Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

“Whitney?” Marcus Rutherford repeated. “What an unusual . . .” A slow, disbelieving smile broke across his face as he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Clayton. “Have I heard you aright?”

Clayton inclined his head in a slight nod, and Lord Rutherford’s delighted gaze returned to Whitney. “Come with me, young lady,” he said, eagerly drawing Whitney’s hand through his arm. “As you may have noticed, there are about six hundred people down there all on fire to know who you are.”

When Clayton seemed perfectly agreeable to letting her go with Marcus Rutherford, Whitney hastily took matters into her own hands. “My Lord Rutherford,” she said, her pleading gaze directed at Clayton. “We—we wish to keep our forthcoming marriage a secret for a while.”

She looked so distressed that Clayton reluctantly relinquished his plan to present her to everyone as his betrothed. “It’s to remain a secret for a while, Marcus,” he said.

“You must be mad,” Lord Rutherford returned, but he released Whitney’s hand. “You’ll never keep this prize of yours a secret for a day. In fact”—he glanced in the direction of the crowd below which was now openly watching what was transpiring on the balcony—“you’ll never manage such a feat for even an hour.” He waited a moment, obviously hoping that Clayton would relent, then turned to leave them, saying over his shoulder, “You will at least allow me to confide in Lady Rutherford? She’s already charged me to discover who this beautiful young woman with you is.”

Before Whitney could object, Clayton nodded his assent. With a feeling of impending disaster, she turned a despairing look on him and said, “Now watch what happens.” Lord Rutherford strode directly to a stunning redhead, drew her aside and said something to her, and that lady turned to gaze in astonished welcome at Clayton and Whitney while flashing them a conspiratorial smile. Precisely as Whitney expected, the moment Lord Rutherford left her side, Lady Rutherford hurried over to another woman and bent low to whisper in her ear, and that lady’s head swiveled to Clayton and Whitney, pausing for a split-second before she raised her fan and leaned close to speak to the lady beside her.

Cold terror strangled Whitney’s voice. “So much for secrecy.” She choked out the words, and searched for someone to ask where she could freshen up. Too stricken to care what Clayton would think of her actions, she fled to the designated room and closed the door, leaving him standing alone on the balcony.

Her eyes were glazed with panic as she stared blindly at her reflection in one of the mirrored walls. This was a calamity! A disaster! The guests at this ball knew Clayton; they were his friends and acquaintances. In another fifteen minutes, every one of them would know that he was betrothed to her, and within a week, everyone in London would know it. When she eloped with Paul, they would also realize that she had scorned Clayton, fled to escape him and their forthcoming marriage. Dear God! Before this was over, Clayton was going to be publicly humiliated. She couldn’t bear to do that to him. Even if she could, she would be afraid to do it. If she publicly shamed him, his vengeance would surely crash down on her with a savagery that would be devastating. She shivered, thinking of Clayton’s inevitable fury and the awesome power he possessed to retaliate against her and her family, even Aunt Anne and Uncle Edward.

Sternly, determinedly, Whitney fought to bring her rioting panic under control. She couldn’t continue to hide in this room like an hysteric, and she couldn’t leave the ball. Hugging her arms around herself, she began to pace slowly across the crimson carpet, struggling against her quaking fear and forcing herself to think logically, clearly. In the first place, she reminded herself, Clayton had avoided matrimony for years. If he didn’t marry her, wasn’t it likely that everyone would assume she’d lost whatever appeal she had for him, and that he and not she had cried off? Of course they would—particularly when they discovered that she had neither wealth nor aristocratic lineage.

The painful knot in her stomach began to dissolve. After a few minutes of additional contemplation, she realized that when Clayton had refused to allow Lord Rutherford to introduce her as his intended bride, he had relegated their betrothal to the status of an unconfirmed rumor. And wasn’t London, like Paris, always buzzing with rumors that were soon forgotten? Emily said it was. She felt much, much better.

Her heart gave a funny little lurch when she remembered how very proud of her Clayton had seemed when he introduced her to Lord Rutherford as his fiancée. Never in all these weeks had Clayton mentioned love, or even that he cared for her, yet there was no mistaking that expression on his face tonight; he did care for her, and more than a little. She didn’t want to repay him by embarrassing him. She owed him more than to shame him by cowering in this room. At least for this evening she could surely pretend that she returned his affection.

Having made that decision, Whitney composed her features and carefully studied her reflection in the mirror. A perfectly poised young woman looked back at her, her chin resolutely high.

Satisfied, she reached for the door handle just as female voices sounded from the adjoining room where champagne had been placed on a small gilded table between a pair of silk settees. “Her gown is Parisian,” a woman pronounced.

“But with a name like Whitney Stone, she must be as English as we,” a second voice reminded, adding, “do you believe the rumor that they’re betrothed?”

“Absolutely not. If the girl had wits enough to wring an offer from Claymore, you can be certain she’d also be smart enough to make sure he sent a notice straight to the Times. I can’t see Claymore crying off an engagement once it was announced.”

Chiding herself for eavesdropping, Whitney started to leave but paused when the outer door again opened and a third voice chimed in. “They’re betrothed, you may rely on it,” the newcomer declared emphatically. “Lawrence and I have just had a word with his grace, and I’m absolutely convinced it’s true.”

“Do you mean,” the first voice gasped, “that Claymore confirmed the betrothal?”

“Don’t be silly. You know how maddeningly uninformative Claymore always is when he knows one most wants to pry into his affairs.”

“Well then, what makes you so certain he’s betrothed to her?”

“Two things. First of all, when Lawrence asked where they’d met, Claymore grinned in a way that made Vanessa Standfield positively livid—you do recall that Vanessa told everyone that he was on the verge of offering for her before he unexpectedly left for France? Well, now poor Vanessa looks an utter fool, because it’s obvious that he left for France to join Miss Stone. He admitted he met her there several years ago. Anyway, when Claymore talks about Miss Stone, he positively beams with pride!”

“I can’t credit the image of Claymore ‘beaming,’?” the second voice said skeptically.

“Then merely think of it as a gleam in his eye.”

“That I can credit,” laughed the voice. “Now, what was the second reason?”

“It was the look the duke gave Esterbrook when Esterbrook asked him for an introduction to Miss Stone. Believe me, there was enough ice in his grace’s expression to send Esterbrook scurrying for a fire where he could warm himself.”

Unable to remain any longer, Whitney opened the door. A secret smile touched her lips and eyes and, as she passed the three thunderstruck women, she graciously inclined her head.

Clayton was standing precisely where she had left him on the balcony, but surrounded now by two dozen men and women. Even so, Whitney had no trouble spotting him because he was taller than everyone else. She was trying to decide whether she should remain where she was, or go to Clayton’s side, when he looked up and saw her standing there. Without a word of explanation, he merely inclined his head to those gathered around him, and strolled out of their midst to Whitney.

As they descended the curving staircase to the ballroom, the musicians on the raised dais broke into a majestic waltz, but instead of dancing, Clayton led her toward an alcove which was partially concealed from the ballroom by a curtain swep

t gracefully to one side. “Don’t you want to dance?” Whitney asked curiously.

He chuckled and shook his head. “The last time we waltzed you tried to leave me in the middle of the dance floor.”

“Which was no more than you deserved,” Whitney teased, carefully ignoring the watchful stares of the guests.

They stepped into the alcove and Clayton picked up two glasses of sparkling champagne from the tray on the table beside her. Handing one to her, he inclined his head toward the smiling people who were already bearing down on the alcove. “Courage, my sweet.” He grinned. “Here they come.” Whitney drained the contents of her champagne glass and plucked another off the silver tray. For courage.

They converged on the alcove in a ceaseless stream, in groups of six and eight, demanding good-naturedly to know where Clayton had been and pressing invitations on him. They treated Whitney with a combination of carefully concealed speculation and extreme friendliness, yet there were several times when Whitney sensed a jealous malevolence in the attitudes of some of the women. And no wonder, she thought, smiling to herself as she admired Clayton over the rim of her fourth glass of champagne. He looked breathtakingly handsome in the elegant black evening attire that fit his tall, broad-shouldered frame to perfection. No doubt many of the women here had yearned to have him at their side, to bask in the aura of restrained power and masculine vitality that emanated from him, and to know the spell of those bold gray eyes capturing and holding theirs.

As she thought it, he glanced down at her in the midst of a conversation with his friends, and a glow of warmth and happiness surged through Whitney that had nothing to do with the champagne she had consumed. Seeing him like this, relaxed and laughing among these glittering members of London’s haute ton who admired him and courted his friendship, Whitney could hardly believe this urbane, sophisticated nobleman was the same man who had raced after her on Dangerous Crossing and talked about prehistoric rocks with her tiresome uncle.

When at long last there was a brief moment of privacy, Whitney slanted an audacious smile at him. “I would say that the consensus is that I am probably your mistress.”

“As it happens, you’re wrong,” Clayton said, his gaze dropping to the near empty champagne glass in her hand. “Have you eaten anything tonight?”