Whitney, My Love (64 page)

Clayton led her, not to the front door as she expected,
but rather to the foot of the steps to stand before diem. Whitney smiled a
little uncertainly at the hundred and fifty faces, then glanced at Clayton.

"Brace yourself," he whispered, grinning. A second later
the air was split with the thunder of cheers and applause.

He waited for the clamor to the down. "This is another
tradition," he explained to Whitney as he remained there, regarding the
servants gravely, but with a smile in his eyes. "Behold your new mistress,
my wife." Clayton spoke the ancient words of the first Duke of Claymore, who
had returned with his abducted bride, in a deep resonant voice that carried
to all. "And know that when she bids you, I have bidden yon; what service
you render her, you are rendering me; what loyalty you give or withhold from
her, you give or withhold from me." Wide smiles wreathed the faces of the
staff, and as Clayton turned to lead Whitney away, a cheer twice as
uproarious as the last went up.

In the white-and-gold salon, Clayton poured champagne
for Whitney, Lord and Lady Gilbert, and himself. Stephen and his mother
joined them and Clayton automatically filled two more glasses. All one
hundred and twenty-six rooms of the main house and the seventy rooms of the
combined guest houses were occupied with wedding guests, many of whom had
arrived the day before. Already there was the incessant sound of carriages
pulling up in the drive, which meant the house guests were returning from
the church.

"Would you like to rest, love?" Clayton asked as he
handed Whitney her glass. Whitney glanced at the clock. It was seven and the
festivities were to begin at eight. In the meantime, Clarissa would need to
press her gown, which meant she bad no time to finish her champagne.
Reluctantly, she nodded and put down her glass.

Clayton saw her wistful glance at her wineglass and,
giving her a mocking grin, he picked up both their glasses and led her up
the broad curving staircase toward their chambers. At the suite which
adjoined his, and which she would occupy from this day forward, he stopped,
opened the door for her, and handed her a glass of champagne. "Shall I have
a full bottle sent up, my lady?" he teased, and before Whitney could make a
suitably audacious reply, his mouth came down, lightly playing over hers in
a sweet, fleeting kiss.

A crimson carpet stretched from the drive up the
terraced steps leading to the great house which was ablaze with lights.

The guests arrived in a steady, endless stream, making
their way up the grand staircase, which was flanked by thirty footmen
standing stiffly at attention in burgundy-and-gold Westmoreland livery.

Beneath a six-tiered chandelier in the ballroom, Whitney
stood beside Clayton while the butler intoned, "Lord and Lady ... Sir... Mr.
and Mrs ..." as each individual passed beneath the marble portals into the
flower-decked room. "Lady Amelia Eubank," she heard the butler say.
Automatically, Whitney tensed as the gruff old dowager bore down on them
wearing an outrageous green turban and purple satin gown.

"I trust, Madam," Clayton mocked, grinning at the old
harridan, "that I did not fail to provide you with adequate 'competition'
for Sevarin?"

Lady Eubank gave a sharp crack of laughter, then leaned
closer to Clayton. "I've been wanting to ask you, Claymore, precisely why
you happened to select the Hodges place for your 'rest?'"

"Precisely," Clayton said as he tipped his head toward
Whitney, "for the reason you think I did."

"I knew it!" said she with a triumphant chuckle. "It
took me weeks to be certain, though. You arrogant young pup!" she added
almost affectionately as she put monocle to eye and turned, looking for one
of her unfortunate neighbors from the village to pounce upon.

Dinner was a magnificent affair which began with a round
of champagne toasts, the first of which was offered by Stephen. "To the
Duchess of Claymore," he said.

Looking over at Clayton's mother, Whitney smiled gaily
and lifted her glass, prepared to toast her. "I believe Stephen means you,
love," Clayton whispered with a chuckle.

"Me? Oh yes, of course," Whitney said, quickly lowering
her hand as she tried to cover her mistake. But it was too late, for the
guests had seen her and were already roaring with laughter.

After toasts had been offered for the bride and groom's
health, their happiness, and long life, the guests began calling for a toast
from the groom. Clayton rose from his chair and

Whitney felt a burst of pride as he stood there,
surrounded by that aura of quiet command that was so much a part of him. He
spoke and his deep voice carried to the farthest corners of the silent room.
"Several months ago in Paris," he said, gazing for a tender moment at
Whitney, "a lovely young woman accused me of 'pretending1 to be a duke. She
said that I was such a poor 'impostor' that I really ought to choose some
other title to which to aspire-some title that would suit me better. I
decided there was only one other title I wanted: that of her husband." He
shook his head ruefully, while laughter kindled in his gray eyes. "Believe
me, my first title was far more easily acquired than the second." When the
deluge of laughter subsided, Clayton added solemnly, "and of far, far less
value."

When the musicians struck up the first waltz, Clayton
led her onto the dance floor. Taking her in his arms, he whirled her around
and around for all to behold, but when the guests joined them on the floor,
he relaxed and danced more quietly with her.

His senses were alive to the elusive perfumed scent of
her, to the light touch of her fingertips. He thought of tomorrow night, or
the night after, when he would truly make her his, and his blood stirred so
hotly that he had to force the thought aside. He tried to concentrate on
something else, and in the space of ten seconds, was mentally undressing and
kissing her, caressing her with his hands and mouth until she was wild for
him.

Her father claimed her for the next dance, and Clayton
danced with his mother, and so it went for hours. It was long after midnight
when Whitney and he left the dance floor to stroll together, arm in arm,
laughing and talking with their guests.

Whitney was obviously enjoying herself and Clayton was
certainly in no hurry to take her away from her party. After all, be had
nothing to look forward to tonight except sleeping alone in his bed. As the
clock neared the hour of one, however, Clayton began to have the uneasy
feeling that the guests were expecting them to retire-a suspicion which was
confirmed when Lord Marcus Rutherford remarked to him in a tow,
laughter-tinged voice, "My God, man, if you're wondering when you can leave
without causing talk, it was about two hours ago."

Clayton went to Whitney. "I'm sorry to put an end to
your evening, little one, but if we don't leave soon, people will begin to
talk. Let's say good night to your aunt and uncle," he urged, but he wasn't
particularly eager to leave either, and it irked him to be evicted from his
own damned party in his own damned house by his own damned guests . . .
which, he instantly realized, was an entirely hilarious way for a bridegroom
to be thinking on his wedding night, particularly when that bridegroom was
himself. Grinning, he shook his head at the irony of it.

Unfortunately, Clayton was still grinning when Whitney
bade her uncle good night, and that gentleman, mistaking Clayton's grin as a
leer, felt it incumbent upon himself to give the bridegroom a dark,
reproving frown. Clayton stiffened under the silent reprimand and, feeling
unfairly villified, said flatly, "We shall see you at breakfast," when he
had intended but a moment before to bid Lord Gilbert a friendly good night.

In silence, Clayton led Whitney down the long hall from
the west wing. Tension twisted within her as they crossed the balcony, and
at the staircase, her steps began to lag. Clayton, however, was grappling
with a new problem and did not notice: Should he take Whitney to his
chambers, or should he take her to hers? There were servants swarming all
over the damned place and he didn't want their lack of marital intimacy on
their wedding night to be common knowledge among the staff.

He had just decided to take her to her chambers when two
footmen came up the stairs and, feeling guilty as a thief in his own house,
Clayton quickly changed direction, stepped back, and opened the door to his
rooms instead of hers. He had started into his suite before he realized that
Whitney had stopped in the doorway and was staring in stricken paralysis at
the familiar room where he had savagely torn her clothes off.

"Come, sweet," he said, casting a quick look down the
hall and forcibly drawing her within. "There is nothing to fear in here, no
madman to ravish you."

With a toss of her head, she seemed to shake off the
memories that were haunting her, and she stepped inside. Sighing with
relief, Clayton closed the door behind them and guided Whitney over to the
long green sofa at right angles to the fireplace, across from the chair he
had sat in that fateful night. He started to sit down beside her on the
sofa, took one look at her enticing profile, and thought it would be wiser
if he sat in the chair across from her instead.

Whitney couldn't possibly sleep in her rooms tonight and
he in his, he decided, because the servants would think it odd if both beds
were slept in. She would have to sleep in his bed and he would sleep on the
sofa.

He looked at her. Her dark head was turned toward the
blazing fire on the hearth, away from the large bed on the dais. It dawned
on him then that she must be wondering why, if he meant to keep his promise,
he hadn't taken her to her chambers instead of his. "You will have to sleep
in here, little one-otherwise the servants will gossip. I'll sleep on the
sofa."

She looked up at him and smiled, as if her thoughts had
been far away.

After an awkward moment, he suggested, "Would you like
to talk?"

"Yes," she agreed readily.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Oh-anything."

Clayton racked his brain for something interesting to
discuss, but his mind and his body were both riveted on her exciting
presence in his bedroom. "The weather was extremely fine today," he
announced finally. He could have sworn that laughter flickered across her
features, or was it only a trick of the firelight? "It didn't rain," he
added, beginning to feel utterly ridiculous.

"It wouldn't have mattered if it did rain. It still
would have been a beautiful, wonderful day."

God! he wished she wouldn't look at him with those
glowing green eyes and smile at him in that entrancing way. Not tonight.
There was a discreet knocking upon his door, and also hers. "Who in the hell
would-?"

"I imagine it's Clarissa," Whitney said, already rising
and looking about her for the connecting door which would lead into her
bedchambers. Clayton went to the door that led into the hall, pulled it open
and stared irritably at his valet, who said blandly, "Good evening, your
grace," and automatically came in. Damn! He'd forgotten about his valet and
Whitney's maid. For his part, Clayton thought it would be less trying on his
aroused senses if they both slept in their clothes. Mentally cursing all
servants in general, Clayton showed Whitney to the connecting door, then
turned on his heel and strode into the study adjoining his bedchambers,
already having forgotten his valet's presence somewhere in his suite.

Staring at the shelves of books lining the study walls,
he tried to decide what to read. What to read, for God's sake! On his
wedding night! After eight weeks of the barely restrained passion they had
shared, why was she still so frightened? And what insanity had possessed him
to make her that promise?

As he reached for a book, Armstrong padded silently into
the study behind him. "May I assist you, your grace?" Jerking his hand
self-consciously away from the bookshelf, Clayton rounded on his hapless
valet. "I'll ring if I need you!" he said curtly, trying to keep his
annoyance hidden. The servants would say he was as nervous as a boy on his
wedding night, if he snapped and growled. "That will be all, Armstrong. Good
night," he added, then he personally escorted the surprised valet to the
door of the suite, thrust him out into the hallway, and locked the door
behind him.

Clayton strode back to his study, stripped off his
jacket and neckcloth, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.
Pulling the stopper out of the decanter on his desk, he poured a liberal
amount of brandy in a glass, then he took a book off one of the shelves, sat
down, and stretched out his long legs. Intending to relax, he sipped his
brandy and read the same paragraph four times before he finally gave up and
slammed the book shut.

He was genuinely annoyed with himself, and a little
surprised, at being so unnerved by what was, after all, only one more night
of celibacy. After eight weeks of celibacy, why did this one extra night
matter so much? It mattered, he realized ruefully, because he couldn't shake
the conviction that a wedding night automatically, irrevocably, meant
lovemaking-because that was the way it was supposed to be. Considering that
in his entire adult life, he'd never paid much heed to the way things were
"supposed to be," Clayton couldn't imagine why he should be doing so
tonight. Unless it was because his wife's (he liked the sound of that-his
wife's) intoxicating body was his now, by marital right. And it was also
tantalizingly near his own starved body.

He allowed Whitney twice the amount of time she could
possibly need before he finally got up and reentered his bedroom. She wasn't
there. The connecting door was ajar, and he went through her dressing room
into her bedroom. She wasn't there either. His heart began to hammer even
though he told himself she could not have, would not have, actually fled
from him. Surely she had more faith in his word than that!