Whitney, My Love

Chapter Twenty-nine

AT PRECISELY ELEVEN O'CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, FOUR elegant travelling chaises swept through the gates of Claymore. The first was occupied by the Dowager Duchess of Claymore and her son Stephen. The second by Stephen's valet and the duchess's personal maids. The remaining two were filled to capacity with trunks of clothing and accessories which the dowager duchess deemed absolutely essential for any extended visit-particularly when one expected to meet one's new daughter-in-law, i.e., the future mother of one's grandchildren.

"It's always been so lovely here," her grace sighed, letting her gaze roam appreciatively over the vast estate's manicured lawns and formal parks which paraded majestically on both sides of the curving, paved road. Pulling her gaze from the familiar scenery, she gave her son a penetrating look. "You're quite certain that your brother is bringing me a daughter-in-law to meet tonight?"

Stephen grinned at her. "I can only tell you what I know, darling. Clay's note said simply that Vanessa and he had remained an extra night with her parents but that they would both join us here at four-thirty this afternoon."

"He only referred to her as 'Vanessa'?" her ladyship said. "Are you certain he meant Vanessa Standfield?"

Stephen sent her a wry look. "If the rumor mill is to be believed, her name is now Westmoreland."

"I saw her years ago. She was a beautiful child."

"She's a beautiful woman," Stephen said with a roguish grin. "Very blond, very blue eyes, very everything."

"Good. Then I will have beautiful grandchildren," the duchess predicted happily, her thoughts ever reverting to that Glancing sideways, she discovered her son frowning out the coach window. "Stephen, is there something about her you don't like?"

Stephen shrugged. "Only that her eyes aren't green and her name doesn't happen to be Whitney."

"Who? Oh, Stephen, that's ridiculous. What can you be thinking of? Why the girl, whoever she was, made him positively miserable. He's obviously forgotten all about her, and that's for the best."

"She's not that easy to forget," Stephen said with a grim smile.

"What do you mean?" she demanded suspiciously. "Stephen, have you met that girl?"

"No, but I saw her at a ball at the Kingsleys' a few weeks ago. She was surrounded by London's 'most eligibles,' excluding Clay, of course. When I heard her name was Whitney and saw those eyes of hers, I knew who she was."

The duchess started to demand a description of the young woman who had brought such torment to her eldest son, then dismissed the idea with a shrug. "That's all over now. Clayton is bringing home his wife."

"I can't think he'd so easily forget someone who meant so much to him. And I can't believe Clay is bringing home a wife. More likely a fianc6e."

"I almost hope you're right. There'll be the very devil to pay if Clayton married Miss Standfield so abruptly. The gossip will be terrible."

Stephen gave her a mocking, sideways glance. "Clay wouldn't care two hoots about the gossip, as you well know."

"Time to get up," Emily announced gaily, throwing back the curtains. "It's past noon and there's been no word from his grace telling you to stay away."

"I didn't go to sleep until dawn," Whitney mumbled, then she sat bolt upright in bed, catapulting from deep sleep to total awareness in the space of an instant. "I can't do it!" she cried.

"Of course you can. Just swing your feet over the side of the bed. It works every time," Emily teased.

Whitney pushed the covers aside and slid from the bed, her mind groping frantically for ways to extricate herself from the arranged meeting with Clayton. "Why don't we spend the day shopping and see that new play at the Royal?" she suggested desperately.

"Why don't we wait until tomorrow and begin shopping for your trousseau instead?"

"We are both candidates for Bedlam!" Whitney cried. "This entire scheme is insane. He won't listen to me, and even if he does, it won't change anything. I've seen the way he looks at me now-he despises me."

Emily shoved her in the direction of the bath. "That's encouraging. At least he feels something for you." She came back, just as Whitney finished dressing.

"How do I look?" Whitney asked uncertainly, turning in a slow circle for Emily's inspection. Her gown of rich aquamarine velvet had long sleeves and a low square-cut bodice. Her heavy mahogany hair had been brushed until it shone, then pulled back off her forehead, and fastened at the crown with an aquamarine and diamond clip, letting the rest fall in natural waves that curled at the ends halfway down her back. The lush gown was enticing and yet demure; the hair style framed her slightly flushed face, setting off her heavily fringed green eyes and finely sculpted features, giving her a softly vulnerable appearance.

Solemnly Emily said, "You look like a beautiful temple goddess about to be sacrificed to the bloodthirsty gods."

"You mean I look frightened?"

"Panic-stricken." Emily crossed to Whitney and took her cold, clammy hands in her own. "You've never looked better, but that's not going to be enough. I've met the man you're going to see, and he'll not be swayed by a poor-spirited, terrified young woman with whom he is still furious. He loved you for your spirit and courage. If you go to him all meekness and timidity, you'll be so different from the girl he loved, that you'll fail. He'll let you explain and apologize, then he'll thank you, and say goodbye. Do anything: argue with him, make him angrier if you must, but don't go there looking frightened. Be the girl he loved-smile at him, flirt with him, argue or fight with him-but don't, please don't be meek and supplicating."

"Now 1 know how poor Elizabeth must have felt when I made her defy Peter." Whitney half sighed, half laughed. But her chin came up and she was once again regal and proud.

Emily walked her out to Michael's coach and Whitney gave her a fierce hug. "Whatever happens, you've been wonderful."

The coach pulled away with a much calmer Whitney and left behind a wildly nervous Emily.

After an hour of her journey, Whitney's fragile serenity began to slip, and she tried to calm herself by imagining their meeting. Would Clayton open the door himself, or would he have the butler show her into a private room? Would he make her wait? Would he stalk in and loom over her, his handsome face cold and hard while he waited for her to finish so that he could thrust her out the door? What would he be wearing? Something casual, Whitney thought with a sinking heart, as she glanced down at her gorgeous finery-which he had paid for.

With firm determination, she pulled her mind away from this nonsensical preoccupation with the possible dissimilarities in their attire and concentrated on their meeting again. Would he be angry-or would he be merely cool? Oh God! she thought miserably, let him be angry or even furious; let him storm at me or say terrible things to me; but please, please don't let him be coldly polite, because that will mean he doesn't care anymore.

A terrible premonition of failure quivered through her. If Clayton still cared about her, he would never have waited impassively for her to come to him today; he would have at least sent her a terse note acknowledging that he would be there at five.

The coach made a sharp eastward turn and approached a pair of gigantic iron gates barring their way. He'd had the gates closed against her! Whitney thought frantically. A gatekeeper dressed in burgundy cloth trimmed in gold braid stepped out of the gatekeeper's house and spoke to the Archibalds' coachman.

An audible sigh of relief escaped Whitney as they were permitted to pass, and the coach lurched forward onto the smooth, private road. They swayed gently along the curving drive bordered with wide sweeping lawns and huge formal parks dotted with leafless trees. The gently rolling landscape seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

They clattered over a wide bridge whose arches spanned a deep flowing stream, and at long last a magnificent house with immense expanses of mullioned windows and graceful balconies came into view. It loomed against a backdrop of clipped lawns, rising to a height of three stories in the center. Gigantic wings swept forward on both sides of the main structure, creating a terraced courtyard that was the size of a London park.

So bleak had been her mood the last time she had seen this house, Whitney could scarcely remember it. She laid her head back and closed her eyes in sublime misery: Had she called the house "dingy," or was that his word? Her own large house would fit into one of the wings with room enough left over for four more like it. She felt as if she were coming to see a stranger; whoever owned this palatial estate was not the carelessly unaffected man who'd raced against her on Dangerous Crossing or taught her to gamble with cards and chips.

Darkness had settled on the November afternoon, and the windows of the great house were aglow with lights when the coach pulled to a stop and the coachman climbed down and lowered the steps for Whitney to alight.

Comfortably ensconced in the white and gold salon at the front of the house, Stephen glanced away from his mother's anxious face and considered with distracted admiration the eighteenth-century furnishings covered in white silks and brocades. A magnificent Axminister carpet stretched across the seventy-foot length of the room, and the walls were papered in white watered silk, with paintings by Rubens, Reynolds, and Cheeraerts hanging in ornate gold gilt frames.

His gaze shifted restlessly to the clock, and he rose to pace impatiently. As he passed the wide bow windows, he saw the coach pulled up in the front drive and, with a quick grin over his shoulder at his mother, he strode from the room.

The butler was just opening the front door as Stephen stepped into the foyer with a welcoming smile on his face, expecting to see his brother with Vanessa Standfield. He halted in surprise, staring instead at a vaguely familiar, beautiful girl wrapped in a blue-green velvet cape lined with white ermine. When she reached up and pushed the hood back onto her shoulders, Stephen's pulse gave a wild leap of recognition. "My name is Miss Stone," she told the butler in a soft, musical voice. "I believe his grace is expecting me."

In that brief flash of tune, Stephen thought of his brother's anguished drunken ramblings, debated whether it was likely Clay was bringing home a wife or only a fiancee, considered the wisdom of involving himself in his brother's personal life, and on a wild impulse, made his decision.

Stepping quickly forward to intervene before the butler could say that his master wasn't at home, Stephen put on his most engaging smile and said, "My brother is expected at any minute, Miss Stone. Would you like to come in and wait?"

Two very conflicting reactions flickered across the beautiful young woman's face: disappointment and relief. She shook her head. "No. Thank you. I sent word yesterday that I would like a few moments of his time, and asked that he let me know if today wouldn't be convenient. Perhaps some other day…" she murmured, half turning to leave.

Stephen reached out and firmly grasped her elbow. The reaction earned him a surprised look from the young woman, which deepened to astonishment as Stephen gently-but forcibly-drew her back into the entrance foyer. "Clay was delayed and didn't return yesterday," Stephen explained with a disarming smile. "So he doesn't know you intended to call on him today." Before she could utter a protest, he reached up and politely lifted the aquamarine velvet cape off her shoulders, then he handed it to the butler.

Whitney's gaze was riveted on the immense marble staircase which swept in a wide graceful half circle, terminating in an arc along the broad balcony above. She remembered how Clayton had carried her up that staircase, and she recalled vividly how brutal his rage could be. Abruptly, she turned toward the door. "Thank you for inviting me to stay, Lord Westmoreland."

"Stephen," he corrected.

"Thank you, Stephen," she said, taken aback when he insisted she use his given name. "But I've decided not to wait. If I could have my cape, please?" She looked at the butler, who looked at Stephen, who firmly shook his head, whereupon the butler crossed his arms over his chest and simply pretended not to have heard her request.

"I would like you to stay," Stephen said, his voice firm, but his smile cordial.

Bewildered laughter crept into Whitney's voice as she accepted Stephen's outstretched arm. "I don't think I've ever been made to feel quite so welcome, my lord."

"Westmorelands are famous for their hospitality," Stephen lied with a roguish grin as he drew her inexorably toward the salon where his mother was waiting.

At the sight of the duchess seated on one of the settees, Whitney drew back in startled embarrassment.

"My mother and I will both be pleased to have you wait for Clay with us," Stephen urged gently. "I know he will be delighted to see you, Miss Stone, and that he would never forgive me for letting you go before he returned."

Whitney halted and stared at him. "Lord Westmoreland," she began with a hint of a smile touching her soft lips.

"Stephen," he corrected.

"Stephen-I think you ought to know that there's every chance your brother won't be in the least 'delighted' to see me."

"I'll risk it," Stephen said with a grin.

Whitney was overawed by the white-and-gold room, but she carefully refrained from gazing at the intricately carved plasterwork on the ceilings and the masterpieces displayed in ornate gold frames along the walls while Stephen led her to his mother.

"Mother, may I present Miss Stone," Stephen said. "Since Clay did not return last night, he is unaware of Whitney's intention to call, but I have persuaded her to stay and wait with us until he arrives."

As Whitney curtsied to the duchess, she heard the emphasis Stephen placed on her first name-which she hadn't told him-and she saw the duchess's blank, answering look.

"Are you a friend of my son's, Miss Stone?" the duchess politely inquired as Whitney took the indicated seat across from her.

"Occasionally we have been friends, your grace," Whitney replied honestly.

The duchess blinked at the unusual response, studied the jade-green eyes regarding her solemnly from beneath a heavy fringe of dark lashes, then suddenly half rose from her chair, caught herself, and sat back down. Her gaze flew to Stephen, who nodded imperceptibly at her.

Cheerfully ignoring his mother's apprehensive glances, he relaxed back in his chair and listened while she and Whitney discussed a variety of topics, from Paris fashions to London weather.

After nearly an hour the front door was swung wide and voices drifted in from the entryway. The words were inaudible, but there was no mistaking the soft murmur and throaty laughter of a woman as she answered Clayton. Stephen saw Whitney's stricken expression as she realized that Clayton was accompanied by a female. Rising quickly, he flashed a sympathetic, encouraging look at her and then carefully placed himself so that he was standing in front of her, blocking her from Clayton's view to give her time to compose herself.

"I'm sorry we're late. We were delayed," Clayton said to his mother as he leaned down and pressed a tight kiss on her forehead. Teasingly he added, "I trust you had no trouble finding your rooms without me?" Turning aside, he drew Vanessa toward. "Mother, may I present Vanessa . . ."

Stephen expelled his breath in a rush of relief when Clayton finished. "Standfield."

Vanessa sank into a deep curtsy before the duchess and when the two ladies had exchanged the proper civilities, Clayton waved a casual arm in Stephen's direction and laughingly added, "Vanessa, you already know Stephen." With that he turned back to his mother and bent tow, speaking quietly to her.

"A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Standfield," Stephen said with amused formality.

"For heaven's sake, Stephen," Vanessa laughed. "You and I have been on a first-name basis forever."

Ignoring that, Stephen reached behind him, touched Whit-ney's arm, and she rose with quaking reluctance to her feet. "Miss Standfield," Stephen raised his voice slightly, "may I present Miss Whitney Stone …"

Clayton jerked erect and swung around.

"And this stony-faced gentleman," Stephen continued lightly to Whitney, "is my brother. As you know."

Whitney actually flinched at the cold, ruthless fury in Clayton's eyes as they raked over her. "How is your aunt?" he inquired icily.

Whitney swallowed and replied in a barely audible whisper, "My aunt is very well, thank you. And you?"

Clayton nodded curtly. "As you can see, I have survived our last encounter without scars."

Vanessa, who apparently recognized Whitney as her rival for Clayton from the Rutherfords' ball, gave Whitney a feint inclination of her elegantly coiffed head and said with a frosty smile, "Esterbrook was introduced to you at Lord and Lady Rutherford's affair, Miss Stone." She paused as if trying to recall the occasion more clearly. "Yes, I remember that he spoke of you at some length to many of us."

Realizing that Vanessa was waiting for an answer, Whitney said cautiously, "That was very kind of him."

"As I recall, what he said was not in the least kind, Miss Stone."

Whitney stiffened at Vanessa's unexpected and unprovoked attack, and Stephen waded into the deafening silence. "We can all discuss our mutual acquaintances at dinner," he announced cheerfully, "providing that I can convince my beautiful guest to dine with us."

Whitney shook her head in a desperate, emphatic no. "I really can't stay. I-I'm sorry."

"Ah, but I insist." He grinned. Arching a brow at his white-faced brother, he said, "We both insist, don't we?"

To Stephen's infinite disgust, Clayton didn't bother to second the invitation. Instead he merely glanced over his shoulder and nodded curtly to the servant hovering in the doorway, indicating that another place should be set at the table. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode to the sideboard where he snatched a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

Stephen seated himself beside Whitney, then looked around to where Clayton stood, his tall frame rigid with anger, his back to them as he poured himself a drink. "Me too, big brother," he called good-naturedly.

Clayton threw Stephen a look of unwavering distaste and said in a voice of tightly controlled fury, "I am certain, Stephen, that included among your other brilliant talents is the ability to pour your own drink."

"Correct," Stephen said serenely, getting up from the settee where he was seated beside Whitney. "Ladies?" he offered. "A glass of wine?"

Vanessa and Whitney both accepted, and the duchess stifled the urge to request a full bottle.

Stephen strolled over to the sideboard, poured himself some whiskey, and began filling three crystal glasses with wine, blithely ignoring the simmering rage emanating from his brother. Under his breath, Clayton snapped, "Is there the slightest chance that you don't know who she is-to me?"

"Not the slightest." Stephen grinned imperturbably, picking up three of the four glasses. As he turned toward the ladies he said in a carrying voice, "Will you bring Whitney's glass, Clay? I can't manage all four. '

Carrying her wineglass, Clayton bore purposefully down on Whitney, and she unconsciously pressed further back into the seat cushions, searching his forbidding countenance for some sign that he still cared for her. But there was none.

In a state of acute misery, she absently sipped her wine surreptitiously studying Clayton, who was seated across from her beside Vanessa, with his gleaming booted foot resting casually atop the opposite knee, his long legs encased in superbly tailored gray trousers. Seeing him here, relaxed and at home in the splendor of this white-and-gold room, he was every inch the aloof, elegant nobleman, the master of all he surveyed. Never had he looked more handsome-or more unattainable. And to make everything worse, Vanessa Stand-field, who was draped in flowing blue silk, was more haughtily, breathtakingly beautiful than Whitney had realized that night at the Rutherfords' ball.

In the hour before dinner was announced, Stephen carried the greatest share of the conversational burden, with Vanessa contributing two more pointed insults aimed at Whitney. Clayton spoke in clipped, abrupt phrases only when absolutely necessary, and Whitney replied to Stephen's light banter with weak monosyllables. The duchess had three more glasses of wine and said nothing at all to anyone.

Curled into a tight ball of suspended anguish, Whitney silently counted the minutes until dinner could be finished and the ordeal over, so that she could creep away. She now knew she should never have come. It was too late.

Mercifully, dinner was announced shortly thereafter. Clay-ton rose, and without so much as a glance in Whitney's direction, he offered his arm to his mother and, with Vanessa on the other, escorted both women from the room.

Whitney stood and took Stephen's arm, her gaze clinging hopelessly to Clayton's back. She started to follow in his wake, but Stephen stopped her. "Damn Vanessa!" he laughed softly. "I could strangle her. It's time for us to change our strategy-although everything has been going well so far."

"Strategy?" Whitney gasped. "Going well?"

"Perfectly. You've been sitting here looking beautiful and vulnerable, and Clayton can't tear his eyes off you when he thinks you aren't looking. But it's time for you to do something to get him off alone with you."

Whitney's heart soared precariously. "He can't tear his eyes-? Oh, Stephen, are you certain? I don't think he even knows I'm here."

"He knows you're here," Stephen said, laughing. "Not that he doesn't wish to God you weren't! In fact, I can't recall ever seeing him this furious. Now it will be up to you to push his anger beyond the limits of his control."

"What?" Whitney whispered. "Dear God, why?"

They had reached the entrance of the dining room, but Stephen turned and paused before a portrait on the wall opposite the double doors; their backs were in full view of the diners who were already seated at the table. He gestured at the painting as if pointing out its merits to Whitney. "You have to make him furious enough to leave the table and take you with him. If you don't, as soon as dinner is over, he'll find some excuse to draw Vanessa and my mother off somewhere else, and simply leave you with me."

The prospect of actively trying to engage Clayton in verbal combat filled Whitney with an odd mixture of fear and anticipation. She reminded herself of what Emily had said about not being meek, and told herself bracingy that if demure Elizabeth Ashton could do it, so could she. "Stephen," she said suddenly, "why are you doing this?"

"There's no time to go into that now," Stephen replied, guiding her toward the dining room. "But remember this-no matter how angry he is, my brother is in love with you. And if you can get him alone, I think you'll be able to prove it to him."

"But your mother will think I'm the gauchest female alive if I deliberately provoke him."

Stephen grinned boyishly at her. "My mother will think you are brave and wonderful. Just as I do. Now courage, young lady! I'm expecting to see more of the gay, spirited female I watched at the Kingsleys' the other night."

There was just time for Whitney to flash an astonished, grateful look at him as he led her to her place at the table. As Stephen seated her, Clayton remarked with withering sarcasm, "It's kind of you finally to join us."

"It was kind of you to ask me, your grace," Whitney returned pointedly.

Clayton ignored her and nodded to the servants to begin serving. He was seated at the head of the table, with his mother on his right, and Vanessa on his left. Whitney was next to the duchess, and Stephen took a place opposite Whitney, beside Vanessa.

As the servant poured champagne into Whitney's glass, Clayton drawled caustically, "Leave the bottle next to Miss Stone. She is overly fond of champagne, as I recall."

Whitney's spirits gave a leap of joy-Clayton was no longer able to ignore her! Surely he must still care for her to be angry enough to say such a thing. She smiled enchantingly at him over her glass and sipped the bubbly wine. "Not overly fond of champagne. Although at times it does help to reinforce one's courage."

"Really? I wouldn't know."

"Ah yes, you prefer whiskey to reinforce yours," she quipped as he lifted his glass to his mouth. His eyes narrowed ominously and Whitney quickly looked away. Please love me, she implored him silently. Don't make me go through this for nothing.

"Do you play the pianoforte, Whitney?" the duchess asked, nervously stepping in to cover the charged silence.

"Only if I wish to give offense," Whitney replied with a shy smile.

"Do you sing then?" her grace persisted in sheer desperation.

"Yes," Whitney laughed, "but without the slightest attention to tune, I'm afraid."

"Really, Miss Stone," Vanessa drawled, "it's extraordinary to meet a gently reared Englishwoman who has not been taught either to sing or to play. Exactly what are your accomplishments?"

"Whitney is a proficient flirt," Clayton interjected scathingly, answering Vanessa's question himself. "She is conversant in several languages and could undoubtedly do a creditable job of cursing fluently in all of them. She plays a fair game of chess, a poor game of solitaire, and is a capable horsewoman when deprived of her crop. She claims to excel with a slingshot-a talent for which I can't vouch firsthand, and she is a convincing actress-a talent for which I can. Have I treated you fairly, Whitney?" he snapped.

"Not entirely, your grace," Whitney said softly, stinging from the cruel whips of his words even though she was smiling. "Surely my chess game is better than 'fair.' And if you doubt my skill with the slingshot, I shall be pleased to demonstrate it to you-providing that you volunteer to be my target, as I have just been yours."

Stephen gave a sharp crack of laughter and his mother croaked, "Have you attended many social functions since you've come back from France?"

Whitney felt Clayton's scorching gaze on her and could not quite meet it. "Many parties and balls. Although no one has given a masquerade, and I particularly enjoy them. I believe my lord duke enjoys them equally-"

"Do you also enjoy weddings?" Vanessa asked her smoothly. "If so, we shall be certain to invite you to ours."

The silence of an ancient tomb settled over the table Whitney tried valiantly to continue eating but could not swallow past the lump of desolation swelling in her throat. She looked miserably at Stephen, who shrugged imperturbably, and arched a brow in Clayton's direction. She knew that Stephen meant for her to continue, but she couldn't now. It was over. As transparent as it would be to everyone when she pleaded sudden illness, Whitney couldn't bear to stay at that table. She was too bruised and battered to care that everyone would know that the announcement of Clayton and Vanessa's betrothal was the reason she was leaving.

She took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table beside her plate. As she reached down to slide her heavy chair back, a feminine hand suddenly came to rest over hers. The duchess gave her fingers a brief, encouraging squeeze, then held them tightly in a gesture that clearly said, "Stay and finish what you have begun."

Whitney smiled uncertainly, hesitated, then replaced her napkin. She glanced at Clayton, who was moodily contemplating the wine in his glass, then at Vanessa. Whitney couldn't bear to think of Clayton married to such a haughty beauty-not when she herself loved him so much, and had come this far, in this embarrassing fashion, to tell him so. She thought of Clayton holding Vanessa in his arms and kissing her in that intimate way of his, and that made Whitney angry and jealous enough to stay.

Vanessa put her hand on Clayton's arm. "I hope you aren't angry with me for blurting out our secret in front of a stranger."

"I'm certain he isn't in the least angry, Miss Standfield," Whitney said quietly, but her eyes were on Clayton. "We all do foolish things when we're in love. Don't we, your grace?"

"Do we?" Clayton countered repressively. "I hadn't noticed."

"Then you either have a very short memory," Whitney challenged softly, "or a very convenient one. Or perhaps you've never been in love, after all."

Clayton's wineglass slammed on the table. "Precisely what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Whitney withered before the blast of those gray eyes. "Nothing," she lied softly.

The clink of silver began again. She watched Clayton's hand flexing on his goblet of wine, clenching it and loosening, then clenching again, and she knew he was wishing that her neck, not his goblet, were in his grip. After several minutes, his mother nervously cleared her throat, and cautiously said to Whitney, "Tell me, my dear, were things very different here in England when you returned?"

Whitney started to reply impersonally, but then she realized that the duchess had just unknowingly given her exactly the opening she needed. Since Clayton wasn't willing to let her explain in private, perhaps she could at least make him partially understand, here, at the table. "Very different!" she said with feeling. "You see, shortly after I returned to England, I discovered that while I was still in France my father had arranged for my marriage to a man I had scarcely met, and did not even recognize when I saw him again here." "How distressing," replied the duchess with a dawning look of understanding.

"Indeed it was-particularly because I have a freakish streak in my nature which positively rebels against being coldly ordered about by anyone. And the man I was to marry, although he was kind and understanding in many ways, was quite horridly arbitrary and imperious about the betrothal. He acted as if I had no choice in the matter whatever."

"These arranged marriages can be difficult to adjust to at first," the duchess agreed. "What did you do then?"

"She betrothed herself to another man who was thoroughly spineless and an idiot!" Clayton announced coldly.

"But not dictatorial and tyrannical," Whitney shot back. "And I did not betroth myself to Paul at all!"

Angry silence reigned until Stephen laughingly said, "My God, don't keep us in suspense. Then what happened?"

Clayton answered for her in a contemptuous drawl. "Since there were another thousand eligible men in London, Miss Stone set about seeing how many of those she could betroth herself to as well."

Whitney couldn't endure it when he used that tone of voice. She bit her lip and meekly shook her head. "No, I was only ever betrothed to one man, but he's so angry with me, he won't give me a chance to explain. He's already withdrawn his offer."

"The beast!" Stephen said cheerfully, helping himself to a second portion of duck a 1'orange. "He sounds like an evil-tempered sort. You're probably much better off without him." "I-I have a rather formidable temper myself," Whitney admitted.

"In that case, he's better off without you," Clayton snapped, then his gaze swung on Stephen with deadly menace. "Stephen, I find this conversation not only excessively boring, but in excruciatingly bad taste. Am I making myself clear?"

Stephen met his brother's look with sham bewilderment and nodded, but even he didn't dare to reopen the subject.

Servants moved about the room, and all five people at the dining table studiously concentrated on the sumptuous fare on their plates, but only Stephen ate with any enjoyment. Whitney told herself she would try once more, just once more, to make Clayton leave the room with her. Although how she was going to cope with him if she succeeded, was beyond her imagination.

"Stephen asked you a question, Clayton," Vanessa whispered.

"What?" Clayton demanded, staring at Stephen with blazing animosity.

"I asked how your horses did at the last race."

"They did well," was the curt answer.

"How well?" Stephen persisted. Although he addressed the table at large, the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was aimed at Whitney as he explained. "We had a bet that three of Clayton's and two of mine would come in the money. I know mine placed, and only two of his did, which means he lost the bet, and he owes me Ј300." Stephen's conspiratorial grin widened meaningfully at Whitney. "He doesn't care about the money, but he hates to admit he lost. He's never learned to accept defeat."

Clayton laid down his knife and fork, preparing to give Stephen the brutal setdown he'd earned hours before, but Whitney, taking Stephen's cue, immediately drew off Clay-ton's fire. "How strange you should say that," she said to Stephen, looking genuinely amazed. "I have found that your brother accepts defeat without even putting up the slightest struggle. Why, faced with the tiniest discouragement, he simply gives up and-"

Clayton's open hand slammed down on the table with a crash that made the dishes dance. He surged to his feet, a muscle leaping furiously along the taut line of his jaw. "Miss Stone and I have something to say to each other which is best said in private." He gritted out the words, flinging his napkin down on the table. Swiftly, he strode around the table and jerked Whitney's chair back. "Get up!" he snapped in a tow, terrible voice when Whitney remained frozen in her seat. His hand clamped down painfully on her forearm and Whitney rose unsteadily.

The duchess looked at her in helpless dismay, but Stephen lifted his glass to Whitney in a silent toast and grinned.

Forcibly pulling her beside him, Clayton strode purposefully from the room and down the carpeted marble hallway. As they passed the front door, he snapped at the butler, "Have Miss Stone's carriage waiting in front in three minutes!" He turned down a side hall and nodded curtly to a servant who opened the doors of a luxurious study for them.

Clayton hauled her halfway across the room, which was lined with books recessed behind richly carved arches of polished oak, then flung her arm away and stalked to the fireplace. Turning, he regarded her with a look of undiluted loathing, white he visibly strove to bring his rampaging temper under control. Suddenly his voice slashed through the silence. "You have exactly two minutes to explain the purpose of this unexpected and unwelcome visit of yours. At the end of that time, I will escort you to your carriage and make your excuses for your absence to my mother and brother."

Whitney drew a tortured breath, knowing that if he saw her fear now he would use it against her. "The purpose of my visit?" she said in a small, distracted voice, her mind frantically counting off the passing seconds. "I-! would have thought by now it was obvious."

"It is not obvious!"

"I've come to-to explain why I said what I did to you at the banquet. You see," she said, stammering in her haste to finish in the minutes he'd allotted her, "earlier at the church, I thought we-you and I-still had an agreement, and-"

Clayton's eyes raked contemptuously over her. "We have no agreement," he said scathingly. "It's over. Done with. It should never have begun! The betrothal was an insane idea, and I curse the day I thought of it."

Sick with failure and defeat, Whitney dug her nails into the flesh of her palms and shook her head in denial. "It never had a chance to begin because I wouldn't let it.''

"Your two minutes are almost up."

"Clayton, please listen to me!" she cried desperately "You-you told me a long time ago that you wanted me to come to you willingly, that you didn't want a cold, unwilling wife."

"And?" he demanded furiously.

Whitney's voice shook. "And, I am here. Willingly."

Clayton stiffened, his whole body tensing into a rigid line as her meaning pierced the armor of his wrath. He stared at her for a moment, his jaw tight and hard, then he leaned back against the mantel and closed his eyes.

He was fighting her, Whitney knew. Trying to shut her out. In a paralysis of fear, she waited, watching him. It seemed an eternity before he reluctantly straightened. His eyes nicked open, meeting hers, and Whitney's heart gave a wild leap. She had won! She could see it in the slight softening of his rugged features. Oh God, she had won!

He looked first at the long stretch of carpet separating them, and then at her. When he spoke, the harsh edge of his voice was tempered, but his words were low and meaningful. "I'll not make this any easier for you," he told her evenly.

The distance between them stretched like a mile, and Whitney knew that he meant she would have to make the trip across the room to him if she wanted him, that he would not so much as meet her halfway . . . because, even now, he didn't entirely trust her.

His eyes never left hers as Whitney started walking toward him on legs that felt like water. A mere step away from him, she had to pause to still the slamming of her heart and quaking of her knees. She took the final step on legs that feit as if they were about to buckle beneath her, and stopped so close to him that her breasts were only inches from his gray jacket.

With her head bowed, she waited, but the seconds ticked by, and Clayton made no move to touch her. Finally she lifted her head and raised green eyes shining with surrender to his.

"Would you please," she whispered achingly, "hold me now?"

Clayton started to reach for her and stopped . . . and then he caught her arms and jerked her to Mm, crushing her against his chest as his mouth came down hungrily on hers. With a smothered moan of joy, Whitney returned his kiss, glorying in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers.

Twining her arms around his neck, she pressed against him, fitting her melting body to the hardening contours of his. A shudder shook him as she leaned into him, and his hands tightened possessively on her back and hips, molding her closer to him, sliding up her spine, then lower, gathering her willing body into his. "God, how I've missed you!" he whispered hoarsely against her lips, and he deepened the kiss. At the first tentative touch of his tongue, Whitney's lips parted without further urging, and Clayton groaned, clasping her tighter as his tongue plunged into her sweet softness, searching with an almost desperate urgency, taking what she was offering.

The exquisite feeling of her in his arms, the taste of her lips dinging to his, the fullness of her breasts against his palms, was unbearable joy to Clayton. He couldn't go on, and he was afraid to stop . . . afraid that if he broke the contact, she would vanish, and the aching desire racking him would become an aching emptiness instead.

When he finally tore his mouth from hers, he kept his arms around her, resting his chin atop her shining head, waiting for his breathing to even out. And Whitney stayed there-as if being in his arms were the only place in the world she wished to be.

Drawing back slightly, Clayton looked down into the limpid pools of her eyes and quietly asked, "Are you willing to marry me?"

Whitney nodded. She nodded, because she could not speak.

"Why?" he persisted evenly. "Why do you want to marry me?" From the moment he had made her cross the room to him, rather than meeting her halfway, Whitney had known Clay-ton was going to require an unconditional surrender from her; she knew what he was demanding of her now. Through joy and tears and relief constricting her breath, she found her voice and softly said, "Because I love you."

His arms closed around her with stunning force. "God help you if you don't mean it!" he warned fiercely, "because I'll never let you go again."

Shamelessly yearning to be kissed, Whitney whispered, "I shall be very happy to prove I do mean it." She saw his eyes darken with passion as he bent his head to her, and she leaned up on her toes to prove it. She kissed him with all the aching longing that being this close to him evoked; she kissed him in all the ways he had ever kissed her, feeling faint with joy when he began to kiss her back, his mouth moving with fierce tenderness, then opening with fiery demand over hers, until their breaths were mingled gasps, and they were straining to one another.

It was Clayton who broke the kiss and forced his hands to stop their exploration, the pleasure-torture of caressing the cherished curves and hollows of the slender, voluptuous body that had haunted his dreams. But he kept her in his arms, tangling his hand in her heavy hair, loving the familiar texture. of it. "Why did you make me wait so long?" he breathed.

Leaning back, Whitney tipped her head in the direction of the dining room where Vanessa was. "Why couldn't you have waited a little longer?"

"Little one," he chuckled tenderly, "you are the only female alive who would bring up Vanessa at a time like this."

Whitney's expression suddenly turned solemn, and Clayton didn't see the smile that glowed in her eyes as she said, "I have a confession-and it may make a difference in which of us you decide upon."

Clayton stiffened. "And that is?"

"I told your mother the truth about my talent at the pianoforte."

With a laughing sigh of relief, Clayton drew her close. "Can you sing any better?" he teased.

"No. I'm afraid not."

Although his tone was light, Whitney beard the huskiness of desire that deepened his voice as he said, "In that case, I suppose you will have to learn some other ways to please me." Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his chest was warm and hard against her cheek. Whitney smiled as she slid her hand upward and spread her fingers over his pounding heart. "The last time we discussed my shortcomings in that area, you said yon didn't have the time to instruct a tiresomely naive schoolgirl. But I think-if you have the time-you will find that I'm an excellent student."

He was silent a long moment, then he said, "Perhaps I should begin by teaching you* more suitable response than your last when I tell you that I love you?"

Whitney nodded happily, but her voice suddenly filled with tears. "If you'd care to try again, I'll show you that I've already teamed that lesson."

Tipping her chin up, Clayton looked deeply into her eyes and quietly said, "I love you, little one."

"I love you, too," Whitney whispered, shyly laying her trembling hand against his smoothly shaven cheek and jaw. "I love you very much."

He grinned. "Now that, my sweet, is a vast improvement."

She tried to smile back at him, but Clayton saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Cradling her face between both his hands, be gazed at her misty green eyes. "Why tears, darling?"

"Because," Whitney whispered brokenly, "until this moment, I was certain you would never say that to me again."

With a groaning laugh, Clayton hugged her tightly to him. "Oh, little one, I have loved you since the night we played chess at my house and, after announcing that you would never call any man your 'lord,' you called me a conniving, black-hearted scoundrel when I took the game from you." He had loved her from the moment she had laughingly told him a story about a girl who used to pepper her music teacher's snuffbox.

Stephen tapped lightly on the door, then stepped into the study and closed the door behind him. He grinned wickedly at his brother, who tightened his arms possessively around Whitney. "Excuse me, brother dear, but your absence is making things increasingly uncomfortable in the other room."

Clayton heard this with a frown of distaste. "Is dinner over?"

"Long since," Stephen confirmed. "And Vanessa is displaying a marked antagonism toward my charming efforts to enlighten her on the proper care and feeding of racehorses."

"Stephen, your brother is in something of a dilemma." Whitney smiled, turning sideways in Clayton's arms. "Let me think-how did he phrase it? Oh yes. He has only two hands and he has offered them both."

Stephen arched a thoughtful brow. "I have two hands, and they are neither of them promised, Miss Stone," he offered gamely.

"Stephen," Clayton said sternly, but with a slow grin, "do not strain the bonds of brotherly affection beyond what you already have this evening. I'll attend to freeing one of my 'hands' when I take Vanessa home tonight."

"I should be leaving too," Whitney sighed, reluctantly pulling out of Clayton's arms and smoothing her gown. "It will be very late by the time I get back to Emily's."

"You, my love, are not setting foot out of this house. I'll send a servant to the Archibalds' for your things when I leave with Vanessa, and he can inform them that you will return in a week. Not one day before."

Whitney knew perfectly well that Clayton was issuing this edict because of her unexplained change in attitude between the time she left him at the church and saw him again at the wedding banquet. Since she wanted with all her heart to stay with him, Whitney acceded to his flat command with a demure smile.

With one hip perched atop his desk, Clayton watched while Whitney sat behind it and wrote a note to Emily. She assured her that the duchess was in residence and asked that Clarissa and her clothes be dispatched post haste to Claymore. Winsomely, Whitney added a postscript. "This time, I'll send the invitations. This one is yours-will you please be my matron of honor? I love you. Whitney."

Clayton took the note from her and, serenely ignoring his brother's presence, pulled her to her feet and kissed her with tender thoroughness. "I'll be back in two hours, perhaps a little more. Will you wait up for me?"

Whitney nodded, but as Clayton started from the room, she turned away from him, tracing her finger across his gleaming mahogany desktop. "Clayton," she said softly, her voice threaded with tears, "when Vanessa asked about my 'accomplishments' tonight, I forgot to mention that I do have one. And it's-it's so splendid that it compensates for my lack of all the others."

Stephen and Clayton grinned at each other, neither of them hearing the emotion that clogged her voice. "What 'splendid accomplishment' is that, little one?" Clayton asked.

Her shoulders hunched forward and began to shake. "I made you love me," she whispered brokenly. "Somehow, some way, I actually made you love me."

The laughter faded from Clayton's face, replaced by an expression so intense, so profoundly proud, that Stephen quietly left the two of them alone.

Clayton emerged from his study a few minutes later on his way to face Vanessa in the salon and take her home. He flashed a quick, grateful grin at Stephen, inclined his head toward the study doors and said in a low, laughter-tinged voice, "Stephen, do not let her out of your sight!"

While Clayton was leaving with Vanessa, Whitney sat across from Stephen in the study, trying to vanquish her sudden embarrassment over the earlier part of the evening. Finally she clasped her hands in her lap and regarded him directly. "Whatever made you want me to stay for dinner, when it was so obvious that Clayton didn't want me here at all? What made you help me, when I could have been just any female who-"

"I knew you weren't Must any female.'" Stephen corrected.

"Your name was Whitney and you had green eyes. And one drunken night many weeks ago, my fair brother could talk of little else."

Two hours later, Clayton strode into the salon and Stephen drily remarked, "I suppose Lord Standfield was not in the best humor when you left?"

"He was reasonable," Clayton said briefly. He sat down beside Whitney and, defying all the proprieties with his usual careless elegance, he put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her dose. With a meaningful look at his smiling mother and brother, he ungraciously hinted, "I imagine you're both exhausted from your trip this morning and would like to retire?"

"I happen to be exhausted from a good deal more than my trip," the duchess said laughingly, and obligingly she bade them both good night. Stephen, however, did nothing of the sort. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, "I'm not in the least tired, big brother. Besides, I want to hear about the wedding plans." Ignoring Clayton's dagger look, he glanced expectantly from him to Whitney. "Well, when's it to be?"

Clayton sighed, resigning himself to Stephen's continued presence, and smiled at Whitney. "How long will it take you to get ready, love?"

Gazing up into his compelling gray eyes, Whitney thought she would much rather have his arms around her and feel his lips moving over hers than discuss the wedding plans right now, but, like Clayton, she had no choke except to answer Stephen's question. "I suppose it will be a huge wedding?" she mused, considering Clayton's title, and the vast number of friends and acquaintances she knew he had.

"Very large," Clayton confirmed.

"Then it will take a great deal of time to plan. There are so many arrangements to make, the gowns to be chosen, endless fittings-and the dressmakers take forever. The invitations must be prepared, sent out, and acknowledged-" She paused. "About how many guests will there be?"

"Five or six hundred, I imagine," Clayton said.

"Closer to a thousand unless you want to offend half the

ton and alienate our relatives," Stephen corrected, grinning at Whitney's expression of stunned honor. Taking pity on her, he added, "Westmoreland dukes are always married in a church, and the wedding celebration is always here at Claymore. It's an ancient tradition, and everyone will know it, so you needn't worry about anyone thinking it queer that it's at Clay's home instead of yours."

"Always married in a church, and the celebration here?" Whitney repeated, with an accusing look at her grinning fiance. "When I think of how you threatened to abduct me and take me to Scotland!"

"The custom, Madam," Clayton chuckled, tracing the elegant curve of her cheek and jaw with his forefinger, then tilting her chin up, "began because the first Duke of Claymore abducted his lady from her parents' castle, which was several days journey from Claymore. On the way here was a monastery, and since my ancestor had technically compromised her honor, one of the monks was more than willing to marry them, despite the lady's temporary reluctance. The celebration," he emphasized, "took place here because the young woman's outraged relatives were in no mood to celebrate in their home an occasion which, at the time, they viewed as more a reason to fight than to feast." His grin widened devilishly. "So you see, had I carried you off to Scotland, married you there, then brought you back here, I'd have been honoring the tradition almost to the original letter."

Having been silenced on that subject, Whitney returned to the length of time required to prepare for the wedding. "Therese DuVille's wedding was not even half so large, and it took a year to accomplish . . ."

"No," Clayton said irrevocably. "Absolutely not."

"Six months?" Whitney offered to compromise.

"Six weeks," Clayton announced flatly.

His imperious tone didn't daunt Whitney in the least. "If it's to be such a large wedding, it could scarcely be planned even in six months."

Clayton winked conspiratorially at Stephen. "Very well," he sighed, "I'll give you eight."

"Eight months," Whitney agreed with a sad little sigh. "It will barely be time enough, yet it seems like forever."

"Eight weeks," her fiance corrected with finality. "Not one day more. My mother will help you and so will Hudgins. I'll put an entire staff of assistants at your disposal. Eight weeks will give you plenty of time."

Whitney shot him a dubious look, but since she didn't want to wait eight months either, she happily agreed.

Clayton was sitting with his arm around Whitney's shoulders, chatting amiably with Stephen, when the weight against his side suddenly grew heavier and she didn't respond to his teasing remark. He glanced down and saw her long lashes lying softly against her cheeks. "She's asleep," he said quietly. Gently, he moved her aside, then scooped her up into his arms. "It's been a more than exhausting day for you, sweetheart," he murmured as she stirred and snuggled into his chest. To Stephen he said, "Wait for me here. I have some things I want to say to you when I come down."

A few minutes later, after summoning a maid and seeing Whitney sleepily installed in one of the guest rooms, Clayton strode back into the salon and firmly closed the doors behind him. When he turned around, Stephen thrust a glass of brandy into his hand and raised his own in a silent toast. "I have two questions to ask you," Clayton said calmly when they were both seated.

Grinning, Stephen stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. "I rather thought you might, your grace."

"How did you know who Whitney was? To me?"

"You told me. During a very drunken night at Grand Oak, you told me all about her, including her green eyes-which, God knows, she has."

Leaning forward, Clayton rested his forearms on his knees, staring into his brandy glass as he rolled it between his palms. "How much did I tell you that night?"

Stephen considered lying because it was kinder, but he abandoned the idea when Clayton's disconcertingly perceptive gaze lifted to his. "Everything," Stephen admitted with a sigh. "Everything including the harm you did her. So, when she appeared here tonight, thinking you'd received her note-which I understand Hudgins has-I took one look at her and decided that since her loss had done such damage to you, I would restore her to you."

Clayton nodded his acceptance of Stephen's explanation. "I have one further question," he said gravely.

"You said you had two questions, and you've already reached your limit," Stephen warned lightly.

Ignoring that, Clayton said in a low, solemn voice, "I would like to know what I have within my power to give you, to express my gratitude."

"Your money, or your life?" Stephen ventured with a lopsided grin at his bandit's demand.

"They're yours for the asking," Clayton said quietly.

Later that night, he lay on his bed, his hands linked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He could hardly believe that Whitney was here, that after fighting against him so fiercely, for so long, she had come tonight and fought to recover what they had begun together.

He thought of the way she had faced him in the study, daring him to deny that he still wanted her. And then he smiled in the darkness, remembering the way she had crossed the long room to him, her head held high, her eyes shining with love and surrender. That memory, that one memory of her coming to him, casting aside her pride because she loved him, would endure in his heart for as long as he lived. Nothing would ever mean more to him.

Tomorrow he would insist on a complete explanation for what had happened to change her attitude so drastically between the wedding and the banquet. No, he corrected himself with a wry grin, he would ask her for an explanation -that tempestuous beauty sleeping across the hall would be for more likely to respond to a question than a demand.