Stephen’s lips twitched with laughter at the “drunken louts” but otherwise he kept his face straight. “When you overheard what Clay was telling me?” he assisted her.
Miserably, she nodded. “How could he have done such a thing?”
“I’m not certain why he did it,” Stephen began carefully. “Obviously he cared for the girl, and he’s a man—”
“Don’t treat me like an imbecile, Stephen,” her ladyship interrupted hotly. “I am a grown woman. I’ve been married and I’ve borne two sons. I am perfectly aware that Clayton is a man and that, as such, he has certain . . . ah . . .”
“Certain urges?” Stephen provided when she began fanning her flushed face, looking agonizingly ill at ease. She nodded but Stephen said, “What I was trying to say is that Clay is a man who has always been sought after by women, yet he never cared for any of them enough to offer marriage. Apparently, he finally found the woman he wanted. If he gave her father £100,000, I assume the girl is undowered and her family is poor, but even so, she refused him.”
“She must have been seven kinds of fool to refuse your brother,” Lady Westmoreland exclaimed. “She would have to be stupid not to want him.”
Stephen grinned at her loyalty, but he shook his head. “It’s unlikely the girl is stupid or foolish. Clay has never been interested in vapid, empty-headed-misses.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Lady Westmoreland sighed, coming to her feet. She stopped at the door and gave Stephen a sad look over her shoulder. “I think,” she said quietly, “that he must have loved her.”
“I agree.”
* * *
Clayton read the legal document dissolving the betrothal agreement, then signed it and quickly shoved it across the desk to the solicitor. He could barely stand the sight of it. “There’s something more,” he said when the solicitor began to rise. “See that this note and a bank draft for £10,000 are delivered along with the document to Miss Stone at her home.”
Clayton pulled open one of the heavy, carved drawers of his desk and extracted a blank sheet of white parchment with his seal embossed in silver at the top.
He stared at the blank sheet, the moment freezing in time.
He couldn’t believe it had truly come to this. How could it be ending like this, with this wrenching stab of pain and loss, when he’d been so confident only a few weeks ago that it would end with Whitney standing beside him as his bride, lying beside him as his wife?
He forced himself to pick up the quill and write the words, “Please accept my sincere wishes for your happiness and convey them to Paul. The enclosed bank draft is intended as a gift.” Clayton hesitated, knowing that Whitney would fly into a rage over the money, but he couldn’t bear to think of her having to pinch pennies for a new gown, which she would have to do as Sevarin’s wife. If by some miracle she didn’t marry Sevarin, then the money would be hers. At least her stupid father couldn’t once more spend everything she had.
“Enclose the draft and this note in the same envelope as that.” He jerked his head toward the hateful document dissolving their betrothal. Rising, he concluded the painful interview with a silent nod of dismissal.
When the solicitor left, Clayton sank back down in his chair, fighting against the impulse to have the man stopped at the gates and brought back, to snatch the envelope from him and tear it to pieces. Instead he leaned his head against the padded leather back of his chair and closed his eyes. “Oh little one,” he breathed aloud, “why do I have to send you that damned envelope?”
He thought of the words he had really wanted to write to her: “Please come back to me. Just let me hold you and I swear I will make you forget. I’ll fill your days with laughter and your nights with love. I’ll give you a son and a daughter. With your eyes, your smile, your—”
Swearing savagely, he lurched forward and grabbed the stack of correspondence that had accumulated in his absence.
With single-minded determination, Clayton threw himself into the task of forgetting her. He immersed himself in work, spending hours each day poring over reports on his present business investments and planning future ones. He drove his secretary Mr. Hudgins, so hard that an assistant had to be hired for the man. He met with his business managers, his estate managers, his stewards, and his tenants. He worked until it was time to go out at night to attend a ball, the opera, the theatre.
Each evening he deliberately escorted a different woman, hoping each time that this woman would spark something within him—something that had died four weeks ago. But if she was blond, Clayton discovered that he had an aversion to pale hair. If she was brunette, her hair lacked the lustre of Whitney’s. If she was vivacious, she grated on his nerves. If she was sultry, he found her distasteful. If she was quiet, he had a wild urge to shake her and say, “Dammit, say something!”
But slowly, very slowly, he found his balance again. He began to feel that if he continued to block a pair of laughing green eyes from his memory, he might actually forget her someday.
As the weeks passed, he smiled more easily, and occasionally, he was even able to laugh.
26
* * *
Whitney’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 in
sulting, 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 taken her honor! 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 hunger rather than take something she had touched, was the last straw. “Go ahead and 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 lie?”
“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 hanged! 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 die 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.”
Whitney, My Love Page 39