Whitney, My Love

Chapter Twenty-six

WHTTNEY'S DAYS IN LONDON HAD ESTABLISHED A PATTERN. SHE went shopping with Elizabeth and Emily, or for an occasional drive through the park. Nicki called regularly at the house. Rarely did she let him escort her anywhere, but at least he came, and he made her smile. And he never asked her for more than she was able to give.

Elizabeth was a daily visitor. She was so caught up in her wedding plans, so eager to discuss her gown, the flowers, the banquet menu, and everything else that concerned the wedding which was only four days away, that Whitney could hardly remain in the same room with her exuberant joy, and even while she was frantically thinking up excuses to leave, Whitney hated herself for not being better able to take pleasure in Elizabeth's happiness.

She no longer lived in frantic expectation of seeing Clayton, but neither was she able to relax. She existed in a tense limbo, suspended between a past she refused to think about and a future she could not bear to contemplate.

Today was much like the others, except that when Elizabeth launched into an enumeration of all Peter's wonderful qualities, Whitney leapt to her feet, excused herself, snatched her cape from her room and practically ran out of the house. Ignoring the stricture which required that she take someone with her, she fled to the small park a few blocks away, then slowed her steps and wandered aimlessly down the deserted paths.

Aunt Anne and Whitney's father were coming up to London for Elizabeth's wedding-Elizabeth had surprised everyone by deciding she wished to be married in all the splendor London could provide. As much as she longed to see her beloved aunt, Whitney dreaded the confrontation. In four days Aunt Anne would arrive, expecting to find Clayton and Whitney acting like an unofficially engaged couple. Instead, Whitney was going to tell her that she was never going to marry the Duke of Claymore. And Aunt Anne would insist on knowing why.

Why? Whitney thought wildly, rehearsing the scene with her aunt. "Because he dragged me away from Emily's party, he took me to his house and he tore my clothes off, and he made me get into his bed."

Aunt Anne would be stunned and outraged, but she would want to know what had happened before that. She would want to know why. Whitney sank down onto a park bench, her shoulders drooping with confused despair. Why had Clayton believed she had given herself to Paul? And why hadn't he at least come to find out how she was faring? Or to tell her what he was going to do?

Not once in the last four weeks had Whitney allowed herself to think about that night, but now that she 'had started, she couldn't stop. She tried to remember Clayton as the man who had coldly and viciously ripped her clothes off. Instead she remembered him in that awful, pain-blurred moment when he had discovered her virginity. She saw his tensed shoulders above her, his head thrown back, his face a tortured mask of anguish and regret.

She wanted to remember the names he had called her and the insulting, degrading things he had said to her. Instead she remembered that he had held her in his arms while she cried, stroking her hair and whispering to her in a voice raw with emotion. "Don't cry, darling. Please don't cry anymore."

An awful, stabbing ache grew and grew in Whitney's throat, but now the pain she felt was for Clayton, not herself. When she realized it, she jumped furiously to her feet. She must be mad, utterly mad! She was actually feeling sorry for the man who had violated her! She never wanted to lay eyes on him again. Ever!

She walked quickly back down the path, the gusty wind blowing her cape around her like a tourniquet. As suddenly as it had come up, the wind died and a squirrel scampered toward her, then stopped, watching her half in fear, half in expectation. Whitney stopped too, waiting for him to move, but he sat up and chattered reproachfully at her.

She saw the acorn lying beside her foot and bent down to pick it up, offering it to him. The furry little animal blinked nervously, but came no closer, so Whitney tossed it to him. "Better take it," she told him softly, "it's going to be winter soon." The squirrel flicked its eyes to the precious acorn now lying only inches from him. For a moment he hesitated, then he turned, fleeing from it as quickly as his legs would carry him. !

Not once in the weeks since that fateful night had Whitney broken her brave promise not to cry. She had succeeded, but she had also stored up a terrible burden of emotion. A little squirrel who preferred to starve rather than take something she had touched, was the last straw. "I hope you starve!" she choked as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She pivoted on her heel and stalked down the path, past the park gates.

Tears streamed down her face and the wind burned her eyes, but she cried anyway. She cried until there were no more tears of bitterness or hurt left to shed-and strangely her spirits began to lift. In fact, by the time she reached the Archibald house, Whitney felt better than she had since "it" had happened.

Lord Archibald was away that evening so Whitney and Emily shared a cozy dinner in Whitney's room, and Whitney discovered she could actually enjoy herself again.

"You look remarkably restored tonight," Emily teased her, as she poured tea.

"I feel remarkably restored," Whitney said, smiling.

"Good," Emily replied. "Because there's something I want to ask you."

"Ask away," Whitney said, sipping her tea.

"My mother wrote me that you're betrothed to Paul Sevarin. Are you?"

"No-to Clayton Westmoreland," Whitney replied in quick defense.

A priceless antique tea cup slid through Emily's fingers and crashed to the floor. Her eyes widened, then grew wider still while a slow smile dawned across her pretty features. "You aren't. . . jesting?" she whispered.

Whitney shook her head.

"You're certain?"

"Very certain."

"I don't think I believe you," Emily said.

She looked so skeptical that Whitney's lips trembled with laughter. "Would you care to bet your new sable cape that I'm not betrothed to him?"

"Do you want it badly enough to Be?"

"Definitely. But I'm not lying."

"But how-when-did it happen?"

Whitney opened her mouth to explain, then changed her mind. She desperately needed to talk to someone about it, but she was afraid to begin. Today, for the first time in weeks, she had begun to feel alive again; she didn't want to risk her fragile, newfound tranquillity. "No, Emily," she said. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about it." She got up nervously and Emily rose too, advancing on her with a determined, joyous smile.

"Well, you're going to!" Emily laughed softly. "You are going to tell me every single, tiny detail of this unbelievable romance if I have to wring it out of you with my own two hands. Now begin at the beginning."

Whitney started to refuse, but Emily looked so happy and so determined, that it was useless. Besides, she suddenly wanted to talk about it. She sat back down and Emily settled beside her. "I suppose it actually began several years ago, before my come-out," Whitney started. "Clayton said he saw me in a millinery shop with my aunt. The proprietress was trying to convince me to purchase a hideous bonnet covered with artificial fruit. . ."

At the end of the story Emily stared at her with a combination of mirth and wonder. "Oh lord," she whispered. "It's too delicious for words-and so romantic. Imagine, after spending all that money, he came to England only to discover that you were infatuated with Paul." She gulped down a giggle. "Michael was so worried that his grace would break your heart, but I wasn't. I saw the way he looked at you when he came to take you to the Rutherfords' ball, and I knew."

"You knew what?" Whitney asked.

"Why, that he is in love with you, silly!" Emily broke off in bewilderment. "But he hasn't been here in weeks, and I know he's in London because he's been seen at the opera and the theatre." She watched the familiar haunted expression return to Whitney's face. "Whitney?" she breathed. "What's wrong? You've looked like this ever since the night you didn't come home. What happened that night to make you so unhappy?"

"I don't want to discuss it," Whitney said hoarsely.

Emily took Whitney's cold hands in hers. "You have to talk about it, it's been tearing you apart. I'm not trying to pry; I already know you didn't tell the truth. You see, I was standing at the window the morning you returned, and I saw the gold crest on the coach that brought you back. It was the duke's coach, wasn't it?"

"You know it was," Whitney said, her head bent with shame.

"And I also know you left here with him-you said you did, and Carlisle said you did too. Although," she added with a bemused smile in her voice, "Carlisle was shockingly in his cups that night, and he kept insisting that the Duke of Claymore had descended from nowhere and forcibly dragged you off into the night. Of course, I didn't believe for a minute-oh dear lord!" she burst out. "Is that what happened? Is it?" she pleaded.

Whitney nodded.

"Where did he take you?" Emily demanded, her voice tight with apprehension. "Did he take you to another party?"

"No."

"I will never forgive myself for laughing at Carlisle," she said, her hand tightening convulsively on Whitney's. "Whitney," she whispered painfully, "where did he take you? What did he do to you?"

A pair of vulnerable green eyes lifted to Emily's, and in them Emily saw the answer. "That monster!" she hissed, leaping to her feet. "That blackguard, that devil! He ought to be hung! He-" Emily stopped, obviously deciding that Whitney needed encouragement, not more fuel for her hurt and anger. "We have to look on the bright side of this."

"What 'bright side'?" Whitney said tiredly.

"It may not seem like it, but there is one. Just listen." Dropping to her knees, Emily took both Whitney's hands in her reassuring grasp. "I don't know much about the law, but I do know that your father can't force you to marry that. . . that monster! And after what he's done, Claymore must know you will never willingly marry him. Therefore, he has no choice but to release you from the betrothal agreement and forget about the money he gave your father."

Whitney's head jerked up. For long moments, she stared blankly at the wall across from her. Of course Clayton meant to release her. That must be why he hadn't come to see her. He was going to withdraw his offer. A strange, sick feeling swept over her at the thought. "No," she said firmly. "He won't withdraw his offer. I know he won't. Oh Emily," she cried, "do you truly think he'll just walk away and let me go?"

"Of course!" Emily promptly reassured. "What else can he possibly-" Emily's eyes widened on Whitney's unhappy face. "Whitney?" she gasped, slowly coming to her feet and staring down at her unhappy friend. "You cannot possibly mean- My God! You don't want him to let you go," she cried.

Whitney's gaze flew upward. "It's only that I never considered that he might release me."

"You don't want him to!" Emily persisted in rising tones. "It's written all over your face."

Whitney stood up too, nervously rubbing her palms against the folds of her dress. She willed herself to say she hoped above everything that Clayton Westmoreland would release her, but the words lodged in her throat. "I don't know what I want," she admitted miserably.

Emily dismissed that with a wave of her hand, her anxious eyes riveted on Whitney. "Has he sent word to you, or approached you in any way since that night?"

"No! And he had better not!"

"And you have no intention of trying to see him?"

"Certainly not," Whitney declared heatedly.

"He can't possibly approach you. First he would need some sign from you that you would at least listen to an apology. And you won't-can't-give him that sign, can you?"

"I would the first!" Whitney announced proudly, and she meant it.

"But if he cares for you at all, he will be filled with remorse for what he did. He'll think that you must loathe him."

Whitney walked over to the bed and leaned her forehead against the poster which supported the canopy. "He won't let me go, Emily," she said with more hope than regret in her voice. "I think he cares . ._. cared . . . for me very much."

"Well!" Emily exploded. "He certainly has a peculiar way of showing his regard."

"So do I," Whitney whispered. "I constantly defied him. I would have shamed him in front of his friends by eloping with Paul. I never stopped lying to him." She closed her eyes and turned her head away. "If you don't mind," she said in a suffocated voice, "I'd like to go to bed now."

Emily went to bed too, but after lying awake for hours, she finally gave up trying to sleep. Propping up the pillows, she sat back, watching Michael as he slept peacefully beside her. "Could I still love you if you'd done that to me?" she whispered to his sleeping form. "Yes," she answered, tenderly smoothing the hair at his temple. "I could forgive you almost anything." But if Michael had done that, he would have an opportunity to make amends. They were married, and no matter how battered or angry she felt in spirit, they would still be forced to be in each other's company, in order to keep up appearances. Before long, matters would inevitably come to a head, and then the breach could be healed. But Whitney wasn't married to Claymore. They were both avoiding each other, and they would continue to do so. Whitney's pride and hurt would prevent her from making the first move, and the duke would continue to believe that she hated him and wanted nothing to do with him. Unless something brought them face to face-and soon-this breach could never be healed.

Torn between interfering in a highly explosive situation, or politely staying out of it, Emily pulled up her knees and perched her chin on them. After several minutes' contemplation, she slowly shoved the bedcovers aside. Trembling with guilt and uncertainty, she crept out of bed. Downstairs she groped in the darkness for a tinder and lit a candle, then she tiptoed into the yellow salon and put the candle on the desk while she searched through the drawers for one of the unused wedding invitations she'd helped Elizabeth address.

She slid into the chair and nibbled on the end of a quill, trying to think of what she could say. It was imperative that the duke not mistakenly believe she was acting on Whitney's instructions, for there was every likelihood that when Whitney first saw him she would turn on him in hurt outrage. The important thing was bringing them face to face and leaving the rest to fate.

Hastily, before she lost her courage and changed her mind, Emily wrote on the bottom of the invitation, "Someone we both care very much for will be in attendance on the bride this day." She signed it simply, "Emily Archibald."

A footman wearing vaguely familiar livery was shown into Clayton's library on Upper Brook Street. "I have an invitation which my mistress instructed be given directly to you, your grace," he explained.

Clayton was deeply engrossed in his morning correspondence. "Are you to await a response?" he asked absently.

"No, my lord."

"Then leave it there." Clayton nodded at a small table near the door.

He was getting dressed to go out for the evening when he recollected the envelope left lying in his library that morning. "Send someone for it, Armstrong," he murmured to his valet without looking away from the mirror which reflected the success of the intricate folds he was putting into his snowy neckcloth.

Clayton shrugged into the jacket Armstrong held for him, then he took the envelope a footman had just brought up. Opening it, he extracted what appeared to be yet another invitation for his secretary to attend to.

The name "Ashton" leapt out at him and his heart instantly contracted with painful memories. "Tell my secretary to decline, but to send an appropriate gift in my name," he said quietly, handing the invitation back to the footman.

As he passed it across, however, a tiny handwritten message along the bottom caught his eye. Clayton read it, then read it again, his pulse beginning to hammer. What in God's name was Emily trying to tell him? That Whitney wished to see him? Or that Emily wanted him to see her? Impatiently waving his valet and the footman away, he carried the invitation into his bedchamber and reread Emily's words three more times, growing more agitated with each reading. Futilely he tried to find something in the brief note to indicate that Whitney had forgiven him. But there was nothing.

That evening, Clayton sat through the play at the Crown Theatre paying no more attention to the raven-haired beauty beside him than he did to the performances on the stage. His emotions veered back and forth between hope and despair. There was nothing about Emily's note to give him any encouragement except that she had sent it to him. Emily Archibald and Whitney had been fast friends since childhood. If Whitney hated him, Emily would have discovered that by now, and she would never have sent him the invitation. On the other hand, if Whitney had forgiven him, she would have sent it to him herself.

Suppose Whitney didn't want to see him. Suppose she took one look at him in the church and fainted? A sad smile touched Clayton's eyes. Whitney might hurl her bouquet in his face, but she wouldn't faint. Not his brave, courageous girl.