Whitney, My Love

Chapter Twenty-one

TWO DAYS LATER, ON THE STROKE OF NINE O'CLOCK, WHITNEY watched two shiny black travelling chaises draw up in the front drive. Pulling on the aqua kid gloves that matched her travelling costume, she trooped down the stairs to the entrance foyer with Clarissa marching beside her. Aunt Anne and her father came to bid her farewell. Whitney ignored her father and gave her aunt a fierce hug white Clayton excused himself to escort Clarissa personally out to the chaise.

"Where is Clarissa?" Whitney asked a few minutes later as Clayton handed her into his empty chaise.

Clayton, who had unceremoniously dispensed with the irate, protesting chaperone by thrusting her into the other chaise with his valet, said smoothly, "She is comfortably ensconced in the coach behind us, undoubtedly browsing through the excellent books I took the liberty of providing for her."

"Clarissa adores romances," Whitney remarked.

"I gave her The Successful Management of Large Estates and Plato's Dialogues," Clayton admitted impenitently. "But then, I had already put up the stairs and slammed the door before she ever had an opportunity to see the titles."

Whitney burst out laughing and shook her head.

The chaises swayed gently as they turned from her drive onto the rutted country road, and it occurred to Whitney that although the chaise looked, from the outside, like hundreds of similar conveyances, it was much more spacious and luxurious on the inside. The velvet squabs were deeper and more comfortable, and the coach was so well sprung that it seemed to float on its frame. Beside her, Clayton had ample room to stretch out his long buckskin-clad legs without being cramped by the opposite seat, and although his broad shoulders were almost touching hers, it was not a lack of ample room that caused him to sit so close to her on the seat. Her pulse stirred as the faint scent of his spicy cologne touched her nostrils, and she hastily turned her head to concentrate on the lovely fall landscape moving past.

"Where is your home?" she asked after a long, comfortable silence.

"Wherever you are."

The quiet tenderness in his deep voice took her breath away. "I-I mean where is your real home-Claymore?"

"An hour and a half drive from London in good weather."

"Is it very old?"

"Very."

"Then it must be quite dismal," Whitney reflected. He shot her a quizzical look and she hastily explained, "I mean that most of the old noble houses look very large and spacious from without, but inside they seem dark and oppressive."

"There have been some modernizations and additions made to Claymore." Dry amusement vibrated in his voice. "I don't think you'll find it 'dingy.'"

Whitney instantly assumed that his ducal residence must be palatial and extravagantly beautiful, but then she realized she would never see it, and a strange depression settled on her. Clayton seemed to sense her change of mood, and to Whitney's surprised delight he began regaling her with hilarious stories of his boyhood and his brother, Stephen. In all the time she had known him, he had never been so open with her, and her mood lightened with every mile until they neared Emily's London townhouse.

The sun was descending, and Whitney grew increasingly tense as she stared out at the cobbled London streets. "What's wrong?" Clayton asked beside her.

"I feet conspicuous, arriving at Emily's house with you," Whitney admitted miserably. "It's going to seem very odd to her and to Lord Archibald."

"Pretend we're going to be married," Clayton laughed. Gathering her into his arms, he kissed her so long and so thoroughly that Whitney almost believed it.

The Archibalds' townhouse was trimmed with ornamental wrought iron and grillwork. Emily greeted them in the entry nail with smiling graciousness, and although Whitney knew Emily must be shocked that she had come to London with Clayton, she was relieved that Emily gave no hint of it. After giving Whitney a warm hug, she escorted her quickly up to a guest room, then went back downstairs to join her husband and Clayton in the drawing room and fulfill her duties as a hostess.

When she returned a quarter of an hour later, her serenity was gone and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Whitney, who was helping Clarissa unpack, took one look at Emily's overbright eyes, and braced herself. "It's him!" Emily burst out, leaning against the door, gaping at Whitney. "He just told me who he really is. Michael has known all along, but his grace had asked Michael to keep his identity a secret. Everyone in London talks about him constantly, but I'd never seen him. Whitney!" she exclaimed, her pretty face lit with unabashed pride in her friend. "You are going to the Rutherfords' ball with the most eligible bachelor in all Europe! The Rutherfords' ball," she repeated as if trying to inspire enthusiasm in her friend. "Invitations to their parties are as coveted as diamonds!"

Whitney bit her lip uncertainly, longing to confide in Emily, yet unwilling to burden her with her own problems. If she told Emily she was betrothed to "the most eligible bachelor in Europe" Emily would obviously be thrilled. If she told Emily she didn't want to be betrothed to him, Emily would automatically sympathize. If she told Emily she was going to elope with Paul a few days from now, Emily would fear the inevitable scandal and she would plead with her not to do it.

"How long have you known he is the Duke of Claymore?"

"Less than a week," Whitney said cautiously.

"Well?" Emily prompted eagerly, so excited that her sentences ran together. "Tell me everything. Are you in love with him? Is he in love with you? Weren't you surprised to discover who he is?"

"Astounded," Whitney admitted, smiling slightly at the memory of her shocked horror at learning Clayton was her betrothed.

"Go on," Emily prodded.

Her delight was so infectious that Whitney's smile warmed, but she shook her head and answered in a firm tone that at least temporarily discouraged her friend from further probing. "He isn't in love with me, nor I with him. I am going to marry Paul. It's all but settled."

Clayton glanced at the clock above the mantel of the Robert Adams fireplace in his spacious bedroom suite as his valet eased a crisp white evening shirt onto his muscular shoulders. It was nearly ten, and he felt almost irrationally eager to be on his way to the Archibalds'.

"If I may say so, my lord," Armstrong murmured, assisting him into a black brocade waistcoat, "it's very good to be in London again."

While Clayton was buttoning the waistcoat, Armstrong removed a black evening jacket from the wardrobe, flicked a nonexistent speck off the lapel, then held it up while Clayton plunged his arms into the sleeves. After adjusting the ruby shin studs, Armstrong stood back to survey the full effect of his master's tall frame in impeccably tailored, raven-black evening attire.

Clayton leaned close to the mirror to assure himself that his shave was close enough and flashed a broad grin at the hovering valet. "Well, do 1 pass muster, Armstrong?"

Surprised and gratified by the duke's uncharacteristic informality, Armstrong swelled with pleasure. "Most assuredly, your grace," he said, but when the duke left, Armstrong's pleasure slowly gave way to dismay as he realized that Miss Stone must be the cause of the duke's extraordinary good humor. For the first time, Armstrong began to doubt the wisdom of his wager with McRae, the coachman, against the master marrying the girl.

"Have a pleasant evening, your grace," the butter intoned as Clayton shrugged into an evening cloak lined with crimson silk and bounded down the long sweep of stairs that paraded from his magnificent Upper Brook Street mansion to the street. McRae, in full Westmoreland livery now, swept open the door of the coach as Clayton approached. Grinning at the red-haired Irish coachman, Clayton jerked his head toward the horses. "If they can't get above a trot, McRae, shoot them."

Elated anticipation seemed to build inside of Clayton with every revolution of the coach's wheels clattering over the cobbled London streets. He was exhilarated at the prospect of appearing in London with Whitney at his side. The Rutherfords' ball, which he'd originally intended to be a diversion for her, was now a profound pleasure for himself. He'd been dreaming of showing her off as his own since the night of the Armands' masquerade-and what better place to present her to London society than at the home of his good friends?

With boyish enjoyment, he contemplated Marcus and Ellen Rutherford's reaction when he introduced Whitney to them tonight as his fiancee. By presenting Whitney to London society as his fiancee, he wouldn't be breaking his promise to her, for she could still have the secrecy she desired when they returned to her home, at least for another few days. Secrecy! he thought disgustedly. He wanted the world to know!

"He's here," Emily exclaimed, rushing back into Whitney's room after greeting her noble guest downstairs. "Just think of it," she laughed. "You are making your London debut at the most important ball of the year, and the Duke of Claymore is your escort How I wish Margaret Merryton could see you tonight!"

Emily's delighted enthusiasm, which had been increasing all evening, was so contagious that Whitney couldn't help smiling as she stood up to leave, nor could she suppress the unexplainable joy that surged through her when she saw Clayton talking with Lord Archibald at the foot of the stairs.

Clayton looked up automatically as she began descending the staircase, and what he saw stopped his breath and made his heart burst with pride. Draped in a Grecian gown of nugget-gold satin which left one of her smooth shoulders deliciously bare and hugged her slender, voluptuous curves until it ended in a swirl of gold, Whitney looked like a shimmering golden goddess. A rope of yellow tourmalines and white diamonds was entwined in her lustrous dark hair, and a radiant smile lit her face and glowed in her eyes. Clayton thought that she had never looked so provocatively lush, nor so regally sensual as she did tonight. She was beautiful, glamorous, bewitching-and she was his.

Long gloves of matching gold covered her bare arms to well above the elbows, and when she reached the bottom of the staircase, Clayton took both her gloved hands in his. His gray eyes were smoldering, and his voice was almost hoarse. "My God, you are beautiful," he whispered.

Caught in the spell of those compelling gray eyes, Whitney yielded to the sudden temptation to let herself truly enjoy the evening, which already held the promise of enchantment. Stepping back, she favored Clayton with a sweeping look of unabashed admiration that ran the length of his long, splendidly clad frame, then she raised her laughing green eyes to his. "Not nearly so beautiful as you, I fear." Her eyes twinkled as she feigned dismay.

Clayton put her gold satin cape over her shoulders then rushed her from the house, not realizing until the door had closed behind them that he had neglected to say good night to the Archibalds.

Staring at the closed door, Emily expelled her breath in a long, wistful sigh.

"If you are wishing for something," Michael warned her gently, placing his arm around her shoulders, "wish that Whitney keeps her head, and not that Claymore loses his heart, because he won't. You've heard enough London gossip about him to know that. Even if be did lose his heart, and was willing to overlook her lack of fortune, he would never marry a female whose lineage was less aristocratic than his own. He is obligated by family custom not to marry beneath himself."

Outside the night was foggy, and a chilly breeze sent Whitney's cape fluttering behind her. She paused halfway down the steps to pull up the wide satin hood in order to protect her coiffeur. In the act, her gaze fell on the coach waiting in the street beneath the gas lamp. "Good heavens, is that yours?" she gasped, staring at the magnificent burgundy-lacquered coach with a gold crest emblazoned on the door panel "Of course it is," she said quickly, recovering her composure and walking alongside Clayton down the steps. "It's just that I don't think of you as a duke. I think of you as you are at home. My home, I mean," she explained, feeling thoroughly absurd and unsophisticated as she stopped again to stare, not at the coach, but at the horses who drew it-four glorious grays with snowy white manes and tails, who stamped and tossed their heads in a restless frenzy to be off.

"Do you tike them?" Clayton said, helping her into the coach and settling down beside her.

"Like them?" Whitney repeated as she pushed back her hood and turned her head to smile shyly into his eyes. "I have never seen such magnificent animals."

He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Then they're yours."

"No, I couldn't accept them. Really, I couldn't."

"Is it now your intention to deprive me of the pleasure of giving you gifts?" he asked gently. "It pleased me mightily to know I had paid for your gowns and jewels even though you had no idea they were from me."

Lulled by his tolerant good humor, Whitney asked the one question she had heretofore been afraid to voice. "How much did you pay my father for me?"

The mood was shattered. "If you will grant me nothing else," he said shortly, "at least grant me this. Stop persisting in this foolish determination to see yourself as something I purchased!"

Now that she'd asked the question and incurred his anger, Whitney wanted an answer "How much?" she repeated obstinately.

Clayton hesitated and then snapped icily, "One hundred thousand pounds."

Whitney's mind reeled. Never in her wildest imaginings had she dreamt of a sum like that; a household servant only earned thirty or forty pounds a year. If she and Paul scrimped and saved for the rest of their lives, they could never pay back a fortune like that. She wished with all her heart that she hadn't asked the question. She didn't want to spoil their evening; tonight would be their first and last gala affair together, and for some reason it was terribly important to her not to ruin it. Trying desperately to recover some of their earlier gaiety, Whitney said lightly, "You were a fool, my lord duke."

Clayton threw his gloves onto the seat across from them. "Really?" he drawled in a bored, insulting voice. "And why is that, Ma'am?"

"Because," Whitney informed him pertly, "1 don't think you should have let him fleece you out of a single shilling over Ј99,000!"

Clayton's stunned gaze shot to her face, narrowed on her smiling lips, and then he leaned back his head and laughed, a rich throaty sound that warmed Whitney's heart. "When a man sets out to acquire a treasure," he chuckled, drawing her closer and smiling at her. "He does not argue over a few pounds."

The silence between them lengthened and the amusement in his eyes was slowly replaced by a slumbering intensity. His silver gaze held hers imprisoned as he slowly bent his head to her. "I want you," he breathed, and his lips parted hers for a deep, violently sensual kiss that left Whitney shaken and flushed.

The Rutherford mansion was ablaze with lights, and the long drive leading up to it crowded with vehicles making their way toward the front of the house where they stopped to allow their resplendent passengers to alight. Footmen carrying torches met each vehicle, then escorted the guests up the terraced front steps to the main door.

In a reasonably short time, Whitney and Clayton were being escorted up the steps by a torch-bearing, liveried footman. In the entry foyer, a servant took their outerwear, and they proceeded up the carpeted staircase where enormous bouquets of white orchids in tall silver stands had been placed on each step.

They walked around the corner and out onto a balcony and Whitney paused to gaze down at the scene in the ballroom below. Her first London ball, she thought. And her last. The crowd seemed to dip and sway as the ladies moved about the floor, talking and laughing. Immense crystal chandeliers reflected the dazzling kaleidoscope of colorful gowns, which were multiplied over and over again in the two-story mirrored walls.

"Ready?" Clayton said, tucking her hand possessively in the crook of his arm and trying to draw her toward the wide curving staircase which lead from the balcony down to the crowd below.

Whitney, who had been casually looking for Nicki, suddenly realized that everyone down in the ballroom was beginning to look at them, and she pulled back in confused alarm while hundreds of curious gazes swivelled up to where they were standing. The roar of conversation began steadily winding down until it was reduced to whispers and murmurings, and then it soared to deafening heights. Whitney had the terrifying feeling that every person in that ballroom was either looking at them or talking about them. A woman looked up at Clayton, then hurried over to speak to a tall, distinguished-looking man, who immediately turned to gaze up at Clayton, then disengaged himself from the people surrounding him and strode purposefully in the direction of the balcony where they stood. "Everyone is staring at us," Whitney whispered apprehensively.

Completely impervious to the stir he was creating, Clayton flicked a glance down at the guests, then shifted his gaze to Whitney's lovely, upturned face. "I see that," he agreed drily as the distinguished-looking man, who Whitney assumed must be their host, bounded up the last stair onto the balcony.

"Clayton!" Marcus Rutherford laughed. "Where the devil have you been? I was beginning to believe the rumors that you'd dropped off the face of the earth."

Whitney listened as the two men, who were obviously close friends, exchanged greetings. Lord Rutherford was handsome, and looked to be about seven and thirty, with piercing blue eyes that spoke of perceptiveness. Without warning, those brae eyes levelled on her, inspecting her with unconcealed admiration. "And who, pray, is this ravishing creature beside you?" he demanded. "Must I introduce myself to her?"

Glancing uncertainly at Clayton, Whitney was startled to find him gazing down at her with a look of profound pride. "Whitney," be said, "may I present my friend, Lord Marcus Rutherford-" Directing a meaningful glance at Whitney's hand which was still firmly clasped in Lord Rutherford's, Clayton finished, "Marcus, kindly take your hands off my future wife, Miss Whitney Stone."

"Whitney?" Marcus Rutherford repeated. "What an unusual…" A slow, disbelieving smile broke across his face as he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Clayton. "Have I heard you aright?"

Clayton inclined his head in a slight nod, and Lord Rutherford's delighted gaze returned to Whitney. "Come with me, young lady," he said, eagerly drawing Whitney's hand through his arm. "As you may have noticed, there are about six hundred people down there all on fire to know who you are."

When Clayton seemed perfectly agreeable to letting her go with Marcus Rutherford, Whitney hastily took matters into her own hands. "My Lord Rutherford," she said, her pleading gaze directed at Clayton. "We-we wish to keep our forthcoming marriage a secret for a while."

She looked so distressed that Clayton reluctantly relinquished his plan to present her to everyone as his betrothed. "It's to remain a secret for a white, Marcus," be said.

"You must be mad," Lord Rutherford returned, but he released Whitney's hand. "You'll never keep this prize of yours a secret for a day. In fact"-he glanced in the direction of the crowd below which was now openly watching what was transpiring on the balcony-"you'll never manage such a feat for even an hour." He waited a moment, obviously hoping that Clayton would relent, then turned to leave them, saying over his shoulder, "You win at least allow me to confide in Lady Rutherford? She's already charged me to discover who this beautiful young woman with you is."

Before Whitney could object, Clayton nodded his assent. With a feeling of impending disaster, she turned a despairing took on him and said, "Now watch what happens." Lord Rutherford strode directly to a stunning redhead, drew he-aside and said something to her, and that lady turned to gaze in astonished welcome at Clayton and Whitney while flashing them a conspiratorial smile. Precisely as Whitney expected, the moment Lord Rutherford left her side, Lady Rutherford hurried over to another woman and bent low to whisper in her ear, and that lady's head swivelled to Clayton and Whitney, pausing for a split-second before she raised her fan and leaned close to speak to the lady beside her.

Cold terror strangled Whitney's voice. "So much for secrecy." She choked out the words, and searched for someone to ask where she could freshen up. Too stricken to care what Clayton would think of her actions, she fled to the designated room and closed the door, leaving him standing alone on the balcony.

Her eyes were glazed with panic as she stared blindly at her reflection in one of the mirrored walls. This was a calamity! A disaster! The guests at this ball knew Clayton; they were his friends and acquaintances. In another fifteen minutes, every one of them would know that he was betrothed to her, and within a week, everyone in London would know it. When she eloped with Paul, they would also realize that she had scorned Clayton, fled to escape him and their forthcoming marriage. Dear God! Before this was over, Clayton was going to be publicly humiliated. She couldn't bear to do that to him. Even if she could, she would be afraid to do it. If she publicly shamed him, his vengeance would surely crash down on her with a savagery that would be devastating. She shivered, thinking of Clayton's inevitable fury and the awesome power he possessed to retaliate against her and her family, even Aunt Anne and Uncle Edward.

Sternly, determinedly, Whitney fought to bring her rioting panic under control. She couldn't continue to hide in this room like an hysteric, and she couldn't leave the ball. Hugging her arms around herself, she began to pace slowly across the crimson carpet, struggling against her quaking fear and forcing herself to think logically, clearly. In the first place, she reminded herself, Clayton had avoided matrimony for years. If he didn't marry her, wasn't it likely that everyone would assume she'd lost whatever appeal she had for him, and that he and not she had cried off? Of course they would-particularly when they discovered that she had neither wealth nor aristocratic lineage.

The painful knot in her stomach began to dissolve. After a few minutes of additional contemplation, she realized that when Clayton had refused to allow Lord Rutherford to introduce her as his intended bride, he had relegated their betrothal to the status of an unconfirmed rumor. And wasn't London, like Paris, always buzzing with rumors that were soon forgotten? Emily said it was. She felt much, much better.

Her heart gave a funny little lurch when she remembered how very proud of her Clayton had seemed when he introduced her to Lord Rutherford as his fiancee. Never in all these weeks had Clayton mentioned love, or even that he cared for her, yet there was no mistaking that expression on his face tonight; he did care for her, and more than a little. She didn't want to repay him by embarrassing him. She owed him more than to shame him by cowering in this room. At least for this evening she could surely pretend that she returned his affection.

Having made that decision, Whitney composed her features and carefully studied her reflection in the mirror. A perfectly poised young woman looked back at her, her chin resolutely high.

Satisfied, she reached for the door handle just as female voices sounded from the adjoining room where champagne had been placed on a small gilded table between a pair of silk settees. "Her gown is Parisian," a woman pronounced,

"But with a name like Whitney Stone, she must be as English as we," a second voice reminded, adding, "do you believe the rumor that they're betrothed?"

"Absolutely not. If the girl had wits enough to wring an offer from Claymore, you can be certain she'd also be smart enough to make sure he sent a notice straight to the Times, I can't see Claymore crying off an engagement once it was announced."

Chiding herself for eavesdropping, Whitney started to leave but paused when the outer door again opened and a third voice chimed in. "They're betrothed, you may rely on it," the newcomer declared emphatically. "Lawrence and I have just had a word with his grace, and I'm absolutely convinced it's true."

"Do you mean," the first voice gasped, "that Claymore confirmed the betrothal?"

"Don't be silly. You know how maddeningly uninformative Claymore always is when he knows one most wants to pry into his affairs."

"Well then, what makes you so certain he's betrothed to her?"

"Two things. First of all, when Lawrence asked where they'd met, Claymore grinned in a way that made Vanessa Standfield positively livid-you do recall that Vanessa told everyone that he was on the verge of offering for her before he unexpectedly left for France? Well, now poor Vanessa looks an utter fool, because it's obvious that he left for France to join Miss Stone. He admitted he met her there several years ago. Anyway, when Claymore talks about Miss Stone, he positively beams with pride!"

"I can't credit the image of Claymore 'beaming,'" the second voice said skeptically.

"Then merely think of it as a gleam in his eye."

"That I can credit," laughed the voice. "Now, what was the second reason?"

"It was the look the duke gave Esterbrook when Ester-brook asked him for an introduction to Miss Stone. Believe me, there was enough ice in his grace's expression to send Esterbrook scurrying for a fire where he could warm himself."

Unable to remain any longer, Whitney opened the door. A secret smile touched her lips and eyes and, as she passed the three thunderstruck women, she graciously inclined her head.

Clayton was standing precisely where she had left him on the balcony, but surrounded now by two dozen men and women. Even so, Whitney had no trouble spotting him because he was taller than everyone else. She was trying to decide whether she should remain where she was, or go to Clayton's side, when he looked up and saw her standing there. Without a word of explanation, he merely inclined his head to those gathered around him, and strolled out of their midst to Whitney.

As they descended the curving staircase to the ballroom, the musicians on the raised dais broke into a majestic waltz, but instead of dancing, Clayton led her toward an alcove which was partially concealed from the ballroom by a curtain swept gracefully to one side. "Don't you want to dance?" Whitney asked curiously.

He chuckled and shook his head. "The last time we waltzed you tried to leave me in the middle of the dance floor."

"Which was no more than you deserved," Whitney teased, carefully ignoring the watchful stares of the guests.

They stepped into the alcove and Clayton picked up two glasses of sparkling champagne from the tray on the table beside her. Handing one to her, he inclined his head toward the smiling people who were already bearing down on the alcove. "Courage, my sweet." He grinned. "Here they come." Whitney drained the contents of her champagne glass and plucked another off the silver tray. For courage.

They converged on the alcove in a ceaseless stream, in groups of six and eight, demanding good-naturedly to know where Clayton had been and pressing invitations on him. They treated Whitney with a combination of carefully concealed speculation and extreme friendliness, yet there were several times when Whitney sensed a jealous malevolence in the attitudes of some of the women. And no wonder, she thought, smiting to herself as she admired Clayton over the rim of her fourth glass of champagne. He looked breathtakingly handsome in the elegant black evening attire that fit his tall, broad-shouldered frame to perfection. No doubt many of the women here had yearned to have him at their side, to bask in the aura of restrained power and masculine vitality that emanated from him, and to know the spell of those bold gray eyes capturing and holding theirs.

As she thought it, he glanced down at her in the midst of a conversation with his friends, and a glow of warmth and happiness surged through Whitney that had nothing to do with the champagne she had consumed. Seeing him like this, relaxed and laughing among these glittering members of London's haute ton who admired him and courted his friendship, Whitney could hardly believe this urbane, sophisticated nobleman was the same man who had raced after her on Dangerous Crossing and talked about prehistoric rocks with her tiresome uncle.

When at long last there was a brief moment of privacy, Whitney slanted an audacious smile at him. "I would say that the consensus is that I am probably your mistress."

"As it happens, you're wrong," Clayton said, his gaze dropping to the near empty champagne glass in her hand. "Have you eaten anything tonight?"

"Yes," Whitney said. She was puzzled by his concern, but she dismissed it because the music was beginning again and Lord Rutherford and five other men were bearing down on her with the obvious intention of asking her to dance.

Clayton followed her from the alcove and leaned a shoulder negligently against a pillar, raising his glass of champagne to his lips while he watched her making her graceful way toward the dance floor. Whitney might think these people believed she was his mistress, but Clayton was making certain they realized she was his fiancee. They all knew he was not in the habit of gazing fondly at the women he escorted to balls, or holding up pillars while he watched them dance. By doing that now, he was deliberately announcing their engagement as dearly and emphatically as if it had been printed in the Times.

Just why it was so important to claim Whitney as his tonight, was something that eluded him. He told himself that it was because he didn't want Esterbrook and the others panting after her, but it was more than that. She was in his blood. Her smile warmed his heart, and her most innocent touch sent desire raging through his veins. There was a provocative sensuality about her, a natural, unaffected sophistication and exhilarating liveliness that drew men to her, and he wanted every one of them to know, here and now, that she was his.

He watched her, his mind drifting to the night soon to come, when that glorious mantle of shimmering dark hair would be spilling over his bare chest and her silken body would writhe to sweet ecstasy beneath his. In the past, he had preferred his women to be experienced in the art of lovemaking; fiery, passionate creatures who knew how to give pleasure and receive it, women who could admit their desire to themselves and to him. But now he was outrageously pleased that Whitney was a virgin. In fact, it gave him intense pleasure to contemplate their wedding night when he would guide her gentry, tenderly from girl to woman, until she was moaning with rapture in his arms.

Three hours later, Whitney had danced with more men than she could possibly remember and drunk more champagne than she had ever consumed. She was feeling decidedly gay and definitely tight-headed-so much so that not even Clayton's frown of displeasure when she accepted this, her second dance with Lord Esterbrook, could dampen her spirits. In fact she was quite convinced that nothing could spoil her enjoyment of the evening, until she glanced over Lord Esterbrook's shoulder and saw that, for the first time all night, Clayton was dancing with someone other than her. The young woman in his arms, whose eyes were turned laughingly up to his was a lushly beautiful blonde whose slender, voluptuous curves were draped in an exquisite gown of sapphire-blue, with diamonds and sapphires twined in and out among her shining curls. A blinding streak of jealousy suddenly ripped through Whitney.

"Her name is Vanessa Standfield," Lord Esterbrook provided with a hint of malicious satisfaction in his voice.

"They make a very striking couple," Whitney managed.

"Vanessa certainly thinks so," Esterbrook replied.

Whitney's eyes clouded as she recalled the conversation she'd overheard much earlier between the three women in the withdrawing room upstairs. Vanessa Standfield had been expecting an offer from Clayton just before he left for France. No doubt, Clayton had given her very good reason to believe he cared, Whitney thought with a fresh stab of painful jealousy as she watched him grinning at the gorgeous blonde. But then she reminded herself that Clayton had offered for her and not Vanessa Standfield, and in a dizzying shift of mood she felt perfectly wonderful again. "Miss Standfield is very beautiful," she said.

Esterbrook's brows lifted in amused mockery. "Vanessa was not nearly so complimentary when she remarked about you a few moments ago, Miss Stone. But then, she is quite convinced that you have wrung an offer from Claymore. Have you?" he asked abruptly.

Whitney was so stunned by his monumental nerve that she didn't even consider getting angry. In fact, her eyes danced with laughter. "Somehow, I cannot conceive of anyone 'wringing' anything from him, can you?"

"Oh come now," Esterbrook said testily, "I am not naive enough to believe you misunderstood my question."

"And I," Whitney said softly, "am not naive enough to believe I have to answer it."

With the exception of Lord Esterbrook, all her other partners were lavishly attentive and outrageously flattering, but the dancing and animated conversation eventually began to wear on her. She found herself longing to be at Clayton's side. Declining her current partner's request for another dance, she asked him to return her to the duke instead.

As usual, Clayton was surrounded with people, but without looking up from the conversation, he reached out and firmly took her arm, drawing her into the circle of his friends, and keeping her close to his side. It was a casually possessive gesture that somehow added to Whitney's sense of euphoric well-being … as did the next two glasses of champagne.

"What happened to Esterbrook?" Clayton asked drily a while later. "I expected him to ask you for a third dance."

Whitney twinkled. "He did. But I refused."

"To prevent gossip?"

An unconsciously provocative smile curved her lips as she shook her head in denial. "I refused because I knew you didn't want me to dance with him the last time, and I was quite, quite certain that if I did it again, you would retaliate by dancing again with Miss Standfield."

"That's very astute of you," he complimented softly.

"And very perverse of you," Whitney admonished, laughing. And then it dawned on her that she had just admitted to being jealous.

"Cherie-" Nicki's deep chuckle brought her spinning around in joyous surprise. "Have you now decided to conquer London as you did Paris?"

"Nicki!" she breathed, beaming at the handsome face that had been so dear to her for so long. "It's wonderful to see you," she said as he took both her hands in his familiar warm grasp and held them. "I asked Lord Rutherford if you were here, but he said you had been delayed in Paris and might not arrive until tomorrow."

"I got here an hour ago."

Whitney turned to Clayton, intending to introduce Nicki to him, but evidently they had already met. "Claymore, isn't it?" Nicki interrupted her introduction, his tawny eyes surveying Clayton critically.

Clayton's response was an equally cool inclination of the head, followed by a lazy, mocking smile which Whitney sensed was deliberately intended either to infuriate or intimidate Nicki. Whitney, who had never seen either man act this way to anyone before, had a sudden urge to run for cover, and an equally strong impulse, induced by champagne, to giggle at the male hostility she had somehow provoked.

"Dance with me," Nicki said, arrogantly disregarding etiquette, which required that he first ask Clayton if he objected.

Since Nicki was already exerting pressure to draw her with him to the dance floor, Whitney looked helplessly over her shoulder at Clayton. "Will you excuse us, please?" she asked.

"Certainly," came Clayton's cupped reply.

The moment Nicki took her in his arms, his features tightened with disapproval. "What are you doing with Claymore?" be demanded, and before she could possibly answer, he said, "Cherie, the man is a … a …"

"Are you trying to say he's a frightful rogue where ladies are concerned?" Whitney asked, struggling against her mirth.

Nicki nodded curtly, and Whitney continued teasingly, "And he is a trifle arrogant, isn't he? Also very handsome and charming?"

Nicki's eyes narrowed and Whitney's shoulders trembled with laughter. "Oh Nicki, he is very much like you!"

"With one important difference." Nicki countered, "and that is that I would marry you!"

Whitney almost clapped her hand over his mouth in laughing horror. "Don't say that to me, Nicki. Not here and not now. You would not believe the coil I'm in already."

"This is not a laughing matter," Nicki said sharply.

Whitney swallowed a giggle. "No one knows that better than I."

Nicki studied her flushed face in frowning silence. "I am going to stay in London," he announced. "I have business I can transact while I am here and friends with whom I will visit. You said in your note that you had social commitments for the next two weeks. At the end of those two weeks, you and I are again going to discuss the subject of marriage- when you are in a clearer frame of mind."

Caught between horror and hilarity, Whitney made no protest and allowed him to return her to Clayton where she downed more champagne and gaily contemplated her predicament, which was growing more complicated and perilous by the moment.

Clayton sent word to have his coach brought round; then he took her in his arms for a last dance. "What amuses you so, little one?" he asked, smiling down at her and holding her much closer than was seemly.

"Oh, everything!" Whitney laughed. "For example, when I was a girl I was absolutely positive that no one would ever want to marry me. And now Paul wants to-and Nicki says he does-and of course, you do." After a moment's thought, she announced expansively, "I wish I could marry all three of you, for you are all very nice!" She peeked at him from beneath her long sooty lashes, and asked almost hopefully, "I don't suppose you are the least bit jealous, are you?"

Clayton watched her intently. "Should I be?"

"Indeed you should," Whitney said merrily, "if for no other reason than to flatter my vanity because I was jealous when you danced with Miss Standfield." She sobered a bit and lowered her voice to the barest whisper. "I had freckles when I was a girl," she confessed.

"Surely not!" Clayton said in exaggerated shock.

"Yes, thousands of them. Right here-" she jabbed a long tapered fingernail at the general vicinity of her nose and almost poked her eye out.

A throaty chuckle escaped Clayton as he quickly reclaimed her right hand to prevent its being jabbed at her other eye.

"And," Whitney continued in the tone of one admitting to a ghastly deed, "I used to hang upside down from tree limbs. All the other girls used to pretend they were royal princesses, but I pretended I was a monkey …" She tipped her head back, expecting to see condemnation on Clayton's face. Instead he was smiling down at her as if she were something very rare and very fine. "I am having a wonderful time tonight," she said softly, mesmerized by the tenderness she saw in his eyes.

An hour later, Whitney sighed with contentment and snuggled deeper into the burgundy velvet squabs of Clayton's coach, listening to the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves on the cobbled, fog-shrouded London streets. Experimentally, she closed her eyes, but dizziness made her snap them open. She concentrated instead on the weak yellow light from the flickering coach lamps that sent shadows dancing within the cozy confines of the coach. "Champagne is very nice," she murmured.

"You won't think so tomorrow," Clayton laughed, putting his arm around her.

Clutching his arm to help maintain her fragile balance, Whitney trailed beside him up the steps toward the front door of the Archibalds' townhouse, her face turned up to the dawn-streaked sky. At the front door, Clayton stopped.

Whitney finally realized that he was evidently waiting for something and pulled her gaze from the sky to his face. Her eyes narrowed on the laughter tugging at his lips, and she drew herself up to her fullest height. In a voice of offended dignity, she asked, "Are you thinking that I have had too much to drink?"

"Not at all. I am hoping that you have a key."

"Key?" she repeated blankly.

"To the door . . ."

"Oh certainly," she proudly declared.

After several moments passed, he chuckled. "May I have it?"

"Have what?" Whitney asked, trying desperately to concentrate. "Oh yes, of course-the key." She glanced about, trying to remember where she'd left her elegant little beaded reticule, and discovered it hanging haphazardly from her left shoulder by its short golden chain. Grimacing to herself, she muttered, "Ladies do not carry their reticules thus," and pulled it down, rummaging clumsily within it until she finally found the key.

In the darkened entrance hall, Whitney turned abruptly to bid Clayton good night, misjudged the distance separating them and collided with his chest. His strong arm encircled her, steadying her. She could have drawn away, but instead she stood there, her heart beginning to hammer as his gray eyes slid to her lips, lingering on them for an endless moment. And then he purposefully lowered his head.

His mouth opened boldly over hers, his hands sliding intimately over her back and then her hips, molding her tightly to his muscular frame. Whitney stiffened in confused alarm at the hardening pressure of his manhood, then suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck and shamelessly returned his kiss, glorying in the feel of his tongue insistently parting her lips, then plunging into her mouth, slowly retreating and plunging again in a wildly exciting rhythm so suggestive that she felt as if his body were plunging into hers.

Dizzily, she finally pulled away, and then was disappointed that he released her so readily. Drawing a long, unsteady breath, she opened her eyes and saw two Claytons gazing down at her, one superimposed over the other on her swimming vision. "You are shockingly forward, sir," she admonished severely, then spoiled it with a giggle.

Clayton grinned impenitently. "Understandably so, since you seem to find my attentions less than repulsive tonight."

Whitney considered that with a hazy, thoughtful smile. "I suppose that's true," she admitted in a candid whisper. "And do you know something else-I believe that you kiss quite as well as Paul!" With that backhanded compliment she turned and started up the stairs. On the second step, she paused to reconsider. "Actually," she said, looking at Clayton over her shoulder, "I think you kiss as well as Paul, but I can't be perfectly certain until he returns. When he does, I shall ask him to kiss me the way you do, so that I may make a more objective comparison." On a stroke of brilliance, she added, "I shall make a scientific experiment of it!"

"The hell you will!" Clayton half growled, half laughed.

Whitney lifted her delicate brows in haughty challenge. "I will if I wish."

A hard smack landed familiarly on her derriere. Whitney lurched around, swinging her arm in a wide arc with every intention of slapping his grinning face. Unfortunately, her aim was off and her hand grazed the wall alongside the staircase instead, dislodging a small painting and sending it clattering to the polished floor. "Now look what you've done!" she hissed unfairly, "You're going to awaken the entire household!" Turning, she flounced up the stairs.

Three Archibald servants were stationed at the sideboard which was covered with steaming platters of buttered eggs, ham, bacon, wafer-thin sliced sirloin, fresh crusty rolls, three kinds of potatoes and several other tempting dishes which Emily had ordered last night after due consideration as to what was appropriate to serve a man of the Duke of Claymore's lofty rank. They were waiting for Whitney to come downstairs and join them for the meal, to which the duke had been invited since he was escorting Whitney back home that day. Stirring her tea, Emily furtively studied the duke as he conversed across the table with Michael, while a romantic daydream of Whitney becoming the Duchess of Claymore floated through her mind.

"It appears that our houseguest is going to sleep away the day," Michael remarked.

Emily saw the meaningful look which his grace directed at her husband as he said mildly, "Whitney may be suffering from the effects of her evening."

"I had no idea she might be ill," Emily exclaimed. "I'll go up and see her."

"No," Whitney croaked behind them. "I-I'm here."

At the sound of her hoarse voice, all three turned in unison. She was standing in the doorway, arms extended, her hands braced against the doorframe on either side of her, swaying slightly as if she couldn't support herself. Alarmed, Emily pushed back her chair, but the duke was already out of his and striding swiftly across the room.

A knowing smile touched Clayton's eyes as he studied her pale face. "How do you feel, little one?" he asked.

"How do you think I feel?" she whispered, focusing an anguished, accusing look on him.

"You'll feel better after you've had some breakfast," he promised, taking her arm to lead her toward the table.

"No," Whitney rasped. "I am going to the."