Whitney, My Love (Westmoreland Saga 2)

Whitney turned around and discovered Clayton sitting with one knee drawn up, his shoulders propped against a tree trunk behind him. She saw the warm sensuality in his gray eyes, and she felt a small tremor of dread. She wanted very much to be in his arms, to be kissed and held, but she suspected Clayton had more than that in mind. Because he had already lain with her, he might feel that marriage was no longer a necessary prerequisite for the two of them. Whitney not only felt that marriage was still a prerequisite to the sexual act, she wished she could avoid the sexual intimacy forever. She couldn’t, of course, but she had eight weeks before she would be obliged, as his wife, to endure that painful, embarrassing act, and she wanted this eight-week reprieve. Reluctant to tell Clayton that unless it was absolutely necessary, she turned back to the valleys below and tried to divert him from thoughts of lovemaking. “The view is breathtaking,” she rhapsodized. “Could we ride down there?”

“We could,” he said agreeably, then he added, “another day.”

“Why don’t we do it now?” Whitney suggested with pleading determination.

“Because I want to kiss you,” he replied simply.

Whitney spun around in relieved disbelief. “You only want to kiss me? I mean you won’t try to—to—”

“Oh darling, come here,” Clayton laughed softly, noting her flaring color. “That’s all I want to do.” That’s all I’m going to do, he amended silently.

With a sigh of joyous relief, Whitney went to him. She started to sit down beside him, but Clayton caught her arms and drew her down onto his lap. “The view will be better if you’re up higher,” he teased.

Sliding his arms around her, he moved her tighter against him. Without urging she turned her face up for his kiss. Clayton brushed his lips against her temple; he kissed her smooth forehead and her cheek. He closed her eyes with his lips, avoiding her mouth lest he frighten her with his ardor, but he drew back in surprise at her muffled laugh.

“Unless your aim improves, my lord duke,” she warned, her eyes aglow with laughter, “I shall be forced to buy you a quizzing glass after all.”

“You will, will you?” Clayton growled huskily as his mouth crushed down on hers. He felt her hands glide up his chest and go around his neck, and his heart began to hammer. As her lips parted beneath his, desire began to heat his blood, and when her tongue crept timidly into his mouth, a jolt slammed through Clayton’s entire nervous system, exploding his control. He kissed her deeply, his mouth moving with half-fierce, half-gentle urgency, and she moaned, kissing him back with desire and passion exquisite on her lips. He tormented her with his tongue, retreating, then thrusting deep until she instinctively responded in the way he wanted.

His hand moved of his own accord, opening her jacket to cup her breasts, his thumb circling her hardened nipples. Under her silken skirt, her thrusting breasts came to life in his hand, thrilling and warning him at the same time. Her soft moan of pleasure raced through him, throbbing in his ears. He forced his hand away, only to have it slide downward, lightly grazing her flat stomach, then her shapely thigh, instinctively seeking the place where, without the barrier of her skirts, he could part her silken thighs and gently, tenderly, tease his beautiful trembling girl until she was melting with desire for him, wanting him as badly as he wanted her. His mouth began to plunder hers more urgently, more hungrily now, and he started to reach for the hem of her skirt.

With the last vestige of control he possessed, Clayton tore his mouth away from hers, and firmly pulled her arms down from around his neck. His breathing was hard and fast, his blood was roaring in his ears, and a fire was raging wildly through his veins. He moved Whitney up against his chest, off his lap, to avoid shocking or frightening her with the rigid evidence of his desire, and he looked down at her, still desperate to join his body with hers. He wanted to pour his life into her, to be able to look at her across a room and know that his seed was deep inside of her, to see her slender body swell with his child . . .

Clayton drew a long breath and slowly expelled it. Whitney was watching him, her beautiful upturned face mirroring puzzlement and concern. He grinned at her, feeling slightly betrayed by his own body’s uncontrollable reaction to her. “Little one,” he explained ruefully, “unless it is your wish to see me driven to madness, I’m afraid we can’t do very much of this.”

Whitney’s eyes widened with bewilderment, then grew huge with understanding. She lurched into an erect sitting position, starting to pull away from him, but Clayton drew her back against his chest. “No,” he said quietly, “stay in my arms a while longer. I just want to hold you.” And she did.

“Is this ridge the boundary of your property?” Whitney asked later, as they walked toward their tethered horses.

Clayton looked a little stung. “No, the boundaries are farther away.”

“How much land do you have?” Whitney asked, wondering at his odd, faintly wounded expression.

“About one hundred twelve thousand acres.”

She gasped.

Her obvious shock reminded Clayton of something else, and he stopped abruptly, regarding her with laughter glinting in his eyes. “While I think of it, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you find my house ‘dingy’?”

Whitney gave him a plucky smile. “I said, ‘dismal.’ ‘Dingy’ was your word. And it is splendid—just like you.”

To a man who had waited for months just to hear her call him by his given name, being told in the same morning that he was “beautiful” and “splendid” was unequivocally reason for another long, stirring kiss.

Standing at the wide bow windows overlooking the sidelawns, the duchess and Stephen watched Whitney and Clayton walking hand in hand toward the house. “They are splendid together, aren’t they,” her grace happily observed.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Stephen chuckled knowingly. “And you will have half a dozen splendid grandchildren. And in none too long a time, I’ll wager,” he added with a bald grin.

“Stephen, that is too bad of you!”

“Can’t imagine why. I think it’s rather wonderful.”

His mother shot him an exasperated look that dwindled into laughter when she met his contagious grin. “What I meant, you wretched boy, is that she is a marvellous girl, and she makes your brother happier than I have ever seen him.”

“She does indeed.” Stephen looked out the window and saw Whitney, who had been walking beside Clayton, suddenly draw back laughing. She spoke rapidly to him, then turned and fled. In two long strides, Clayton caught her at the waist, flung her over his sho

ulder as if she were a sack of flour, and continued striding toward the house. Whitney struggled and pushed against him until he finally put her down, whereupon she walked sedately beside him with her hands clasped demurely behind her back.

“I believe that settled that!” the duchess laughed.

“Don’t count on it,” Stephen chuckled. Even as he spoke, Whitney began moving ahead of Clayton, a good four or five paces this time, then she turned, taking little backward skipping steps. She shook her head, laughing at whatever Clayton told her, then she pivoted on her heel and fled out of their line of vision. Instead of chasing her this time, Clayton leaned a shoulder against a tree, crossed his arms over his chest, and called something after her. Whitney was back in a flash, flinging her arms around him.

“Now that settled it!” Stephen laughed. “Remind me to ask Whitney if she has a sister,” he added thoughtfully.

“Really, Stephen,” her grace expostulated. “With half the mamas in London trying to put their daughters in your way these past five years, I can’t imagine why you haven’t already chosen a wife and—” she paused as if struck with an idea. “I believe Whitney did say she has a second cousin.”

A lazy smile, very much like his brother’s and just as fatal to a lady’s heart, flashed across Stephen’s features. “If she’s like Whitney, I’ll marry her out of hand and give you enough grandchildren to make you blush.”

* * *

“You can’t possibly be serious!” the duchess gasped at lunch, when Clayton announced his intention to be wed in eight weeks.

“I am perfectly serious.” Rising from his chair, he pressed a kiss on Whitney’s forehead and lightly mocked, “I’ll leave the little details of the affair to the two of you.” He strode toward the door, turned back toward his mother and Whitney who were staring at each other, overwhelmed, and took pity on them. “Just draw up a list of thing to be attended to, and give it to Hudgins. He’ll be able to prevail upon the various establishments to act with haste.”

“Exactly who is Hudgins?” Whitney asked. “I’ve never seen him.”