Whitney, My Love

Chapter Twenty

FRESH, COOL BREEZES SCENTED WITH THE INVIGORATING AROMA of burning leaves floated into Whitney's room, and she sniffed appreciatively as she stepped from her bath. Wrapped in a dressing robe, she went over to the open window and perched her hip upon the sill. Autumn, that most glorious of all the seasons, greeted her with a golden morning. She gazed out across the topaz and ruby landscape splashed with yellow and amber, and she tingled with the exuberant optimism she always felt at this time of year.

Reluctantly, she left the window and deliberated over the matter of clothing, finally choosing a high-waisted gown of dusky pink wool with a square neckline, long narrow sleeves, and a wide flounce at the hem. Clarissa pulled her hair straight back and up, then wound it into curls entwined with velvet ribbons of the same muted pink as her dress.

Thoughts of Paul and her unwanted betrothal to Clayton hovered uneasily at the back of her mind, but Whitney refused to dwell on them. Tonight she could agonize over her confused status, but for now, she was eager to be out in the sunshine. Nothing was going to spoil the perfection of such a gorgeous day.

At five minutes past eleven, a servant tapped at the door and announced that Mr. Westland was waiting downstairs. Snatching up the printed shawl which matched her dress,

Whitney hurried downstairs. "Good morning," she said gaily. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Clayton took her hands in his and gazed down at her glowing features. Quietly and without emphasis, he said, "You have a smile that could light up a room."

It was the first time he had ever remarked on her appearance, and although his compliment was much milder than the lavish ones the Frenchmen had heaped on her, it made Whitney feel unaccountably shy. "You are late," she admonished him with laughing severity, unable to think of anything else to say, "and I have been pacing the length of my bedchamber these past five minutes, waiting for you."

He said nothing, and for a moment Whitney fell under the spell of those boldly seductive gray eyes. His hands tightened on hers, drawing her closer. She held her breath, excited and alarmed at the realization that he was going to kiss her.

"I'm early," he stated unequivocally.

Whitney swallowed back a gurgle of relieved laughter, and he added, "However, now that I know how eager you are to see me, I shall make it a point to be early all the time." The great hall clock began to chime the hour of eleven as they left the house, and Clayton shot her an I-told-you-so look.

She climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the moss-green velvet squabs, gazing up at the puffy white clouds skittering across an azure sky. She felt his weight settle into the seat beside her, and her sidewise gaze wandered admiringly over his shiny brown boots, his long, muscular legs clad in biscuit superfine, his rust-colored jacket, and cream-silk shirt.

"If what I'm wearing doesn't please you," he drawled, "we can go to my humble abode and you can decide which of my clothes you approve."

Whitney's head jerked up. Her first impulse was to retort that it didn't matter in the least to her what he wore. Instead she surprised them both by shyly admitting the truth: "I was thinking that you look splendid."

She caught his startled look of pleasure before he gave the spirited grays the office to start, sending them trotting away.

Trees marched along both sides of the country lane, their branches meeting overhead like Lines of partners in a country dance, forming an arch for the carriage which rocked along beneath. Leaves swirled and drifted down in slow motion, and Whitney reached up, lazily trying to catch a bright yellow one.

When Clayton guided the pair south at the fork in the road, however, she sat bolt upright, turning on him in bewilderment and panic. "Where are we going?"

"To the village, for a start."

"I-I don't need anything from the village," Whitney insisted urgently.

"But I do," he said flatly.

Falling back against her seat, Whitney closed her eyes in bleak despair. They would be seen together and, in that sleepy little village where nothing ever happened, much would be made of it. She knew that everyone, with the exception of the man beside her, was expecting the announcement that she and Paul were soon to be married. She felt ill just thinking of Paul stopping in the village on his way home and hearing an exaggerated version of today's outing.

Their carriage clattered across the stone bridge and down the cobbled streets of the village, between the long rows of quaint, shuttered buildings which housed a few inferior shops and a small inn. When Clayton pulled the horses to a smart stop before the apothecary's shop, Whitney could have screamed. The apothecary, of all people-the worst of the village tattlers!

Clayton came around to help her alight. Trying to make her voice sound normal, she said, "Please, I would rather wait here."

In the voice of one issuing a command, but politely phrasing it as a request, Clayton said, "I would like it very much if you accompanied me."

That particular tone of his never failed to raise Whitney's hackles, and the friendly atmosphere of their outing abruptly disintegrated. "That's very unfortunate, because I'm not going into that shop." To her consternation and fury, Clayton reached into the carriage, grasped her by the waist, and lifted her down. She was afraid to struggle or push his hands away for fear of creating even more of a scene than they undoubtedly had already. "Are you trying to make a public spectacle of us?" she gasped, the instant her feet touched the cobbles.

"Yes," he said unanswerably, "I am."

Whitney saw the florid, jowly face of Mr. Oldenberry peering curiously at them through the window of his shop, and all hope of escaping notice was shattered. Inside the tiny, dimly lit shop an odd array of medicinal scents mingled with the odors of herbs, over which there was the pervading sting of ammonia salts. The apothecary was all effusive greetings, but Whitney saw his eyes lock with fanatic curiosity upon Clayton's hand, which still cupped her elbow.

"How is Mr. Paul?" he asked her slyly.

"I believe he's expected to return in another five days," Whitney said, wondering what this little man would be saving six days from now if she carried through with her tentative plan to elope with Paul.

Clayton asked for a bottle of hartshorn and the apothecary handed it to Whitney. Grimacing with distaste, Whitney waved it away. "It's for Mr. Westland, Mr. Oldenberry," she said solemnly. "I fear he suffers quite terribly from the vapors and the headache."

Clayton accepted her slur upon his masculine vitality with an infuriating grin. "Indeed I do," he chuckled, while his hand left Whitney's elbow and swept possessively around her shoulders, drawing her close for an affectionate squeeze. "And I intend to continue 'suffering.'" He winced as Whitney ground her heel into his instep, then winked at the apothecary. "My suffering gains me a great deal of sympathetic attention from this enchanting neighbor of mine."

"Oh rubbish!" Whitney burst out.

Clayton turned a conspiratorial smile on the apothecary and observed admiringly, "She certainly has a temper, doesn't she, Mr. Oldenberry?" Mr. Oldenberry puffed up with importance and agreed that, indeed, Miss Stone had always had a temper, and that he, like Mr. Westland, preferred females with spunk.

Whitney watched Clayton pay for the hartshorn, and she caught the subtle movement of his hand as he placed the bottle back on the counter. Certain now that he had invented this errand for the sole purpose of illustrating to every gossip within fifteen miles that he had some claim upon her affection, Whitney spun on her heel. Clayton caught up with her as she stepped from the shop into the sunlight. "You're going to regret this," Whitney promised in a furious undertone.

"I don't think so," he said, guiding her across the street.

Elizabeth Ashton and Margaret Merryton were emerging from one of the shops, the latter's arms laden with bundles wrapped in white paper and tied with string. Politeness dictated that they all stop and exchange civilities. For once, Margaret didn't greet Whitney with an insulting, vindictive remark. In fact, she didn't greet her at all. Turning her shoulder to Whitney, she smiled into Clayton's gray eyes while Clayton obligingly took her bundles from her. As they crossed the street toward Margaret's carriage, Margaret linked her arm through his and said just loudly enough for Whitney to hear, "I've been meaning to ask you if I left my parasol in your carriage the other evening."

The shock of his betrayal knocked the breath from Whitney. True, she herself didn't feel obligated to honor their betrothal agreement, but Clayton had willingly and legally committed himself to her in a contract almost as binding and solemn as marriage. The man was worse than a rake, he was . . . promiscuous! And of all the women for him to be seeing in secret, he had chosen to consort with her bitterest enemy. Pain and rage seeped through Whitney's system.

"Margaret hates you terribly," Elizabeth murmured to Whitney as they both watched Clayton deposit Margaret's parcels in her carriage, then walk over to his carriage, apparently to search for Margaret's parasol. They lingered there, talking and laughing. "I think she hates you more for Mr. Westland than she did for that gentleman from Paris- Monsieur DuVille."

It was the first tune Elizabeth had ever addressed a voluntary comment to Whitney, and if she hadn't been so miserably preoccupied, Whitney would have made a more cordial response. Instead she said stiffly, "I would be very obliged to Margaret if she were to snatch Mr. Westland right from under my nose."

"That's just as well," Elizabeth said, her pretty face troubled, "because she means to have him."

After assisting Elizabeth and Margaret into their carriage, Clayton reclaimed Whitney's hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, as if nothing at all had happened. Whitney walked beside him, her face frozen with anger. At the end of the street was a small inn which boasted only one private dining parlor, the public rooms, and a small courtyard concealed from the street by vine-colored trellises. The proprietor's daughter greeted Clayton as if she knew him, then hastened to show them to a table in the courtyard.

Whitney watched in mounting annoyance as Millie batted her big brown eyes at him, then bent over the table, smoothing the linen and rearranging the vase of flowers, while deliberately providing Clayton with an unimpaired view of the ample bosom spilling over her bodice. Seething, Whitney observed the girl's swaying hips as she went to get their meal. "If that is the way Millie conducts herself around men, her poor parents must be at their wits' end."

Clayton observed Whitney's indignant features with a gleam of knowing amusement, and Whitney's tenuous hold on her temper snapped. Raking him with a contemptuous look, she added, "Of course, you've probably given Millie reason to believe you find her very desirable."

"What the devil do you mean by that remark?" he demanded.

"I mean that you have a notorious reputation with women -a reputation which you've undoubtedly earned!"

"Not for dallying with serving wenches, I haven't."

"Tell that to Millie," Whitney retorted frigidly. When Millie brought their meals, Whitney attacked her meat as if it were still alive. The instant they were finished eating, she pushed her chair back and arose.

Neither of them broke the charged silence on the way home until Clayton turned into his own drive, rather than continuing past it to hers, and pulled the grays to a stop before his house. When he came around to help her alight, Whitney pressed back into her seat. "If you think for one minute that I am going to set foot in that house with you, you're sadly mistaken."

A look of sorely strained patience crossed his face, and for the second time that day, he caught her by the waist and lifted her down from the carriage. "God help me if I ever injure my back," he quipped.

"God help you if you ever turn it," she snapped, "for there'll surely be some heartbroken papa or cuckolded husband ready with a knife-if I don't murder you first."

"I have no intention of arguing with you or ravishing you," Clayton said with exasperation. "If you will only look around, you'll see why I brought you here."

Whitney did, irritably at first and then with surprise. The Hodges estate had always had a seedy look about it, but all that had changed. The bushes were pruned, and the grass neatly trimmed. Missing flagstones from the walk had been replaced, and rotted woodwork repaired. But the biggest change was brought about by the twin expanses of great mullioned windows on the first story, where before there had only been three gloomy little glass-covered holes. "Why have you gone to such expense?" Whitney asked when it was apparent that he was waiting for some reaction from her.

"Because I bought it," Clayton said, indicating that she should walk with him toward the newly erected pavilion at the far end of the front lawn.

"You bought it?" Whitney gasped. Just the thought of the cozy trio they would mate-she and Paul, with Clayton for a neighbor-made her feel quite violently ill. Was there no end to the obstacles one single man could put in the way of her happiness?

"It seemed a reasonably sound idea. This land adjoins yours, and someday the two estates can be combined."

"Adjoins your land, not mine!" Whitney corrected him bitingly. "You paid for it, just as you paid for me."

She started to step blindly into the wooden pavilion but his hand shot out and captured her arm, jerking her around. He studied her flushed, angry face for a moment, and then he said calmly, "Margaret Merryton's carriage wheel was broken, and I offered to take her up with me, rather than leaving her there in the road. I brought her home, where her father thanked me profusely and invited me to dinner, which I declined. There was nothing more to it than that."

"I don't care in the least what you and Margaret did!" Whitney lied angrily.

"The hell you don't! You've been sniping at me ever since she asked if she left her parasol in my carriage."

Whitney looked away, trying to decide if he was telling the truth and wondering why it mattered so much to her.

"If you won't credit me with discretion," he added quietly, "at least credit me with taste." He paused. "Am I forgiven, little one?"

"I suppose so," Whitney said, feeling absurdly relieved and thoroughly foolish. "But the next time you see Margaret. . ."

"I'll run her down!" he chuckled.

A faint smile touched Whitney's lips. "I was merely going to ask that you not encourage her, for she'll only behave more horridly to me than she already does, if she thinks you're interested in her. Did she have a parasol that day?" Whitney asked, suddenly suspicious.

"No. Not that I recall."

Pretending to study the toes of her pink slippers, Whitney asked carefully, "Do you think Margaret is… well. . . pretty?"

"Now that's more like it!" Clayton laughed, possessing himself of her other arm and drawing her close to him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it pleases me to have you thinking like a wife-even a jealous one."

There was enough truth in that observation to make Whitney flush hotly. "I am not in the least bit jealous, nor have I any reason to be, because you do not belong to me, any more than I belong to you!"

"Except by virtue of a signed, legal contract betrothing you to me."

"A meaningless contract, since I was not consulted."

"But one which you will nevertheless honor," Clayton predicted.

Whitney looked at him with a mixture of resentment and pleading. "I loathe this constant bickering. Why can't I make you understand that I love Paul?"

"You don't care for Sevarin. You've told me so yourself, and more than once."

"I've told you nothing of the sort! I-"

"You've told me," he persisted, "every time you've been in my arms, that Sevarin has no claim on your heart."

Whitney, who was desperate enough to try anything, tried to intimidate him by scoffing. "For a man of your vast experience with women, you certainly place an absurd amount of importance on our few kisses. I'd have thought that you, of all men, would have learned better."

"I am experienced," he agreed curtly. "I am experienced enough to know that you respond to me when I kiss you, and that you're terrified of what I make you feel. If Sevarin could make you feel the way I do, you'd have nothing to fear from me. But he can't, and you damn well know it."

"In the fust place," Whitney retorted, drawing a long, suffocated breath while trying to calm herself, "Paul Sevarin is a gentleman, which you are not! And, as a gentleman, he would never dream of kissing me the way you do. He-"

Clayton's mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. "Wouldn't he indeed? Apparently, I've been giving Sevarin more credit than he deserves."

Whitney's palm positively itched to slap that self-satisfied, mocking grin off his face. Why bother arguing with him, she told herself furiously, when he would only twist her words around until they suited him! Of course she'd responded to the wild, forbidden passions Clayton so skillfully aroused within her. What gently reared, unsuspecting female wouldn't be momentarily carried away by the newness of his practiced caresses?

Gently reared, unsuspecting females! Why, half the most sophisticated flirts in Europe had apparently fallen victim to his skill at lovemaking! Compared to them, she was a mere babe in arms!

"What?" Clayton chuckled maddeningly. "No arguments?"

If she'd had a knife at that moment, Whitney would have plunged it into his chest. Instead she chose the only means available to her to retaliate. Looking at him with just the right degree of amused scorn, she said, "If I do respond to you, there's a very simple explanation for it, but you aren't going to like it. The truth is, I find your intimate caresses not only sordid but boring! The only way I can endure them is by pretending you're Paul and-don't!" she cried out in panic and pain as his hands tightened punishingly on her upper arms.

With a vicious jerk, he brought her crashing against his chest. Whitney's head snapped back from the impact, and she saw his eyes glittering down at her like shards of ice. Her throat muscles constricted, choking her frantic apology. "I-I didn't mean it! I-"

Ruthlessly, his mouth swooped down, slanting punishingly back and forth over her lips until they parted from the sheer, cruel pressure. When she tried to tear her mouth away, his hand clamped the back of her head, holding her against the bruising assault of his mouth. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes, and still the agonizing, endless kiss continued.

"Lie to anyone you please," he growled savagely into her mouth. "But never again lie to me! Do you understand?" His arm tightened sharply, underlining the warning and cutting off her breath at the same time.

Wildly, Whitney struggled, trying to draw enough air into her lungs to tell him yes! Her ribs felt as if they were being cracked; he was suffocating her and growing more enraged at her helpless, involuntary silence. She forced her hand up along his chest, futilely trying to wedge some space between them, until her fingers finally encountered the male lips locked fiercely to hers.

She didn't realize it was the unintentional tenderness of laying her hand against his face that made him release her so abruptly. All she knew was that she could finally draw great, gulping breaths of air into her aching lungs.

"I bow to your better judgment," he drawled with icy contempt. "That was both 'sordid' and 'boring.' In fact, I would be hard put to decide which of us found it more distasteful."

Irrationally, Whitney was stung. She stiffened her spine, meeting his cold gaze with as much proud defiance as she could muster. "I don't suppose you found it distasteful and disgusting enough to consider letting me go?"

What Clayton felt was not disgust, it was fury! Her announcement that when he was kissing her, she pretended he was Sevarin, had so incensed Clayton mat he actually considered yanking her into the pavilion and taking her right there on the floor. Since the day she'd returned to England, he'd been tolerating her rebelliousness and overlooking her temper. On the floor of the pavilion, she would learn the folly of pushing him too far. Unfortunately, she would also learn to hate him with a virulence that might sustain her for years.

With deliberate insolence, Clayton inspected her slender, voluptuous form and her classic profile with its flawless camellia-like skin; the color on her cheekbones was heightening because she knew he was looking at her. The sun shown on her mahogany-brown hair, gilding it with red-gold. She looked incredibly beautiful in that dusky pink gown, framed by the wide sweep of emerald lawns behind hen a single, breathtaking rose blooming in a garden of green. But for once, her vivid beauty annoyed, instead of pleased, him, particularly because she was now blithely examining her manicure as if he didn't exist.

Miss Stone, Clayton decided coldly, was in dire need of a lesson. He considered her spiteful inquiry as to whether he had found the last kiss distasteful enough to let her go home, and an idea took shape. He'd let her go home all right, but before he did, he was going to teach her that his passion was a gift to be shared and enjoyed-a gift that he could give or withhold, when and if he pleased. First he was going to make her kiss him, and then, when he had her desire fully aroused, he would simply disentangle himself from her arms and walk away.

As if there had been no interval of several minutes since she'd snapped the question at him, Clayton answered it. "As a matter of fact, you're wrong. With the proper incentive, I would let you go."

Whitney's head snapped around, her heart leaping with elation, even though her common sense warned her that he was too high-handed, and too confident, to give up the idea of marrying her and let her go. "What sort of incentive did you have in mind?" she asked cautiously.

"I want a kiss from you. A goodbye kiss to take the chill off our parting. And if it is good enough, I'll let you go. It's as simple as that."

"I'm not certain I believe you. Why should you suddenly decide to let me go?"

"Let's say that these last few . . . unrewarding . . . minutes have convinced me of the wisdom of the idea. On the other hand"-he shrugged indifferently-"my generosity is not without a price."

A price? Whitney thought joyously. Why, it was no price at all! To be free of this betrothal she'd be willing to kiss his horse! "I am to kiss you goodbye, nothing more?" she said, watching him very, very closely, while she restated the terms of the bargain. "And you are giving me your word that in return, you will let me go?"

He nodded curtly. "Yes. In fact, I won't even accompany you home. I'll have my man drive you." Impatiently, he added, "Well, have we a bargain?"

"Yes!" Whitney said quickly, lest he change his mind.

They were standing almost within arm's reach, but instead of reaching for her, as Whitney expected, he leaned his shoulder against the pavilion wall, folded his arms across his chest, and said, "As you can see, I am completely at your disposal."

Whitney blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I-mean that the next move is yours."

"Mine?" she gasped. Dear God! Did he intend for her to take the initiative? She stared uncertainly at his arrogant features and mocking gray eyes. That was precisely what he meant for her to do. And how tike him to take this last, final, petty revenge! The breeze ruffled his dark brown hair as he glanced tranquilly up at the trees overhead, then serenely contemplated the azure sky. Leaning lazily against the pavilion with his arms crossed over his chest, he looked so insufferably arrogant that she positively yearned to give him a swift kick in the shin, and the devil fly with his bargain!

Without warning, he straightened as if he were tired of waiting and were about to call the bargain off.

"Wait!" Whitney stammered quickly. "I-I-" She gaped at him in angry consternation, feeling unutterably self-conscious. "It's just that I-"

"-don't know how to begin?" he finished sardonically. "Permit me to suggest that you take a step closer."

Drowning in resentful embarrassment, Whitney complied.

"Very good," he mocked. "Now, if you will put your lips on mine, you can get it over with."

Whitney expelled her breath in a long, humiliated rush, glowered at him, and clutching his rust-colored jacket by the lapels, she levered herself up high enough to reach his mouth and pressed a chaste kiss on his tips. Then she stepped back, poised for flight to blissful freedom.

"If that's the way you kiss Sevarin, I can understand why it's taken you all this time to bring him to the point of offering," he remarked with lazy cynicism. "If that maidenly peck is your best effort, I'm afraid the bargain is off."

"Well!" Whitney burst out indignantly, plunking her hands on her hips and giving him a murderous look. "I can't help it when you just stand there without so much as moving a muscle to cooperate."

"Perhaps you're right. On the other hand, you're supposed to inspire me to cooperate."

"Oh shut up!" she snapped with blazing eyes. "You just do your part. I'll do mine!"

"I'll do no more than follow your lead," he warned coolly. "And I have no intention of trying to teach you what you should have learned already. I have better things to do with my time than play tutor to a tiresomely naive schoolroom miss."

Whitney felt as if he'd hit her across the face. With an effort, she bit back a vengeful retort, and forced herself to concentrate on finding some way to "inspire" this cold, withdrawn man into participating. And while she was about it, she wouldn't mind throwing his taunts about "tutoring a schoolgirl" and "maidenly pecks" right in his teeth! Bending her head, she tried to imagine herself as a bold temptress, a courtesan, as wise in the ways of passion and seduction as he was. Very slowly, she raised jade-green eyes so full of promise and warmth that when they met Clayton's she witnessed a momentary crack in his aloof composure.

Emboldened by her success thus far, Whitney slid her hands inside his jacket, upward along his silk shirt. Beneath her fingertips, she felt his chest muscles leap reflexively, then draw taut and hard. He was trying to resist her! Some primeval female instinct told her that if he had to try to resist her, she must have struck a very responsive chord, and the realization brought a knowingly seductive half smile to her lips as her hands glided over his shoulders and up behind his neck. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she slid her fingers through the soft hair at his nape, inexorably drawing his face nearer to hers. Tenderly, she brushed her lips over his mouth … his smiling mouth! Damn him, he was grinning! And even though her arms were locked around his neck, his arms were still diffidently at his sides.

"A definite improvement," he congratulated her impersonally, "but hardly-"

Outraged pride made Whitney silence this final rejection with her parted lips. She found him blindly, and lingered endlessly, trying to force him to respond. His warm breath mingled with hers, his mouth followed her lead, but the moment she began to draw back, he did the same. Slowly, her fear of retreating too soon was surpassed by her greater fear of continuing too long. Her heart was beating in unsteady lurches, and her body was stirring to life in a most alarming way. Dropping her arms, she stepped back, and for the first time she realized that Clayton's arms had never been around her. He hadn't been the least bit affected by the kiss. "I hate you for this," she whispered, too humiliated to look at his face, which she was certain would be gleaming with sarcastic amusement.

Clayton was not amused, he was furious. For the first time in his adult life he had not been able to control his own body's responses. Her innocent kiss and light caress had sent a tidal wave of instantaneous lust surging through him, very nearly sweeping away his restraint. And while he was still struggling for control, she was declaring her hatred of him.

His jaw tightened and he tipped her chin up. "That was much better," he said smoothly. "This time will be goodbye."

Goodbye? Whitney thought, immediately forgetting she hated him. They were saying goodbye. This would be the last time they ever saw each other.

Whitney gazed up into his recklessly handsome male face with a nostalgic sensation that bordered on sadness. His was such a compelling face. A face that could seem almost boyish when the firm jawline and finely carved mouth were transformed by one of his lazy, devastating smiles. She liked the aura of calm authority that always surrounded him, that vibrated in his deep voice and lent purpose to his long, agile strides. She admired his ability to seem forever at ease and relaxed. He was, she thought with an inward sigh of regret, all the things a man ought to be.

His mouth was slowly moving closer to hers. "Shall we continue where you left off?" he suggested softly.

Drawing a long, ragged breath, Whitney lifted her trembling lips to within an inch of his. Then a half-inch. Her mind screamed a warning as her emotions reeled crazily and sudden shock waves of longing racked her.

His mouth came down hard, silencing Whitney's objection with a demanding insistence that sent a jolt rocketing through her, exploding along every nerve until she was clinging to him, her arms wrapped fiercely around his neck.

"Am I boring you?" he taunted, kissing her harder, more deliberately than before. His tongue plunged suggestively into her mouth. "Would you describe this as sordid?"

Rage burst in Whitney's breast, enclosing her in a mist of blind fury. He was lashing her with her own words, coldly and deliberately humbling her. She dug her fingernails into his wrists, trying futilely to pry his hands away from her head.

His kiss deepened, devouring her and sending silky tendrils of desire curling down her spine.

"Are you pretending I'm Sevarin?" he jeered. "Are you?"

Stunned, Whitney let her hands slide from his wrists. She had actually hurt him with those things she'd said. Somehow Clayton had always seemed so utterly invulnerable, so completely self-assured, that she'd never dreamed anything she ever said or did could hurt him. But evidently she had.

"Tell me how much you hate my touch," he ordered furiously. Pulling his mouth from hers, he stared down at her with biting gray eyes. "You despise my touch," he hissed. "Say it now, or don't ever, ever say it to me again."

Whitney's chest tightened around an aching lump of poignant contrition and shattering tenderness. She swallowed painfully, tears filling her eyes. "I-I can't."

"You can't tell me you despise my touch?" he jeered in a silky, ominous voice. "Why can't you?"

"Because," she whispered, attempting a trembly smile, "you warned me not five minutes ago, never to lie to you again." Whitney watched his features harden into a mask of cynical incredulity and, before he could say anything else to hurt them both, she leaned up to silence his retort with her lips.

Swearing savagely, he grabbed her arms and started to pull them down from around his neck. "Clayton, don't!" she cried out brokenly, locking her fingers tightly behind his nape. "Oh please, please don't!" Tears slipped down her cheeks as she ignored his painful grip on her arms and kissed this angry, unyielding man, this powerful, dynamic man, who had endured her hostility and outbursts with patience and humor . . . until now, when she had hurt him.

His hands went to her waist to shove her away, but Whitney pressed closer. Timidly, she touched her tongue to his tips, hoping he would like it if she kissed him that way. He went rigid. Every muscle in his body drew taut, hardening against her. Her tongue slid between his barely parted lips, encountered his, recoiled in wild alarm-and then crept back for one more sweet, forbidden touch. And her world exploded with the violence of his response. His arms went around her, crushing her to him as his mouth opened over hers, slanting fiercely back and forth. His tongue plunged boldly into her mouth, probing, as if to verify its welcome there.

Dazed with passion and longing, Whitney gloried in the wild excitement of his mouth moving with hungry urgency against hers. She kissed him back while his hands shifted possessively across her back and down her spine, then lower to cup her buttocks, molding her closer against his hard legs and thighs, forging their two bodies into one.

An eternity later, he lifted his mouth from hers and cradled her face between his hands, his thumbs gentry stroking her flushed cheeks. Tenderness and desire smoldered in his gray eyes as he gazed down into her languorous green ones. "You beautiful, infuriating, wonderful little fool," he whispered thickly, and then he slowly buried his lips in hers again, deepening the kiss until flames were shooting through Whitney's veins and she was straining to be closer to him. His hands cupped and caressed her breasts, branding them with his touch, then stroking downward, fitting her hips against his rigid thighs.

Without warning, it was over. He tore his mouth from hers and kissed her eyes and forehead, then rested his jaw against her head. Whitney stirred and his arms tightened around her. "Don't move, little one," he whispered. "Stay close to me a while longer." Leaves rustled in the breeze and birds fluttered overhead, while loneliness and despair began invading the bliss of the moment. Longing to feel his lips covering hers again, to have him drive away this aching sadness creeping over her, Whitney leaned her head back, her gaze lingering on his firmly molded lips.

Automatically, Clayton bent his head to accept her shy invitation, but an instant before his mouth touched hers, he checked himself. "No," he said with a throaty chuckle.

Bewildered by his refusal to kiss her when he obviously wanted to, Whitney looked at him, her wide, questioning eyes shadowed with hurt confusion.

"If you continue to look at me like that," he teased huskily, "you're going to find yourself being thoroughly kissed once more. And if that happens, there's ah excellent chance that I'll not be able to keep my promise."

"Why?" Whitney whispered, still shamelessly yearning for his kiss.

"Why?" he repeated, his mouth hovering so near hers that their breaths were mingling. "I'll be happy to show you why . . ." he offered in a lusty whisper.

Reason at last returned, cooling her ardor and restoring her sense. She shook her head. "No, for it would only make our parting more difficult." With a weak smile, she stepped back and away from him. "Goodbye, your grace," she whispered, gravely offering him her hand. Her heart gave a lurch when he took it and turned it palm up.

"So formal?" he grinned, rubbing his thumb over her palm, then boldly raising it to his lips and touching his tongue to the sensitive center.

Whitney snatched it away, tucking her tingling hand safely behind her back. For a long moment, she simply gazed at him, unconsciously memorizing his face, then she said, "I'm sorry, truly sorry that I've put you to so much trouble."

Clayton's eyes glinted wickedly. "I hope you'll feel free to trouble' me like that whenever you like."

"You know that's not what I mean." There were things she wanted to say to him, nice things, and things she wanted to explain, but how could she be serious when he was treating their parting so lightly? Perhaps he wanted no explanations, no apologies; perhaps this was the best way to say goodbye. Even so, her voice shook as she said, "I shall miss you, I really will." Before she crumbled in front of him, which she was positive she would do if he continued to look at her with gentle understanding, she picked up her skirts and stepped away, intending to leave him there at the pavilion. Two steps further away, she turned and said hesitantly over her shoulder. "About my father-"

Why she should feel any guilt or responsibility for her harsh sire was a mystery, yet she did. "I hope you won't deal harshly with him. If you'll just be patient, I'm certain he'll eventually be able to repay you."

Clayton's dark brows drew together into a mild frown. "Considering that he has given me his daughter to wed, I count myself fully repaid."

A feeling of impending disaster seemed to crackle in the air. "But all of that has changed now that you've agreed to let me go."

Clayton closed the distance between them, grasping her by the shoulders and turning her around to face him. "What in the holy hell are you talking about?"

"You agreed to let me go and-"

"I agreed to let you go home," he stated emphatically.

"No!" Whitney cried, shaking her head. "You agreed to let me go-to give up the idea of marrying me."

"You can't believe that," Clayton said shortly. "I meant nothing of the kind."

A crushing weight settled in Whitney's chest. She should have known he would never give in. She stared at him in desperation . . . while something strangely like relief tingled through her. There was no chance for her to examine this odd feeling, however, for his arms went around her, pulling her close to him.

"Never, not even in my weakest moment, have I considered letting you go, Whitney. And if I had," he added, bluntly reminding her of her passionate response to him minutes ago, "do you think that after what has just passed between us, I would ever consider it again?" Clayton tipped her chin up, forcing her rebellious gaze to meet his implacable one. "You asked me for time, and I gave it to you. Use it to face the inevitability of our marriage, because I assure you that the marriage is going to take place. If you want to convince yourself that I deceived you a while ago, then do it, but I'll not honor a promise I didn't make."

His flat conviction that she had no choice except to marry him, to yield her body and her life to him, was more than Whitney could bear right now. "Then honor the promise you did make. Let me go home." Jerking away from him, she walked blindly toward the driveway, her emotions in turmoil.

Clayton caught up with her, snapped an order to the footman, and helped her into the carriage. Whitney looked

down at him, her voice deadly calm. "Has it ever occurred to you that you cannot make me marry you? You can drag me by the hah- to the altar, yet all I have to do is refuse to say my vows. It's as simple as that."

His brows rose. "If those are the thoughts you've been entertaining during this time you asked me for, then there's nothing to be gained by waiting any longer, is there?" He glanced over his shoulder as if he were looking for someone, then turned to start toward the house.

"Where are you going?" Whitney demanded sharply, alarmed by the sudden, purposeful vitality in his movements and the determined set of his jaw.

"I am about to order my valet to pack my bags for a lengthy trip. After which, I will have the travelling chaise brought round and horses put to. We," he stated coolly, turning around to face her, "are going to Scotland. We're eloping."

"Eloping!" Whitney cried, clutching the side of the carriage. "You-you wouldn't dare! The tongues would never cease wagging, the gossips would-"

Clayton shrugged indifferently. "As you should have gathered by now, gossip doesn't matter to me. Since it does matter to you, I suggest you consider your choices: Once we're in Scotland, you can either marry me or you can refuse to say your vows. If you refuse to say them, we will return unwed from an absence together of several days and nights which will cause a scandal you will never live down. Your last choice is to have a proper wedding in London as a duchess. Now, which is it going to be?"

What choice was there? Whitney thought bitterly. An elopement was scandalous enough, but if she returned with him from Scotland unwed, mothers would drag their daughters to the other side of the street when she passed, to avoid the contamination of a soiled female, and Paul would despise her. "A wedding!" Whitney hissed angrily, flopping back against the velvet seat. There was one other choice open to her, she reminded herself: She could elope with Paul. Her mind quailed at the thought of an elopement, with all the attendant censure and disgrace. Once again, she would be an outcast from the village society, the recipient of open snubs and scathing criticism. But at least she would have the compensation of being Paul's wife.

"Whitney," Clayton said, looking at her as if he would like to shake her, "for once in your life, forget this obsession with Sevarin, and try to face what is really in your heart. If you weren't so damned stubborn, you'd have done it weeks ago!"

The coachman came dashing around the side of the house, and Whitney bit back her angry retort, but Clayton's words nagged at her all the way home. Staring dismally at the coachman's stiff back, she struggled to sort out her jumbled emotions, not because Clayton had accused her of refusing to face what was in her heart, but because she truly couldn't understand herself anymore.

How could she respond so wantonly to Clayton's caresses while planning, yearning to marry Paul? Why had she been so shattered a few minutes ago when she realized she had hurt Clayton? Why had she felt so desolate when she believed she was saying goodbye to him forever? Was it because a grudging friendship had grown between them, nourished by the banter and raillery they always indulged in?

Friendship? she thought bitterly. Clayton was no friend of hers; he cared nothing about her. He cared only about himself and what he wanted, and for some obscure reason known only to himself, be happened to want her. He refused to believe she loved Paul because it didn't suit him to believe it. Paul was meant to be her husband; that place in her heart, in her life, had long ago been set aside for him and only him.

Paul. Her conscience took over, tormenting her for her disloyalty to Paul, her scandalous, unprincipled behavior in his absence. Mentally, she cringed, thinking of the way she had let Clayton caress her, kiss her. Let him! she thought with self-loathing, she had kissed him. She had wanted to be in his arms; she had trembled with desire when his mouth had opened over hers.

It seemed to Whitney as she lay in bed that night, staring at the canopy above her, that she had never been so miserable. Tormented with guilt, she thought of the plans Paul had discussed with her during the days following his proposal. He was going to restore the master suite in the west wing of his house because it was nearer the nursery. She had blushed petal pink when he mentioned children, but she had joyously made plans right along with him.

And now she had betrayed him. She had taken his love and defiled it in Clayton Westmoreland's arms. She was unworthy of Paul. Dear God! she was unworthy of Clayton Westmoreland, too. Wasn't she, even now, after returning his kisses, planning to marry another man?

Dawn had lightened the sky when she arrived at a final, irrevocable decision. Since Clayton would never willingly give her up, she would elope with Paul the day he returned. Paul loved her, and he trusted her; he was counting on her. The shame of an elopement would be her penance for her lustful, wicked behavior in Paul's absence. Someday, somehow, she would again be worthy of his love and trust. She would earn it by being the most devoted, obedient, faithful wife on earth.

Now that she had resolved on a course of action, she should have felt much better, but when she awoke late the next morning, she felt positively wretched.

Massaging her temples with both hands, Whitney swung her feet onto the floor and cautiously edged to the small washstand, her head pounding with every step she took. Squinting from the pain, she poured herself a glass of cool water and rang for Clarissa to help her dress.

Pate and distant, she slid into her chair at the breakfast table, managed a wan smile for Aunt Anne and flatly ignored her father. Unfortunately, her father refused to be ignored any longer. "Well, Miss," he demanded in a curt, authoritative tone, "have you and his grace set the date yet?"

Laying her fork aside, Whitney perched her chin on her folded hands, deliberately goading him with her wide, blank stare. "What date?"

"Don't treat me like an imbecile! You know I'm referring to a wedding date."

"Wedding?" Whitney repeated. "Did I forget to tell you? There's not going to be a wedding." Tossing an apologetic glance at Aunt Anne, Whitney rose from the table and left the room.

"Really, Martin, you are the greatest fool to push her that way. What choice do you leave her except to defy you?" Distastefully, Anne shoved her plate aside and followed Whitney.

After a moment, Martin also shoved his plate aside and sent for his carriage in order to pay a morning call on his future son-in-law.

By eleven o'clock Whitney's headache had abated, but her mood had not improved. Seated across from Aunt Anne in the sewing room, she listlessly worked at her embroidery frame. "I loathe needlework," she observed unemotionally. "I have always loathed it. Even if I could do it well, I'd still loathe it."

"I know," her aunt sighed, "but it keeps one's hands busy." They both looked up as a footman came in with the mail and handed a letter to Whitney. "It's from Nicki," Whitney said, brightening with fondness at the memory of him. Eagerly she broke the seal and began to read Nicki's bold, firm scrawl.

The smile faded from her face, and her head began to pound with renewed vigor. Slumping back in her chair, she gazed in numb horror at her aunt. "Nicki is arriving in London tomorrow."

Anne's embroidery needle froze in mid-stitch. "His grace will not be pleased to have Nicolas DuVille here on our doorstep, pressing his suit right beside Paul Sevarin."

Whitney was more concerned about sparing herself the humiliation of having Nicki here as a houseguest, where he would inevitably learn of her scandalous elopement with Paul next week. "It needn't come to that," she said firmly, taking charge of the matter. She left the room, returning a moment later with quill and parchment.

"What are you going to say?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it," Whitney announced, dipping the quill into the inkpot and beginning to write, "I am going to tell Nicki to remain in London. What sort of contagious disease do you prefer? Malaria? The plague?" Seeing that her aunt was not sharing her semi-hysterical humor, Whitney added more calmly, "I shall simply tell Nicki that I have commitments away from here and won't be able to

see him this trip. I gather from what he wrote that he is only going to be in England for a short time to attend some social function at Lord Marcus Rutherford's-whoever that may be."

For want of any more helpful comment, Anne said, "Lord Rutherford is connected with several of the best families in Europe, including the DuVilles. Your uncle has often said he is the most astute man in the government, and one of the most powerful, as well."

"Well, he certainly chose an inconvenient time to ask Nicki to come to England," Whitney remarked as she sprinkled fine sand over the note and rang for a footman to have it sent off at once.

Now that she'd taken matters into her own hands and done something to help avert disaster, Whitney felt better. With great gusto she applied herself to her needlework, but she had never been any good at it, and the tiny perfect stitches she planned in her mind failed to materialize on the cloth. In a fit of frustrated impatience, she ignored the ghastly effect she was creating and simply enjoyed the act of stabbing at the cloth with the needle.

Long after her aunt had gone down to lunch, she continued. This stab was for fate, which out of sheer perversity, was thwarting her at every turn. This stab was for Lord Rutherford, who was responsible for Nicki coming to England. This stab was for her father-cruel, heartless, unloving. This stab was for … In her vengeful enthusiasm, Whitney missed the fabric and yelped in pain as the needle pierced her left index finger.

A throaty chuckle preceded a familiar, deep voice. "Are you embroidering that cloth or assaulting it?"

Whitney surged to her feet in surprise, sending her embroidery sliding to the floor. She had no idea how long Clayton had been standing in the doorway watching her. All she knew was that he seemed to fill the room with his compelling presence and that her spirits soared crazily at the sight of him. Embarrassed by her reaction, she hastily directed her attention to her finger where a minuscule drop of blood had appeared.

"Shall I send for Dr. Whitticomb?" he offered. A smile tugged at the corner of his handsome mouth as he added, "If you don't want Whitticomb, I can send for 'Dr. Thomas' but I understand that his specialty is more in the line of sprains and breaks. . ."

Whitney bit her bottom lip, trying desperately not to laugh. "Actually, Dr. Thomas is very busy with another patient right now-a sorrel mare. And Dr. Whitticomb was rather irritated over being sent here on a fool's errand the last time. I doubt he'd be quite so gracious about being summoned on a second one."

"Was it 'a fool's errand'?" Clayton asked quietly.

The laughter fled from Whitney's face and an inexplicable guilt assailed her. "You know it was," she whispered, averting her eyes.

Clayton studied her pale face with a slight, worried frown. Despite her momentary gaiety, he could tell that she was as tense as a tightly coiled spring. He wasn't concerned by her rebellious announcement at breakfast this morning that there was not going to be a marriage, which was what had sent her father scurrying to him in a state of wild agitation. Martin Stone was a stupid bastard who continued trying to bully her, even though it only made Whitney more hell-bent on defying him. For that reason, Clayton had decided to do something to ease her plight and remove her from her father's abrasive presence for a while.

He walked toward her, and she watched him warily. "I have a favor to ask of you," Clayton said with quiet firmness. "I would like you to accompany me to a ball in London. You can bring that peculiar little abigail of yours-the stout woman with white hair who always scowls at me as if she suspects I'm going to carry off the family silver."

"Clarissa," Whitney provided automatically, her mind already searching for a suitable excuse not to accompany him.

Clayton nodded. "She can play duenna, so there'll be no lack of a proper chaperone." Actually, Lady Gilbert would have been a far more suitable chaperone, but he wanted Whitney to himself for a while. "If we leave in the morning, the day after tomorrow, we can be in London by late afternoon. That will give you time to visit with your friend, Emily, and rest before the ball. I'm certain the Archibalds will be delighted to have you stay for the night, and we'll return the following day." Before she could refuse, which Clayton could see she was about to do, he added, "Your aunt is even now writing a note to advise Emily Archibald of your arrival."

Wildly, Whitney wondered what madness had made Aunt Anne agree to such a thing, and then she realized that her aunt was in no better position to deny the Duke of Claymore anything than she herself was. "You didn't have a favor to ask," Whitney corrected him irritably. "You had a command to issue."

Clayton ignored her lack of enthusiasm for the ball-an idea which he had only conceived after talking to her father this morning. "I was hoping very much that you would like the idea," he said.

His gentle reply made Whitney feel churlish and rude. Sighing, she accepted the inevitable. "Whose ball are we attending?"

"Lord Rutherford's." Clayton hadn't realty expected any reaction to that, but even if he had, nothing would have prepared him for what happened next. Whitney's eyes widened until they were huge green saucers. "Whose?" she demanded in a choked whisper, and before he could answer, she gave a stunned shriek of horrified laughter and literally collapsed into his arms, convulsed with gates of mirth.

Her eyes swimming with tears of hilarity, she finally leaned back in his arms and said, "You see before you a demented female who is beginning to look upon life's tragedies as one great lark." Swallowing another giggle, she said eagerly, "Does my aunt know yet? Whose ball we are to attend?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

Whitney reached for Nicki's note and handed it to him. "I wrote Nicki this morning and told him not to come-that I had other commitments away from home."

Clayton skimmed the note and gave it back to her. "Fine," he said curtly, annoyed because she called DuVille "Nicki," yet she persisted in addressing him, to whom she was betrothed, only in formal terms. With grim satisfaction, he realized that Whitney would beat his side when DuVille saw her at the Rutherford's and his annoyance abated. Pressing a light kiss on her forehead, he said, "I'll call for you at nine in the morning, the day after tomorrow."