Whitney, My Love

Chapter Eleven

BY THE NIGHT OF LADY EUBANK'S PARTY, Whitney had worked herself into a knot of anticipation and foreboding. She was ready early, waiting for her aunt in the hall in a gown of midnight-blue chiffon spangled with glittering silver flecks. Diamonds and sapphires twinkled at her ears and throat, and winked from her elegant Grecian curb.

"Aunt Anne," she said in the carriage on the way to Lady Eubank's, "do you think Paul truly loves Elizabeth?"

"If he did, I believe he would have offered for her long ago," Anne replied, pulling on her gloves as their carriage turned into the long drive at Lady Eubank's great old mausoleum of a house. "And your friend Emily is absolutely correct-he watched you constantly the night of your party, when he thought no one was looking."

"Then why is he taking go long to do something about it?"

"Darling, only consider the awkward position he is in. Four years ago, everyone knew that he barely tolerated your devotion. Now he is faced with the problem of reversing himself completely and openly courting you." She smiled at Whitney's glum look. "If you want to speed things up, I think you ought to take Lady Eubank's advice and give him some competition."

Three hours later, Whitney was beginning to agree. She was popular and sought after by every eligible man present … except the one who mattered.

Across the room from Whitney, surrounded by several of the local girls, Clayton bent his head toward Margaret Merryton, smiling to conceal his impatience with her ceaseless chatter.

After spending the past few days in London on an emergency business matter, he'd returned just in time tonight to change and come to this little gathering of Amelia Eubank's. And that outrageous old harridan had greeted him in the entryway and announced that she would appreciate it if he would be especially attentive to Miss Stone tonight, and thus provide some romantic competition for Sevarin. As a result, Clayton was not in the best of moods.

Rudely turning her back on the woman who was talking to her, Amelia Eubank raised her monocle and scanned the knots of guests until her gaze fell upon the Duke of Claymore, who was surrounded by several of the local girls, all vying for his attention. Claymore, she noted, was treating them with amused tolerance, but his attention was on the only female in the room who seemed immune to his magnetism-Whitney Stone.

Amelia dropped her monocle, letting it dangle from its black ribbon over her ample bosom. Through a distant connection of her deceased husband, Amelia could claim a slight kinship with the duke, and when Claymore had arrived at her home several weeks ago, announcing his intention to take up residence five miles from her under the name Westland "in order to take a much needed rest," she had immediately assured him of her discretion.

Now, however, an intriguing idea occurred to her, and her eyes took on a speculative gleam as she watched the duke watching Miss Stone. She paused a moment to contemplate how utterly unethical and devious her scheme was, and then, with a pleased little smile, she leaned back and instructed a footman to bring Miss Stone to her immediately, and then to ask Mr. Westland to join them.

Whitney was dancing with Emily's husband when a footman appeared at her elbow and said that Lady Eubank wished to see her at once. Excusing herself to Lord Archibald, Whitney obeyed Lady Eubank's imperative summons with feelings of distinct apprehension, an apprehension which immediately turned to alarm when the dowager hoisted herself out of her chair and said irritably, "I told you competition is what Sevarin needs, and your best friend's husband is not competition. I want you to make up to Mr. Westland. Bat your eyes at him, or whatever it is you young gels do to attract a man."

"No, I can't. Really, Lady Eubank, I'd rather-"

"Young woman," she interrupted, "I will have you know that I'm giving this party for the sole purpose of helping you secure Sevarin. Since you seem so foolish about how to go about it, you've left me no choice but to step in. Clayton Westland is the only man here whom Sevarin will consider a rival, and I've sent a footman for him." Whitney blanched, and Lady Eubank glowered at her. "Now, when Mr. West-land comes, you can either look at him the way you're looking at me-in which case, he will probably offer to take you to a physician-or you can smile at him, so that he will offer to take you out on the balcony instead."

"I don't want to go out on the balcony!" Whitney hissed desperately.

"You will," her ladyship predicted, "when you turn around and observe how charmingly Elizabeth Ashton is strolling in that direction on Sevarin's arm."

Whitney turned and saw that Paul and Elizabeth were indeed strolling toward the balcony doors. Discouraged, Whitney recognized the sense in what Lady Eubank was trying to force her to do, but she was reluctant to stoop to outright scheming. Not that her hesitancy mattered, because Lady Eubank had neatly taken the choice out of her hands and was already saying to a faintly smiling Clayton, "Miss Stone was just mentioning that she is excessively overheated from all her dancing, and that she would enjoy a stroll on the balcony."

Clayton Westland glanced toward the balcony doors, and in the space of an instant, Whitney watched his lazy smile harden into a mask of ironic amusement. "I'm sure she would," he said sarcastically.

He took her elbow in a none too gentle grasp, and said. "Shall we go, Miss Stone?" Whitney let him guide her through the throngs of chattering guests and around the perimeter of the buffet table. So lost was she in thoughts of Paul that she didn't notice that she was being led toward the French doors that stood at right angles to the ones Paul and Elizabeth had used. If they went this way, Whitney realized that they would emerge around the corner-and out of sight-of Paul and Elizabeth.

"Where are we going?" Whitney asked quickly, starting to draw back.

"As you can see, we are going out onto the balcony," her escort said coolly. Tightening his hold on her elbow, he opened the French doors with his free hand, propelled her outside and closed them behind her. Without a word, he dropped her arm and strolled over to the stone balustrade. Perching his hip on it, he regarded her in silence.

Whitney stood there, miserable because Lady Eubank's plan had failed, embarrassed because she had participated in it, and still determined to somehow carry it off if possible. "Perhaps we could stroll around to the other side?" she suggested.

"We could, but we aren't going to," Clayton almost snapped. He gazed at her, knowing she was trying to use him as a decoy and growing more impatient and annoyed with her as each second passed. She looked like a wild young temptress with the moonlight gleaming on the silver spangles of her gown as it blew gently in the midnight breeze. And she was his, dammit! He had even paid for the gown she was wearing

After a few moments, an idea occurred to him. Leaning back, he looked around the corner of the balcony, ascertained that Sevarin and Elizabeth Ashton were standing at the balustrade, then returned his undivided attention to the lovely young woman who was now nervously fingering the folds of her gown. "Well, Miss Stone?" he drawled in a voice just raised enough to carry around the corner.

Whitney jumped at the sound of her name. "Well what?" she questioned, starting to move forward in the hope of peeking around the corner and seeing what Paul and Elizabeth were doing. In this she was instantly thwarted, because Clayton abruptly stood up and strolled toward her, effectively blocking her view of everything but his chest and shoulders. "Well what?" Whitney repeated, automatically stepping back in an effort to widen the space between them. Before she realized what was happening, she had backed into the shadowy stone wall of the house.

"Now that I've brought you out here," Clayton began conversationally, "what do you want me to do next?"

"Next?" Whitney repeated cautiously.

"Yes, next. I want to be certain I understand my part in this little game we're playing. I imagine I'm supposed to kiss you, in order to make Sevarin jealous, is that it?"

"I wouldn't let you touch me to save me from drowning!" Whitney retorted, too angry to be humiliated.

Ignoring that completely, he said thoughtfully, "I don't mind playing my part, but I can't help wondering if I'm going to enjoy it. Am I going to kiss an amateur, or have you been missed often enough to know how it's supposed to be done? How may times have you been kissed?"

"I'll wager you live in constant terror of being mistaken for 4 gentleman!" she snapped to cover her growing alarm. His hands locked on her arms and he began drawing her toward his chest. Giving up her futile struggle, she glared murderously at the laughter glinting in his eyes, "Take your hands off me!"

"Are the times you've been kissed too numerous to count? Or were they all so meaningless that you can't recall them?"

Whitney thought she was going to explode. "I have been kissed often enough not to require lessons from the likes of you, if that's what you have in mind!" '

He chuckled as his arms encircled her rigid body. "So you've been kissed that often, have you, little one?"

Whitney stared at his chest, refusing to look up at him. Screaming was out of the question; her reputation would be destroyed if anyone saw her in such a compromising situation. She could not, could not believe this was actually happening to her. Torn between the urge to burst into tears, or hit him, she said as calmly as possible, "If you are quite through trying to frighten and humiliate me, please let me go."

"Not until I discover how much you've learned from all your 'experience,'" he whispered.

Whitney snapped her head up, intending to launch into a tirade, only to have her words smothered by his mouth. She froze at the initial shock of the contact, then forced herself to be perfectly still beneath the pressure of his lips. Although she had little experience in kissing, she had considerable experience in avoiding it, and she knew that by neither struggling nor responding, a woman could reduce an over-ardent mate to a state of apologetic chagrin.

When Clayton finally drew back, however, he looked neither chagrined nor apologetic. Instead he regarded her with an infuriating grin. "Either you had very poor teachers, my lady, or you are sorely in need of more lessons."

His arms loosened, and Whitney stepped back. Pivoting on her heel, she vengefully fired a parting remark over her shoulder, "At least my lessons weren't learned in a brothel!"

It happened so quickly, there was no time to react. A hand like a vice shot out and seized her wrist, spinning her around back into the shadows, and jerking her into his arms. "I think," he enunciated in an awful voice, "that your problem is purely a matter of inexperienced teachers."

His mouth crushed down on hers, mercilessly bruising her lips, forcing them to part from sheer, cruel pressure and when they did, his tongue plunged into her mouth, ravaging its softness.

Whitney writhed futilely in his iron embrace while tears of impotent rage raced down her cheeks. The more she struggled, the more insolent and punishing his mouth became, until she finally grew still, defeated and trembling in his arms. The moment she stopped fighting, he lifted his head and cradled her face between his two hands. Gazing into her stormy, tear-brightened eyes, he said quietly, "That was your first lesson, little one. Never, ever play games with me. I've played them all before, and you can't win. This is the second lesson," he murmured as his mouth descended toward hers.

Whitney drew a sharp breath and started to scream, but his mouth throttled the scream to an hysterical whimper, and so gently this time that she was stunned into silent quiescence. His hand curved around her nape, his fingers stroking and soothing, while the other drifted over her back in a slow, restless caress, moving her closer to his length. And all the while, his lips were moving on hers with fierce tenderness, shaping and fitting their soft curves to his own.

He touched his tongue to her lips, coaxing them to part, and when they did, his tongue slid gently between them, sending wild jolts through Whitney's body. She reached her arms around his neck, clinging to him for support. His arm tightened protectively around her, and his tongue fully invaded the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting and exploring, filling her, until her whole body was a rioting mass of dizzying sensations.

He deepened the kiss, and his hand moved from her back to her midriff, sliding upward to her breast, boldly cupping its soft, enticing fullness.

Outrage at that intimate fondling banished every other emotion in a blinding flash of fury. With a strength she didn't know she possessed, Whitney tore free, flinging his arms furiously away. "How dare you!" she hissed at the same time that she lifted her hand and slapped him as hard as she could.

In utter disbelief, Whitney watched a slow, satisfied grin sweep across his face. So incensed that she could scarcely draw enough air to speak, she said, "If you ever, ever touch me again, I'll kill you!"

Her threat only seemed to please him more, and there was no mistaking the silent chuckle that preceded his next words. "That won't be necessary, my lady. I already have the answer I sought."

"Answers!" Whitney gasped. "If I were a man, I'd give you an answer at the point of a pistol."

"If you were a man, you'd have no reason to."

Whitney stood there, shaking with thwarted outrage, yearning to do or say something that would penetrate his cool, imperturbable exterior. The tears filling her eyes were tears of fury, but the moment he saw them he was contrite. "Dry your eyes, little one, and I'll return you to your friends inside." So saying, he produced a white handkerchief and held it toward her. Whitney thought she would splinter apart from the turbulence of her hatred and animosity. She snatched the handkerchief from his hand and flung it to the ground, spinning on her heel with every intention of stalking into the ballroom alone.

"Excuse us," Paul said with a curt nod as he escorted Elizabeth past them, toward the doors into the ballroom.

"How long has Paul been there?" Whitney demanded wrathfully, facing Clayton with her fists clenched. "You vile, contemptible . . . you did all that deliberately, for his benefit, didn't you? So that he would see it. You wanted him to see it!"

"I did it deliberately, for my benefit," Clayton corrected her blandly, placing his hand under Whitney's elbow and guiding her toward the French doors

They stepped into the safety of the brightly lit house, and Whitney jerked her arm away, her voice a furious whisper. "You must be Satan's own son!"

"My father would have been disappointed to think so," Clayton replied with an infuriating chuckle.

"Your father?" Whitney scoffed, stepping away from him. "If you think your mother even knew his name, you deceive yourself!"

There was a moment of stunned silence white it registered on Clayton that he had just been called a bastard, followed by a shout of laughter as her ladylike slur on his legitimacy sank in. He was still grinning as he strolled along in her indignant wake, admiring the sway of her slender hips.

Blind with anger, Whitney stormed up to a group of middle-aged guests, which included her aunt, and stared past them, oblivious to their conversation. How she loathed and despised Clayton Westland! If it was the last thing she ever did, she would repay him for this night, for putting his filthy, debauched hands on her, for causing her to appear a harlot in front of Paul.

It was at least an hour later when Paul's deep voice said very quietly near her ear, "Come and dance with me." His hand had already taken possession of her elbow, and Whitney walked beside him. She was so afraid of seeing condemnation on his face that even when they were dancing she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Does a man have to take you out to the balcony to get your attention, Miss Stone?" he taunted.

Whitney's gaze flew to his, and she discovered to her intense relief that the scene he had witnessed on the balcony had obviously annoyed him, but there was no disgust in his expression.

"Would you prefer a stroll in the night air?" he mocked.

"Please don't tease me about that," she half pleaded, half sighed. "It's been a long evening, and I'm exhausted."

"I'm not surprised," he said with heavy irony, but when Whitney flushed with embarrassment, he relented. "Do you think you could recover from your 'exhaustion' by tomorrow morning-in time for a picnic with, say, ten people, in your honor?"

Lady Eubank and Aunt Anne had been right! Whitney realized jubilantly. "I would love it," she admitted with a bright, happy smile.

When the dance ended, Paul led her to a relatively quiet corner of the room. He stopped a footman bearing a tray of champagne, took two glasses, and gave one to Whitney. Leaning his shoulder against a pillar, he grinned down at her. "Shall I invite Westland?"

Whitney's first instinct was to grab his lapels and scream no! But one look at that confident grin of his, and she chose a wiser course. She shrugged and even managed to smile. "By all means, invite him if you wish."

"You wouldn't object?"

Whitney gave him an innocent stare. "I can't think why I should. He's, well, very handsome . . ." She looked down at her glass to hide her grimace of revulsion. "And charming, and.. ."

"Miss Stone," Paul said, subjecting her to an amused scrutiny, "you wouldn't by any chance be trying to make me jealous, would you?"

"Are you?" Whitney countered with a mutinous smile.

He didn't answer, but Whitney was almost certain that he was. Either way, the balance of the evening was the way she used to dream it would be. Paul remained at her side most of the time, and when he did leave her, it wasn't to return to Elizabeth.

Dismissing his valet, Clayton poured himself a light brandy. Inwardly, he smiled at the bizarre turn his courtship had taken tonight. Never in his wildest imaginings had he visualized anything quite like this! Nevertheless, he was extremely pleased by what he had learned on Amelia Eubank's balcony a few hours ago. None of Whitney's suitors in France had been permitted the liberties he had taken; she had been shocked by his intimate kiss and outraged when his hand touched her breast.

God, what an enchanting creature she was-part angel, part spitfire; artlessly sophisticated, with a ripe, opulent beauty that made his blood stir hotly.

Lifting his glass, he frowned into the contents. He had treated her badly tonight. Tomorrow, he would have to find a way to make amends.