* * *
Whitney awoke from a deep sleep, groggy with unfinished dreams, and rolled over, unwilling to relinquish them. She opened her eyes, simultaneously recognizing her approximate location and Mary, the redheaded maid who had helped her the last time she was here. “The master has been prowling about below for over an hour, watching the stairs,” Mary’s Irish voice gaily announced from the foot of the bed. “He said to tell you that the day is unseasonably warm, and he asked that you dress for riding.”
“That man thinks he’s the King of England!” Clarissa grumbled, busting into the room with her mob cap askew. “He decides he wants to marry my little girl, and we’re shipped home from France. He wants to go to a ball, and we’re bounced off to London. This morning, he wants to ride, and he has me hauled out of bed at dawn and carted here with the rest of your luggage. Dawn!” she exclaimed sourly, pulling back Whitney’s covers, “when decent folks aren’t even about on the roads!”
Whitney laughed, scrambling out of bed. “Oh Clarissa, I love you!” She bathed quickly and put on the amber riding habit that Clarissa had brought with her trunks that morning. Eager to see Clayton, to reassure herself that he didn’t regret letting her win last night, she pulled her long hair back and caught it at the nape with a bow, then she dashed out of the room.
She crossed the wide balcony and stopped. Clayton was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, the winter sun glinting down on his dark hair through the domed glass ceiling three stories above. Dressed in a soft chamois peasant shirt with a deep vee in the throat and snug-fitting, coffee-brown riding breeches, he looked so masculine, so like a tall, broad-shouldered god, that Whitney’s pulse raced giddily.
Clayton watched her coming toward him down the broad curving staircase. Warily he scanned her lovely face for signs that she regretted her capitulation last night, or resented him for making it so difficult for her.
And then she stood on the last step, gentled still, smiling shyly into his searching gaze. “It’s most embarrassing,” she said softly, “to know that everyone is going to say that the groom is much more beautiful than the bride.”
Clayton couldn’t help himself. He caught her into his arms, crushing her to him, burying his face in the fresh fragrance of her hair. “My God!” he whispered hoarsely. “How will I ever wait eight weeks to make you mine?”
He felt her whole body go momentarily rigid in his embrace. That hadn’t been what he meant at all, but he realized that Whitney had just recoiled in fear from the thought of his making love to her. He grinned against her hair; he had eight weeks to hold and caress her. Eight weeks until his desire could run its natural course to fulfillment and, in that time, she would come to want him too, and to realize that he would never hurt her. And on her wedding night, even if the act itself frightened her, she would trust him enough to let him make love to her. Then he would show her how it was supposed to be, how it was meant to be. He would make her wild with wanting, until she was clinging to him, writhing beneath him in a sweet yearning to be taken.
“Would you like to see the estate?” he asked her as soon as they finished breakfast.
“Very much,” Whitney said happily.
It was one of those bright blue winter days when the sun warmed whatever it touched. Together they strolled through vast formal gardens with sleeping flower beds arranged in lavish geometric patterns, their borders precise and manicured.
The gardeners and groundskeepers who were gathering fallen twigs and heaping them onto a small fire took no apparent notice of the couple strolling through the gardens. But when the young lady said something that made the duke roar with laughter and snatch her into his arms in a quick bear hug, several of them glanced up to stare in astonishment, and then exchanged knowing grins before quietly continuing with their tasks.
At Clayton’s side, Whitney wandered through the dappled sunlight of the arbor, her mind picturing the splendor of spring, when the trees would burst into bloom, strewing flowers along the wide winding paths, blanketing the white ornamental iron benches in blossoms of pink and rose and white.
They turned and walked along the perfectly tended banks of an immense lake with a graceful pillared pavilion overlooking it from a wide knoll on the opposite bank. Clayton took her hand and they walked around the lake toward the pavilion. It was, Whitney thought in a daze of happiness, sheer bliss to have her hand firmly clasped in Clayton’s strong, warm one; to be with him in quiet, joyous peace, without the barriers she had always kept between them. She gazed at the bright blue sky where fluffy white clouds slowly drifted past, and decided it was a halcyon day—the happiest day of her life.
The view of the lake and surrounding grounds from the higher pavilion was glorious. Whitney leaned her shoulders against one of the white pillars, breathing in the splendor of it. She knew perfectly well that Clayton had guided her here because, inside, the pavilion would offer some scant privacy, but she stood there anyway, delightfully prolonging the moment when they would step inside and he would take her in his arms . . .
Unexpectedly he stepped in front of her, blocking her view as he braced a hand on either side of her shoulders. Laughter lurked in his gaze as his mouth slowly descended to hers. “Have it your own way,” he said huskily, his tone amused. “I’m not shy, so it matters not in the least to me if I kiss you out here or in there.”
When at last he lifted his mouth from hers, Whitney was shaky with awakened desire. “Clayton,” she whispered. “I—”
He interrupted her in a deep, quiet voice. “I love to hear you say my name. It makes me want to take you in my arms, to have your sweet tongue in my mouth, to caress your breasts and feel your nipples rise up proudly against my hand.”
Whitney drew an unsteady breath and dropped her eyes, but not before Clayton glimpsed the fires kindling in their jade depths and the warm peach tint creeping up her soft cheeks. He smiled to himself. She might be afraid of his making love to her now, but she was still a warm, passionate creature, and she would soon dismiss her fears. He glanced over her shoulder into the pavilion. He wanted to hold her and leisurely kiss that stirringly provocative mouth, but not here, where he knew they could be seen. Idly, he let his gaze wander over the landscape, a little irritated by the lack of privacy available to him, then he saw the wooded ridge off in the distance to the west. That ridge would offer both privacy and a view.
“The home woods?” Whitney asked, following his gaze.
Clayton grinned at her. “Part of them. The view is supposed to be the best for miles. We’ll ride up there in a bit.” But not entirely for the view, he added silently. Turning, he leaned against the pavilion wall, pleasuring himself with the view of her vivid profile. With her glossy tresses caught at the nape in a wide velvet bow, she reminded Clayton of a little girl who ought to be wearing white stockings and a ruffled dress, sitting on a swing, while the boys argued over the honor of pushing her. But here the image ended, for there was nothing childish about the lush, tantalizing curves displayed to such advantage by her amber riding habit.
Reluctantly, Clayton turned his attention toward a less pleasant direction. “There are some things between us that need to be settled, and I would sooner do that now, so that the past can be buried and forgotten.”
Whitney turned her head away, and he added quietly, “I think you already know what I want to ask—”
Whitney knew he wanted an explanation for her actions the day of Elizabeth’s wedding, and she nodded, drawing a long breath. “You see, when I saw you at the church, I thought we were still betrothed, and I had no idea that you’d received an invitation to the wedding. I thought you’d come there to try to see me . . .” She told him the whole story, simply, without trying to hide the hurt and anger she’d felt toward him.
Clayton listened without interrupting. When she was finished, he asked, “What made you decide to come here last night, after hating me as you have for all these weeks?”
“Emily made me realize that I was misjudgi
ng you.”
“What,” Clayton said on a note of alarm, “does Emily Archibald know about us?”
In a small voice, Whitney admitted. “Everything.” She saw him flinch and hesitantly said, “Now may I ask you something?”
“Anything,” Clayton said gravely.
“Anything,” Whitney teased, “within your power, and within reason?”
“Anything!” he declared firmly, but with a grin.
“Why did you do that awful thing to me? What made you think I had—had given myself to Paul?”
With self-disgust filling his voice, Clayton answered her question.
“But how could you have believed Margaret, knowing how much she hates me?” Whitney gave him a hurt, accusing look, realized that she was only adding more pain to his memory of that night, and quickly pressed a kiss on his mouth. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Clayton said harshly. “But some day, I’ll make it up to you.” A smile softened his voice. “Let’s see if you can handle my favorite mare—we’ll race up to that ridge.”
The view from the top of the ridge was spectacular. While Clayton tied their horses, Whitney stood, gazing out across the wooded valleys, trying to imagine how they would look in the lush greens of summer or the vibrant red-gold of autumn.
“There is more to be enjoyed here than the view, my lady,” a husky, laughing voice announced from behind her. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”
Whitney turned around and discovered Clayton sitting with one knee drawn up, his shoulders propped against a tree trunk behind him. She saw the warm sensuality in his gray eyes, and she felt a small tremor of dread. She wanted very much to be in his arms, to be kissed and held, but she suspected Clayton had more than that in mind. Because he had already lain with her, he might feel that marriage was no longer a necessary prerequisite for the two of them. Whitney not only felt that marriage was still a prerequisite to the sexual act, she wished she could avoid the sexual intimacy forever. She couldn’t, of course, but she had eight weeks before she would be obliged, as his wife, to endure that painful, embarrassing act, and she wanted this eight-week reprieve. Reluctant to tell Clayton that unless it was absolutely necessary, she turned back to the valleys below and tried to divert him from thoughts of lovemaking. “The view is breathtaking,” she rhapsodized. “Could we ride down there?”
“We could,” he said agreeably, then he added, “another day.”
“Why don’t we do it now?” Whitney suggested with pleading determination.
“Because I want to kiss you,” he replied simply.
Whitney spun around in relieved disbelief. “You only want to kiss me? I mean you won’t try to—to—”
“Oh darling, come here,” Clayton laughed softly, noting her flaring color. “That’s all I want to do.” That’s all I’m going to do, he amended silently.
With a sigh of joyous relief, Whitney went to him. She started to sit down beside him, but Clayton caught her arms and drew her down onto his lap. “The view will be better if you’re up higher,” he teased.
Sliding his arms around her, he moved her tighter against him. Without urging she turned her face up for his kiss. Clayton brushed his lips against her temple; he kissed her smooth forehead and her cheek. He closed her eyes with his lips, avoiding her mouth lest he frighten her with his ardor, but he drew back in surprise at her muffled laugh.
“Unless your aim improves, my lord duke,” she warned, her eyes aglow with laughter, “I shall be forced to buy you a quizzing glass after all.”
“You will, will you?” Clayton growled huskily as his mouth crushed down on hers. He felt her hands glide up his chest and go around his neck, and his heart began to hammer. As her lips parted beneath his, desire began to heat his blood, and when her tongue crept timidly into his mouth, a jolt slammed through Clayton’s entire nervous system, exploding his control. He kissed her deeply, his mouth moving with half-fierce, half-gentle urgency, and she moaned, kissing him back with desire and passion exquisite on her lips. He tormented her with his tongue, retreating, then thrusting deep until she instinctively responded in the way he wanted.
His hand moved of his own accord, opening her jacket to cup her breasts, his thumb circling her hardened nipples. Under her silken skirt, her thrusting breasts came to life in his hand, thrilling and warning him at the same time. Her soft moan of pleasure raced through him, throbbing in his ears. He forced his hand away, only to have it slide downward, lightly grazing her flat stomach, then her shapely thigh, instinctively seeking the place where, without the barrier of her skirts, he could part her silken thighs and gently, tenderly, tease his beautiful trembling girl until she was melting with desire for him, wanting him as badly as he wanted her. His mouth began to plunder hers more urgently, more hungrily now, and he started to reach for the hem of her skirt.
With the last vestige of control he possessed, Clayton tore his mouth away from hers, and firmly pulled her arms down from around his neck. His breathing was hard and fast, his blood was roaring in his ears, and a fire was raging wildly through his veins. He moved Whitney up against his chest, off his lap, to avoid shocking or frightening her with the rigid evidence of his desire, and he looked down at her, still desperate to join his body with hers. He wanted to pour his life into her, to be able to look at her across a room and know that his seed was deep inside of her, to see her slender body swell with his child . . .
Clayton drew a long breath and slowly expelled it. Whitney was watching him, her beautiful upturned face mirroring puzzlement and concern. He grinned at her, feeling slightly betrayed by his own body’s uncontrollable reaction to her. “Little one,” he explained ruefully, “unless it is your wish to see me driven to madness, I’m afraid we can’t do very much of this.”
Whitney’s eyes widened with bewilderment, then grew huge with understanding. She lurched into an erect sitting position, starting to pull away from him, but Clayton drew her back against his chest. “No,” he said quietly, “stay in my arms a while longer. I just want to hold you.” And she did.
“Is this ridge the boundary of your property?” Whitney asked later, as they walked toward their tethered horses.
Clayton looked a little stung. “No, the boundaries are farther away.”
“How much land do you have?” Whitney asked, wondering at his odd, faintly wounded expression.
“About one hundred twelve thousand acres.”
She gasped.
Her obvious shock reminded Clayton of something else, and he stopped abruptly, regarding her with laughter glinting in his eyes. “While I think of it, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you find my house ‘dingy’?”
Whitney gave him a plucky smile. “I said, ‘dismal.’ ‘Dingy’ was your word. And it is splendid—just like you.”
To a man who had waited for months just to hear her call him by his given name, being told in the same morning that he was “beautiful” and “splendid” was unequivocally reason for another long, stirring kiss.
Standing at the wide bow windows overlooking the sidelawns, the duchess and Stephen watched Whitney and Clayton walking hand in hand toward the house. “They are splendid together, aren’t they,” her grace happily observed.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Stephen chuckled knowingly. “And you will have half a dozen splendid grandchildren. And in none too long a time, I’ll wager,” he added with a bald grin.
“Stephen, that is too bad of you!”
“Can’t imagine why. I think it’s rather wonderful.”
His mother shot him an exasperated look that dwindled into laughter when she met his contagious grin. “What I meant, you wretched boy, is that she is a marvellous girl, and she makes your brother happier than I have ever seen him.”
“She does indeed.” Stephen looked out the window and saw Whitney, who had been walking beside Clayton, suddenly draw back laughing. She spoke rapidly to him, then turned and fled. In two long strides, Clayton caught her at the waist, flung her over his sho
ulder as if she were a sack of flour, and continued striding toward the house. Whitney struggled and pushed against him until he finally put her down, whereupon she walked sedately beside him with her hands clasped demurely behind her back.
“I believe that settled that!” the duchess laughed.
“Don’t count on it,” Stephen chuckled. Even as he spoke, Whitney began moving ahead of Clayton, a good four or five paces this time, then she turned, taking little backward skipping steps. She shook her head, laughing at whatever Clayton told her, then she pivoted on her heel and fled out of their line of vision. Instead of chasing her this time, Clayton leaned a shoulder against a tree, crossed his arms over his chest, and called something after her. Whitney was back in a flash, flinging her arms around him.
“Now that settled it!” Stephen laughed. “Remind me to ask Whitney if she has a sister,” he added thoughtfully.
“Really, Stephen,” her grace expostulated. “With half the mamas in London trying to put their daughters in your way these past five years, I can’t imagine why you haven’t already chosen a wife and—” she paused as if struck with an idea. “I believe Whitney did say she has a second cousin.”
A lazy smile, very much like his brother’s and just as fatal to a lady’s heart, flashed across Stephen’s features. “If she’s like Whitney, I’ll marry her out of hand and give you enough grandchildren to make you blush.”
* * *
“You can’t possibly be serious!” the duchess gasped at lunch, when Clayton announced his intention to be wed in eight weeks.
“I am perfectly serious.” Rising from his chair, he pressed a kiss on Whitney’s forehead and lightly mocked, “I’ll leave the little details of the affair to the two of you.” He strode toward the door, turned back toward his mother and Whitney who were staring at each other, overwhelmed, and took pity on them. “Just draw up a list of thing to be attended to, and give it to Hudgins. He’ll be able to prevail upon the various establishments to act with haste.”
“Exactly who is Hudgins?” Whitney asked. “I’ve never seen him.”
Whitney, My Love Page 46