Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  Much of his anger evaporated as he considered the last few hours with Whitney. He could sense that she was slowly yielding to him. She had sought the comfort of his embrace of her own accord, and she had even admitted to a fondness for him. All that really stood between them now was her fading absorption with Paul Sevarin, and her understandable resentment over the way her stupid father had told her of her betrothal to Clayton. Just thinking of that night infuriated Clayton. Because of Stone’s callous insensitivity, Clayton had been deprived of the pleasure of courting and winning Whitney. Despite its turbulent ups and downs, he had been enjoying his bizarre courtship, including Whitney’s haughty rejections. She made him work to gain an inch, but each gain was a heady victory, more meaningful because it was so hard-won.

  Yet there were times lately when his patience almost lost out in the battle against his desire. When she sniped at him and sparred with him, it took his last ounce of restraint not to snatch her into his arms and subdue her rebellion with his hands and mouth. He was neglecting his estates and his business interests, yet just when he decided that she would have to accustom herself to their betrothal after they were married, she’d look at him with those unbelievably green eyes of hers, and he could not quite bring himself to exert the power he held over her by forcing her to marry him.

  Sighing, Clayton turned away from the window. Not for a moment did he ever doubt that Whitney would marry him. She would marry him either willingly, or unwillingly. In the latter case, the balance of their courtship and combat would have to take place in his bed.

  20

  * * *

  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 complemented 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 garments 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 saying 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 time 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-covered 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 make—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 supper, 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 do
wn!” 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.”