!" Stepping
back, she surveyed Whitney's ivory, pearl-encrusted gown which had been
designed as a glorious representation of a medieval bride. Its low,
square-cut bodice hugged Whitney's full bosom. then tapered to a narrow
waistline, where a gold chain with clusters of diamonds and pearls set in
each shining link rode low on her hips. The undersleeves were tightly fitted
satin tubes terminating in deep points at the tops of her hands, but the
satin oversleeves, stiffly encrusted with pearls, ended in wide bells at her
elbows. A flowing satin cape trailed behind her; bordered in pearls, and
attached at her shoulders with jeweled links that matched those at her
waist. She wore no veil. Instead, her long hair was pulled back off her
forehead and held at the crown with a diamond and pearl clip. It cascaded
over her shoulders in curving waves, ending in soft thick curls, midway down
her back. Clayton had once said he liked it best this way.

"You look exactly like a medieval princess would have
wished to look," Clayton's mother breathed reverently, but Anne Gilbert only
stared in silent joy at the serenely beautiful young woman who was about to
become a duchess, while in Anne's mind she saw Whitney as she had been not
so long ago, wearing groom's britches and balancing barefoot on the back of
a cantering horse. When she finally spoke, tears of happiness and pride
thickened her voice. "We should leave early for the church. Your father said
there were crowds of spectators already gathering when he passed there hours
ago, and he said that traffic was dreadfully bogged down."

That turned out to be an understatement. Four blocks
from the massive church, the coach bearing Whitney, her father, and her
aunt, was at a complete stop, hopelessly caught in the tangle of conveyances
and would-be spectators blocking the streets. It was as if all London had
turned out to witness the wedding.

In a large anteroom of the church, twelve groomsmen
looked up hopefully as Stephen came in from a side door. He walked over to
Clayton who was leaning against a table, his rigid features reflecting the
gathering storm brewing within him as it seemed more and more likely that
Whitney had jilted him at the altar. Stephen, however, was imperturbably
cheerful as he reported, "There is the most unbelievable snarl out there.
The streets are swarming with pedestrians, and the horses and carriages
can't move "

Clayton straightened abruptly and jerked his head toward
tile door. "Find McRea, he's in this church somewhere, and tell him I want
the coach waiting in front. If she isn't here in five minutes, I'm going
after her."

"Clay, unless your cattle have sprouted wings, it
wouldn't do any good. Would you mind stepping over to this door and seeing
for yourself why Whitney is late?"

With long, angry strides, Clayton followed him to the
door which looked out from the side of the church onto a square. The street
was teaming with humanity and hopelessly entangled conveyances. "What in the
living hell is going on?" he snapped.

"A duke is getting married." Stephen grinned. "And to a
beautiful girl who has neither aristocratic lineage nor even immense wealth.
Apparently yours is the fairy-tale wedding of the century, and the cits mean
to be here to see it."

"Who in God's name invited them?" Clayton demanded, his
mind on where Whitney might have gone to elude him.

"Since we don't own the church, they undoubtedly think
they have the right to be here. Although," Stephen added wryly, "there's no
more room left out there. Even the balconies are filled to capacity."

"Your grace," a serene masculine voice interrupted.
Fourteen concerned male faces turned toward the archbisnop who was arrayed
in all his ecclesiastical finery. "The bride is here," he said quietly.

Twenty thousand white candles illuminated the aisles and
the altar of the church. The organ pipes gave forth an expectant note, and
then musk rose majestically, filling the echoing church from its marble
floor to the high-vaulted ceilings.

One by one, Whitney watched her twelve bridesmaids drift
down the aisle. Therese DuVille Ronsard accepted her bouquet from the maid
and straightened her train, then she turned to Whitney with a soft smile.
"Nicki gave me a message, which I am to give to you at this moment. He said
to tell you, 'Bon voyage-again.'"

The poignant message from Nicki almost shattered
Whitney's composure. Tears momentarily blurred her vision and she
purposefully focused her eyes on Emily, who was just stepping out into the
aisle in a trail of apple-green silk and satin. Alone now with her father
with whom she had only exchanged polite, impersonal comments since his
arrival for the wedding two days ago, Whitney turned to him. He looked
austere and gruff. "Are you nervous, Papa?" she asked softly, watching him.

"Nothing to be nervous about," he said in an oddly
hoarse voice. "I'm walking down the aisle with the most beautiful female in
England on my arm." He looked at her, and Whitney saw that his eyes were
moist as he added, "Don't suppose you'll believe this, because you and I
have always been at sixes and sevens, but I never would have promised you to
the duke if I didn't think he was man enough to handle-no, the man for you,"
he corrected clumsily. "I thought to myself that first day, when he came to
the house, that the two of you were cut from the same cloth, and I agreed to
his suit right then. We never even discussed money until after I had agreed
to the betrothal."

Whitney's eyes were misty as she leaned up and kissed
his furrowed brow. "Thank you for telling me that, Papa. I love you, too."

The organ music suddenly stopped, followed by a long
moment of suspenseful silence, then it gave forth two expectant blasts, and
Whitney laid her trembling hand upon her father's arm.

With the music soaring through the eaves and four
thousand people staring in awed, hushed silence as she took each step,
Whitney started down the long aisle.

Clayton had carried a picture in his mind of how she
would look at this moment-a picture of a beautiful bride in a veil and
flowing white gown. But the vision he saw coming toward him through the
candlelight snatched his breath away. Pride burst within him, exploding
through his entire body until he ached with it. No bride had ever, ever
looked the way she did. Whitney was coming to him without shyness, without
even a veil to cover herself from him. As he watched, she raised her eyes to
his-then kept them there-deliberately letting every man, woman, and child in
that church see that she was proud to be going to him.

Her luxuriant hair spilled over her shoulders, the gold
chain that rode her slender hips swayed gracefully with each step, and
behind her trailed a magnificent cape glowing with pearls. She was a queen
in ail her breathtaking glory, serene but not haughty, provocatively
beautiful, yet aloof, untouchable. "Oh my Chad, little one," Clayton
whispered in his heart.

The crowd watched in breathless anticipation as the duke
stepped forward, his tall frame resplendent in rich royal purple velvet.
They saw him take her hand and smile into her eyes-and they knew he said
something to her. But only Whitney heard his softly spoken, "Hello, my
love." The sight of the handsome duke gazing down upon his beautiful bride
with such gentle pride brought handkerchiefs to eyes before the couple ever
began to say their vows.

Clayton led her to the altar, to her place beside him,
the place that would be hers for all eternity.

Whitney stood with her hand in his strong, reassuring
grasp. When the archbishop asked her to repeat her vows, she turned to
Clayton and lifted her eyes to meet his warm, reassuring gaze. She made her
voice sound firm and sure, but when she was promising to obey him, Clayton's
expression changed. He lifted one brow in a look of such humorous skepticism
that Whitney almost missed a word as she choked back a stunned giggle.

At last they were pronounced man and wife; the organ
music rose and swelled; and Clayton claimed his right to kiss his bride. It
was such a chaste peck, so unlike any kiss he had ever given her before,
that Whitney's eyes registered visible surprise. "I will have to practice,"
Clayton whispered teasing-ry as they turned, "until I get the hang of it."

His gloriously beautiful bride nodded with sham
solemnity and whispered demurely, "I shall be happy to help you with your
lessons, my lord."

Which is why, it was later reported, the Duke of

Claymore's shoulders were shaking with laughter as he
left the altar with his duchess on his arm.

Whitney sat beside Clayton in his coach as they swept
over the smooth roads toward Claymore. The Gilberts' conveyance was still
hopelessly snarled in traffic at the church, so Whitney's aunt and uncle
were grateful, but reluctant, passengers in the vehicle with the bride and
groom which, as the four of them were all acutely aware, left no privacy for
the newlyweds.

Listening to Clayton conversing with them, she looked at
the heavy gold band he had slid onto her hand. It felt strange there,
covering her long slender finger almost to the first knuckle-a bold
proclamation to the world that she belonged to her husband.

Her husband? Whitney stole a glance at Clayton through
her lashes. My husband, she repeated to herself, and a thrill shot through
her. Dear Lord ... he was her husband; six feet three inches of bold
masculinity, elegant and sophisticated-but forceful too; a gathered power,
carefully restrained. She even bore his name now. She belonged to him. It
was a scary thought-and a little wonderful, too, she decided.

The bridal entourage moved decorously through the main
gates at Claymore then swept along the winding private drive where festive
torches were already ablaze on both sides of the road to light the way for
the guests who would soon be arriving. When they pulled up before the main
house, Clay-ton helped Whitney to alight, and she was amazed to see that all
the staff-from butler, steward, housekeeper, footmen, and maids; to
gardeners, keepers, foresters, and stableboys- were lined up on the front
steps in immaculate livery and uniforms, according to their individual rank.