Authors: Judith McNaught
The coach pulled up in front of his mother's brilliantly
lit house, and Clayton recalled that Stephen had said there was to be a
party tonight. He didn't want to see his relatives, he wanted to see his
wife. And he hadn't brought formal clothes, hadn't even considered stopping
at his house for a change of attire, and wouldn't have if he'd thought of
it. He was sorely tempted to confront his mother with her treachery before
he went in search of Whitney. He was tempted, but he wasn't going to.
"Good evening, your grace," the family butler intoned.
"Dammit!" Clayton replied as he stalked past the
affronted servant on his way to look into the crowded drawing room. It
seemed that every relative he had was present in those rooms. But not
Whitney. He saw his mother though, and when she started toward him, her face
wreathed in a smile, Clayton took a moment to direct a look of such frigid
displeasure at her that it stopped her dead. Then he swung around and headed
for the main stairs. "Where is my wife?" he demanded of a maid in the
upstairs hall.
Clayton hesitated outside the designated door, his hand
on the brass handle, his heart slamming with a combination of relief and
dread. He had no idea how Whitney would react to seeing him, no idea of what
he could possibly say to her. But at that moment, all that mattered was
being able to see her and feast his eyes on her.
Opening the door, Clayton stepped silently within, then
closed it behind him. Whitney was in a big brass tub with her back to the
room. Her maid was hovering behind her, holding soap and a washcloth.
Mesmerized, Clayton simply stood there.
He wanted to go to her and pull her, naked and wet, into
his arms, to absorb her into his body, to carry her to the bed and lose
himself in her. And at the same time, he didn't feel worthy of even speaking
to her, let alone touching her. He wasn't worthy. Twice in their lives now
he had treated her with a brutal viciousness of which he'd never known he
was capable. God! She was nurturing his child within her womb and never once
had he even asked how she was feeling. How could one slender girl bear the
weight of such cruelty without hating him as he deserved? Clayton drew a
long, labored breath.
Clarissa glanced up, saw Clayton rolling up his
shirtsleeves as he walked toward the tub, and gave him a ferocious scowl.
She opened her mouth with the obvious intention of endowing him with a
liberal piece of her mind, duke or no duke, bat Clayton forestalled her with
a curt nod of dismissal. Reluctantly she handed him the soap and cloth and
silently left the room.
With aching gentleness, Clayton soaped Whitney's back,
carefully keeping his touch light and his hands out of her view.
"That feels wonderful, Clarissa," Whitney murmured as
she bent forward and lathered her legs. Normally, Clarissa left her to bathe
alone, but lately she had become so worried and solicitous that Whitney
didn't give much thought to this unusual, added attention.
Sleek and glistening with droplets of scented water
streaming down her, Whitney arose from the bath and stepped out of the tub.
She started to turn and reach behind her for the towel, but Clarissa, in an
excess of compassionate helpfulness, was already gently drying her off.
Clayton toweled her neck, her soft shoulders and her
trim back.
"Thank you, Clarissa, I'll finish. I'm going to have my
dinner up here and then I'll dress to go downstairs for-" Turning, Whitney
reached for the towel. The color drained from her face, and she swayed
unsteadily as she beheld the handsome, grave man who said nothing to her,
but continued to dry her body. In a state of numb paralysis, she stood stock
still, incapable of movement or speech. When Clayton toweled her stomach and
thighs, Whitney was dimly aware that his hands angered imperceptibly longer
there, but they were not caressing her. Desperately she tried to assimilate
what was happening. Clayton was here-no longer angry with her-but not
speaking to her. Not smiling at her. He wasn't even touching her as a
husband, but almost like a ... a servant! A servant! An aching lump began to
swell in Whitney's throat as she realized what he was doing. He was acting
as her maid as a way of humbling himself to her.
His strong hands were gentle as he forced her down onto
the chair beside the tub and, without looking up at her, be knelt down on
one knee and solemnly began to dry her calves. "Clayton," she whispered
brokenly. "Oh, don't..."
Ignoring her tearful plea, he continued his bumble
services as he said in a ragged, pain-edged voice, "If I ever think you are
even considering leaving me again, no matter now good your reasons, I'll
have you locked in your rooms and the doors barricaded, so help me God." He
lifted her mot and began to dry ft.
Her voice shaking, Whitney asked, "Will you stay locked
in there with me?"
He raised her dainty foot to his jaw and tenderly laid
his cheek against it, then turned his head and kissed it. "Yes," he
whispered.
Standing up, he walked over to the wardrobe, removed a
fine silk dressing robe and brought it over, holding it while Whitney put
her arms into the sleeves. Like a puppet, she stood there while he reached
around her and brought the sash to the front, tying it at her waist. Without
a word, he leaned down and scooped her into his arms, carrying her over to
the chair where her dinner was waiting on a low table. He sat down, cradling
her on his lap. Leaning forward, he removed the silver cover from her dinner
tray. When Whitney realized that he intended to feed her, she couldn't bear
any more.
"Don't!" she cried out softly, reaching her arms around
his powerful shoulders and burying her face in his neck. "Please, please
don't do this. Just talk to me. Please talk to me."
"I can't," he whispered against her shining hair. He
drew a long, tortured breath. "I can't find the words."
The naked anguish in his voice brought tears to her eyes
as she leaned back and looked adoringly at him. "I can," she whispered
brokenly. "You taught them to me-I love you. I love you."
Threading his fingers through her hair, he framed her
face between his hands and gazed at her. "I love you," he whispered
hoarsely. "God! How I love you."
In the flickering candlelight, the hands on the ormolu
clock across the room from the bed had just moved to hah7 past one. Clayton
gazed down tenderly at the beauty who was nestled up against him, asleep in
his arms, her tousled head resting trustingly against his naked chest.
Brushing a wayward curl gently off her cheek, he drew her closer to him and
touched his lips to her forehead. "I love you," he breathed softly. He knew
Whitney was asleep and couldn't hear him, but he needed to say the words
again.
He had said them to her in his heart tonight, each time
his mouth touched the dewy softness of hers in hungry urgency or aching
tenderness. "I love you." It was a song his heart sang when she writhed
beneath him and arched sweetly up to meet his thrusts; a melody that rose to
a soaring crescendo as he led her to the peak of ecstasy and then joined her
there.
His wife snuggled closer against him and dreamily
whispered, "I love you, too."
"Ssssh, darling. Sleep," Clayton murmured. He had
lingered over her endlessly tonight, deliberately delaying the final,
exquisite moment of release until they were both wild with wanting. After
such prolonged lovemaking he wanted her to rest.
"What took you so long?" she whispered.
Leaning his head down to better see her face, Clayton
grinned. "I can't believe you mean what I think you mean."
She looked puzzled at first, then she blushed and looked
away.
Surprised and concerned by her reaction, Clayton tipped
her chin up. "What did you mean?" he asked gently.
"It--it doesn't matter. Truly it doesn't."
Gazing down into her pain-shadowed green eyes, he said
quietly, "I think that, whatever it is, it matters very much to you."
Whitney wished she hadn't spoken, wouldn't have, except
that the hurt was spreading through her like a bruise that would not stop
aching. Knowing that Clayton would now insist on an answer, she gave it in a
barely audible whisper, "Marie."
"What about her?"
"Was she the reason it took you so long to come for me?"
Tightening his arms around her, as if he could absorb
some of the pain he had caused her, Clayton smiled wryly. "Darling, the
reason it took me so long was that forty investigators could not find a
trace of you. And I-who undoubtedly should have known better-failed to
consider my own mother as a possible partner in a conspiracy to keep my wife
from me."
"But I thought this would be the first place you would
think of looking for me, once you had time to think things over."
"Well it wasn't," Clayton said quietly. "But then,
neither did I 'think things over' within five miles of Marie St.
Allermain-which I gather is what you're trying to ask me."
"You didn't?"
"No, I didn't."
Her green eyes filled with tears as she gazed at him and
smiled tremulously. "Thank you," she whispered simply.
"You're very welcome," Clayton said with a tender smile
at her upturned face. He traced his finger along the elegant carve of her
cheek. "Now sleep, my love. Otherwise, this bed is again going to be put to
another use."
Obediently she closed her eyes and snuggled into his
arms. Her fingertips slid up to lightly brush the hair at his temple; a few
minutes later they slipped down his shoulder to his chest.
Clayton felt his body's instant response and tried to
control the mounting passion which Whitney was inadvertently igniting with
her sleepy caresses. When her hand drifted down the planes of his stomach,
he caught it and held it firmly in his own to prevent its further descent.
He thought he heard a smothered laugh as she turned in apparent sleep, and
her lips touched his ear.
Leaning back, Clayton gazed suspiciously into her face.
She was wide awake, her eyes aglow with love.
In one quick, smooth motion, he rolled her over onto her
back and pressed her into the pillows, his body half covering hers. "You
can't say I didn't warn you," he whispered in a husky voice.
"I won't."
***
JUDITH McNAUGHT soared to stardom with her stunning
bestseller, Whitney, My Love. Since then, she has gone on to win the hearts
of millions of readers across the country with such breathtaking novels as
Once and Always and the New York Times bestsellers Something Wonderful, A
Kingdom of Dreams, Almost Heaven, and Paradise. She is currently working on
a new novel to be published by Pocket Books. Judith McNaught lives with her
husband in Houston, Texas.