Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  With her head bowed, she waited, but the seconds ticked by, and Clayton made no move to touch her. Finally she lifted her head and raised green eyes shining with surrender to his. “Would you please,” she whispered achingly, “hold me now?”

  Clayton started to reach for her and stopped . . . and then he caught her arms and jerked her to him, crushing her against his chest as his mouth came down hungrily on hers. With a smothered moan of joy, Whitney returned his kiss, glorying in the feel of his lips locked fiercely to hers.

  Twining her arms around his neck, she pressed against him, fitting her melting body to the hardening contours of his. A shudder shook him as she leaned into him, and his hands tightened possessively on her back and hips, molding her closer to him, sliding up her spine, then lower, gathering her willing body into his. “God, how I’ve missed you!” he whispered hoarsely against her lips, and he deepened the kiss. At the first tentative touch of his tongue, Whitney’s lips parted without further urging, and Clayton groaned, clasping her tighter as his tongue plunged into her sweet softness, searching with an almost desperate urgency, taking what she was offering.

  The exquisite feeling of her in his arms, the taste of her lips clinging to his, the fullness of her breasts against his palms, was unbearable joy to Clayton. He couldn’t go on, and he was afraid to stop . . . afraid that if he broke the contact, she would vanish, and the aching desire racking him would become an aching emptiness instead.

  When he finally tore his mouth from hers, he kept his arms around her, resting his chin atop her shining head, waiting for his breathing to even out. And Whitney stayed there—as if being in his arms were the only place in the world she wished to be.

  Drawing back slightly, Clayton looked down into the limpid pools of her eyes and quietly asked, “Are you willing to marry me?”

  Whitney nodded. She nodded, because she could not speak.

  “Why?” he persisted evenly. “Why do you want to marry me?”

  From the moment he had made her cross the room to him, rather than meeting her halfway, Whitney had known Clayton was going to require an unconditional surrender from her; she knew what he was demanding of her now. Through tears of joy and relief constricting her breath, she found her voice and softly said, “Because I love you.”

  His arms closed around her with stunning force. “God help you if you don’t mean it!” he warned fiercely, “because I’ll never let you go again.”

  Shamelessly yearning to be kissed, Whitney whispered, “I shall be very happy to prove I do mean it.” She saw his eyes darken with passion as he bent his head to her, and she leaned up on her toes to prove it. She kissed him with all the aching longing that being this close to him evoked; she kissed him in all the ways he had ever kissed her, feeling faint with joy when he began to kiss her back, his mouth moving with fierce tenderness, then opening with fiery demand over hers, until their breaths were mingled gasps, and they were straining to one another.

  It was Clayton who broke the kiss and forced his hands to stop their exploration, the pleasure-torture of caressing the cherished curves and hollows of the slender, voluptuous body that had haunted his dreams. But he kept her in his arms, tangling his hand in her heavy hair, loving the familiar texture of it. “Why did you make me wait so long?” he breathed.

  Leaning back, Whitney tipped her head in the direction of the dining room where Vanessa was. “Why couldn’t you have waited a little longer?”

  “Little one,” he chuckled tenderly, “you are the only female alive who would bring up Vanessa at a time like this.”

  Whitney’s expression suddenly turned solemn, and Clayton didn’t see the smile that glowed in her eyes as she said, “I have a confession—and it may make a difference in which of us you decide upon.”

  Clayton stiffened. “And that is?”

  “I told your mother the truth about my talent at the pianoforte.”

  With a laughing sigh of relief, Clayton drew her close. “Can you sing any better?” he teased.

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  Although his tone was light, Whitney heard the huskiness of desire that deepened his voice as he said, “In that case, I suppose you will have to learn some other ways to please me.”

  Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his chest was warm and hard against her cheek. Whitney smiled as she slid her hand upward and spread her fingers over his pounding heart. “The last time we discussed my shortcomings in that area, you said you didn’t have the time to instruct a tiresomely naive schoolgirl. But I think—if you have the time—you will find that I’m an excellent student.”

  He was silent a long moment, then he said, “Perhaps I should begin by teaching you a more suitable response than your last when I tell you that I love you?”

  Whitney nodded happily, but her voice suddenly filled with tears. “If you’d care to try again, I’ll show you that I’ve already learned that lesson.”

  Tipping her chin up, Clayton looked deeply into her eyes and quietly said, “I love you.”

  Shyly laying her trembling hand against his smoothly shaven cheek and jaw, Whitney whispered, “I love you, too.”

  He grinned. “Now that, my sweet, is a vast improvement.”

  She tried to smile back at him, but Clayton saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Cradling her face between both his hands, he gazed at her misty green eyes. “Why tears, darling?”

  “Because,” Whitney whispered brokenly, “until this moment, I was certain you would never say that to me again.”

  With a groaning laugh, Clayton hugged her tightly to him. “Oh, little one, I have loved you since the night we played chess at my house and, after announcing that you would never call any man your ‘lord,’ you called me a conniving, black-hearted scoundrel when I took the game from you.” He had loved her from the moment she had laughingly told him a story about a girl who used to pepper her music teacher’s snuff box.

  Stephen tapped lightly on the door, then stepped into the study and closed the door behind him. He grinned wickedly at his brother, who tightened his arms possessively around Whitney. “Excuse me, brother dear, but your absence is making things increasingly uncomfortable in the other room.”

  Clayton heard this with a frown of distaste. “Is dinner over?”

  “Long since,” Stephen confirmed. “And Vanessa is displaying a marked antagonism toward my charming efforts to enlighten her on the proper care and feeding of racehorses.”

  “Stephen, your brother is in something of a dilemma.” Whitney smiled, turning sideways in Clayton’s arms. “Let me think—how did he phrase it? Oh yes. He has only two hands and he has offered them both.”

  Stephen arched a thoughtful brow. “I have two hands, and they are neither of them promised, Miss Stone,” he offered gamely.

  Stephen,” Clayton said sternly, but with a slow grin, “do not strain the bonds of brotherly affection beyond what you already have this evening. I’ll attend to freeing one of my ‘hands’ when I take Vanessa home tonight.”

  “I should be leaving too,” Whitney sighed, reluctantly pulling out of Clayton’s arms and smoothing her gown. “It will be very late by the time I get back to Emily’s.”

  “You, my love, are not setting foot out of this house. I’ll send a servant to the Archibalds’ for your things when I leave with Vanessa, and he can inform them that you will return in a week. Not one day before.”

  Whitney knew perfectly well that Clayton was issuing this edict because of her unexplained change in attitude between the time she left him at the church and saw him again at the wedding banquet. Since she wanted with all her heart to stay with him, Whitney acceded to his flat command with a demure smile.

  With one hip perched atop his desk, Clayton watched while Whitney sat behind it and wrote a note to Emily. She assured her that the duchess was in residence and asked that Clarissa and her clothes be dispatched post haste to Claymore. Winsomely, Whitney added a postscript, “This time, I’ll send the invitations. This one i
s yours—will you please be my matron of honor? I love you. Whitney.”

  Clayton took the note from her and, serenely ignoring his brother’s presence, pulled her to her feet and kissed her with tender thoroughness. “I’ll be back in two hours, perhaps a little more. Will you wait up for me?”

  Whitney nodded, but as Clayton started from the room, she turned away from him, tracing her finger across his gleaming mahogany desktop. “Clayton,” she said softly, her voice threaded with tears, “when Vanessa asked about my ‘accomplishments’ tonight, I forgot to mention that I do have one. And it’s—it’s so splendid that it compensates for my lack of all the others.”

  Stephen and Clayton grinned at each other, neither of them hearing the emotion that clogged her voice. “What ‘splendid accomplishment’ is that, little one?” Clayton asked.

  Her shoulders hunched forward and began to shake. “I made you love me,” she whispered brokenly. “Somehow, some way, I actually made you love me.”

  The laughter faded from Clayton’s face, replaced by an expression so intense, so profoundly proud, that Stephen quietly left the two of them alone.

  Clayton emerged from his study a few minutes later on his way to face Vanessa in the salon and take her home. He flashed a quick, grateful grin at Stephen, inclined his head toward the study doors and said in a low, laughter-tinged voice, “Stephen, do not let her out of your sight!”

  While Clayton was leaving with Vanessa, Whitney sat across from Stephen in the study, trying to vanquish her sudden embarrassment over the earlier part of the evening. Finally she clasped her hands in her lap and regarded him directly. “Whatever made you want me to stay for supper, when it was so obvious Clayton didn’t want me here at all? What made you help me, when I could have been just any female who—”

  “I knew you weren’t ‘just any female,’ ” Stephen corrected. “Your name was Whitney and you had green eyes. And one drunken night many weeks ago, my fair brother could talk of little else.”

  Two hours later, Clayton strode into the salon and Stephen dryly remarked, “I suppose Lord Standfield was not in the best humor when you left?”

  “He was reasonable,” Clayton said briefly. He sat down beside Whitney and, defying all the proprieties with his usual careless elegance, he put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. With a meaningful look at his smiling mother and brother, he ungraciously hinted, “I imagine you’re both exhausted from your trip this morning and would like to retire?”

  “I happen to be exhausted from a good deal more than my trip,” the duchess said laughingly, and obligingly she bade them both good night. Stephen, however, did nothing of the sort. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I’m not in the least tired, big brother. Besides, I want to hear about the wedding plans.” Ignoring Clayton’s dagger look, he glanced expectantly from him to Whitney. “Well, when’s it to be?”

  Clayton sighed, resigning himself to Stephen’s continued presence, and smiled at Whitney. “How long will it take you to get ready, love?”

  Gazing up into his compelling gray eyes, Whitney thought she would much rather have his arms around her and feel his lips moving over hers than discuss the wedding plans right now, but, like Clayton, she had no choice except to answer Stephen’s question. “I suppose it will be a large wedding?” she mused, considering Clayton’s title, and the vast number of friends and acquaintances she knew he had.

  “Very large,” Clayton confirmed.

  “Then it will take a great deal of time to plan. There are so many arrangements to make, the gowns to be chosen, endless fittings—and the dressmakers take forever. The invitations must be prepared, sent out, and acknowledged—” She paused. “About how many guests will there be?”

  “Five or six hundred, I imagine,” Clayton said.

  “Closer to a thousand, unless you want to offend half the ton and alienate our relatives,” Stephen corrected, grinning at Whitney’s expression of stunned horror. Taking pity on her, he added, “Westmoreland dukes are always married in a church, and the wedding celebration is always here at Claymore. It’s an ancient tradition, and everyone will know it, so you needn’t worry about anyone thinking it queer that it’s at Clay’s home instead of yours.”

  “Always married in a church, and the celebration here?” Whitney repeated, with an accusing look at her grinning fiancé. “When I think of how you threatened to abduct me and take me to Scotland!”

  “The custom, Madam,” Clayton chuckled, tracing the elegant curve of her cheek and jaw with his forefinger, then tilting her chin up, “began because the first Duke of Claymore abducted his lady from her parents’ castle, which was several days journey from Claymore. On the way here was a monastery, and since my ancestor had technically compromised her honor, one of the monks was more than willing to marry them, despite the lady’s temporary reluctance. The celebration,” he emphasized, “took place here because the young woman’s outraged relatives were in no mood to celebrate in their home an occasion which, at the time, they viewed as more a reason to fight than to feast.” His grin widened devilishly. “So you see, had I carried you off to Scotland, married you there, then brought you back here, I’d have been honoring the tradition almost to the original letter.”

  Having been silenced on that subject, Whitney returned to the length of time required to prepare for the wedding. “Therèse DuVille’s wedding was not even half so large, and it took a year to accomplish . . .”

  “No,” Clayton said irrevocably. “Absolutely not.”

  “Six months?” Whitney offered to compromise.

  “Six weeks,” Clayton announced flatly.

  His imperious tone didn’t daunt Whitney in the least. “If it’s to be such a large wedding, it could scarcely be planned even in six months.”

  Clayton winked conspiratorially at Stephen. “Very well,” he sighed, “I’ll give you eight.”

  “Eight months,” Whitney agreed with a sad little sigh. “It will barely be time enough, yet it seems like forever.”

  “Eight weeks,” her fiancé corrected with finality. “Not one day more. My mother will help you and so will Hudgins. I’ll put an entire staff of assistants at your disposal. Eight weeks will give you plenty of time.”

  Whitney shot him a dubious look, but since she didn’t want to wait eight months either, she happily agreed.

  Clayton was sitting with his arm around Whitney’s shoulders, chatting amiably with Stephen, when the weight against his side suddenly grew heavier and she didn’t respond to his teasing remark. He glanced down and saw her long lashes lying softly against her cheeks. “She’s asleep,” he said quietly. Gently, he moved her aside, then scooped her up into his arms. “It’s been a more than exhausting day for you, sweetheart,” he murmured as she stirred and snuggled into his chest. To Stephen he said, “Wait for me here. I have some things I want to say to you when I come down.”

  A few minutes later, after summoning a maid and seeing Whitney sleepily installed in one of the guest rooms, Clayton strode back into the salon and firmly closed the doors behind him. When he turned around, Stephen thrust a glass of brandy into his hand and raised his own in a silent toast. “I have two questions to ask you,” Clayton said calmly when they were both seated.

  Grinning, Stephen stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I rather thought you might, your grace.”

  “How did you know who Whitney was? To me?”

  “You told me. During a very drunken night at Grand Oak, you told me all about her, including her green eyes—which, God knows, she has.”

  Leaning forward, Clayton rested his forearms on his knees, staring into his brandy glass as he rolled it between his palms. “How much did I tell you that night?”

  Stephen considered lying because it was kinder, but he abandoned the idea when Clayton’s disconcertingly perceptive gaze lifted to his. “Everything,” Stephen admitted with a sigh. “Everything, including the harm you
did her. So, when she appeared here tonight, thinking you’d received her note—which I understand Hudgins has—I took one look at her and decided that since her loss had done such damage to you, I would restore her to you.”

  Clayton nodded his acceptance of Stephen’s explanation. “I have one further question,” he said gravely.

  “You said you had two questions, and you’ve already reached your limit,” Stephen warned lightly.

  Ignoring that, Clayton said in a low, solemn voice, “I would like to know what I have within my power to give you, to express my gratitude.”

  “Your money, or your life?” Stephen ventured with a lopsided grin at his bandit’s demand.

  “They’re yours for the asking,” Clayton said quietly.

  Later that night, he lay on his bed, his hands linked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He could hardly believe that Whitney was here, that after fighting against him so fiercely, for so long, she had come tonight and fought to recover what they had begun together.

  He thought of the way she had faced him in the study, daring him to deny that he still wanted her. And then he smiled in the darkness, remembering the way she had crossed the long room to him, her head held high, her eyes shining with love and surrender. That memory, that one memory of her coming to him, casting aside her pride because she loved him, would endure in his heart for as long as he lived. Nothing would ever mean more to him.

  Tomorrow he would insist on a complete explanation for what had happened to change her attitude so drastically between the wedding and the banquet. No, he corrected himself with a wry grin, he would ask her for an explanation—that tempestuous beauty sleeping across the hall would be far more likely to respond to a question than a demand.

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