Whitney, My Love

by Judith McNaught

  With a lazy grin, Clayton lifted Marie’s hand to his lips for a brief kiss. “I see, Madam, that you still have only to walk into a room to bring the entire male population to your feet.”

  An answering sparkle twinkled in Marie’s smoky blue eyes as she inclined her head in a gracious acceptance of his gallant compliment. “Not quite the entire population,” she said meaningfully. “But then I would be astonished to find you in such an excessively silly position, your grace.”

  Whitney listened to this light repartée in a state of angry, humiliated pain, wondering if Clayton were going to introduce his wife to his mistress, being absolutely certain that he could not, in the interest of politeness do so, nor avoid doing so without being impolite. In that moment, Whitney hated Clayton. She despised Esterbrook. She loathed every prying eye in that room. They were all her enemies, brittle, sophisticated, gossiping strangers who resented her intrusion into their select society and who were relishing the mortifying position in which she was now placed. They were Esterbrooks, one and all. Including her polished, urbane husband. She wished she had married Paul and lived quietly in the security of a place where she could belong. And that was before Whitney realized that Esterbrook, with a look of sham innocence, was now introducing Clayton’s mistress to her.

  Fortified by her anger, Whitney met Marie St. Allermain’s silently assessing gaze with quiet composure. Graciously, in flawless French, Whitney said, “Thank you for sharing the gift of your beautiful voice with me, Mademoiselle. It was a joy to be able to hear you.”

  With equal graciousness, Marie replied, “Most accounts of feminine beauty and charm are gross exaggerations. However, I can see that accounts of yours were not.” A slow, sensual smile curved her lips. Glancing provocatively at Clayton, she added with devastating candor. “And, I must say it is excessively disappointing to find it so.” With that, she nodded regally at both of them, took Esterbrook’s arm, and swept away to content herself with the fawning admiration of the other three hundred male occupants of the room.

  For a while, Whitney basked in the warmth of Clayton’s unspoken approval; she knew he was proud of the way she had handled the confrontation. She also knew when, an hour later, Clayton and Marie each left the room via separate doors out onto the terrace. She had seen the subtle look Marie passed to him across the ballroom and witnessed the imperceptible inclination of Clayton’s dark head in reply.

  * * *

  Smiling in the summer moonlight, Marie extended both her hands to be clasped in his strong, warm ones. “It is wonderful to see you, Clayton. Esterbrook must bear you great malice to have deliberately manipulated our brief encounter in there.”

  Clayton grinned down at her. “Esterbrook is a stupid son of a bitch, as you have already surmised on your own, Marie.” He watched the way the moonlight turned her hair to shining silver, while he relished her lush beauty and the keen intelligence in her violet-blue eyes. She took no missish offense at his blunt summation of Esterbrook; she was as astute a judge of character as was he, and they both knew it.

  “Marriage does not agree with you, my lord?” She said it as a question, but it was more a quiet observation.

  Clayton stiffened slightly. He reminded himself that nothing would rock the foundation of London society so violently as his taking Marie St. Allermain as his mistress again. They were both so well known that the gossip created by a renewed liaison between the two of them would be endless, and the humiliation Whitney would suffer as a result of it would be immeasurable. And Marie was a passionate bed partner who suited him perfectly. And even while he told himself all this, he could almost feel Whitney’s cold, trembling hand on his arm, the way her fingers had clutched his for support while Marie was singing.

  Damn her! How dare she take off her betrothal ring! She was a schemer, a liar, and a fraud. But she was also his wife. And right now, she was young and afraid and pregnant with his child. To Clayton’s intense disgust, he realized that he could not bring himself to make the overture which he knew would be welcome to Marie. He would take another woman as his mistress, someone who would create less notoriety.

  “Marriage does not seem to agree with your wife either,” Marie was observing quietly. “She is very beautiful—and very unhappy.”

  “Marriage agrees with both of us,” Clayton said grimly.

  A slow, provocative smile trembled on her lips. “If you say so, Clayton.”

  “I say so,” he said irritably. If Marie had noticed that Whitney was unhappy and distressed, others in the ballroom may have noticed that as well. He didn’t want Whitney shamed in front of their friends. It was one thing for him to hate her and humiliate her in private, another entirely for society to be taking notice of it. And he was thoroughly incensed to discover that he even gave a damn.

  “In that case,” Marie mused, displaying the perspicacity that Clayton had always enjoyed in her, “it might be wise if you now went back into the ballroom. Because I am of the opinion that Esterbrook’s intent in bringing us together in front of your wife, was to make himself available to console her later.” She saw Clayton’s shoulders stiffen and the dangerous glitter in his eyes. A winsome smile touched her lips. “I’ve never seen you look like this before. You are terrifying—and devastatingly attractive—when you’re angry. And jealous.”

  “Leave it at angry,” Clayton replied in a clipped voice which he softened as he bid his former mistress farewell.

  When he strode back into the ballroom, he looked first for Esterbrook, then for Whitney. Esterbrook was there, Whitney was not. With a feeling of relief, Clayton noted that no one seemed to have observed his absence with Marie, and judging by the boisterous level of conversation in the room, whatever gossip had begun at their public meeting had died a swift polite death. Clayton was glad of that because these people were Whitney’s friends as well as his, and she would need to know that she didn’t have to cringe from seeing them the next time.

  Except that Whitney wouldn’t know that. Because the duchess, as the butler solemnly explained, had already left. Damned little fool! Clayton thought savagely. What was she thinking of, walking out on him like this? Now there would be hell to pay! He couldn’t go back in there without her, or everyone would immediately realize that she had left in distress or anger, and that would cause gossip. Personally, he couldn’t have cared less about the talk, but Whitney would be the one who had to face it, and who had left because she couldn’t. And he couldn’t leave either, dammit—because she had taken the carriage.

  Emily and Michael Archibald solved that problem within seconds by walking into the entryway and asking to have their carriage brought round so that they could leave. Without question or comment, they provided him with a ride to his London townhouse, where Clayton spent a very angry, uncomfortable night. He kept seeing Whitney in that glittering golden gown that displayed her ripe breasts to such glorious advantage. She’d worn it deliberately to provoke him and, by God, she’d succeeded! Hadn’t he had to stand beside her all night, watching men’s gazes lingering lustfully on the tantalizing display of her creamy flesh?

  If she hadn’t worn that damned gown and taken off her betrothal ring, if her hair weren’t so thick and lustrous with that shining gold chain entwined in it, if she hadn’t looked so heart-breakingly beautiful and desirable, he’d never have accepted Marie’s silent invitation to join her on the terrace in the first place.

  35

  * * *

  Clayton did not return to Claymore the next day or the day after, or the day after that. Nor did he spend the three days entwined in naked splendor with Marie St. Allermain as Whitney’s feverish, tortured imaginings told her. He spent the three days in London, in alternating states of righteous fury and quiet thoughtfulness. He spent the evenings at his club with his friends.

  Very late on the third night, as he sat staring out at fog-shrouded Upper Brook Street, Clayton arrived at a few conclusions. In the first place, he did not see why the hell he should have to go to the inc
onvenience of choosing a mistress and setting her up in a discreet home of her own, which he would have to do now that he was married. He was married to a slut, but she had a ripe, tantalizing body that intoxicated his mind and fitted his own body to perfection. So why should he take a mistress when he had Whitney? And he was not going to continue living like a damned monk, nor was he going to remain living like a guest in the east wing of his own house, either.

  He was going to Claymore and he was moving back into his own rooms. And when his body had need of her, Whitney would service him. She would be a servant, nothing more, a well-dressed servant whose duties were to act as his hostess on the occasions when he required one, and as his unpaid whore when he needed one. It was almost what she was anyway, he thought with a fresh surge of boiling wrath. Except that her price had been very high—a fortune in money, and his name, to boot! But he owned her. Permanently.

  With those tender thoughts and several more of a similar nature, Clayton ordered his town carriage around on the morning of the fourth day and impatiently endured the hour and a half drive through an English countryside decked out in all its lush, summer glory. He scarcely noticed the passing landscape as he contemplated the scene that was going to take place as soon as he arrived at Claymore. First he was going to explain to Whitney her future status and duties in the crudest possible terms. Then he intended to tell her what he thought of her treachery and deceit, her outrageous temper, and her rebellion against his authority. And when he was done with that, he was going to cram that note down her lovely throat—figuratively speaking.

  The carriage had scarcely pulled to a stop in the drive in front of the house before Clayton was striding swiftly up the steps, through the front door and up the staircase to Whitney’s rooms. He flung the door to her bedchambers open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall and brought Mary flying around in surprised alarm. Without a word to the staring servant, he strode quickly through the adjoining dressing room into his old chambers. But Whitney wasn’t there. Because the duchess, as Mary tearfully explained, had left. Yesterday.

  “Left for where?” Clayton demanded impatiently.

  “S-she wouldn’t say, your grace. She said she left a note for you in her desk.” His formerly loyal housekeeper began to sniffle, but Clayton ignored her as he strode stiffly to Whitney’s desk. It was empty, save for a single crumpled ball of blue writing paper in the top drawer. Clayton hated even to touch it, but he smoothed it out and made himself look at it in case she had written something else. She hadn’t. It was just her way of telling him she had discovered the reason for his anger. He crammed the despised note into his pocket and turned in the doorway.

  “I’m moving back into my own rooms,” he said in a soft snarl to Mary. “Get her things out of there.”

  “And where shall I put them next?” Mary asked in a mutinous tone.

  “Back in here, dammit!” Clayton was aware that the Irish housekeeper found something to smile about in his reply, but he was too furious at being cheated of his true prey to bother chastising a servant for her impertinence. Besides, he was in the mood for a confrontation, and little gratification would be had in confronting Mary.

  He was halfway down the hall on the way to the east wing when it dawned on him what had seemed vaguely different about the note in his pocket. It was stained now as if droplets of water had splashed on it. Tears! he thought with a mixture of disgust and an uncomfortable feeling of guilt. A great many tears.

  * * *

  For the next four days, Clayton waited like a caged tiger for his errant wife to return. He was positive she would come back when she realized he was not going to pursue her in a frenzied state of alarm over the danger to her delicate condition. She would have to come back. After all, who would shelter her from her own husband, in violation of the law of England? Her father was much too sensible a man not to order Whitney back to her husband’s side where she belonged, Clayton decided in an abrupt change of attitude toward Martin Stone.

  When she wasn’t back by the fifth day, Clayton knew a wrath that was beyond anything he had ever felt in his life. She couldn’t be visiting anyone for this length of time. By God! She had actually left him! He could scarcely contain his fury; it was one thing for him to have considered leaving her or sending her away—he was the injured party, after all. Besides, he hadn’t actually done it. But Whitney had! She had obviously gone home to her father, and that stupid bastard was letting her remain.

  He ordered the travelling chaise made ready and the horses put to and snapped at McRea, “I want to be at Martin Stone’s house in six hours. Not one minute more!” Based on McRea’s knowing grin, Clayton almost wondered if his driver had been lying about not knowing where Whitney had gone. It was McRea’s story that Whitney had had him take her to the first posting house on the way back to London, where she had, according to the proprietor of the posting house, rented a hack. What in the hell was she doing traipsing all over the countryside, alone and pregnant with his child? The little fool! Obstinate, infuriating little fool! Beautiful little fool.

  Martin Stone came out to greet Clayton himself, smiling openly as Clayton alighted. “Welcome, welcome,” he said expansively, looking expectantly toward the open door of the coach. “How is my daughter? Where is she?”

  Clayton tasted bitter defeat. “Whitney is fine, Martin. She wanted me to come and tell you that we are expecting a child,” Clayton said, improvising quickly. After all, Martin Stone was a decent sort, and Clayton didn’t want to worry him by admitting that he had driven his daughter away with his surly temper.

  “The Hodges place,” Clayton snapped at McRae a half hour later, which was the earliest possible moment he could escape from Martin without either looking ridiculous or raising the man’s suspicions. Whitney was not staying in seclusion at the Hodges place. And McRae was not smiling when Clayton acidly ordered the chaise back to Claymore.

  According to the investigation Clayton instigated the following morning, Whitney was not staying with the Archibalds. She had in fact vanished somewhere between the posting house and no-one-knew-where.

  Clayton was no longer angry, he was worried. And when it was reported that she had not crossed the Channel on a packet for France, his worry became alarm.

  Alone in his elegant bedroom suite a week after he had returned to Claymore and found her missing, Clayton considered the possibility that Whitney had gone to the man who had been her lover before they were married. Perhaps the bastard had been unwilling or unable to offer her his name before, but now was willing to keep her neatly tucked away and available to him.

  That was an agonizing thought and an infuriating one. But only for a minute, because in the purple light of deepening dusk, Clayton couldn’t actually believe that Whitney would go to another man. It might have been the mellowing effect of the half bottle of brandy he had consumed during the last two hours, but it seemed to him . . . it seemed somehow that Whitney must have grown to love him. A little. He thought of the way she had preferred to sit curled up in a chair in his study during the day while he worked and she read, or wrote letters, or went over household accounts. She had liked being near him. And she had damn well liked being in bed with him. No woman alive would have melted in his arms, and tried in every way to give him as much pleasure as he was giving her, if she weren’t at least infatuated.

  He had loved her desperately on the day they were married; she hadn’t loved him. Then. But surely in the months afterward, in the shared hours of quiet talk and laughter and unbridled passion, surely she must have come to love him.

  Restlessly, Clayton got up and wandered from his empty, lonely room into hers. It wasn’t pretty and alive without her. She was gone and with her, his reason for living each day. He had driven her away, finally broken her spirit and defeated her. And she had so much spirit! So damned much spirit. She had stood up to his rage that day she’d taken her horse out, and then defied him openly by going to the Clifftons’ party in that glorious green dr
ess that made her eyes turn the color of emeralds. And when he had been waiting here, in this very room in the dark, to confront her with it, she had stood up to him then too. No woman alive but Whitney would have dared to gaze boldly up into his eyes and flatly refuse to be confined to her rooms unless he stayed there with her! And why would she have wanted him to stay with her, if she didn’t care for him?

  Walking back into his room, Clayton leaned a shoulder against the broad expanse of mullioned glass that ran the length of it on one side. Staring out into the dark night, he thought about what she had said when he had grabbed her and shaken her, trying to silence her. “I can’t stop,” she had whispered, flinching from his harsh grip. “Because I love you. I love your smile and your eyes . . .” Oh Christ! How could she have said that to him when he had been deliberately hurting her? “I remember exactly how your hands feel against my skin when you touch me,” she had said, “and the things you have whispered to me when you are so deep inside of me that you have touched my heart.”

  Clayton slowly walked into his dressing room and opened the leather case where his shirt studs were kept. He took out the ruby ring she had given him and turned it in his fingers so that he could catch the inscription inside. With a ragged sigh he read the two beloved words: “My lord.” He hesitated, torn between putting it on now or waiting until Whitney could place it on his hand as she had the night they were married. She had put the ring on his finger, then she had kissed his hand and held it softly to her cheek. He put the ring on himself—he didn’t want to wait any longer.