“So formal?” he grinned, rubbing his thumb over her palm, then boldly raising it to his lips and touching his tongue to the sensitive center.
Whitney snatched it away, tucking her tingling hand safely behind her back. For a long moment, she simply gazed at him, unconsciously memorizing his face, then she said, “I’m sorry, truly sorry that I’ve put you to so much trouble.”
Clayton’s eyes glinted wickedly. “I hope you’ll feel free to ‘trouble’ me like that whenever you like.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” There were things she wanted to say to him, nice things, and things she wanted to explain, but how could she be serious when he was treating their parting so lightly? Perhaps he wanted no explanations, no apologies; perhaps this was the best way to say good-bye. Even so, her voice shook as she said, “I shall miss you, I really will.” Before she crumbled in front of him, which she was positive she would do if he continued to look at her with gentle understanding, she picked up her skirts and stepped away, intending to leave him there at the pavilion. Two steps farther away, she turned and said hesitantly over her shoulder. “About my father—”
Why she should feel any guilt or responsibility for her cruel sire was a mystery, yet she did. “I hope you won’t deal harshly with him. If you’ll just be patient, I’m certain he’ll eventually be able to repay you.”
Clayton’s dark brows drew together into a mild frown. “Considering that he has given me his daugther to wed, I count myself fully repaid.”
A feeling of impending disaster seemed to crackle in the air. “But all of that has changed now that you’ve agreed to let me go.”
Clayton closed the distance between them, grasping her by the shoulders and turning her around to face him. “What in the holy hell are you talking about?”
“You agreed to let me go and—”
“I agreed to let you go home,” he stated emphatically.
“No!” Whitney cried, shaking her head. “You agreed to let me go—to give up the idea of marrying me.”
“You can’t believe that,” Clayton said shortly. “I meant nothing of the kind.”
A crushing weight settled in Whitney’s chest. She should have known he would never give in. She stared at him in desperation . . . while something strangely like relief tingled through her. There was no chance for her to examine this odd feeling, however, for his arms went around her, pulling her close to him.
“Never, not even in my weakest moment, have I considered letting you go, Whitney. And if I had,” he added, bluntly reminding her of her passionate response to him minutes ago, “do you think that after what has just passed between us, I would ever consider it again?” Clayton tipped her chin up, forcing her rebellious gaze to meet his implacable one. “You asked me for time, and I gave it to you. Use it to face the inevitability of our marriage, because I assure you that the marriage is going to take place. If you want to convince yourself that I deceived you a while ago, then do it, but I’ll not honor a promise I didn’t make.”
His flat conviction that she had no choice except to marry him, to yield her body and her life to him, was more than Whitney could bear right now. “Then honor the promise you did make. Let me go home.” Jerking away from him, she walked blindly toward the driveway, her emotions in turmoil.
Clayton caught up with her, snapped an order to the footman, and helped her into the carriage. Whitney looked down at him, her voice deadly calm. “Has it ever occurred to you that you cannot make me marry you? You can drag me by the hair to the altar, yet all I have to do is refuse to say my vows. It’s as simple as that.”
His brows rose. “If those are the thoughts you’ve been entertaining during this time you asked me for, then there’s nothing to be gained by waiting any longer, is there?” He glanced over his shoulder as if he were looking for someone, then turned to start toward the house.
“Where are you going?” Whitney demanded sharply, alarmed by the sudden, purposeful vitality in his movements and the determined set of his jaw.
“I am about to order my valet to pack my bags for a lengthy trip. After which, I will have the traveling chaise brought round and horses put to. We,” he stated coolly, turning around to face her, “are going to Scotland. We’re eloping.”
“Eloping!” Whitney cried, clutching the side of the carriage. “You—you wouldn’t dare! The tongues would never cease wagging, the gossips would—”
Clayton shrugged indifferently. “As you should have gathered by now, gossip doesn’t matter to me. Since it does matter to you, I suggest you consider your choices: Once we’re in Scotland, you can either marry me or you can refuse to say your vows. If you refuse to say them, we will return unwed from an absence together of several days and nights which will cause a scandal you will never live down. Your last choice is to have a proper wedding in London as a duchess. Now, which is it going to be?”
What choice was there? Whitney thought bitterly. An elopement was scandalous enough, but if she returned with him from Scotland unwed, mothers would drag their daughters to the other side of the street when she passed, to avoid the contamination of a soiled female, and Paul would despise her. “A wedding!” Whitney hissed angrily, flopping back against the velvet seat. There was one other choice open to her, she reminded herself: She could elope with Paul. Her mind quailed at the thought of an elopement, with all the attendant censure and disgrace. Once again, she would be an outcast from the village society, the recipient of open snubs and scathing criticism. But at least she would have the compensation of being Paul’s wife.
“Whitney,” Clayton said, looking at her as if he would like to shake her, “for once in your life, forget this obsession with Sevarin, and try to face what is really in your heart. If you weren’t so damned stubborn, you’d have done it weeks ago!”
The coachman came dashing around the side of the house, and Whitney bit back her angry retort, but Clayton’s words nagged at her all the way home. Staring dismally at the coachman’s stiff back, she struggled to sort out her jumbled emotions, not because Clayton had accused her of refusing to face what was in her heart, but because she truly couldn’t understand herself anymore.
How could she respond so wantonly to Clayton’s caresses while planning, yearning to marry Paul? Why had she been so shattered a few minutes ago when she realized she had hurt Clayton? Why had she felt so desolate when she believed she was saying good-bye to him forever? Was it because a grudging friendship had grown between them, nourished by the banter and raillery they always indulged in?
Friendship? she thought bitterly. Clayton was no friend of hers; he cared nothing about her. He cared only about himself and what he wanted, and for some obscure reason known only to himself, he happened to want her. He refused to believe she loved Paul because it didn’t suit him to believe it. Paul was meant to be her husband; that place in her heart, in her life, had long ago been set aside for him and only him.
Paul. Her conscience took over, tormenting her for her disloyalty to Paul, her scandalous, unprincipled behavior in his absence. Mentally, she cringed, thinking of the way she had let Clayton caress her, kiss her. Let him! she thought with self-loathing, she had kissed him. She had wanted to be in his arms; she had trembled with desire when his mouth had opened over hers.
It seemed to Whitney as she lay in bed that night, staring at the canopy above her, that she had never been so miserable. Tormented with guilt, she thought of the plans Paul had discussed with her during the days following his proposal. He was going to restore the master suite in the west wing of his house because it was nearer the nursery. She had blushed petal pink when he mentioned children, but she had joyously made plans right along with him.
And now she had betrayed him. She had taken his love and defiled it in Clayton Westmoreland’s arms. She was unworthy of Paul. Dear God! she was unworthy of Clayton Westmoreland, too. Wasn’t she, even now, after returning his kisses, planning to marry another man?
Dawn had lightened the sky when she ar
rived at a final, irrevocable decision. Since Clayton would never willingly give her up, she would elope with Paul the day he returned. Paul loved her, and he trusted her; he was counting on her. The shame of an elopement would be her penance for her lustful, wicked behavior in Paul’s absence. Someday, somehow, she would again be worthy of his love and trust. She would earn it by being the most devoted, obedient, faithful wife on earth.
Now that she had resolved on a course of action, she should have felt much better, but when she awoke late the next morning, she felt positively wretched.
Massaging her temples with both hands, Whitney swung her feet onto the floor and cautiously edged to the small washstand, her head pounding with every step she took. Squinting from the pain, she poured herself a glass of cool water and rang for Clarissa to help her dress.
Pale and distant, she slid into her chair at the breakfast table, managed a wan smile for Aunt Anne and flatly ignored her father. Unfortunately, her father refused to be ignored any longer. “Well, Miss,” he demanded in a curt, authoritative tone, “have you and his grace set the date yet?”
Laying her fork aside, Whitney perched her chin on her folded hands, deliberately goading him with her wide, blank stare. “What date?”
“Don’t treat me like an imbecile! You know I’m referring to a wedding date.”
“Wedding?” Whitney repeated. “Did I forget to tell you? There’s not going to be a wedding.” Tossing an apologetic glance at Aunt Anne, Whitney rose from the table and left the room.
“Really, Martin, you are the greatest fool to push her that way. What choice do you leave her except to defy you?” Distastefully, Anne shoved her plate aside and followed Whitney.
After a moment, Martin also shoved his plate aside and sent for his carriage in order to pay a morning call on his future son-in-law.
By eleven o’clock Whitney’s headache had abated, but her mood had not improved. Seated across from Aunt Anne in the sewing room, she listlessly worked at her embroidery frame. “I loathe needlework,” she observed unemotionally. “I have always loathed it. Even if I could do it well, I’d still loathe it.”
“I know,” her aunt sighed, “but it keeps one’s hands busy.” They both looked up as a footman came in with the mail and handed a letter to Whitney. “It’s from Nicki,” Whitney said, brightening with fondness at the memory of him. Eagerly she broke the seal and began to read Nicki’s bold, firm scrawl.
The smile faded from her face, and her head began to pound with renewed vigor. Slumping back in her chair, she gazed in numb horror at her aunt. “Nicki is arriving in London tomorrow.”
Anne’s embroidery needle froze in mid-stitch. “His grace will not be pleased to have Nicolas DuVille here on our doorstep, pressing his suit right beside Paul Sevarin.”
Whitney was more concerned about sparing herself the humiliation of having Nicki here as a houseguest, where he would inevitably learn of her scandalous elopement with Paul next week. “It needn’t come to that,” she said firmly, taking charge of the matter. She left the room, returning a moment later with quill and parchment.
“What are you going to say?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Whitney announced, dipping the quill into the inkpot and beginning to write, “I am going to tell Nicki to remain in London. What sort of contagious disease do you prefer? Marlaria? The plague?” Seeing that her aunt was not sharing her semi-hysterical humor, Whitney added more calmly, “I shall simply tell Nicki that I have commitments away from here and won’t be able to see him this trip. I gather from what he wrote that he is only going to be in England for a short time to attend some social function at Lord Marcus Rutherford’s—whoever that may be.”
For want of any more helpful comment, Anne said, “Lord Rutherford is connected with several of the best families in Europe, including the DuVilles. Your uncle has often said he is the most astute man in the government, and one of the most powerful, as well.”
“Well, he certainly chose an inconvenient time to ask Nicki to come to England,” Whitney remarked as she sprinkled fine sand over the note and rang for a footman to have it sent off at once.
Now that she’d taken matters into her own hands and done something to help avert disaster, Whitney felt better. With great gusto she applied herself to her needlework, but she had never been any good at it, and the tiny perfect stitches she planned in her mind failed to materialize on the cloth. In a fit of frustrated impatience, she ignored the ghastly effect she was creating and simply enjoyed the act of stabbing at the cloth with the needle.
Long after her aunt had gone down to lunch, she continued. This stab was for fate, which out of sheer perversity, was thwarting her at every turn. This stab was for Lord Rutherford, who was responsible for Nicki coming to England. This stab was for her father—cruel, heartless, unloving. This stab was for . . . In her vengeful enthusiasm, Whitney missed the fabric and yelped in pain as the needle pierced her left index finger.
A throaty chuckle preceded a familiar, deep voice. “Are you embroidering that cloth or assaulting it?”
Whitney surged to her feet in surprise, sending her embroidery sliding to the floor. She had no idea how long Clayton had been standing in the doorway watching her. All she knew was that he seemed to fill the room with his compelling presence and that her spirits soared crazily at the sight of him. Embarrassed by her reaction, she hastily directed her attention to her finger where a minuscule drop of blood had appeared.
“Shall I send for Dr. Whitticomb?” he offered. A smile tugged at the corner of his handsome mouth as he added, “If you don’t want Whitticomb, I can send for ‘Dr. Thomas’ but I understand that his specialty is more in the line of sprains and breaks . . .”
Whitney bit her bottom lip, trying desperately not to laugh. “Actually, Dr. Thomas is very busy with another patient right now—a sorrel mare. And Dr. Whitticomb was rather irritated over being sent here on a fool’s errand the last time. I doubt he’d be quite so gracious about being summoned on a second one.”
“Was it ‘a fool’s errand’?” Clayton asked quietly.
The laugher fled from Whitney’s face and an inexplicable guilt assailed her. “You know it was,” she whispered, averting her eyes.
Clayton studied her pale face with a slight, worried frown. Despite her momentary gaiety, he could tell that she was as tense as a tightly coiled spring. He wasn’t concerned by her rebellious announcement at breakfast this morning that there was not going to be a marriage, which was what had sent her father scurrying to him in a state of wild agitation. Martin Stone was a stupid bastard who continued trying to bully her, even though it only made Whitney more hell-bent on defying him. For that reason, Clayton said with quiet firmness. “I would like you to accompany me to a ball in London. You can bring that peculiar little abigail of yours—the stout woman with white hair who always scowls at me as if she suspects I’m going to carry off the family silver.”
“Clarissa,” Whitney provided automatically, her mind already searching for a suitable excuse not to accompany him.
Clayton nodded. “She can play duenna, so there’ll be no lack of a proper chaperone.” Actually, Lady Gilbert would have been a far more suitable chaperone, but he wanted Whitney to himself for a while. “If we leave in the morning, the day after tomorrow, we can be in London by late afternoon. That will give you the time to visit with your friend, Emily, and rest before the ball. I’m certain the Archibalds will be delighted to have you stay for the night, and we’ll return the following day.” Before she could refuse, which Clayton could see she was about to do, he added, “Your aunt is even now writing a note to advise Emily Archibald of your arrival.”
Wildly, Whitney wondered what madness had made Aunt Anne agree to such a thing, and then she realized that her aunt was in no better position to deny the Duke of Claymore anything than she herself was. “You didn’t have a favor to ask,” Whitney corrected him irritably. “You had a command to issue.”
Clayton ignor
ed her lack of enthusiasm for the ball—an idea which he had only conceived after talking to her father this morning. “I was hoping very much that you would like the idea,” he said.
His gentle reply made Whitney feel churlish and rude. Sighing, she accepted the inevitable. “Whose ball are we attending?”
“Lord Rutherford’s.” Clayton hadn’t really expected any reaction to that, but even if he had, nothing would have prepared him for what happened next. Whitney’s eyes widened until they were huge green saucers. “Whose?” she demanded in a choked whisper, and before he could answer, she gave a stunned shriek of horrified laughter and literally collapsed into his arms, convulsed with gales of mirth.
Her eyes swimming with tears of hilarity, she finally leaned back in his arms and said, “You see before you a demented female who is beginning to look upon life’s tragedies as one great lark.” Swallowing another giggle, she said eagerly, “Does my aunt know yet? Whose ball we are to attend?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
Whitney reached for Nicki’s note and handed it to him. “I wrote Nicki this morning and told him not to come—that I had other commitments away from home.”
Clayton skimmed the note and gave it back to her. “Fine,” he said curtly, annoyed because she called DuVille “Nicki,” yet she persisted in addressing him, to whom she was betrothed, only in formal terms. With grim satisfaction, he realized that Whitney would be at his side when DuVille saw her at the Rutherford’s and his annoyance abated. Pressing a light kiss on her forehead, he said, “I’ll call for you at nine in the morning, the day after tomorrow.”
21
* * *
Two days later, on the stroke of nine o’clock, Whitney watched two shiny black travelling chaises draw up in the front drive. Pulling on the aqua kid gloves that matched her travelling costume, she trooped down the stairs to the entrance foyer with Clarissa marching beside her. Aunt Anne and her father came to bid her farewell. Whitney ignored her father and gave her aunt a fierce hug while Clayton excused himself to escort Clarissa personally out to the chaise. Whitney had argued that her aunt should accompany her as chaperone, but Clayton had brushed that aside and said that Clarissa could perform the dual role of ladies’ maid and chaperone. As he pointed out to Whitney and Anne, the entire journey would be accomplished before nightfall, and futhermore, as Whitney’s affianced husband, he had every right to spend a few hours with his future wife without the presence of her relatives.