Whitney, My Love

Chapter Twenty-seven

Al THE BACK OF THE CROWDED CHURCH, ELIZABETH ASHTON stood with her father, watching her third bridal attendant drift slowly down the carpeted aisle, then she turned to Whitney who would be next. "You're going to steal the day from me," she smiled, surveying the yellow and white roses entwined in Whitney's lustrous hair and the flowing yellow velvet bridesmaid gown she wore. "You look like a jonquil in springtime."

Whitney laughed. "You look like an angel, and don't you dare try to begin another flattery contest with me. Besides, as a bride, you're supposed to be nervous. Isn't she, Emily?" Whitney whispered, looking over her shoulder at her friend, who would follow her down the aisle.

"I believe so," Emily said absently. This morning she had, confessed to Michael that Whitney and the duke had had a dreadful rift (which was certainly the truth) and that she had invited the duke to the wedding in hopes of bringing them back together. Michael's reaction had been alarmingly unencouraging. He told her that she should not have interfered, that she might be doing both parties an injustice, and that, in the end, they might both despise her for her well-intentioned interference.

Now, Elizabeth was also involved in Emily's scheme. When the guest list was originally prepared, "Mr. Clayton Westland" had been on it, but at Whitney's panicked insistence, Elizabeth had removed his name. Three days ago, Emily told Elizabeth that a secret romance had been blossoming between Whitney and Mr. Westland, but that the couple had quarreled (which was also the truth). Elizabeth had delightedly agreed that sending him a secret invitation was a splendid way to effect a reconciliation. She still did not realize, of course, that Mr. Westland was actually the duke of Claymore, for despite her weeks spent in London, she moved in very different circles from the duke.

Today, Emily cursed her plan as the worst idea she'd ever had.

"You're next, Miss," Emily's maid told Whitney as she bent down and straightened Whitney's train.

The other bridesmaids had cringed in nervous terror from making the long, solitary walk down the aisle, but the prospect didn't bother Whitney in the least. She'd done it a dozen times in Paris for Therese DuVille and other friends, but today she felt especially joyous, for she had played a very large part in bringing this wedding about. With a breezy smile Whitney accepted her bouquet of yellow and white roses from the maid. "Elizabeth," she whispered affectionately, "when next we speak, you'll be married." And she stepped out into the aisle.

Clayton's gaze riveted on her the instant she stepped into view, and the sight of her had the devastating impact of a boulder crashing into his chest. Never had she looked so radiantly beautiful or so serene. She was a shaft of glowing moonlight moving down the center of the candlelit aisle.

He was standing only inches from her as she swept gracefully past him, and he felt as if he were stretched on the rack. Every muscle in his body tightened, straining to endure the torture of her nearness. But it was a torture he welcomed, an agony he didn't want to be spared.

Whitney took her appointed place at the front. She stood quietly through the ceremony but when Elizabeth began softly repeating her vows, the words held a poignancy for Whitney that she'd never felt before, and sentimental tears suddenly stung the backs of her eyes. Without turning her head more than an inch or two, Whitney could view half the audience in the church, and as her gaze touched the crowded rows, she noticed that most of the women were dabbing at their eyes. Aune Anne smiled a silent greeting. Whitney acknowledged it with an imperceptible tip of her head, feeling a surge of comfort at the sight of her aunt's reassuring face.

As the threat of tears passed, and the lump of emotion in her throat began to dissolve, Whitney let her eyes drift back over the rows of guests, past her father, past Margaret Merryton's parents . . . past Lady Eubank who was wearing one of her outrageous turbans . . . past a very tall, dark-haired man who . . . Whitney's heart gave a leap, missed a beat, then began to thump madly as a pair of penetrating gray eyes looked straight into hers. Paralyzed, she saw the bitter regret carved into his handsome features and the aching gentleness in his compelling eyes. And then she tore her gaze from his.

Dragging air into her constricted lungs, she stared blindly ahead. He was here! He had finally come to see her, she thought wildly. He couldn't be here to attend the wedding because he hadn't been invited to it. He was here! Here, looking at her in a way that he had never, ever looked at her before-it was as if he were offering himself to her! Standing very straight and very tall, he was humbly offering himself to her. She knew it, she could feel it.

Whitney wanted to scream, to drop to her knees and weep, to hurt him as he'd hurt her. Fury, humiliation, and wild uncertainty all collided into one another. This was her opportunity to repay him, she thought hysterically, to show him with a single contemptuous glance that she despised him. She might never have another chance. He hadn't tried to see her before this, and he would leave after the wedding; he couldn't attend the banquet without an invitation. Emily said he couldn't possibly approach her without some sign from her, and he was asking her for that sign now.

Oh God! He was silently asking for her forgiveness, standing there and offering himself to her. If her answer was no, he would walk out of this church when the wedding was over. And out of her life.

Whitney closed her eyes in an agony of indecision, not caring that Clayton would see her doing it and know the struggle raging within her. He had abused her body and ravaged her soul and he knew it! Her pride demanded that she look up at him and show him that she felt only contempt for him. But her heart screamed not to let him walk out of this church.

"Don't cry, darling," he whispered in her memory. "Please don't cry anymore."

Whitney couldn't breathe; she couldn't move. "Help me!" she prayed to someone. "Please, please, help me!" And then she realized that the "someone" she was praying to was Clayton. And she loved him.

The moment Whitney stirred, Clayton knew that she was going to face him, that his answer would be there. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bench in front of him, bracing himself. Her eyes lifted to his and the gentle yielding in their melting green depths nearly sent nun to his knees. He wanted to drown himself in her eyes, to pull her into his shaking arms, to carry her from the church and beg her to say aloud the same three words she had just spoken in silence.

Everyone rushed down the aisle behind the bridal procession, pushing and jostling gaily for position on the broad crowded steps outside. Clayton was the last to leave. He strolled slowly along beneath the high vaulted ceiling, his footsteps echoing hollowly in his ears. Outside the massive doors of the church, he stopped, watching Whitney smiling and nodding, her hair shining in the late afternoon sunlight. He hesitated, knowing that if he went to her now, they'd not be able to exchange more than a few words, yet he couldn't bring himself to wait until the banquet. Meeting as few eyes as possible to avoid being waylaid by any of his former "neighbors," he stepped into the crowd, wending his way toward Whitney until he was standing only an inch behind her.

Whitney instantly sensed his presence as if it were a tangible force, something powerful and magnetic. She even recognized the elusive, tangy scent of his cologne. But she scarcely recognized his voice; it was raw with emotion, a hoarse, aching whisper. "Miss Stone-I adore you."

The shattering tenderness of the words sent a jolting tremor up Whitney's spine, a reaction which was not lost on Clayton. He saw her stiffen, and for one chilling second he thought he'd only imagined what had passed between them in the church, but then she took an imperceptible step backward. Very lightly, he felt her lean against him. His breath froze at the exquisite sensation of her body pressing against him. He dropped his hand to her waist, gently sliding it around in front of her, drawing her nearer and tighter to him. And she made no resistance at all… but stood quietly in his embrace. Clayton's mind flew to the cleric in the church. If he led Whitney inside now, would she stand beside him like some gorgeous greenhouse flower and repeat the same words Elizabeth had just said? Would he need a special license?

With a sublime effort, he thrust the idea of marrying her now, today, out of his mind. Whitney would be a breathtaking bride and he'd not attempt to cheat her of her day of glory-he'd already cheated her of so much!

Emily turned to Whitney without seeming to notice that Clayton was standing shockingly close behind her friend, with his arm around her waist. "They're signalling us to go now," she said.

Whitney nodded but Clayton sensed her reluctance to leave him and he had to fight down the impulse to tighten his hand. Finally she stepped away, and without a backward glance, she melted swiftly into a flurry of bridesmaids.

Emily hesitated before climbing into the carriage behind Whitney. Turning, she looked for the duke and found his inscrutable gray eyes levelled on her. She smiled with shy uncertainty. He returned her hesitant greeting with a deep, formal bow, then he grinned at her, a broad, devastating grin filled with boyish gratitude.

"He was there!" Whitney blurted, twisting around in the carriage, her gaze fastened on the waning vision of Clayton who was still standing on the church steps, watching the Archibalds' carriage pull into traffic. "Did you see him?"

Laughter trembled on Emily's lips. "Indeed I did. He was standing right behind you with his arm around your waist."

"Please don't hate him for what he did," Whitney whispered. "I couldn't bear it if you hated him. Emily, I love him so much."

"I know you do," Emily said gently.

Clayton watched her carriage until it had disappeared from view, his heart filled to bursting. He knew why Whitney had never turned to face him. It was for the same reason he'd not told her that he loved her just now. Neither of them wanted to begin again, surrounded by a group of strangers.

Although some of the guests weren't strangers at all, Clayton finally noted, glancing around nun. There were several people here whom he knew from London. Simultaneously, it dawned on him that the murmurings of the crowd were rising to a fever-pitch. He walked down the steps, past women who were beginning to curtsy to him and men who were respectfully murmuring, "Your grace . . ."

Clayton stopped in his tracks, staring at his coach which was pulled up smartly at the curb. The coach! In his agitated preoccupation with seeing Whitney again, he'd forgotten to tell McRea to use the plain black one which he'd purchased to use as Whitney's "neighbor."

Clayton turned to face his gaping former neighbors who had known him as "Mr. Westland." He looked at them ruefully, with a faint smile of wry apology for his deception. Then he climbed into a magnificent midnight-blue coach with his ducal seal emblazoned in shining silver on the door panel.

Whitney had arranged to spend the time between the wedding and the banquet with her aunt at the Archibalds' so that she could tell her aunt of the permanent estrangement between Clayton and herself. She had dreaded this meeting for weeks, but now she could scarcely wait to see her aunt. |

"You are positively glowing!" Aunt Anne smiled, coming into the salon and hugging Whitney tightly. She stripped off her gloves and pulled Whitney down on the settee beside her. "Really, darling," she said with laughing severity, "I began to wonder if the two of you were going to be able to tear your eyes from one another in that church."

Whitney beamed. "I could never hide anything from you, could I?"

"Darling, you didn't manage to hide it from anyone. Half the people there were craning their necks to watch the two of you outside, after the wedding." Whitney looked so horrified that her aunt burst out laughing. "And you may as well know that there were at least two dozen people from London at the wedding who recognized him. The crowd started buzzing with his name the moment he walked into church. By the tune I left, everybody knew who he was, including all your neighbors from home. I'm afraid 'Mr. Westland' has been unmasked."

Whitney heard that with an inward burst of pride. She wanted everybody to know who he was, and she wanted all of them to know she was betrothed to him. She wanted to shout it to the world!

They chatted gaily for an hour and a half before Whitney remembered to inquire about Uncle Edward.

"He's in Spain," her aunt said with a tolerant smile. "His two letters were almost as uninformative as yours are, but I gathered that there was some calamity brewing there, and he was dispatched with haste and secrecy to try to smooth matters before they got out of hand. He promised to be here in six weeks. Apparently none of my letters ever reached him."

After a moment, she said, "Would you mind very much if I didn't attend the banquet tonight? I only came to the wedding because you never mentioned Claymore in your letters, and I wanted to see for myself how the two of you were getting on. Since it's obvious that you're both in perfect accord, I would like to start back to Lincolnshire at once. My cousin is a sweet, helpless creature, and she's become quite dependent on me for company. As soon as you and his grace decide to put London out of its suspense and announce your betrothal, I'll return and we can start preparing for your wedding."

The day fled so quickly that Whitney could hardly believe it when it was time to hug her aunt goodbye. "By the way," Aunt Anne said, lingering at the front door. "Your father brought two more trunks of your clothes. I sent them upstairs and Clarissa is unpacking them. Oh-and your father said there's some mail for you, too."

Whitney flew upstairs and slid into the chair at the dressing table. While Clarissa fussed with the roses in her hair, Whitney joyously imagined her reunion with Clayton tomorrow. He would come to see her early, of course, and they . . . She noticed the thick packet propped against her mirror. She picked it up and opened it, dreamily extracting some official-looking documents. At first glance they were filled with so many "parties of the first part" and "parties of the second part," and "whereas's" and "wherefore's," that Whitney thought the packet must have been intended for Lord Archibald and put in her room by mistake. She flipped to the last page and a signature leapt out at her: Clayton Robert Westmoreland, Ninth Duke of Claymore. Dismissing Clarissa, she slowly began to read the documents.

They set out in cold legal terms that she was no longer betrothed to the Duke of Claymore, that his offer of marriage was herewith withdrawn, and that whatever "monies, jewels, considerations, tokens, etc.," the Stone family had received from the duke were to be retained by them and considered as gifts.

Whitney's hand shook violently as she unfolded a note in Clayton's bold handwriting enclosed with the documents: "Please accept my sincere wishes for your happiness and convey them to Paul. The enclosed bank draft is intended as a present." A bank draft for Ј10,000 slid from Whitney's numb fingers onto the floor white nausea surged in her throat. Clayton had used her to satisfy his vengeance and lust. Now he was paying her off with a generous check as if she were a common trollop or one of his mistresses, and suggesting that she give her soiled body to Paul in marriage. "Oh my God!" Whitney whispered. "Oh my God!"

Emily tapped on her door and asked if she were ready to leave.

"I'll be down in a few minutes," Whitney called hoarsely. "Emily," she added, dragging her voice through the constricted pain in her chest. "Do … do you know how the duke came to be at the wedding? I mean, did Elizabeth decide to invite him, after all?"

Emily sounded both guilty and gay. "Yes. And aren't you glad now that she did?"

The room reeled and tilted. Whitney started to lurch from her chair, thinking that she was going to be ill, but her legs refused to move. Gulping long uneven breaths of air, she stayed where she was. The tumultuous upheaval settled slowly, leaving a dull, throbbing ache that was intensified with every moment.

Clayton hadn't come to the wedding to see her, he'd been invited! Whitney realized with a blinding streak of suffocating humiliation. Since his note and documents were dated weeks ago, he would naturally think she'd known about them today, when she saw him. Wild, hysterical laughter welled up within her. He had simply been attending the wedding-and how gratified he must have been when she had smiled adoringly at him!

She hadn't merely smiled at him, Whitney remembered with a fresh streak of mortified fury-she had leaned against him! She had let him put his arm around her and hold her! And that vile, conceited, arrogant lecher probably thought she was inviting him to use her body again! He was probably planning to take her home with him after the banquet and, considering the way she had acted, he would be confident she was willing to go.

The banquet. Whitney put her face in her hands and moaned aloud. Clayton was going to be at the banquet. She would have to face him there.

When she joined Emily and her husband downstairs, Whitney was a little pale and there was a suspicious sheen in her eyes, but her head was high and her delicate chin was stubbornly set. Outwardly she was composed and very calm -but it was the deadly calm that precedes a hurricane white it gathers force, preparing to strike.

The first thing she did when she arrived at the huge home of Elizabeth's paternal grandparents, was to smile her very best smile at the two handsomest groomsmen. Clayton had accused her once of trying to collect as many fawning admirers as she could squeeze around her skirts, and for a beginning, that was exactly what she intended to do.

As she stood between both groomsmen in the receiving line, she spoke to each guest as they made their way past-but if the guest happened to be a bachelor, Whitney was her most dazzlingly vivacious self. Within fifteen minutes, she had caused a tie-up in the proceedings, and she was surrounded by six gentlemen all of whom were vying for her attention. Only once did her composure slip a notch, and that was when Paul bent over her hand. Her bright smile faded uncertainly as she gazed into his handsome face, but he looked so sheepish and so contrite, that she immediately decided to add him to her entourage. Tightening her fingers a little on his, she drew Paul into the circle of men surrounding her.

Now she was fortified, surrounded. Insulated from Clay-ton. For the moment, this was ail she needed.

Clayton arrived just as the receiving line disbanded. He paused in the doorway, his tall, commanding frame clad in an elegantly tailored black suit and waistcoat. Whitney watched his glance slide over the guests, then instantly halt when it reached her. A rosy peach tint suffused her high cheekbones as she shifted her gaze from Clayton to the men around her. "We are quite ignoring the bride," she teased with a gorgeous smile, and without a backward glance she led her entourage toward Elizabeth.

Clayton was positive she had seen him, and his eyes darkened with surprise and puzzlement as he watched her walk away. After a moment, he realized that Whitney had an obligation to attend the bride, and he felt slightly better, but as he watched her laughing gaily with the men who trailed after her, no dammit, flirting with them, his patience began to fray.

A footman appeared beside him bearing a tray, and Clayton took a glass of champagne, his hungry gaze following Whitney. She knew he was here, and she was obviously waiting for the appropriate moment to come to him. He ached to touch her, longed to hear the soft music of her voice, had been driven half out of his mind these past two hours just thinking of being near her again.

Dinner was announced, but Clayton hung back, hoping that Whitney might come to him before she went in to the banquet. "Ah-Claymore! Good to see you again," a jovial masculine voice said at his elbow.

Clayton glanced briefly at the short, elderly man beside him, recognizing him as Lord Anthony, an old friend of his father's.

"How's your lovely mother?" Lord Anthony asked, sipping from his champagne.

Clayton watched Whitney walk into the banquet room; she was not going to come to him. "She's well," he answered absently. "And yours?"

"I imagine she's about the same," Lord Anthony replied. "She's been dead for thirty years."

"Good," Clayton said. "Glad to hear it." He put his glass down and strolled off to take his assigned place at one of the banquet tables.

In the true spirit of a matchmaker, Elizabeth had contrived to place Clayton at the table facing the bridal party's, directly across from Whitney. Clayton ate little of his meal, and what he did eat, he couldn't taste. He was too preoccupied with an elusive and beautiful young woman who owned his heart, but who seemed either afraid, or unwilling, to meet his gaze. He watched her chatting playfully with the groomsmen on either side of her, winding them around her slender fingers, and jealousy pulsed through his veins.

To add to his mounting frustration, he was seated between two matrons who had discovered his title and immediately singled him out as a prospective husband for their unmarried daughters. "My Marie plays the pianoforte like an angel," one mother said. "You must come to one of our musicales, your grace."

"My Charlotte sings like a bird!" the other mother instantly countered.

"I'm tone deaf," Clayton drawled without taking his eyes from Whitney.

After what seemed like an eternity, the guests adjourned to the ballroom. Peter guided Elizabeth to the center of the floor and they danced together, their fine young bodies moving in perfect harmony with each other, then the newly married couple was joined by the bridal party, who also danced together When the required first dance was finished, Clayton waited for Whitney to come to him. Instead she drifted into the arms of another groomsman, and then another, smiling into their eyes in a way that made Clayton want to wring her neck!

She was dancing the fourth dance with Paul Sevarin, when it finally dawned on Clayton that Whitney was waiting for him to come to her, and he was dumbstruck at his own stupidity. She had taken the first step toward a reconciliation at the church, and naturally she expected him to take the next one. The instant the dance ended, Clayton strode directly to her. "Good to see you again, Sevarin," he lied politely as he firmly placed Whitney's hand on his arm. "I believe the next dance is mine," he added, covering her long fingers with his and drawing Whitney onto the dance floor.

Although she didn't object, Clayton was a little taken aback by the courteous, but impersonal smile she gave him as she turned into his arms for the waltz.

She was slimmer than before, and Clayton drew her protectively closer to him. It was his fault that she had lost weight. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, his voice unfamiliar to her with its tone of tenderness and guilt.

Whitney nodded brightly. She nodded because she couldn't trust her voice. From the moment he had walked into this house, her senses had been screamingly aware of his presence. She felt as if she were dying inside, slowly and painfully suffocating. He had stolen her virginity and then coldly withdrawn his offer of marriage, suggested calmly that she marry Paul and then tossed his money in her face to appease her. And even so, it was all she could do not to humble herself at his feet, to plead with him to tell her why, to beg him to want her again. Only one thing kept her silent and upright: pride-outraged, stubborn, courageous, abused pride. Her face ached with the effort it took to smile, but she had been smiling all night, and she was going to keep right on doing it until Clayton walked out of this room. And then she was going to die.

For the first time since he had met her, Clayton didn't know what to say to her. He felt as if he were in a dream, and he was afraid to speak lest he say the wrong thing and break the spell. He thought of apologizing for ravaging her, but in view of the crime he had committed against her an apology was ludicrously inadequate. What he really wanted to say was, "Marry me tomorrow," but having already deprived her of her wedding night, Clayton was resolutely determined that she would have a spectacular wedding, complete with all the splendor and trappings, all the glittering pomp and circumstance, that she was entitled to enjoy as the bride of a duke.

Since he couldn't beg her forgiveness, or ask her to marry him at once, he decided to say the only other thing that mattered to him. Gazing down at her bent head, he said the words he had never spoken to another woman. Very quietly and very tenderly, he said, "I love you."

He felt the emotional impact his words had on her because she went rigid in his arms, but when she lifted her beautiful face the laughter in her expression almost made him stumble.

"I am not in the least surprised to hear it," she teased breezily. "I seem to be all the rage this season-particularly with tall men." She tipped her head to the side, considering the possible reasons for such a thing. "I believe it is probably because I am rather tall for a woman. It must be quite awkward for tall men to be forever bent over, trying to speak to tiny women. Or," she added jokingly, "it could be because I have very good teeth. I take excellent care of them and-"

"Don't!" Clayton commanded, trying to stop her banter.

"I shall never brush them again," Whitney agreed with sham solemnity.

Clayton gazed down at her entrancing cream and roses face and wondered how in the hell he had started to speak of love and ended up in an inane discussion of personal hygiene. If his emotions weren't in such a turmoil, if he weren't trying so desperately to make things right between them, he would have noticed that her overbright eyes were sparkling with suppressed tears, not laughter, and that the muscles in her slim throat were constricting spasmodically. But he was in a turmoil, and he didn't notice. "Elizabeth is a beautiful bride," he said, trying to guide their discussion around to marriage.

Whitney laughed. "All brides are beautiful. It was decreed centuries ago-by a duke, no doubt-that all brides must be beautiful. And blush."

"Will you blush?" he asked tenderly.

"Certainly not," she said, managing to smile despite the catch in her voice. "I have nothing left to blush about. Not that I mind, you see, because I've always harbored a secret contempt for females who blush and swoon at the slightest provocation."

Clayton's frustrated confusion reduced his voice to a tense whisper. "What's wrong? You weren't like this when you were in my arms outside the church-"

Whitney's jade green eyes widened in apparent bewilderment "Was that you?"

Ignoring the wild curiosity they were generating among the wedding guests, Clayton jerked her hard against his chest. "Who in the living hell did you think it was?"

Whitney felt as if her heart was breaking. "Actually, I couldn't be absolutely certain who it was. It might have been …" She inclined her head toward the two groomsmen who'd been dancing attendance on her all night. "John Clifford or Lord Gilmore. They say they 'adore' me. Or it might have been Paul. He 'adores' me. Or it could have been Nicki, he-"

In one swift motion, Clayton whirled her off the dance floor and thrust her away. He stared down at her with cold savage contempt, his voice dangerously low, hissing with fury. "I thought you were a woman with a heart, but you're nothing but a common flirt!"

Whitney lifted her chin in scornful amusement. "I'd hardly say I was common; after all, I've fleeced you out of Ј110,000, and even so, all I have to do is smile, and you still come straight to heel, just as you did today. We are neither of us common, my lord," she taunted. "I am an accomplished flirt and you are a sublime fool."

For a split second, Whitney thought he was going to strike her. Instead he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away. She watched him stalk past the staring guests, past the servants stationed at the doors and knew that he had just left her life forever. Forcing back her damned up tears, she searched the crowd for Emily. "Emily," she mumbled brokenly, keeping her face down, "please explain to Elizabeth that I-I felt quite violently ill. I'll-I'll send your driver back with your carriage as soon as he leaves me at your house."

"I'll come with you," Emily said quickly.

"No, I prefer to be alone. I have to be alone."

Later that night Emily and Michael both paused outside Whitney's door, listening to the wrenching sound of grief being poured into a pillow. "Let her be," Michael advised compassionately. "She'll cry it all out of her system."

However, when Whitney failed to appear for breakfast the next morning, Emily went up to her room and found her sitting in bed, her knees drawn up to her chest as if she were trying to curl into a cocoon. She looked pate and fragile but when she saw Emily, she managed a wan smile. "How do you feel?" Emily asked softly.

"I-I'm much better today."

"Whitney, what happened last-"

"Don't!" Whitney implored tightly. "Please don't." When Emily nodded, the tension in Whitney's face gave way to gratitude and she relaxed against the pillows. "I've decided to begin enjoying the remainder of my time in London. Would you object if I had callers in occasionally?"

"Of course not. In fact, Lord Gilmore and the other groomsmen are downstairs right now, hoping to see you." Despite Emily's determined cheerfulness, her voice wavered and she sat down beside Whitney, putting her arm around her. "Michael and I both want you to stay with us as long as you can. He understands that you're more like my sister than my friend."

Whitney gave her a hard hug arid tried to laugh. "Sisters argue abominably. Friends are better."