Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  “That’s enough,” Clayton interrupted firmly, coming to his feet.

  “He can give you everything . . . everything,” her father rasped behind her. “He’s a duke, Whitney. You’ll have everything you—”

  “A duke!” Whitney scoffed contemptuously, glaring at Clayton. “How did you manage to convince him of that, you lying, conniving . . .” Her voice broke, and Clayton captured her chin, holding her rebellious gaze to his.

  “I am a duke, little one. I told you that months ago, in France.”

  “Why you . . . You Human Pestilence! I wouldn’t marry you if you were the King of England.” Jerking her head away, she hissed furiously. “And I never had the misfortune to lay eyes on you in France.”

  “I told you I was a duke at a masquerade in Paris,” he persisted quietly. “The Armands’ masquerade.”

  “You liar! I didn’t meet you there. I had never met you until I came home!”

  “Darling,” Aunt Anne intervened cautiously. “Think back to the night of the masquerade. Just as we were leaving, you asked me if I could identify one of the guests—a very tall man wearing a black half-mask, a long black cloak, and . . .”

  “Aunt Anne, please!” Whitney expelled her breath in an uncomprehending rush of frustrated impatience. “I didn’t meet this man that night or any . . .” A strangled gasp emitted from Whitney as a kaleidoscope of images chased themselves across her mind. A pair of now familiar gray eyes glinted down at her in the Armands’ garden. A deep voice tinged with laughter said, “Suppose I told you that I am a duke . . .”

  In the space of ten seconds, all these memories collided head on with the reality of the present, bringing her whirling around on Clayton in a tempestuous fury. “That was you! That was you, skulking behind that mask!”

  “Without a quizzing glass,” Clayton confirmed with a grim smile.

  “Of all the treacherous, despicable, underhanded . . .” Whitney ran out of words to express her turbulent animosity at approximately the same time another blinding realization dawned, bringing with it a fresh rush of scalding tears. “My Lord Westmoreland”—she spat his correct surname with all the contempt she could summon— “I should like to inform you that I found the endless conversation about you this evening—about your estates, your horses, your wealth, your women—not just boring, but utterly nauseating!”

  “So did I,” Clayton agreed sardonically.

  The amusement Whitney thought she heard in his voice was like acid on a burn. Clutching a fold of her dressing robe, she twisted it until her knuckles turned white, while she tried to drag enough air through the thick knots of emotion in her chest to speak. All she could manage was a painful constricted whisper. “I’ll hate you for this until the day I die!”

  Ignoring her threat, Clayton said gently, “I want you to go to bed now and try to get some sleep.” He slid his hand under her elbow, tightening his hold when she tried to pull free. “I’ll come back in the afternoon. There are a great many explanations to be made, and I’ll make them, when you’re in a better frame of mind to listen.”

  Not for one second was Whitney deceived by his pretense of tender concern. The moment Clayton finished speaking, she snatched her arm away and stalked to the door.

  As she reached for the brass handle, he added in a flat, authoritative voice, “Whitney, I expect you to be here when I arrive.” Whitney’s hand froze on the handle; her heart shrieked her resentment of his commands, his directives, his existence! Without so much as a backward glance to indicate she’d heard, she wrenched the door open, barely restraining the wild urge to jerk the oak panel shut behind her with a crash.

  So long as they could hear her footsteps in the hall, Whitney walked slowly, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing her flee like a terrified hare. At the end of the hall she turned, her pace quickening with every step until she was rushing headlong, tripping on a stair, then running down the hall toward the safety, the sanity, of her room. Once inside it, she leaned against the door in a cold, trembling paralysis . . . staring at the cheerful, cozy room she’d left so excitedly but a half hour ago, her mind unable to cope with the disaster that had just occurred.

  * * *

  Downstairs in the study, the awful, ominous silence lengthened until even the air seemed to crackle with tension. Clayton stood with his hands braced against the fireplace mantel, staring into the fire with murderous rage emanating from every inch of his taut, powerful frame.

  Martin dropped his hands from his face so abruptly that his fists thudded against the desktop, making Anne jump. “It was the liquor, I swear it,” Martin whispered, his face ashen. “I’ve never raised a hand to her before. What can I do to . . .”

  Clayton’s head jerked around. “What can you do?” he snapped savagely. “You’ve done enough! She’ll marry me, but she’ll make you pay for what happened tonight and, in doing so, she’ll make me pay as well.” His tone changed, his words coming slowly, like uncoiling whips. “From this night forward, no matter what she says, you are going to keep your mouth shut! Is that clear to you, Martin?”

  Martin swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. Clear.”

  “If she tells you she’s just put poison in your tea, you are going to drink it, and you’ll . . . keep . . . your . . . goddamned . . . mouth . . . shut!”

  “Yes. Shut.”

  Clayton started to say more, then stopped, as if he could no longer trust himself to speak. With a curt bow to Anne, he strode swiftly to the door and jerked it open. He paused, his icy gaze swinging back to Martin. “When next you’re counting your blessings, give thanks to Almighty God that you have twenty years on me, for I swear that if you didn’t—” With a superhuman effort, Clayton bit off the rest of his threat and stalked from the room, his rapid footsteps echoing sharply down the hall.

  In front of the house, the coach lamps on the duke’s carriage flickered and wavered in the breeze, conjuring eerie shapes that crept forward, then pirouetted away beneath the rustling, swaying branches of the elms that lined the drive. James McRae, Clayton’s coachman, shifted patiently on his perch. All the guests had left, with only the duke remaining behind, but McRae didn’t mind waiting. In fact, he could not have been more pleased that his master was prone to linger in Miss Stone’s company, for he had wagered a rather large sum of money with Armstrong, the duke’s valet, that Miss Stone was destined to be the next Duchess of Claymore.

  The front door of the house opened and the Duke of Claymore bounded down the front steps. From the corner of his eye, McRae observed the duke’s long, ground-devouring strides, which were eloquent of either rage or exhilaration. McRae wasn’t certain which, nor did he think it much mattered; so long as Miss Stone continued to provoke such unprecedented emotional reactions in the duke, the odds continued to grow in McRae’s favor.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” the duke growled, flinging himself into the open carriage and slamming the door behind him.

  Something’s amiss with the lass, McRae concluded with a chuckle, sending the magnificent grays bowling down the drive. So delighted was he, that not even the persistent throbbing of his abscessed wisdom tooth could dull his spirits. Mentally visualizing a variety of pleasant ways to spend the proceeds from his wager, McRae began to hum a lilting Irish melody. After a few bars, the duke leaned forward and demanded furiously, “Are you in pain, McRae?!”

  “No, your grace,” McRae hurriedly replied over his shoulder.

  “In mourning?” the duke snapped.

  “No, your grace.”

  “Then cease that goddamn moaning!”

  “Aye, your grace,” McRae said, carefully concealing his happy expression from his infuriated master.

  17

  * * *

  Whitney slowly opened her eyes, blinking in confusion at the late morning sunlight filtering through the draperies. Her head ached dully, and she felt strangely, unaccountably melancholy. Her benumbed mind refused to function, preferring instead the anesthesia of watching t
he shadows creeping across the gold carpet as the sun was slowly obliterated by a heap of dark clouds rolling past. She frowned, trying to understand the bitter desolation that seemed to be weighting her down, and in that instant, the scene in the study last night penetrated her sleep-fogged consciousness.

  In a panic, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the reality of the Cheltenham Tragedy that had been enacted, with all its macabre plots and twisted subplots, but it was too painfully sinister to be ignored.

  Dragging herself up into a sitting position, she twisted around and arranged the pillows behind her, then fell back against them. She knew she had to think, to plan, and with grim determination she set about systematically reviewing what facts she had. First, the man who occupied the Hodges’ place was Clayton Westmoreland, the “missing” Duke of Claymore. Which, she thought listlessly, finally explained his expensive clothes and those monstrously aloof servants of his.

  He was also the man she’d met at the Armands’ masquerade, the same arrogant, lecherous . . . With an effort, Whitney set aside her boiling animosity and made herself return to the facts at hand. After they met at the masquerade, Clayton Westmoreland must have come directly to her father to purchase her for his wife. Her father said last night that everything was “arranged” and a betrothal contract already signed.

  Once Clayton had accomplished that, the unspeakable cad had evidently installed himself and his servants in his lair, not two miles from her front door.

  “Unbelievable!” Whitney whispered aloud. It was more than that, it was ridiculous, absurd! But, whether it was or not, it was also true. She was technically . . . obscenely . . . unwillingly betrothed to the Duke of Claymore. Betrothed to a notorious libertine, a profligate rake!

  Why, he was as hateful as her father! Her father . . . The agonizing recollection of her father’s heartless treachery was more than Whitney could bear. She drew her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs in a sort of protective cocoon, and rested her forehead on her knees. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered brokenly, “how could you have done that to me?” The lump in her throat grew and grew until it was suffocating her; unshed tears burned her eyes and made her throat ache unbearably. But she didn’t let go, would not break down.

  She had to be strong. Her opponents outnumbered her two to one—three to one, if Aunt Anne were a party to this monstrous scheme. The thought that her beloved aunt might have betrayed her too, very nearly broke the dam of her control. Swallowing convulsively, Whitney stared out the window across the room. She might be outnumbered now, but when Paul returned, he would stand against them too.

  In the meantime, she reminded herself sternly, she would have to rely on her own courage and determination, but she had plenty of both, and a stubborn nature that Clayton Westmoreland heretofore had only glimpsed! Yes, she could manage perfectly well on her own until Paul returned.

  Almost gleefully, Whitney began planning ways to thwart and foil and exasperate the duke. By the time she was finished with him, his grace would know that if he wished to have either peace or joy in his remaining years, she was not the wife for him! Perhaps if she was clever enough, she might even maneuver him into crying off and, by the time Paul returned, this vile betrothal could be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

  There was a light tap on the door, and Aunt Anne walked in, her features composed into a sympathetic, encouraging smile. Friend or foe? Whitney wondered, watching her warily. Forcing herself to sound calmly unemotional, Whitney said, “When were you informed of this, Aunt Anne?”

  Her aunt settled herself on the bed. “On the same day you saw me send letters to your uncle in four different countries and cancel my trip to London.”

  “Oh,” Whitney whispered hoarsely. Aunt Anne had been trying to locate Uncle Edward to come to their aid; she hadn’t betrayed her. A piercing sweetness flooded through Whitney, washing away her defenses until her chin quivered. Her shoulders began to shake with relief and misery and, as Aunt Anne’s arms went around her, Whitney surrendered to the harsh, racking sobs that had been screaming for release since the moment she’d awakened.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” her aunt soothed, smoothing the soft tangles from Whitney’s hair.

  When the last rush of tears subsided, Whitney found she felt immensely better. She dried her eyes and smiled ruefully. “Isn’t this the most wretched coil, Aunt Anne?”

  Her aunt fervently agreed that it was, then disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a soft cloth wrung out in cold water. “Here, darling, press this against your eyes so they won’t be swollen.”

  “I am going to marry Paul,” Whitney said in a muffled voice, obediently holding the damp cloth to her face. “I have planned to since I was a child! But even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t wed that . . . that degenerate lecher!” Whitney pulled the cloth away in time to see her aunt quickly smother a frown. “You are on Paul’s side, aren’t you, Aunt Anne?” she questioned anxiously, scrutinizing her aunt’s noncommittal face.

  “I’m on your side, darling. Only yours. I want what’s best for you.” Anne started for the door. “I’ll send Clarissa in to you. It’s nearly noon, and his grace sent word he would arrive at one o’clock.”

  “ ‘His grace!’ ” Whitney repeated, infuriated by this reminder of Clayton’s lofty rank. All other noblemen were referred to merely as “his lordship” and addressed as “my lord,” but not a duke. Because a duke outranked all other noblemen, he must be addressed much more respectfully—as “your grace.”

  “Whitney, shall I have your new challis pressed?” Anne persisted.

  Whitney glanced bleakly out the window. Half the sky promised a bright, sunny day, while the other half was dark and overcast. The wind was up and the trees were swaying fitfully. She didn’t think this was the time to look her best; in fact, since she didn’t want Clayton Westmoreland’s admiration, she ought to look her worst! She would wear something drab and, more important, something he hadn’t paid for. “No, not the challis. I’ll think of something else.”

  By the time Clarissa came in, Whitney had decided what to wear, and the idea filled her with grim, perverse satisfaction. “Clarissa, do you remember the black dress Haversham used to wear when she scrubbed the stairs? Will you see if you can find it.”

  Clarissa’s kindly face was furrowed with bewildered sympathy. “Lady Gilbert told me what happened last night, child,” she said. “But if you mean to antagonize the man, you may be making a terrible mistake.”

  The compassion Whitney saw in her faithful maid’s plump face almost reduced her to tears again. “Oh, Clarissa, please don’t argue with me,” Whitney begged. “Just say you’ll help me. If I look ugly enough, and if I’m very strong and very clever, I may be able to make him decide to give up and go away.”

  Clarissa nodded, her voice gruff with repressed tears. “I’ve never failed to stand by you, and I have the white hairs to prove it. I’ll not abandon you now.”

  “Thank you, Clarissa,” she whispered humbly. “Now I know I have at least two friends to stand by me. Three with Paul.”

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, bathed and seated at her dressing table, Whitney flashed an approving smile in the mirror as Clarissa twisted her heavy hair into a thick knot and secured it with a slender black ribbon. The severe hairdo accented Whitney’s classically sculpted features and high cheekbones. Her wide green eyes, with their heavy fringe of sooty lashes, seemed enormous in her pale face and added to the overall effect of fragile, ethereal beauty. Whitney, however, thought she looked ghastly. “That’s perfect!” she said. “And you needn’t rush so—his grace can cool his heels and wait for me. That’s part of my plan. I intend to teach him some distasteful lessons about me, and the first one is that I’m not the least impressed by his illustrious name and title, nor have I any intention of leaping to his commands.”

  At one-thirty, Whitney went down to the small salon where she had deliberately instr
ucted the butler to install Mr. Westland when he arrived. Pausing with her hand on the brass door handle, she lifted her chin and swept silently inside.

  Her adversary was standing with his back partially to her, impatiently slapping his tan gloves against his muscular thigh, while he gazed out the windows overlooking the front lawns. His broad shoulders were squared, his jaw set with implacable determination, and even in this pensive pose, he seemed to emanate the restrained power and unyielding authority she had always sensed—and feared—in him.

  Drop by precious drop, Whitney felt her confidence draining away. How could she have deluded herself into believing she could sway him from his purpose? He was no foppish, romantic young gallant to be put off with a cool smile or polite indifference. Not once since she’d met him had she ever emerged the victor in any conflict with him. Bracingly, Whitney reminded herself that she only had to cope with him alone until Paul came back.

  She closed the door behind her, and the latch clicked into place. “You sent for me?” she said in a flat, emotionless voice.

  For the past twenty minutes, Clayton had been struggling with his mounting annoyance at being made to wait in a small stuffy room like a beggar hoping for a handout. He had told himself a dozen times that Whitney had been hurt and humiliated last night, and that today she would undoubtedly demonstrate her rebellion against him by doing whatever she could to defy and provoke him.

  As he turned at the sound of her voice, he reminded himself that no matter what she said or did, he would be patient and understanding. But when he looked at her, it was all he could do to bridle his temper. Her chin held defiantly high, she stood before him, decked out like a servant in a long, shapeless, threadbare black dress. A white apron was tied around her slender waist, and her lustrous hair was hidden beneath a mob cap. “You’ve made your point, Whitney,” he told her curtly. “Now I’ll make mine. I will not have you dressed like that ever again!”