Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  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 mea
ningful 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 die.”

  22

  * * *

  She was still half convinced of it when their coach drew away from Emily’s London townhouse. “Do you know,” she whispered miserably, “I never liked champagne.”

  With a throaty laugh Clayton put his arm around her and drew her throbbing head against his shoulder. “I’m rather surprised to hear that,” he teased.

  Sighing, Whitney closed her eyes and slept until they were almost at her home, occasionally clutching Clayton’s arm when their coach gave a particularly sharp lurch.

  She awakened feeling entirely restored and very sheepish. “I haven’t been very good company,” she apologized, smiling ruefully at Clayton. “If you would like to come for supper, I—”

  “I have to start back to London tonight,” he interrupted.

  “Tonight?” Whitney repeated, sitting bolt upright. “How long will you be gone?”

  “A week.”

  Elation began to pulse through Whitney’s veins and she quickly turned her face from him. If Clayton was in London, Paul and she could elope to Scotland without having to fear that he would learn of their elopement in time to come after them. His going to London now was a stroke of luck beyond any she could have hoped for. It was a boon! It was a blessing!

  It was a catastrophe.

  The relief she’d been feeling turned to panic, and Whitney’s head began to pound with renewed vigor. Dear God, Clayton was going back to London. As gentlemen did, he would probably spend his evenings at his clubs, dining or gambling with his friends and acquaintances. In those clubs there were bound to be men who had attended the Rutherfords’ ball and heard the rumor of his betrothal. In the club’s atmosphere of easy camaraderie, his friends would naturally press him to confirm or deny the rumor. And Whitney could almost imagine Clayton grinning and telling them that it was true. And if he did, he would look like an utter fool when she eloped with Paul instead.

  Awash with misery, Whitney squeezed her eyes closed. As much as she feared Clayton’s vengeance, which would now be far more awesome because he would feel publicly humiliated, she dreaded even more being the cause of that public humiliation. She couldn’t bear the thought of this proud man becoming the object of derision and pity. He had done nothing to deserve that. Last night she had seen how respected and admired he was by everyone. Now, because of her, he would be humbled before them.

  Whitney clasped her clammy palms together in her lap. Perhaps she could prevent a public scandal. Paul was due home tomorrow. If they eloped tomorrow night, she could notify Clayton in London almost at once, and the sooner he knew of her elopement, the fewer people he would tell that he had offered for her.

  Naturally, she would make certain her message didn’t reach him in time for him to come after her. Timing, she decided with a lump growing in her throat, was going to be essential. No matter how travel-weary Paul might be, they would have to leave within hours of his return. Once Clayton learned of her elopement, he wouldn’t tell anyone he was betrothed to her. He could pass the betrothal rumor off with one of his mocking smiles and simply appear at some public function with one of those beautiful women who panted after him. And that would be that! Everyone would believe that his betrothal to a penniless nobody like Whitney Stone had merely been a joke, a ridiculous rumor.

  Paul. Her heart sank when she thought of telling him they had to elope. He wouldn’t want to do it; he would be concerned about the damage to her reputation that an elopement would cause. He had been so happy the night of her father’s party, telling her about the plans he had for them, the improvements he would make to his house and lands to please her.

  Clayton’s hand cupped her chin and Whitney jumped nervously. “When Sevarin returns,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “I want you to inform him at once that you aren’t going to marry him. I will not tolerate people believing that my future wife has been engaged to another man. Give Sevarin any reason you wish for declining his offer, but tell him immediately. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” Whitney whispered.

  Clayton gave her a long, penetrating look. “I want your word on it.”

  “I—” Whitney swallowed, profoundly touched that he was crediting her with having a sense of honor as strong as his own. She dragged her eyes to his, feeling utterably vile for betraying his trust. “I give you my word.”

  His expression softened and he looked at her with unbearable gentleness. “I know how hard it will be for you to tell him, little one. I promise I’ll make it up to you someday.” Tears burned the backs of her eyes and the muscles of her throat constricted as he tenderly traced the elegant curve of her cheek. “Forgive me?” he asked her softly.

  Forgive him? Whitney’s emotions were warring so fiercely inside of her that for one second, she actually considered turning into his strong arms and sobbing out her confused sorrow. Instead she nodded and gazed at him, trying to memorize his handsome face as it was now—because if she ever saw him again, she knew his expression would be one of pure hatred.

  They were turning up the road toward her house, and Whitney numbly pulled on her gloves.

  “Why are you going back to London so quickly?” she asked as the time to bid him a final, painful good-bye drew nearer with each moment.

  “Because I met with my business managers early this morning and there are some decisions which I must make, once I’ve met with some people in the city. It’s purely a matter of choosing which are the best investments in which to place a rather large sum of money,” he reassured her, and with a grin he added, “Contrary to the gossip you heard about me at your father’s party, I don’t lead a life of leisurely debauchery. I have seven estates, a thousand tenants, and a hundred business interests, all of which are suffering from the lack of my attention—which has been devoted almost exclusively to you, my pet.”

  The coach drew to a stop in front of her house, and a footman came to open the door and let down the steps. Whitney began to turn toward the door, but Clayton’s quiet voice stopped her. “My business affairs won’t require that I remain in London for that long, but I thought you would want some time alone after you confront Sevarin. Unless you send word to me in London, I’ll remain there until Sunday—a week from tomorrow.”

  As he told her how to reach him in London, Whitney heard the guarded hope in his voice that she would indeed send for him before the week was out, and she laid a trembling hand on his sleeve, aching to plead for his forgiveness and understanding. “Clayton, I—” She saw his pleasure at her voluntary touch and her use of his given name, and her voice broke. “Have a pleasant trip,” she managed to say, pulling away and blindly climbing down from the coach.

  As soon as she reached her room, Whitney sent a note round to Paul’s house with instructions that no matter what time Mr. Sevarin returned, he was to be given it. In it, she asked him to send word to her that he was back and then to go immediately to the old gamekeeper’s cottage where she would join him. There, at least, she would have some pri
vacy so that she could explain her predicament. Explain her predicament! How in the world was she ever going to find the words to do that? she wondered dejectedly.

  By nightfall there was still no word from Paul.

  Twice as she dressed for bed, Whitney almost went down the hall to enlist her aunt’s aid in the elopement. Each time, her better judgment warned that Aunt Anne would never consent to an elopement no matter how urgent Whitney’s reasons might be. Aunt Anne would think only of the irreversible damage the elopement would do to Whitney’s reputation. She would never understand that Whitney couldn’t, she just couldn’t take the coward’s way out now and let Paul down, even if she wanted to—which she didn’t, Whitney told herself without much conviction. He loved her. He was counting on her.

  Since she couldn’t trust Clarissa with her secret either, Whitney slowly packed her necessities and hid the case, then she climbed into bed and gazed at the ceiling. Of all the unpleasant tasks facing her, the one she dreaded most was writing the note she would have to send to Clayton in London.

  Mentally she worded and reworded it. It preyed on her mind until she finally decided to get it over with and dragged herself out of bed. “Paul and I have eloped,” she wrote. “I hope some day you will find it in your heart if not to forgive me, at least to understand.”

  Forgive? Understand? Never would Clayton do so. She sat at her desk and stared at the note, imagining Clayton’s reaction to it. At first he would smile, thinking that she was sending word to him to return early, and then his smile would fade . . .

  Shivering as if the blast from those glacial gray eyes were already levelled on her, Whitney crawled back into bed and huddled under the covers. She wasn’t certain she had the courage to elope or even if she wanted to elope.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks and dampened her pillow as she thought of the tall, gray-eyed man whom she would have to face when she returned from her elopement—a forceful, vital man who would turn away from her in disgust and loathing, who would never again laugh with her, never hold her in his strong arms, and never again call her “little one” in that tender way of his.