Clayton put his hands on her arms, not gently but not roughly either, and moved her away from him. She was sobbing, he thought with an unwanted pang of guilt. He dropped his hands, and Whitney slowly raised her head. She wasn’t weeping—she was laughing! She was laughing hysterically. She was still laughing when she hit him full across the side of the face with a crashing blow that snapped his head around, and then she ran inside.
Slowly, thoughtfully, Clayton followed her into the house. He went into his study, closed the doors behind him, and poured himself a liberal drink. He now knew two things for certain: Whitney had a powerful right arm. And the baby was his.
Whatever else she had lied about—the reason for her coming to him here, the reason she had married him—whatever else, her look of contemptuous scorn when he asked if the child was his—that look had been real. She had not lain with her lover on her trips to London. No human being alive who was guilty could have fabricated that look of stunned horror or shocked outrage. She had not betrayed him since they were married. Whatever else she had done, she had not done that. The child was his. Clayton knew it as surely as he knew she had come to him here months ago because she thought she needed a father for someone else’s child. His wrath went from a roiling boil to a steady simmer.
Unfortunately, Whitney’s did the opposite. Of all the vile, vulgar, contemptible . . . He was insane! Insane! And she would be too, if she stayed with him. For, even when he had called her terrible things a few minutes ago and hurt her arm with his punishing grip, she had felt joy in being pressed tightly to his heart again. Even then, she had wanted his arms to go around her. If she stayed, she would go mad.
Whitney tried to ignore the stab of anguish that came with knowing she had to leave him, while she tried to think of a place she could go. Her father wasn’t strong-willed enough to shelter her from her husband if Clayton chose to demand her return to Claymore. Aunt Anne and Uncle Edward would help her. She would write to them and ask if she could come to France for a visit. When she was there, she would explain. She didn’t know if Clayton’s awesome power could touch her in France, or if he would retaliate by using his influence in England to damage her uncle’s diplomatic career.
All she could do was explain to her Uncle Edward and let him decide.
Whitney sank down into the chair at her writing desk, pulled open the drawer and, as she reached for a sheet of blue stationery, she saw the crumpled ball of blue paper on top of the neat stack. Without much curiosity she turned it in her fingers, saw that it had writing on it, and smoothed it out to see if it was something she had kept because she might need it.
“To my very great mortification . . .” Blankly she remembered having secreted the unsent note among her unused stationery when she had been at Emily’s because she didn’t want a servant to find it. But now it was crumpled up and on top of the stack. Someone had found it, but only Mary and Clarissa served her at Claymore, and they would never search through her desk.
It was humiliating to think of someone reading that note, and she tried to imagine who could have been in her desk. Two days ago, when she had joyously tucked the little infant gown in the drawer for Clayton to find, the drawer had been neat and no one, other than Clayton, had been . . . Oh, my God!
Whitney half rose from her chair—she had sent Clayton to her desk and asked him to find her aunt’s letter. “And you found this,” she breathed aloud, as if he were in the room. “Dear God, you found this.” Her hands were shaking and her mind was reeling as she tried to concentrate on what Clayton might have made of what he had read. She forced herself to look at the note as if she had found it, instead of written it. The date. They had promised to celebrate, each year, the date she had come to Claymore, and the note was dated just one day before that. Reading this, Clayton would wonder if—no, believe—she had come to him that night because she thought she was pregnant! That would hurt him deeply, because he had told her once that nothing she could ever do would mean more to him than the way she had come to him that night because she loved him and wanted him to know it.
Very well, then the next thing she would wonder about, if she had found the note, was whom it was meant for. Getting up with the note still in her hand, Whitney began to pace agitatedly back and forth. Based on Clayton’s reaction, he must have thought the note had been meant for someone else. All right—but he knew he had taken her virginity that terrible night and she could have been carrying his child as a result of that. How dare he be so angry merely because she might have turned to someone else for help or advice! Well, why shouldn’t she have done so—after all, when that note was written they weren’t even on civil terms with each other. Why, she could have been writing to her father or her aunt or anyone! But judging from the violence of Clayton’s reaction, he obviously thought not.
He was torturing her this way because he was hurt. And because he was angry that she might have turned to another . . . another man . . . for help. He was hurt. And jealous.
“You fool!” Whitney hissed into the empty room. She was so relieved and so happy that she could have flung her arms out and twirled around. It wasn’t because Clayton didn’t want their baby! Yet weak with relief though she was, she could also cheerfully have killed him!
He had done it again! Just what he had done the awful night he had dragged her here. He had accused her of something in his mind, tried and convicted and sentenced her, without ever telling her what crime she was accused of committing. Without ever giving her an opportunity to explain! And now—and now—he actually believed he could just set her aside, move to another wing of the house and pretend that their marriage was as dead as if it had never existed.
Whitney was shaking with relief and quaking with determination. This was the last, the last time his temper was going to explode against her before she was given some explanation for the reason first!
And if Clayton thought for one moment that he could love her as deeply as Whitney knew he did, yet turn his back on her and coldly walk away, well, he was now going to learn differently. How could he be so wise, so intelligent, and actually think he could set her aside in anger, no matter what she did—or what he thought she did?
Somehow, some way, she was going to make him explain why he was acting this way. Whitney didn’t care how it came about or how he did it. He could hurl the accusations in her face, for all she cared. In fact, she thought with a sad smile, that was undoubtedly how it would happen, because she was not going to plead with him to explain; she had tried that already and it did no good. Which left her with no choice but to force his hand, to make him angry enough or jealous enough to lose control completely and confront her with what he thought she’d done.
And when he did, she would coldly explain about the note. She would make him grovel at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. A brilliant smile dawned across her features. Oh rubbish! She would never be able to do that. She would explain as quickly as she could and then fling herself against his hard chest and feel faint with joy and longing when his strong arms went around her.
But for now, she had to make herself be anything but meek or sad. She would be charming and gay until Clayton missed what they had together so badly that he couldn’t stand it. She would goad and needle him gently at first, and only if that didn’t work would she force his hand by making him truly angry.
The Clifftons were having a huge affair tonight. Whitney couldn’t be sure whether Clayton still meant to go. But she did.
* * *
She dressed with great care in an emerald-green gown she had ordered in Paris on their wedding trip. It was the most revealing gown she had ever worn and she smiled to herself as she put on the emerald and diamond necklace and matching bracelet and ear drops. “How do I look?” Whitney asked Clarissa, twirling around.
“Bare as the day you were born,” Clarissa decreed with a censorious stare at Whitney’s bodice.
“It’s a little less than I normally wear,” Whitney agreed with a faint twinkle in her eye
s, “but I don’t quite think my husband will want me going anywhere without him in this gown, do you?”
In a rustle of emerald silk, Whitney swept into the drawing room. Clayton was pouring himself a drink at the sideboard, his tall, athletic frame resplendent in midnight-blue jacket and trousers. In contrast to the deep blue superfine, his shirt and neckcloth were dazzling white. He looked unbearably handsome. He also looked utterly furious as his insolent gaze swung over the shimmering green gown and froze on the daring display of tantalizing flesh swelling above her bodice.
“Where,” he asked in a low, ominous voice, “do you think you are going?”
“Think I am going?” Whitney repeated, managing to look extremely innocent, despite the seductive allure of her gown. “We promised to go to the Clifftons’ tonight. I would love a glass of wine, if you wouldn’t mind,” she added with a congenial smile.
Clayton jerked a bottle of wine from the rack built into the cabinet. “That’s too damned bad, because we aren’t going to the Clifftons’.”
“Oh?” Whitney said as she crossed to him to take her glass. “That’s a shame, for you will miss a splendid party. I have always thought the Clifftons’ parties are the most delightful of any in . . .”
Clayton turned slowly and perched a hip on the cabinet beside him, one leg swinging idly, his weight braced against the other foot. “I am not going to the Clifftons’,” he told her icily. “And you are not going out tonight at all. Is that clear enough, Whitney?”
“The words are quite clear,” Whitney told him. She turned, carrying her glass, and swept regally off to the dining room, trailing emerald silk in her wake. She was crushed. Clayton wasn’t going to take her to the Clifftons’, and he wouldn’t let her go alone.
In the candlelit dining room their meal progressed in stiff silence. Whitney watched him surreptitiously throughout the meal. It was nearly over when her gaze fell on his hand. It was devoid of the ruby ring she’d given him on their wedding night. Her heart constricted as she stared at the light mark across her finger; from the moment she had placed the ring on his hand on their wedding night, he had never taken it off.
She looked up and found him observing her pained reaction with a smile of cynical amusement. And as hurt as she was, Whitney was even angrier. She was going to that party, she decided with a determined lift of her chin. If she had to walk, she was going with him.
Before dessert was brought in, Whitney stood up and said, “I am going to my room. Good night.” She was going to her room because she didn’t want to alert him to the fact that she was also going to the party, and risk having Clayton forbid their drivers to take her anywhere.
* * *
It was well past one o’clock in the morning, but in the exclusive gentlemen’s gaming club to which Clayton belonged, time was never of much importance. He was relaxing in his chair, not paying much attention to the discussions going on around him, or, for that matter, to the cards he held.
No matter how much he drank tonight, or how hard he tried, he couldn’t concentrate on the game or the hearty masculine conversation of his friends and acquaintances. He had married a witch who had gotten under his skin like a thorn. It hurt unbearably to have her there and it hurt to pull her out. His mind kept riveting itself on the way Whitney had looked tonight in that goddamned green gown with her charms displayed in such gorgeous wantonness. His hands had actually ached for the feel of that petal-soft skin against his palms, and his lust had been almost past bearing. Lust, not love. He wouldn’t call it love anymore. All he felt for Whitney was an occasional pang of desire. More than an occasional pang.
How dare she even consider going out in that dress alone! And what in hell did she mean by acting as if he’d forbidden her to ride in order to torture her? He had given that order at the stable days ago when he had suspected her pregnancy and thought she was unaware of it. Not that he gave a damn what the conniving little liar thought. He didn’t have to offer explanations for his actions; she would have to do as she was bidden. And that, he thought as he threw chips onto the pile in the center of the table, was irrevocably that!
“Good to see you, Claymore,” William Baskerville said with amiable cordiality as he took a vacant chair at the table of six across from Clayton. “Surprised to see you, in fact.”
“Why is that?” Clayton said indifferently.
“Just saw your wife at the Clifftons’ crush. Thought you must be there, too,” Baskerville explained, absorbed in stacking his chips into piles, preparatory to joining the heavy play in progress. “She looked lovely—told her so, too.” This innocent discourse earned Baskerville a look of such stunned disbelief from the duke that Baskerville hastened to heap on polite reassurances. “Your wife always looks lovely. I always tell her that.” In dismayed bewilderment, Baskerville watched the duke slowly come erect and rigid in his chair, his expression glacial. Searching his mind frantically for how he could possibly have given offense, Baskerville unfortunately arrived at the incorrect conclusion that his compliments must sound watery to the lady’s husband who was, according to gossip, inordinately fond of his young bride. With a helpless glance at the other men seated around the table, Baskerville said desperately, “Everyone thought the duchess looked ravishing—she was wearing a green gown that matched her eyes. I told her it did, too. Had to wait in line just to tell her, in fact. Surrounded by all the young bucks and old fossils like me, she was. Quite a gathering of admirers.”
Very quietly, very deliberately, Clayton turned his cards over on the table and slid his chair back. He stood up, nodded curtly to the other men seated at the table, and without a word to any of his friends, turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the room.
All cardplay suspended as the five remaining men at the table watched the duke making his way to the door leading out onto the street. Of the five, four were married. Baskerville, a confirmed bachelor of five and forty years, was not. Of the five faces at the table, four of them were either grinning or valiantly trying to hide a grin. Only Baskerville’s expression was alarmed.
“Blast it!” he whispered, looking around at the others. “Claymore gave me the devil of a look when I said I’d just seen his duchess at the Clifftons’,” He paused, seized by a terrible thought. “I say—have the Westmorelands been married long enough to quarrel, would you think?”
Marcus Rutherford’s lips twitched with laughter. “I would say, Baskerville, that as of about three minutes ago, the Westmorelands have now been married long enough to quarrel.”
Distress furrowed Baskerville’s kindly brow. “Good God! I’d never have mentioned seeing her if I thought it would cause a quarrel. She’s a lovely young thing. Feel wretched about causing trouble for her. I’m sure she’d never have gone to the deuced party if she realized Claymore wouldn’t approve.”
“You think not?” Lord Rutherford said after sharing a derisive grin with the other married men.
Baskerville was positive. “Well, of course not! If Claymore told her not to go, she wouldn’t have gone. She’s his wife, after all. Vows, you know—obedience and all that!”
Guffaws greeted this announcement, bursting out around the table like cracks from a cannon. “I once told my wife that she didn’t need the fur she was pining for—she had a dozen already,” Rutherford told him as the gambling was temporarily forgotten. “I put my foot squarely down and told her she could not have it!”
“Surely she didn’t buy it anyway?” Baskerville asked in a horrified tone.
“Certainly not,” Rutherford chuckled. “She bought eleven new gowns instead, to match the furs she already had. She said that if she had to appear in outer rags, at least no one would have cause to criticize her gowns. She spent three times the cost of the new fur.”
“My God! Did you beat her?”
“Beat her?” Rutherford repeated in amusement. “No—beating’s not at all ‘the thing,’ you know. I rather dislike the idea of it myself. I bought her the new fur instead.”
&nb
sp; “But—but why?” Baskerville sputtered in shock.
“Why, my good man? I’ll tell you why. Because I had no wish to own all of Bond Street before she got over being miffed. Gowns are devilish costly things, but jewels—jewels she hadn’t even thought of yet! I saved myself a fortune by getting her the fur.”
* * *
Dawn was already streaking the sky as Whitney trailed quietly up the broad marble staircase to her room. She had missed Clayton terribly tonight; missed the feel of his hand lightly riding her waist, of his bold gaze capturing hers, and of the joy of knowing he was near. How could he have become so essential to her life in so short a time? She felt desolate without him, and it was an awful temptation to bring the note to his room and explain. But what would happen the next time if she couldn’t find a clue like the note, to explain his fury? Then he would punish her again with his wrath, and she would be helpless to defend herself—and it was agony to have someone you loved furious with you, without knowing why. She did not in the least regret her open defiance of Clayton’s command tonight, because she was hoping that when he discovered her disobedience, it would bring about the confrontation she wanted and needed.
In fact, she wondered if she ought to mention—quite casually—that she had had a lovely time at the Clifftons’, when she saw Clayton at breakfast in the morning. Yes, Whitney decided, as she groped in the darkness of her room for the lamp, it would be excellent if he found out she’d been there.
On second thought, it was not excellent at all, she realized with a lurch of fear as the room flared to light and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a gleaming, booted foot resting casually atop the other knee, a pair of dark blue gloves being idly slapped against a blue-clad thigh. From somewhere in the depths of her momentary panic, inspiration seized her, and Whitney pretended not to have seen him. She reached up behind her and began to unfasten her dress on the way to her dressing room. If she could just make him wait until she could change into one of her most seductive negligees, she might have a slight advantage—then desire might overcome anger, and—