Whitney bit her lip uncertainly, longing to confide in Emily, yet unwilling to burden her with her own problems. If she told Emily she was betrothed to "the most eligible bachelor in Europe" Emily would obviously be thrilled. If she told Emily she didn't want to be betrothed to him, Emily would automatically sympathize. If she told Emily she was going to elope with Paul a few days from now, Emily would fear the inevitable scandal and she would plead with her not to do it.
"How long have you known he is the Duke of Claymore?"
"Less than a week," Whitney said cautiously.
"Well?" Emily prompted eagerly, so excited that her sentences ran together. "Tell me everything. Are you in love with him? Is he in love with you? Weren't you surprised to discover who he is?"
"Astounded," Whitney admitted, smiling slightly at the memory of her shocked horror at learning Clayton was her betrothed.
"Go on," Emily prodded.
Her delight was so infectious that Whitney's smile warmed, but she shook her head and answered in a firm tone that at least temporarily discouraged her friend from further probing. "He isn't in love with me, nor I with him. I am going to marry Paul. It's all but settled."
Clayton glanced at the clock above the mantel of the Robert Adams fireplace in his spacious bedroom suite as his valet eased a crisp white evening shirt onto his muscular shoulders. It was nearly ten, and he felt almost irrationally eager to be on his way to the Archibalds'.
"If I may say so, my lord," Armstrong murmured, assisting him into a black brocade waistcoat, "it's very good to be in London again."
While Clayton was buttoning the waistcoat, Armstrong removed a black evening jacket from the wardrobe, flicked a nonexistent speck off the lapel, then held it up while Clayton plunged his arms into the sleeves. After adjusting the ruby shin studs, Armstrong stood back to survey the full effect of his master's tall frame in impeccably tailored, raven-black evening attire.
Clayton leaned close to the mirror to assure himself that his shave was close enough and flashed a broad grin at the hovering valet. "Well, do 1 pass muster, Armstrong?"
Surprised and gratified by the duke's uncharacteristic informality, Armstrong swelled with pleasure. "Most assuredly, your grace," he said, but when the duke left, Armstrong's pleasure slowly gave way to dismay as he realized that Miss Stone must be the cause of the duke's extraordinary good humor. For the first time, Armstrong began to doubt the wisdom of his wager with McRae, the coachman, against the master marrying the girl.
"Have a pleasant evening, your grace," the butter intoned as Clayton shrugged into an evening cloak lined with crimson silk and bounded down the long sweep of stairs that paraded from his magnificent Upper Brook Street mansion to the street. McRae, in full Westmoreland livery now, swept open the door of the coach as Clayton approached. Grinning at the red-haired Irish coachman, Clayton jerked his head toward the horses. "If they can't get above a trot, McRae, shoot them."
Elated anticipation seemed to build inside of Clayton with every revolution of the coach's wheels clattering over the cobbled London streets. He was exhilarated at the prospect of appearing in London with Whitney at his side. The Rutherfords' ball, which he'd originally intended to be a diversion for her, was now a profound pleasure for himself. He'd been dreaming of showing her off as his own since the night of the Armands' masquerade-and what better place to present her to London society than at the home of his good friends?
With boyish enjoyment, he contemplated Marcus and Ellen Rutherford's reaction when he introduced Whitney to them tonight as his fiancee. By presenting Whitney to London society as his fiancee, he wouldn't be breaking his promise to her, for she could still have the secrecy she desired when they returned to her home, at least for another few days. Secrecy! he thought disgustedly. He wanted the world to know!
"He's here," Emily exclaimed, rushing back into Whitney's room after greeting her noble guest downstairs. "Just think of it," she laughed. "You are making your London debut at the most important ball of the year, and the Duke of Claymore is your escort How I wish Margaret Merryton could see you tonight!"
Emily's delighted enthusiasm, which had been increasing all evening, was so contagious that Whitney couldn't help smiling as she stood up to leave, nor could she suppress the unexplainable joy that surged through her when she saw Clayton talking with Lord Archibald at the foot of the stairs.
Clayton looked up automatically as she began descending the staircase, and what he saw stopped his breath and made his heart burst with pride. Draped in a Grecian gown of nugget-gold satin which left one of her smooth shoulders deliciously bare and hugged her slender, voluptuous curves until it ended in a swirl of gold, Whitney looked like a shimmering golden goddess. A rope of yellow tourmalines and white diamonds was entwined in her lustrous dark hair, and a radiant smile lit her face and glowed in her eyes. Clayton thought that she had never looked so provocatively lush, nor so regally sensual as she did tonight. She was beautiful, glamorous, bewitching-and she was his.
Long gloves of matching gold covered her bare arms to well above the elbows, and when she reached the bottom of the staircase, Clayton took both her gloved hands in his. His gray eyes were smoldering, and his voice was almost hoarse. "My God, you are beautiful," he whispered.
Caught in the spell of those compelling gray eyes, Whitney yielded to the sudden temptation to let herself truly enjoy the evening, which already held the promise of enchantment. Stepping back, she favored Clayton with a sweeping look of unabashed admiration that ran the length of his long, splendidly clad frame, then she raised her laughing green eyes to his. "Not nearly so beautiful as you, I fear." Her eyes twinkled as she feigned dismay.
Clayton put her gold satin cape over her shoulders then rushed her from the house, not realizing until the door had closed behind them that he had neglected to say good night to the Archibalds.
Staring at the closed door, Emily expelled her breath in a long, wistful sigh.
"If you are wishing for something," Michael warned her gently, placing his arm around her shoulders, "wish that Whitney keeps her head, and not that Claymore loses his heart, because he won't. You've heard enough London gossip about him to know that. Even if be did lose his heart, and was willing to overlook her lack of fortune, he would never marry a female whose lineage was less aristocratic than his own. He is obligated by family custom not to marry beneath himself."
Outside the night was foggy, and a chilly breeze sent Whitney's cape fluttering behind her. She paused halfway down the steps to pull up the wide satin hood in order to protect her coiffeur. In the act, her gaze fell on the coach waiting in the street beneath the gas lamp. "Good heavens, is that yours?" she gasped, staring at the magnificent burgundy-lacquered coach with a gold crest emblazoned on the door panel "Of course it is," she said quickly, recovering her composure and walking alongside Clayton down the steps. "It's just that I don't think of you as a duke. I think of you as you are at home. My home, I mean," she explained, feeling thoroughly absurd and unsophisticated as she stopped again to stare, not at the coach, but at the horses who drew it-four glorious grays with snowy white manes and tails, who stamped and tossed their heads in a restless frenzy to be off.
"Do you tike them?" Clayton said, helping her into the coach and settling down beside her.
"Like them?" Whitney repeated as she pushed back her hood and turned her head to smile shyly into his eyes. "I have never seen such magnificent animals."
He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "Then they're yours."
"No, I couldn't accept them. Really, I couldn't."
"Is it now your intention to deprive me of the pleasure of giving you gifts?" he asked gently. "It pleased me mightily to know I had paid for your gowns and jewels even though you had no idea they were from me."
Lulled by his tolerant good humor, Whitney asked the one question she had heretofore been afraid to voice. "How much did you pay my father for me?"
The mood was shattered. "If you will grant me nothing else
," he said shortly, "at least grant me this. Stop persisting in this foolish determination to see yourself as something I purchased!"
Now that she'd asked the question and incurred his anger, Whitney wanted an answer "How much?" she repeated obstinately.
Clayton hesitated and then snapped icily, "One hundred thousand pounds."
Whitney's mind reeled. Never in her wildest imaginings had she dreamt of a sum like that; a household servant only earned thirty or forty pounds a year. If she and Paul scrimped and saved for the rest of their lives, they could never pay back a fortune like that. She wished with all her heart that she hadn't asked the question. She didn't want to spoil their evening; tonight would be their first and last gala affair together, and for some reason it was terribly important to her not to ruin it. Trying desperately to recover some of their earlier gaiety, Whitney said lightly, "You were a fool, my lord duke."
Clayton threw his gloves onto the seat across from them. "Really?" he drawled in a bored, insulting voice. "And why is that, Ma'am?"
"Because," Whitney informed him pertly, "1 don't think you should have let him fleece you out of a single shilling over Ј99,000!"
Clayton's stunned gaze shot to her face, narrowed on her smiling lips, and then he leaned back his head and laughed, a rich throaty sound that warmed Whitney's heart. "When a man sets out to acquire a treasure," he chuckled, drawing her closer and smiling at her. "He does not argue over a few pounds."
The silence between them lengthened and the amusement in his eyes was slowly replaced by a slumbering intensity. His silver gaze held hers imprisoned as he slowly bent his head to her. "I want you," he breathed, and his lips parted hers for a deep, violently sensual kiss that left Whitney shaken and flushed.
The Rutherford mansion was ablaze with lights, and the long drive leading up to it crowded with vehicles making their way toward the front of the house where they stopped to allow their resplendent passengers to alight. Footmen carrying torches met each vehicle, then escorted the guests up the terraced front steps to the main door.
In a reasonably short time, Whitney and Clayton were being escorted up the steps by a torch-bearing, liveried footman. In the entry foyer, a servant took their outerwear, and they proceeded up the carpeted staircase where enormous bouquets of white orchids in tall silver stands had been placed on each step.
They walked around the corner and out onto a balcony and Whitney paused to gaze down at the scene in the ballroom below. Her first London ball, she thought. And her last. The crowd seemed to dip and sway as the ladies moved about the floor, talking and laughing. Immense crystal chandeliers reflected the dazzling kaleidoscope of colorful gowns, which were multiplied over and over again in the two-story mirrored walls.
"Ready?" Clayton said, tucking her hand possessively in the crook of his arm and trying to draw her toward the wide curving staircase which lead from the balcony down to the crowd below.
Whitney, who had been casually looking for Nicki, suddenly realized that everyone down in the ballroom was beginning to look at them, and she pulled back in confused alarm while hundreds of curious gazes swivelled up to where they were standing. The roar of conversation began steadily winding down until it was reduced to whispers and murmurings, and then it soared to deafening heights. Whitney had the terrifying feeling that every person in that ballroom was either looking at them or talking about them. A woman looked up at Clayton, then hurried over to speak to a tall, distinguished-looking man, who immediately turned to gaze up at Clayton, then disengaged himself from the people surrounding him and strode purposefully in the direction of the balcony where they stood. "Everyone is staring at us," Whitney whispered apprehensively.
Completely impervious to the stir he was creating, Clayton flicked a glance down at the guests, then shifted his gaze to Whitney's lovely, upturned face. "I see that," he agreed drily as the distinguished-looking man, who Whitney assumed must be their host, bounded up the last stair onto the balcony.
"Clayton!" Marcus Rutherford laughed. "Where the devil have you been? I was beginning to believe the rumors that you'd dropped off the face of the earth."
Whitney listened as the two men, who were obviously close friends, exchanged greetings. Lord Rutherford was handsome, and looked to be about seven and thirty, with piercing blue eyes that spoke of perceptiveness. Without warning, those brae eyes levelled on her, inspecting her with unconcealed admiration. "And who, pray, is this ravishing creature beside you?" he demanded. "Must I introduce myself to her?"
Glancing uncertainly at Clayton, Whitney was startled to find him gazing down at her with a look of profound pride. "Whitney," be said, "may I present my friend, Lord Marcus Rutherford-" Directing a meaningful glance at Whitney's hand which was still firmly clasped in Lord Rutherford's, Clayton finished, "Marcus, kindly take your hands off my future wife, Miss Whitney Stone."
"Whitney?" Marcus Rutherford repeated. "What an unusual…" A slow, disbelieving smile broke across his face as he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Clayton. "Have I heard you aright?"
Clayton inclined his head in a slight nod, and Lord Rutherford's delighted gaze returned to Whitney. "Come with me, young lady," he said, eagerly drawing Whitney's hand through his arm. "As you may have noticed, there are about six hundred people down there all on fire to know who you are."
When Clayton seemed perfectly agreeable to letting her go with Marcus Rutherford, Whitney hastily took matters into her own hands. "My Lord Rutherford," she said, her pleading gaze directed at Clayton. "We-we wish to keep our forthcoming marriage a secret for a while."
She looked so distressed that Clayton reluctantly relinquished his plan to present her to everyone as his betrothed. "It's to remain a secret for a white, Marcus," be said.
"You must be mad," Lord Rutherford returned, but he released Whitney's hand. "You'll never keep this prize of yours a secret for a day. In fact"-he glanced in the direction of the crowd below which was now openly watching what was transpiring on the balcony-"you'll never manage such a feat for even an hour." He waited a moment, obviously hoping that Clayton would relent, then turned to leave them, saying over his shoulder, "You win at least allow me to confide in Lady Rutherford? She's already charged me to discover who this beautiful young woman with you is."
Before Whitney could object, Clayton nodded his assent. With a feeling of impending disaster, she turned a despairing took on him and said, "Now watch what happens." Lord Rutherford strode directly to a stunning redhead, drew he-aside and said something to her, and that lady turned to gaze in astonished welcome at Clayton and Whitney while flashing them a conspiratorial smile. Precisely as Whitney expected, the moment Lord Rutherford left her side, Lady Rutherford hurried over to another woman and bent low to whisper in her ear, and that lady's head swivelled to Clayton and Whitney, pausing for a split-second before she raised her fan and leaned close to speak to the lady beside her.
Cold terror strangled Whitney's voice. "So much for secrecy." She choked out the words, and searched for someone to ask where she could freshen up. Too stricken to care what Clayton would think of her actions, she fled to the designated room and closed the door, leaving him standing alone on the balcony.
Her eyes were glazed with panic as she stared blindly at her reflection in one of the mirrored walls. This was a calamity! A disaster! The guests at this ball knew Clayton; they were his friends and acquaintances. In another fifteen minutes, every one of them would know that he was betrothed to her, and within a week, everyone in London would know it. When she eloped with Paul, they would also realize that she had scorned Clayton, fled to escape him and their forthcoming marriage. Dear God! Before this was over, Clayton was going to be publicly humiliated. She couldn't bear to do that to him. Even if she could, she would be afraid to do it. If she publicly shamed him, his vengeance would surely crash down on her with a savagery that would be devastating. She shivered, thinking of Clayton's inevitable fury and the awesome power he possessed to retaliate against her and her family, ev
en Aunt Anne and Uncle Edward.
Sternly, determinedly, Whitney fought to bring her rioting panic under control. She couldn't continue to hide in this room like an hysteric, and she couldn't leave the ball. Hugging her arms around herself, she began to pace slowly across the crimson carpet, struggling against her quaking fear and forcing herself to think logically, clearly. In the first place, she reminded herself, Clayton had avoided matrimony for years. If he didn't marry her, wasn't it likely that everyone would assume she'd lost whatever appeal she had for him, and that he and not she had cried off? Of course they would-particularly when they discovered that she had neither wealth nor aristocratic lineage.
The painful knot in her stomach began to dissolve. After a few minutes of additional contemplation, she realized that when Clayton had refused to allow Lord Rutherford to introduce her as his intended bride, he had relegated their betrothal to the status of an unconfirmed rumor. And wasn't London, like Paris, always buzzing with rumors that were soon forgotten? Emily said it was. She felt much, much better.
Her heart gave a funny little lurch when she remembered how very proud of her Clayton had seemed when he introduced her to Lord Rutherford as his fiancee. Never in all these weeks had Clayton mentioned love, or even that he cared for her, yet there was no mistaking that expression on his face tonight; he did care for her, and more than a little. She didn't want to repay him by embarrassing him. She owed him more than to shame him by cowering in this room. At least for this evening she could surely pretend that she returned his affection.
Having made that decision, Whitney composed her features and carefully studied her reflection in the mirror. A perfectly poised young woman looked back at her, her chin resolutely high.
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