Whitney, My Love

Chapter Thirty-three

AT THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN, WHITNEY CLIMBED FROM BENEATH the cool sheets, groped for her dressing robe in the dark, then settled into a chair at the windows to watch the sun rise over London on her wedding day. She bent her head and tried to pray. But all her prayers began with "Thank you" instead of "Please."

She heard the house slowly stirring to life, the sound of servants moving about the halls, of footsteps passing her door. The wedding was not to begin until three o'clock, and that seemed tike an eternity from now.

For hours, time scarcely seemed to move, and then, just after noon, time leapt forward, picking up extraordinary speed. People scurried in and out of her bedroom, while Aunt Anne sat perched upon the bed, watching Clarissa brush Whitney's thick mahogany tresses until they shone. Emily came into the room wearing a dressing robe, ready to slip into her gown, and Elizabeth was right on her heels. "Hello," Whitney said in a quiet, joyous voice.

"Nervous or just not talkative?" Emily teased gaily.

"Neither. Just happy."

"Aren't you the tiniest bit nervous?" Elizabeth persevered hopefully, darting a conspiratorial wink at Emily and Whitney's aunt. "I hope his grace hasn't changed his mind."

"He hasn't." Whitney assured her with perfect serenity.

"Well!" Clayton's mother laughed, coming into the room, "I can see things are not much different here than they are in Upper Brook Street this afternoon. Stephen is driving Clay-ton to the brink of madness."

"Is Clayton nervous?" Whitney asked incredulously.

"Beyond belief!" her grace said, smiling and sitting down beside Anne Gilbert on the bed.

"Why?" Whitney asked in alarm.

"Why? There are at least a dozen reasons why, and all of them are either directly or indirectly related to Stephen. At ten o'clock this morning, Stephen arrived at the house and told Clayton that as he passed here, two travelling chaises were being loaded and that he was quite, quite certain he saw you getting into one of them. Clayton was already bounding down the stairs to come after you before Stephen shouted that he was joking."

Whitney smothered a laugh and the duchess said, "You may find that amusing, my dear, but Clayton did not. After that, Stephen convincingly reported that he had discovered a nonexistent plot among the groomsmen to kidnap Clayton and delay his arrival at the wedding. Which is why all twelve of the groomsmen are now cooling their heels under Clay-ton's watchful eye at his house. And that is only the beginning."

"Poor Clayton."

"Poor Stephen," the duchess corrected drily. "I came here because I couldn't bear to watch my elder son murder my younger, which is what Clayton was threatening-rather seriously, I might add-to do if Stephen came within arm's reach of him again."

Time flew on rapid, beating wings, and suddenly Whitney was fully dressed, walking into the bedroom for her aunt and her future mother-in-law's inspection.

"Oh my dear child," the duchess gasped, her eyes shining with wonder. "I have never seen anything like you in all my life!" Stepping back, she surveyed Whitney's ivory, pearl-encrusted gown which had been designed as a glorious representation of a medieval bride. Its low, square-cut bodice hugged Whitney's full bosom. then tapered to a narrow waistline, where a gold chain with clusters of diamonds and pearls set in each shining link rode low on her hips. The undersleeves were tightly fitted satin tubes terminating in deep points at the tops of her hands, but the satin oversleeves, stiffly encrusted with pearls, ended in wide bells at her elbows. A flowing satin cape trailed behind her; bordered in pearls, and attached at her shoulders with jeweled links that matched those at her waist. She wore no veil. Instead, her long hair was pulled back off her forehead and held at the crown with a diamond and pearl clip. It cascaded over her shoulders in curving waves, ending in soft thick curls, midway down her back. Clayton had once said he liked it best this way.

"You look exactly like a medieval princess would have wished to look," Clayton's mother breathed reverently, but Anne Gilbert only stared in silent joy at the serenely beautiful young woman who was about to become a duchess, while in Anne's mind she saw Whitney as she had been not so long ago, wearing groom's britches and balancing barefoot on the back of a cantering horse. When she finally spoke, tears of happiness and pride thickened her voice. "We should leave early for the church. Your father said there were crowds of spectators already gathering when he passed there hours ago, and he said that traffic was dreadfully bogged down."

That turned out to be an understatement. Four blocks from the massive church, the coach bearing Whitney, her father, and her aunt, was at a complete stop, hopelessly caught in the tangle of conveyances and would-be spectators blocking the streets. It was as if all London had turned out to witness the wedding.

In a large anteroom of the church, twelve groomsmen looked up hopefully as Stephen came in from a side door. He walked over to Clayton who was leaning against a table, his rigid features reflecting the gathering storm brewing within him as it seemed more and more likely that Whitney had jilted him at the altar. Stephen, however, was imperturbably cheerful as he reported, "There is the most unbelievable snarl out there. The streets are swarming with pedestrians, and the horses and carriages can't move "

Clayton straightened abruptly and jerked his head toward tile door. "Find McRea, he's in this church somewhere, and tell him I want the coach waiting in front. If she isn't here in five minutes, I'm going after her."

"Clay, unless your cattle have sprouted wings, it wouldn't do any good. Would you mind stepping over to this door and seeing for yourself why Whitney is late?"

With long, angry strides, Clayton followed him to the door which looked out from the side of the church onto a square. The street was teaming with humanity and hopelessly entangled conveyances. "What in the living hell is going on?" he snapped.

"A duke is getting married." Stephen grinned. "And to a beautiful girl who has neither aristocratic lineage nor even immense wealth. Apparently yours is the fairy-tale wedding of the century, and the cits mean to be here to see it."

"Who in God's name invited them?" Clayton demanded, his mind on where Whitney might have gone to elude him.

"Since we don't own the church, they undoubtedly think they have the right to be here. Although," Stephen added wryly, "there's no more room left out there. Even the balconies are filled to capacity."

"Your grace," a serene masculine voice interrupted. Fourteen concerned male faces turned toward the archbisnop who was arrayed in all his ecclesiastical finery. "The bride is here," he said quietly.

Twenty thousand white candles illuminated the aisles and the altar of the church. The organ pipes gave forth an expectant note, and then musk rose majestically, filling the echoing church from its marble floor to the high-vaulted ceilings.

One by one, Whitney watched her twelve bridesmaids drift down the aisle. Therese DuVille Ronsard accepted her bouquet from the maid and straightened her train, then she turned to Whitney with a soft smile. "Nicki gave me a message, which I am to give to you at this moment. He said to tell you, 'Bon voyage-again.'"

The poignant message from Nicki almost shattered Whitney's composure. Tears momentarily blurred her vision and she purposefully focused her eyes on Emily, who was just stepping out into the aisle in a trail of apple-green silk and satin. Alone now with her father with whom she had only exchanged polite, impersonal comments since his arrival for the wedding two days ago, Whitney turned to him. He looked austere and gruff. "Are you nervous, Papa?" she asked softly, watching him.

"Nothing to be nervous about," he said in an oddly hoarse voice. "I'm walking down the aisle with the most beautiful female in England on my arm." He looked at her, and Whitney saw that his eyes were moist as he added, "Don't suppose you'll believe this, because you and I have always been at sixes and sevens, but I never would have promised you to the duke if I didn't think he was man enough to handle-no, the man for you," he corrected clumsily. "I thought to myself that first day, when he came to the house, that the two of you were cut from the same cloth, and I agreed to his suit right then. We never even discussed money until after I had agreed to the betrothal."

Whitney's eyes were misty as she leaned up and kissed his furrowed brow. "Thank you for telling me that, Papa. I love you, too."

The organ music suddenly stopped, followed by a long moment of suspenseful silence, then it gave forth two expectant blasts, and Whitney laid her trembling hand upon her father's arm.

With the music soaring through the eaves and four thousand people staring in awed, hushed silence as she took each step, Whitney started down the long aisle.

Clayton had carried a picture in his mind of how she would look at this moment-a picture of a beautiful bride in a veil and flowing white gown. But the vision he saw coming toward him through the candlelight snatched his breath away. Pride burst within him, exploding through his entire body until he ached with it. No bride had ever, ever looked the way she did. Whitney was coming to him without shyness, without even a veil to cover herself from him. As he watched, she raised her eyes to his-then kept them there-deliberately letting every man, woman, and child in that church see that she was proud to be going to him.

Her luxuriant hair spilled over her shoulders, the gold chain that rode her slender hips swayed gracefully with each step, and behind her trailed a magnificent cape glowing with pearls. She was a queen in ail her breathtaking glory, serene but not haughty, provocatively beautiful, yet aloof, untouchable. "Oh my Chad, little one," Clayton whispered in his heart.

The crowd watched in breathless anticipation as the duke stepped forward, his tall frame resplendent in rich royal purple velvet. They saw him take her hand and smile into her eyes-and they knew he said something to her. But only Whitney heard his softly spoken, "Hello, my love." The sight of the handsome duke gazing down upon his beautiful bride with such gentle pride brought handkerchiefs to eyes before the couple ever began to say their vows.

Clayton led her to the altar, to her place beside him, the place that would be hers for all eternity.

Whitney stood with her hand in his strong, reassuring grasp. When the archbishop asked her to repeat her vows, she turned to Clayton and lifted her eyes to meet his warm, reassuring gaze. She made her voice sound firm and sure, but when she was promising to obey him, Clayton's expression changed. He lifted one brow in a look of such humorous skepticism that Whitney almost missed a word as she choked back a stunned giggle.

At last they were pronounced man and wife; the organ music rose and swelled; and Clayton claimed his right to kiss his bride. It was such a chaste peck, so unlike any kiss he had ever given her before, that Whitney's eyes registered visible surprise. "I will have to practice," Clayton whispered teasing-ry as they turned, "until I get the hang of it."

His gloriously beautiful bride nodded with sham solemnity and whispered demurely, "I shall be happy to help you with your lessons, my lord."

Which is why, it was later reported, the Duke of

Claymore's shoulders were shaking with laughter as he left the altar with his duchess on his arm.

Whitney sat beside Clayton in his coach as they swept over the smooth roads toward Claymore. The Gilberts' conveyance was still hopelessly snarled in traffic at the church, so Whitney's aunt and uncle were grateful, but reluctant, passengers in the vehicle with the bride and groom which, as the four of them were all acutely aware, left no privacy for the newlyweds.

Listening to Clayton conversing with them, she looked at the heavy gold band he had slid onto her hand. It felt strange there, covering her long slender finger almost to the first knuckle-a bold proclamation to the world that she belonged to her husband.

Her husband? Whitney stole a glance at Clayton through her lashes. My husband, she repeated to herself, and a thrill shot through her. Dear Lord … he was her husband; six feet three inches of bold masculinity, elegant and sophisticated-but forceful too; a gathered power, carefully restrained. She even bore his name now. She belonged to him. It was a scary thought-and a little wonderful, too, she decided.

The bridal entourage moved decorously through the main gates at Claymore then swept along the winding private drive where festive torches were already ablaze on both sides of the road to light the way for the guests who would soon be arriving. When they pulled up before the main house, Clay-ton helped Whitney to alight, and she was amazed to see that all the staff-from butler, steward, housekeeper, footmen, and maids; to gardeners, keepers, foresters, and stableboys- were lined up on the front steps in immaculate livery and uniforms, according to their individual rank.

Clayton led her, not to the front door as she expected, but rather to the foot of the steps to stand before diem. Whitney smiled a little uncertainly at the hundred and fifty faces, then glanced at Clayton.

"Brace yourself," he whispered, grinning. A second later the air was split with the thunder of cheers and applause.

He waited for the clamor to the down. "This is another tradition," he explained to Whitney as he remained there, regarding the servants gravely, but with a smile in his eyes. "Behold your new mistress, my wife." Clayton spoke the ancient words of the first Duke of Claymore, who had returned with his abducted bride, in a deep resonant voice that carried to all. "And know that when she bids you, I have bidden yon; what service you render her, you are rendering me; what loyalty you give or withhold from her, you give or withhold from me." Wide smiles wreathed the faces of the staff, and as Clayton turned to lead Whitney away, a cheer twice as uproarious as the last went up.

In the white-and-gold salon, Clayton poured champagne for Whitney, Lord and Lady Gilbert, and himself. Stephen and his mother joined them and Clayton automatically filled two more glasses. All one hundred and twenty-six rooms of the main house and the seventy rooms of the combined guest houses were occupied with wedding guests, many of whom had arrived the day before. Already there was the incessant sound of carriages pulling up in the drive, which meant the house guests were returning from the church.

"Would you like to rest, love?" Clayton asked as he handed Whitney her glass. Whitney glanced at the clock. It was seven and the festivities were to begin at eight. In the meantime, Clarissa would need to press her gown, which meant she bad no time to finish her champagne. Reluctantly, she nodded and put down her glass.

Clayton saw her wistful glance at her wineglass and, giving her a mocking grin, he picked up both their glasses and led her up the broad curving staircase toward their chambers. At the suite which adjoined his, and which she would occupy from this day forward, he stopped, opened the door for her, and handed her a glass of champagne. "Shall I have a full bottle sent up, my lady?" he teased, and before Whitney could make a suitably audacious reply, his mouth came down, lightly playing over hers in a sweet, fleeting kiss.

A crimson carpet stretched from the drive up the terraced steps leading to the great house which was ablaze with lights.

The guests arrived in a steady, endless stream, making their way up the grand staircase, which was flanked by thirty footmen standing stiffly at attention in burgundy-and-gold Westmoreland livery.

Beneath a six-tiered chandelier in the ballroom, Whitney stood beside Clayton while the butler intoned, "Lord and Lady … Sir… Mr. and Mrs …" as each individual passed beneath the marble portals into the flower-decked room. "Lady Amelia Eubank," she heard the butler say. Automatically, Whitney tensed as the gruff old dowager bore down on them wearing an outrageous green turban and purple satin gown.

"I trust, Madam," Clayton mocked, grinning at the old harridan, "that I did not fail to provide you with adequate 'competition' for Sevarin?"

Lady Eubank gave a sharp crack of laughter, then leaned closer to Clayton. "I've been wanting to ask you, Claymore, precisely why you happened to select the Hodges place for your 'rest?'"

"Precisely," Clayton said as he tipped his head toward Whitney, "for the reason you think I did."

"I knew it!" said she with a triumphant chuckle. "It took me weeks to be certain, though. You arrogant young pup!" she added almost affectionately as she put monocle to eye and turned, looking for one of her unfortunate neighbors from the village to pounce upon.

Dinner was a magnificent affair which began with a round of champagne toasts, the first of which was offered by Stephen. "To the Duchess of Claymore," he said.

Looking over at Clayton's mother, Whitney smiled gaily and lifted her glass, prepared to toast her. "I believe Stephen means you, love," Clayton whispered with a chuckle.

"Me? Oh yes, of course," Whitney said, quickly lowering her hand as she tried to cover her mistake. But it was too late, for the guests had seen her and were already roaring with laughter.

After toasts had been offered for the bride and groom's health, their happiness, and long life, the guests began calling for a toast from the groom. Clayton rose from his chair and

Whitney felt a burst of pride as he stood there, surrounded by that aura of quiet command that was so much a part of him. He spoke and his deep voice carried to the farthest corners of the silent room. "Several months ago in Paris," he said, gazing for a tender moment at Whitney, "a lovely young woman accused me of 'pretending1 to be a duke. She said that I was such a poor 'impostor' that I really ought to choose some other title to which to aspire-some title that would suit me better. I decided there was only one other title I wanted: that of her husband." He shook his head ruefully, while laughter kindled in his gray eyes. "Believe me, my first title was far more easily acquired than the second." When the deluge of laughter subsided, Clayton added solemnly, "and of far, far less value."

When the musicians struck up the first waltz, Clayton led her onto the dance floor. Taking her in his arms, he whirled her around and around for all to behold, but when the guests joined them on the floor, he relaxed and danced more quietly with her.

His senses were alive to the elusive perfumed scent of her, to the light touch of her fingertips. He thought of tomorrow night, or the night after, when he would truly make her his, and his blood stirred so hotly that he had to force the thought aside. He tried to concentrate on something else, and in the space of ten seconds, was mentally undressing and kissing her, caressing her with his hands and mouth until she was wild for him.

Her father claimed her for the next dance, and Clayton danced with his mother, and so it went for hours. It was long after midnight when Whitney and he left the dance floor to stroll together, arm in arm, laughing and talking with their guests.

Whitney was obviously enjoying herself and Clayton was certainly in no hurry to take her away from her party. After all, be had nothing to look forward to tonight except sleeping alone in his bed. As the clock neared the hour of one, however, Clayton began to have the uneasy feeling that the guests were expecting them to retire-a suspicion which was confirmed when Lord Marcus Rutherford remarked to him in a tow, laughter-tinged voice, "My God, man, if you're wondering when you can leave without causing talk, it was about two hours ago."

Clayton went to Whitney. "I'm sorry to put an end to your evening, little one, but if we don't leave soon, people will begin to talk. Let's say good night to your aunt and uncle," he urged, but he wasn't particularly eager to leave either, and it irked him to be evicted from his own damned party in his own damned house by his own damned guests . . . which, he instantly realized, was an entirely hilarious way for a bridegroom to be thinking on his wedding night, particularly when that bridegroom was himself. Grinning, he shook his head at the irony of it.

Unfortunately, Clayton was still grinning when Whitney bade her uncle good night, and that gentleman, mistaking Clayton's grin as a leer, felt it incumbent upon himself to give the bridegroom a dark, reproving frown. Clayton stiffened under the silent reprimand and, feeling unfairly villified, said flatly, "We shall see you at breakfast," when he had intended but a moment before to bid Lord Gilbert a friendly good night.

In silence, Clayton led Whitney down the long hall from the west wing. Tension twisted within her as they crossed the balcony, and at the staircase, her steps began to lag. Clayton, however, was grappling with a new problem and did not notice: Should he take Whitney to his chambers, or should he take her to hers? There were servants swarming all over the damned place and he didn't want their lack of marital intimacy on their wedding night to be common knowledge among the staff.

He had just decided to take her to her chambers when two footmen came up the stairs and, feeling guilty as a thief in his own house, Clayton quickly changed direction, stepped back, and opened the door to his rooms instead of hers. He had started into his suite before he realized that Whitney had stopped in the doorway and was staring in stricken paralysis at the familiar room where he had savagely torn her clothes off.

"Come, sweet," he said, casting a quick look down the hall and forcibly drawing her within. "There is nothing to fear in here, no madman to ravish you."

With a toss of her head, she seemed to shake off the memories that were haunting her, and she stepped inside. Sighing with relief, Clayton closed the door behind them and guided Whitney over to the long green sofa at right angles to the fireplace, across from the chair he had sat in that fateful night. He started to sit down beside her on the sofa, took one look at her enticing profile, and thought it would be wiser if he sat in the chair across from her instead.

Whitney couldn't possibly sleep in her rooms tonight and he in his, he decided, because the servants would think it odd if both beds were slept in. She would have to sleep in his bed and he would sleep on the sofa.

He looked at her. Her dark head was turned toward the blazing fire on the hearth, away from the large bed on the dais. It dawned on him then that she must be wondering why, if he meant to keep his promise, he hadn't taken her to her chambers instead of his. "You will have to sleep in here, little one-otherwise the servants will gossip. I'll sleep on the sofa."

She looked up at him and smiled, as if her thoughts had been far away.

After an awkward moment, he suggested, "Would you like to talk?"

"Yes," she agreed readily.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Oh-anything."

Clayton racked his brain for something interesting to discuss, but his mind and his body were both riveted on her exciting presence in his bedroom. "The weather was extremely fine today," he announced finally. He could have sworn that laughter flickered across her features, or was it only a trick of the firelight? "It didn't rain," he added, beginning to feel utterly ridiculous.

"It wouldn't have mattered if it did rain. It still would have been a beautiful, wonderful day."

God! he wished she wouldn't look at him with those glowing green eyes and smile at him in that entrancing way. Not tonight. There was a discreet knocking upon his door, and also hers. "Who in the hell would-?"

"I imagine it's Clarissa," Whitney said, already rising and looking about her for the connecting door which would lead into her bedchambers. Clayton went to the door that led into the hall, pulled it open and stared irritably at his valet, who said blandly, "Good evening, your grace," and automatically came in. Damn! He'd forgotten about his valet and Whitney's maid. For his part, Clayton thought it would be less trying on his aroused senses if they both slept in their clothes. Mentally cursing all servants in general, Clayton showed Whitney to the connecting door, then turned on his heel and strode into the study adjoining his bedchambers, already having forgotten his valet's presence somewhere in his suite.

Staring at the shelves of books lining the study walls, he tried to decide what to read. What to read, for God's sake! On his wedding night! After eight weeks of the barely restrained passion they had shared, why was she still so frightened? And what insanity had possessed him to make her that promise?

As he reached for a book, Armstrong padded silently into the study behind him. "May I assist you, your grace?" Jerking his hand self-consciously away from the bookshelf, Clayton rounded on his hapless valet. "I'll ring if I need you!" he said curtly, trying to keep his annoyance hidden. The servants would say he was as nervous as a boy on his wedding night, if he snapped and growled. "That will be all, Armstrong. Good night," he added, then he personally escorted the surprised valet to the door of the suite, thrust him out into the hallway, and locked the door behind him.

Clayton strode back to his study, stripped off his jacket and neckcloth, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Pulling the stopper out of the decanter on his desk, he poured a liberal amount of brandy in a glass, then he took a book off one of the shelves, sat down, and stretched out his long legs. Intending to relax, he sipped his brandy and read the same paragraph four times before he finally gave up and slammed the book shut.

He was genuinely annoyed with himself, and a little surprised, at being so unnerved by what was, after all, only one more night of celibacy. After eight weeks of celibacy, why did this one extra night matter so much? It mattered, he realized ruefully, because he couldn't shake the conviction that a wedding night automatically, irrevocably, meant lovemaking-because that was the way it was supposed to be. Considering that in his entire adult life, he'd never paid much heed to the way things were "supposed to be," Clayton couldn't imagine why he should be doing so tonight. Unless it was because his wife's (he liked the sound of that-his wife's) intoxicating body was his now, by marital right. And it was also tantalizingly near his own starved body.

He allowed Whitney twice the amount of time she could possibly need before he finally got up and reentered his bedroom. She wasn't there. The connecting door was ajar, and he went through her dressing room into her bedroom. She wasn't there either. His heart began to hammer even though he told himself she could not have, would not have, actually fled from him. Surely she had more faith in his word than that!

With quickened pace, Clayton retraced his footsteps, drawing to a relieved halt in the doorway of his bedroom. Whitney was at the opposite end of it, standing near the dais, staring at the huge four-poster bed upon it. In the glow of candlelight, he could see the memories, the fear in her expression. He moved into the room and his shadow lengthened down the long wall.

Whitney looked up at him, and Clayton saw her quickly hide her fear behind an enchanting smile. "Who are you- really?" she asked in the same conspiratorial tone she'd used at the Armands' masquerade so long ago.

"A duke," he offered, smiling as he remembered the way they had bantered that night. "Also your husband. Who are you?"

"A duchess!" she exclaimed with a mixture of joy and disbelief.

"Also my wife?"

She nodded, slowly, her smile widening delightfully. In his mind, Clayton saw the provocative goddess she had been that night with yellow and purple flowers entwined in her hair. At the same time, he beheld her standing there near his bed, and suddenly it didn't matter that he couldn't make love to her tonight. All that mattered was that he had finally made her his! He had done it-she really was his wife! He felt exhilarated and triumphant. "My 'obedient1 wife?" he teased, emphasizing the word obedient.

Whitney nodded again and he could almost see the laughter in her eyes.

"Then come here, my obedient wife," he commanded huskily.

A shadow of apprehension crossed her vivid features, but she turned fully toward him and began walking to him with that natural, fluid motion of hers. That was when Clayton realized what she was wearing, and he almost groaned aloud. Her dressing robe was made entirely of fragile white lace, revealing glimpses of skin along her arms, her breasts, and even her long legs; and there was enough soft flesh swelling above her bodice to send him into fresh agonies of desire and regret.

She stopped a few steps away from him, gazing at him in fear and confusion, as if she wanted to come the rest of the way but couldn't make herself. "About. . . about your promise," she said in a hesitant voice. "Remember?"

Did he remember his promise! "I remember it, little one," Clayton said quietly. He went to her and gently enfolded her in his arms, trying to ignore the incredible feel of her almost naked breasts softly crushed against his thin shirt. He wanted to kiss her but she was trembling so violently that he was afraid to, so he just held her with her face cradled against his chest and slowly stroked her long, lustrous hair.

"When I was a little girl," she whispered unsteadily against his heart, "lying in bed at night, I used to imagine that there were things-in the closets."

She fell silent and Clayton urged her, "There were toy soldiers in my closets. What were in yours?"

"Monsters!" she whispered. "Huge, ugly ones with claws for feet and enormous, bulging eyes." She drew a shaky breath and said, "There are monsters in this room too- hideous memories lurking in the shadows and coiners."

Clayton flinched with pained remorse. "I know there are. But you've nothing to be afraid of; I'll not ask anything of you tonight. I gave you my word."

She leaned back a little and looked up at him, her face so lovely and vulnerable that Clayton wondered for the thousandth time how he ever, ever could have hurt her that night. She tried to say something and couldn't; instead she rested her cheek against his chest, sliding her arms around his waist.

After a moment, she began again, "I used to lie in bed at night, afraid of what was in the closet. And then, when I couldn't endure it any longer, I would run across the room and snatch the door open and make myself look inside."

Clayton smiled inwardly. It was like her to grow weary of cowering under the blankets and confront the darkness- monsters or no monsters. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that he had to strain to hear it.

"The closet was always empty. No monsters . . . nothing to fear." She drew a shuddering breath. "Clayton, I don't want to spend our wedding night lying alone in your bed, afraid of what is in the shadows."

Clayton's hand froze in mid-air, then he made himself continue the soothing motion, giving her time to reconsider. "You're certain?" he asked quietly.

Whitney nodded and whispered, "Yes."

Leaning down, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the big four-poster where he had taught her how degrading the act could be, promising himself, every step of the way, that this time would be so perfect for her that the other time would be banished from her memory. He slipped his hand from beneath her knees, and the gliding feel of her legs sliding down his thighs made his hands tremble as he untied the ribbons at her breasts and tenderly shoved the lacy gown aside.

Her ivory shoulders and full, rosy-tipped breasts gleamed in the light from the fire across the room. "My God, you are beautiful," he breathed, and felt her body quiver sharply when his hands slid down her arms, sending the fragile lace gown spilling onto the floor. He took her dewy lips in a long, sweet kiss, then swept the satin coverlet back and lifted her gently, laying her on the cool sheets.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away, and Clayton saw the flush that swept up her long shapely legs, her slender curves, staining the glowing ivory skin right up to her hairline. Out of consideration for her obvious embarrassment, he reluctantly extinguished the candles burning on the bedside table. Afraid to leave her alone with the memories she was ready to confront, he undressed there beside the bed, then stretched out alongside her and carefully pulled her into his arms. Whitney stiffened. He ran his hand soothingly over her naked back, and she stiffened even more. Clayton stopped caressing her and lay back against the pillows with her head on his chest.

In the next few moments her breathing went from slow and shallow, to rapid and shallow, and he was not even touching her. Christ, how he hated himself for what he had done to her that night! She was so tense, so taut in every fiber of her body that, unless he could help her relax, he would hurt her no matter how gentle he was.

So that she wouldn't be overly conscious of their nakedness, Clayton reached down and drew the sheet over them. "I want to talk awhile first," he explained. Relief flooded her features and he chuckled because she looked as if she'd just been granted a last-minute reprieve from the guillotine. "If yon possibly can, I would like you to try to put out of your mind what happened before. I'd also like you to forget whatever yon may have heard about what happens between a husband and wife in bed, and simply listen to me."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Expressions such as 'submitting to him' or 'taking her' should never have been applied to lovemaking, yet I know this is the way you must think of it. The first implies a duty, performed reluctantly. The second is rape. I am not going to take' you, and you are not going to 'submit' to me. Nor are you going to feel any pain." With a tender smile at her upturned face, he said, "I promise you that you are not malformed. You are perfectly and exquisitely made."

He ran a forefinger over her lovely cheek. "What is about to take place between us is a sharing, born of my desire to be as close to you as I can be, to actually become a part of you. Little one, when I am inside of you I am not taking, I am giving. I am giving my body to you as I gave you my love before, and my ring today. When I am inside of you, I will put the seed of my own life into you and leave it there for you to keep and shelter within you-a symbol of my love and need for you, like your betrothal ring."

In the flickering orange glow from the fireplace across the room, Clayton saw her hesitate, and then imperceptibly tilt her face up, offering her lips for his kiss. Very slowly and gently, Clayton leaned over and began to kiss his wife. He kissed her long and lingeringly, with all the aching tenderness in his heart and she, after a few moments of tense passivity, laid her slender fingers against his cheek and began to kiss him back with all the shy, trembling love Clayton knew she felt.

Her soft lips parted with only the slightest urging from his probing tongue, and her arms went around his neck as she drew his tongue into her mouth, then gave him hers. He teased her, tormented her, offered himself to her by thrusting deep with his tongue, then slowly retreating and thrusting again and again, until Whitney was clinging to him, her mouth moving back and forth over his in passionate surrender to the wildly erotic kiss.

He stroked her hair and slid his hand down over her throat to her breasts, circling the pink crests with his thumb until they stood up proudly. Whitney shivered with delight and started to fit herself to his hardened length-then jerked away as if she had been scorched. Clayton immediately knew what had terrified her and although she resisted, he moved his arm to hold her hips against his. "No," he said gently as she tried to pull her lower body away from his rigid manhood. "Nothing is going to hurt you."

Her long lashes swept up and she gave him such a doubtful, accusing look, that he nearly smiled. "Put your hand on my chest," he instructed gently. "Only on my chest," he assured her when she lifted her hand to obey and then hesitated. The instant she moved her fingers over his warm skin, his muscles leapt reflexively. "See how my body responds to your touch?" he told her quietly. "The part of me that you are afraid of is only responding to your nearness, reaching for you." He gathered her closer against his thighs and hips, but she remained stiff and tensed. "You aren't still afraid that I am going to hurt you, after I've promised I won't?"

Whitney swallowed convulsively and shook her bead against the pillow. If Clayton said this wasn't going to be painful, she would believe him. Tentatively she moved her fingers over the furring of dark hair on his chest and felt the slight increase in the steady thudding of his heart, the rippling of his powerful chest muscles when she slid her hand a little lower.

Clayton felt it as a flame racing uncontrollably through his veins. "Oh darling," he half laughed, half groaned, "please feel pride in what you can do to me. It humbles me to know you can make my body respond to your slightest touch, even if I will against it. It humbles me more to tell you so. But I tell you anyway, because if you can take pride in having such power over me, I can find a reason for joy in it, as well. But if it frightens you or makes you ashamed, then our love must be a timid thing, a thing of shame."

Whitney drew a long, unsteady breath and, reaching her arms around his neck, she pressed herself to the full length of his hard, unyielding contours and began to kiss him. Trembling in his embrace, she kissed his forehead and his eyes and his mouth. She slid her tongue over his lips, feeling the warm smoothness of them, and Clayton groaned, his mouth opening passionately over hers. And when he shifted her onto her back and leaned over her, kissing her and caressing her with his gentle, skillful hands, Whitney didn't know if what she was feeling was pride, but whatever it was, it was drugging and delirious and wonderful.

"I want you," he whispered against her parted lips. "I want you so badly that I ache for you." He took his-mouth from hers and his hand trembled as he lifted it to cup her face. "I'll never hurt you, little one," he promised, his voice hoarse with tenderness and love.

Whitney's answer made his throat ache. "I know you won't," she whispered. "But it wouldn't matter if you hurt me every night-as long as you always say those things- about wanting to be a part of me."

Clayton couldn't help himself; he covered her mouth with his and devoured her with tender violence. He fondled her breasts and teased her nipples with his fingers, and she moaned softly when his mouth began retracing the path his hands had taken.

Every slight movement of her awakening body twisting beneath his gentle assault-every sound she made raced through his bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. He could not believe the passion she contained, nor the violence of his body's craving for her; he was ravenous for her.

Her hands were tangling in his hair-, running over his shoulders and back, her nails digging into his flesh. But when he moved his hand down to the soft triangle between her legs, Whitney gave a leap of fear at his intimate touch and clamped her thighs together.

"Don't, darling," he murmured body, capturing her mouth in a deep, consuming kiss as he gently, inexorably, parted her thighs, his fingers teasing and toying with her, exploring and delightfully tormenting her until she was soft and damp and more than ready for him.

When he shifted up and over her, however, Whitney was jolted from the sensual whirlpool that had been sweeping her toward sweet oblivion. In fright that would not be banished she felt Clayton part her legs, felt her hips being lifted to receive him, and she swallowed back a cry of sheer panic at the probing hardness of him coming into intimate contact with her. Despite his promise, her body automatically braced itself for pain … but there was only the proud heat of him sliding slowly into her. Instinctively, she relaxed and opened for him, then gasped with exquisite pleasure as he plunged full length into her welcoming softness.

She wrapped her arms around him, lost in incoherent yearnings to have him stay inside of her like this forever, to draw him somehow deeper. She thought this was how it ended, and she could have wept with longing to have it continue. And then Clayton began to move within her, and Whitney ceased to think at all. Something small unfolded in the pit of her stomach, then spread like a mellow glow, slowly building and gathering force, until it began to race in a trembling fury along her every nerve. Twisting her head fitfully on the pillows she began arching to meet his deep plunging thrusts. "Please," she begged him in a whisper, but she did not know what she was asking for.

Clayton did. And he wanted it so badly for her that his own rampaging desire was secondary. "Soon, darling," he promised and began to steadily quicken the rhythm of his driving strokes.

The volcano that had been threatening to erupt inside of Whitney exploded with a force that tore a low scream from her throat. Instantly Clayton throttled the scream with his mouth. When her tremors had subsided he took her sweet lips in a long kiss, and with one deep thrust, he poured his shuddering warmth at the mouth of her womb.

Afraid that his weight would crush her, Clayton gathered her to him and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Lying there, with Whitney cradled in his arms, his body still intimately joined to hers, he experienced a joyous contentment, a languorous peace, unlike anything he had ever known.

He half expected Whitney to fall asleep in his arms, but after several minutes, she tilted her head back and raised shining green eyes to his. Clayton brushed a wayward curl off her cheek. "Are you happy, love?"

She smiled at him; the sated, happy smile of a woman who knew. . . and who knows that she is beloved. "Yes," she whispered.

He kissed her forehead and she snuggled closer against him, while he tenderly caressed the lovely contours of her back and hip, waiting for her to fell asleep. Instead, she lapsed into silence, tracing small circles on his chest, but she did not seem any more inclined toward sleep than he. "What are you thinking about?" he asked her finally.

Whitney's gaze flew to his, then she buried her face against his chest. "Nothing," she murmured unconvincingly.

Tilting her chin up, Clayton forced her to look at him. He had no idea what she could be thinking, but after having just removed the last barrier between them, he didn't want any new ones erected, ever. "What?" he persisted with gentle firmness.

She bit her lip in a combination of shyness and laughter. "I was thinking that if it had been like this-that other time-instead of fleeing from here, I would have stayed and demanded that you do the proper thing and marry me at once!"

She looked so beautiful that Clayton was torn between laughing and kissing her. So he did both. It was heaven to hold her in his arms like this, to be able to talk to her in the darkness and have her bare arms around him. Clayton felt more in the mood for celebrating than sleeping. When he looked down at her a while later and found her still awake, gazing into the firelight, he said, "Do you want to sleep?"

"I don't think I could. I'm wide awake."

"Good, so am I." He grinned. "Will you light all three of, those candles on the table beside you?"

"Your smallest wish is my command," his "obedient" wife told him as she leaned up on an elbow and kissed him full on the mouth, but before she turned over to light the candles, she carefully drew the sheet up.

Clayton's lips twitched with laughter as she modestly clutched it to the luscious breasts he had just fondled and kissed. He propped their pillows up so that they could sit back against them, then he relaxed back and pleasured himself with the sight of her. When she turned from lighting the candles and saw him gazing at her, she self-consciously ran her fingers through her tumbled tresses and gave the luxuriant mass a hard shake that sent it spilling down her back. "Madam," Clayton reassured her with a roguish grin, "you are beautiful en dishabille-if that sheet you are trying to wear qualifies you for being in that fashionable state of partial dress."

"I don't think it does," Whitney mused thoughtfully. "In France and even here, it is all the rage for ladies to receive gentlemen en dishabille, but I'm certain they must be wearing more than this." Then Whitney realized with a rosy blush that Clayton undoubtedly knew a good deal more about that particular "rage" than she did, and the thought made her feel a little forlorn.

Everyone knew that Clayton had had mistresses before, and married men frequently kept mistresses discreetly tucked away, too. It crushed her to think of him doing the things he had just done with her, with another woman, too. Emboldened by her distress and ashamed of her shocking effrontery, Whitney said hesitantly, "Clayton, I think I would have a very difficult time pretending not to notice . . . no, passively accepting… accepting . . ."

"Accepting what?" Clayton whispered, his lips against her temple.

"A mistress!" Whitney blurted.

Clayton's head jerked up. For a moment he stared blankly at her, then he wrapped his arms around her and burst out laughing. But because he knew she was genuinely distressed, he made his face more appropriately solemn-as befitted the lifetime renunciation he was about to make. Then, gazing into her glorious eyes, he said in quiet earnest, "I will not take a mistress."

"Thank you," Whitney whispered. "I'm afraid I would feel very strongly about it."

"I'm sure you would," he said, striving to keep his face straight.

A few minutes later, Clayton remembered the velvet box tucked away in the table beside the bed. Reluctantly easing his arm from beneath her shoulders, he explained, "I have a gift for you."

Whitney remembered that she had one for him, too, and was out of the bed in a flurry of long, shapely limbs and creamy curves. "I asked Clarissa to put yours in my room," she explained as she started away from the bed. Clayton was devouring the sight of her exquisite naked form when she noticed his look, then hurtled herself toward the discarded lace robe.

He presented her with a necklace of square-cut emeralds, each surrounded with a row of glittering diamonds, and a matching bracelet and ear drops. "Fit for a duchess," he whispered as he kissed her.

Whitney laughed as she handed him his gift. "Fit for a duke," she said, sitting beside him with her legs curled beneath her, watching him open it. Clayton snapped the lid up, then threw back his head and shouted with laughter at the sight of the gorgeously made, solid-gold quizzing glass she had given him. In exactly the same tone she had used at the Armands' masquerade, she said, "A quizzing glass is an indispensable affectation of royalty." Then she reached behind her and produced another gift in a small velvet box. As she handed it to him, the laughter vanished from her face, and her whole expression changed.

Clayton looked at her for a long moment before opening the box, wondering why she suddenly seemed almost shy. Puzzled, he opened the lid and beheld a magnificent ruby set in a heavy gold ring. He took the ring from its bed of Mack velvet and it glittered in the dim light. Holding it closer to the candles to admire it, he was about to ask her sentimentally if she would like to put the ring on his finger, as he had placed her wedding band on hers, when he caught sight of a small inscription on the inside of the band. In handsome scroll were two words, the first of which was underlined. "My lord."

He groaned and pulled her almost roughly down onto his chest. "God, how I love you!" he whispered hoarsely as his mouth captured hers.

When the kiss ended, Whitney remained in his arms, and her long fingers lightly stroked the hair at his temple. Between the touch of her hand and the feel of her breasts against his naked chest as she half lay atop him, Clayton was acutely aware that his body was stirring to life with alarming intensity. His senses were alive to every inch of her form languorously stretched across him, but he didn't want to risk frightening her with too much lovemaking their first night. He stirred and Whitney raised herself up on her forearms, bracing them against his chest, affording him a view of bet swelling breasts that made desire pour like boiling lava through his veins.

"Am I too heavy?" she asked him softly.

"No, but I think you ought to get some sleep, my love," he suggested with a tinge of regret.

"I'm not in the least sleepy," his wife said.

She looked like an innocent goddess draped across him, her softly tousled hair spilling over his shoulders. "You're certain you don't want to sleep?" Clayton asked absently, brushing his knuckles over her smooth cheek, marvelling at her vivid beauty. "Then what would you like to do?"

In answer, Whitney looked at him and blushed, then she quickly hid her overheated face against his shoulder.

A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as he shifted her fully atop his aroused length and wrapped his arms around her. "I suppose we could do that," he laughed huskily.