Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

Clayton desired her. And he was very proud of her—she had seen that at the Rutherfords’ ball. He didn’t love her, of course, but he did care for her. He cared enough about her to be hurt by the dreadful things she’d said to him that day beside the pavilion. Tenderness welled in her heart as she remembered how furiously he’d rejected her kiss until he finally lost control and his arms went around her, crushing her to him. And she remembered how desolate she’d felt when she believed they were saying good-bye forever.

Sternly, Whitney reminded herself of the arrogant, tyrannical, and high-handed way he had negotiated their betrothal, and then she shrugged the thought aside. He was all those things and more, yet she cared for him too, and there was no point in denying it merely so that she could keep the fires of her resentment and rebellion alive.

She cared for him, and if she hadn’t been so obsessed with marrying Paul, she would have realized it much sooner. Her mind shied away from delving too deeply into the exact nature of her feelings for Clayton; it seemed obscene to even consider the possibility that she loved him, when three days ago, she’d thought she loved Paul. Besides, after believing she was in love with Paul for all these years, only to discover that she’d merely been blindly infatuated, she had little faith left in her ability to judge her own emotions. But she did care for Clayton, there was no use denying it. She had always responded wantonly to his caresses and, although he often made her furious, he made her laugh too.

They were going to be married. Clayton had decided that last spring, and his indomitable will was going to prevail as surely as the sun was going to set.

It was inevitable; she was ready to accept that now. That handsome, powerful, sophisticated nobleman was going to be her husband. He was also going to be furious tonight when she told him the villagers all believed she was betrothed to Paul.

Sighing, Whitney scuffed at a pebble with the toe of her slipper. Instinctively, she knew that she could assuage Clayton’s anger simply by telling him that she was willing to marry him whenever he wished. Now, she had to decide what tone she would use when she told him. She could salvage some of her pride by being coolly unenthusiastic and saying something like, “Since I have no real choice except to marry you, we may as well wed whenever you wish.” If she told him in that way, Clayton would undoubtedly look at her with that sarcastically amused expression which never failed to irk her and reply with something equally unenthusiastic, such as, “As you wish, Ma’am.”

Whitney frowned unhappily. Although that would save a bit of her pride, it was an awful way for two people to begin a marriage—each pretending complete indifference. In all truth, she didn’t feel indifferent to him. These past days she had missed him more than she would have believed possible; she had missed his quiet strength, his lazy smile; she had missed the laughter they often shared; she had even missed arguing with him!

Since she felt this way, it seemed not only silly, but wrong, to pretend she hated the idea of marrying him. Mentally, Whitney rehearsed a different way of telling him that she was ready to marry him. Tonight, after she told him that everyone at home believed she was betrothed to Paul, she could smile softly into those fathomless gray eyes of his and say, “I suppose the best way to put a stop to the gossip would be for us to announce our engagement.” Her smile would tell him that she was surrendering, unconditionally giving over in the battle of wills that had waged between them all these weeks. True, her pride would suffer a bit, but Clayton was going to be her husband, and he truly deserved to know that she was willingly accepting him.

If she told him her decision in this manner, instead of replying with mocking sarcasm, Clayton would probably take her in his arms and kiss her in that bold, sensuous way of his. Just thinking about it made Whitney feel giddy.

The devil with her pride! Whitney decided. She would take the latter course. As she walked back toward the carriage, anticipation and happiness began to pulse through her veins.

When she returned to Emily’s house, Whitney was informed that Emily was in the salon with guests. Rather than intrude, Whitney went up to the luxurious guest room she was temporarily occupying.

Emily came in just as she was removing her bonnet. “Elizabeth, Peter, Margaret, and their mamas just left. Elizabeth asked me to be in her wedding.” Apprehensively, Emily added, “I—I invited them to our party tonight. I couldn’t possibly avoid it, with my whole household in an uproar, obviously preparing for a party.”

Whitney pulled off her gloves, a puzzled smile on her lips as she studied Emily’s worried expression. “Don’t fret about it, we’ll just make a few changes in the seating for dinner. It’s as simple as that.”

“No, it isn’t,” Emily said bleakly. “You see, while they were shopping, they encountered your friend, M. DuVille. He asked Margaret about you, and Elizabeth told him that you were staying here with me, and naturally he came here with them . . .”

Whitney felt a cloud of doom descending over her even before Emily said, “I had to invite him too. I knew it might make things awkward for you with the duke coming at your invitation, but I was absolutely certain M. DuVille would decline on such short notice.”

Whitney sank down on the bed. “But Nicki didn’t decline, did he?”

Emily shook her head. “I could cheerfully have strangled Margaret. He was obviously interested only in you, but she was hanging on his arm like a . . . a leech, imploring him to come. I wish her parents would marry her off to someone before she disgraces herself and them. She is the most clinging, indiscriminate, vicious female alive, and Elizabeth is so sweet, she lets Margaret trample all over her.”

Unwilling to let anyone or anything dampen her joyous anticipation of the night to come, Whitney gave Emily a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Margaret or Nicki. Everything’s going to be fine.”

24

* * *

Clayton tossed the reports his brother had asked him to read onto the opposite seat of his coach and leaned his head back, impatient with himself for returning to the village a day ahead of schedule.

The horses slowed as they neared the cobbled street of the village, and he leaned sideways, glancing out the window. Heavy clouds roiled overhead, nearly obliterating the struggling sunlight of the early Saturday afternoon. The road through the village was temporarily rendered impassable by an overturned wagon and several abandoned vehicles whose owners were trying to right the wagon and catch the fleeing sheep. “McRea!” he called irritably. “When we get close to that snarl, stop and lend a hand. Otherwise we’ll be here all day.”

“Aye, your grace,” McRea called from his perch atop the coach.

Clayton glanced at his watch and his mouth twisted with wry derision. He was behaving like a besotted idiot, racing back here a day early. Driven by a ridiculous eagerness to see Whitney, he had left his brother’s house at six o’clock this morning and headed straight here, instead of spending the day in London as he’d originally planned. For seven hours, he’d been travelling as if his life depended upon reaching her, stopping only to change horses. He should never have given her this week by herself, he told himself for the hundredth time. Instead of offering her solitude, he should have offered her firm but gentle moral support. By now she had probably worked herself into a fresh fit of rebellion because he had forced her to turn down Sevarin. What a stubborn little fool she was to persist in believing she loved that weakling. A beautiful, spirited, magnificent little fool. If she cared a snap for Sevarin, she could never respond to his own caresses the way she did.

Clayton’s loins tightened as he recalled the way she had kissed him and pressed herself against him after the Rutherfords’ ball when he took her back to the Archibalds’. The champagne had loosened her maidenly inhibitions, but the sweet desire she felt for him had been there for many weeks. She wanted him, and if she weren’t so damned stubborn, and so young, she would have known it long ago. She wanted him all right—and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He want

ed to fill her days with joy and her nights with pleasure, until she loved him as much as he loved her.

Loved her? Clayton scowled darkly at the thought, and then with a long, derisive sigh, he admitted the truth to himself. He was in love with Whitney. At four and thirty years of age, after more women and more affairs than he wanted to count, he had fallen victim to an outrageously impertinent, gorgeous girl-woman who blithely incurred his displeasure, mocked his title, and flatly refused to yield to his authority. Her smile warmed his heart and her touch heated his blood; she could enchant, amuse and infuriate him as no other woman had ever been able to do. He couldn’t imagine his future without her at his side.

Having admitted all that to himself, Clayton was even more eager to reach her, to feast his eyes on her again and hold her in his arms, to hear her musical voice and to know the exquisite sensation of her slender, voluptuous body curved against his.

McRea pulled the coach to a stop in front of the apothecary’s shop and climbed down to help capture the last of the loose sheep and put them in the righted wagon. Unable to endure the confinement of the coach any longer, Clayton climbed down and joined the knot of spectators who were watching the men scrambling after the loose sheep. A smile touched his lips as the baker made a frantic lunge for one of the woolly beasts, missed his target, and plowed into another villager who had just captured one.

“Quite a comic spectacle, isn’t it?” Mr. Oldenberry said, coming out of his shop to stand beside Clayton and the other onlookers. “You’ve missed the real excitement though,” he added with a sly poke in the ribs. “Whole town is buzzing with the news. Betrothals,” he added.

“Really,” Clayton said indifferently, his attention on the wagon which was finally being pulled from the street.

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Oldenberry said. “You won’t be able to felicitate the brides-to-be, though; they’re both in London.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Personally, I thought the Stone girl would choose you, but she’s wanted Mr. Sevarin forever and now she got him. They’re betrothed. No sooner did I hear that than Miss Ashton announced her betrothal to Mr. Redfern. Amazing how nothing seems to happen and then—”

Clayton’s head jerked toward the speaker, and Mr. Oldenberry’s voice froze at the murderous look in those gray eyes. In a low, deadly voice, Clayton said, “What did you say?”

“I—I said Miss Stone and Miss Ashton both got themselves betrothed while you were gone.”

“You’re lying or you’re mistaken.”

Mr. Oldenberry stepped back from the furious blast of those gray eyes and hastily shook his head. “No—no, I’m not. Ask anyone in the village, and they’ll tell you it’s true. Miss Stone and Miss Ashton both left here yesterday morning within an hour of each other. On their way to shop for wedding finery in London—Mrs. Ashton told me so herself,” Mr. Oldenberry reassured a little desperately. “Miss Stone is staying with Lady Archibald and Miss Ashton with her grandparents,” he added to prove how fully informed he was.

Without a word, Clayton turned on his heel and headed toward the coach.

Mr. Oldenberry turned to his fellow villagers who had gathered to watch the sheep being captured and remained to eavesdrop on his conversation with Mr. Westland. “Did you see the look he gave me when I told him Miss Ashton was in London buying her wedding finery?” he asked them, his eyes glazed with awe. “And all this time I thought he fancied the Stone girl.”

“The Stone estate,” Clayton snapped at McRea and leapt into the coach.

As they pulled up before Whitney’s house, a footman ran out. “Where is Miss Stone?” Clayton said, his icy voice checking the servant’s hand as he reached out to lower the steps.

“In London, sir,” the footman replied, stepping back.

Before the horses came to a full stop in front of his temporary residence, Clayton flung open the coach door, and vaulted out. “Have fresh horses put to,” he snapped at his astonished coachman. “And be ready to leave for London in ten minutes.” Rage boiled inside of Clayton like fiery acid, destroying his tender feelings for her. To think that while he was racing back to her like a besotted fool, she was in London buying her trousseau, which—he reminded himself with a fresh surge of blazing wrath—he was paying for!

“Damn her conniving little heart!” He ground the words out savagely as he swiftly changed his clothing. As soon as he could get a special license, he was going to drag her to the altar, by the hair if necessary.

No, by God, he wouldn’t get a special license! Why the hell should he wait for that? He’d haul her to Scotland tonight and marry her there. When they came back, she could endure the scandal of an elopement as her punishment for deceiving him.

Bitterly, he cursed himself for having denied himself the pleasure of her body because he was waiting and hoping she would admit she wanted to marry him. The hell with what she wanted! From now on things were going to be the way he wanted them. Henceforth, Whitney could either bend to his will or he’d break her to it—and he didn’t give a damn which way she chose to have it.

Precisely ten minutes later, after changing his clothes, he bounded out of the house and hurled himself back into the coach. Clayton endured the long trip back to the city in alternate states of deadly calm and barely leashed fury. It was after midnight when the horses drew to a stop in front of the brightly lit Archibald house where a party was obviously in progress.

“Wait here. I’ll be right out,” he snapped at the coachman, and as Clayton stalked swiftly up the steps to the front door, the rage boiling inside of him turned to cold, hard resolve. He had been cuckolded by a spiteful, willful brat! She was worse, much worse than that. She was a scheming, lying bitch! he thought murderously as he strode past the astonished butler toward the music and laughter.

* * *

The chilly night air cooled Whitney’s heated face as she turned a dazzling, artificial smile on the gentlemen who had followed her out onto Emily’s terrace where she had fled to escape the overcrowded ballroom. Despite her bright smile, her green eyes were somber as they scanned the milling crowd indoors, searching hopelessly for Clayton, even though she knew it was too late now for him to arrive. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten her invitation; perhaps he had gone directly to her home without stopping in London. Whitney shivered, wishing she hadn’t written to Aunt Anne and told her to go to her cousin in Lincolnshire, since Whitney had everything under control in London. She should have waited until Clayton had acknowledged receiving her note.

No, she decided miserably, Clayton’s secretary had been very positive about his employer’s travel plans. There was no point in deceiving herself; Clayton had cavalierly ignored her invitation. Her indignation gave way to deep hurt.

She had worn her hair loose about her shoulders because Clayton had said he liked it best that way. She had even dressed especially to please him in an alluring ivory satin gown heavily embellished with pearls. She had done everything to please him, and he hadn’t even bothered to come or to decline her invitation.

Perilously close to tears, Whitney tried to convince herself that this aching disappointment she felt was merely because she had finally gathered the courage to tell Clayton that she would willingly marry him whenever he wished, but her lonely dejection sprang from something much deeper: she had missed him. She had been longing to see his smile, to be able to tell him she was surrendering in this battle of wills that had raged between them, and then to have him take her in his arms and kiss her. She had hoped tonight would be a beginning for them. Whitney blinked back her tears and determined to enjoy what was left of her ravaged evening.

Clayton nodded curtly to those few guests with whom he was acquainted, while he waited like a panther, watching for a glimpse of his prey. He saw DuVille going toward the terrace doors, carrying two glasses of champagne. Clayton’s eyes tracked him across the room, his jaw clenching into a tight line of rage when he saw Whitney standing outside on the terrace, surrounded by at least half a dozen men.

/> With deceptive casualness, Clayton strolled toward them. His eyes turned icy with contempt when he realized that the men were pretending to play musical instruments while his “betrothed” was giving a charming little imitation of leading them with her invisible baton. The role, Clayton thought scathingly, was eminently suited to her—leading men on. He was about to let himself out the doors beside the ones through which DuVille had just gone, when a detaining hand was laid on his arm.

“What a pleasant surprise to find you here,” Margaret Merryton said.

All Clayton’s attention was riveted on Whitney. He started to pull his arm away, but Margaret’s fingers tightened. “Disgraceful, isn’t she?” she remarked, following the direction of his gaze.

Thirty-four years of strict adherence to certain rules of etiquette could not be completely disregarded, and Clayton turned, albeit angrily, to acknowledge the woman who was addressing him—except he was so furious that it took several moments for him even to identify her. Too angry to attempt to hide his insulting lack of recognition, Clayton stared blankly into her worshipful hazel eyes while their expression changed from adoration to insulted hatred. Laughter burst from the terrace and Clayton’s head jerked in the direction of the sound.

Margaret’s hand tightened convulsively on his arm as she looked toward Whitney Stone, and wounded pride hoarsened her voice. “If you’re so eager to have her, go and get her. You needn’t worry about DuVille or Paul Sevarin. Neither of them will ever actually marry her.”