Whitney, My Love wds-2

by Джудит Макнот

  "I am not in the least surprised to hear it," she teased breezily. "I seem to be all the rage this season-particularly with tall men." She tipped her head to the side, considering the possible reasons for such a thing. "I believe it is probably because I am rather tall for a woman. It must be quite awkward for tall men to be forever bent over, trying to speak to tiny women. Or," she added jokingly, "it could be because I have very good teeth. I take excellent care of them and-"

  "Don't!" Clayton commanded, trying to stop her banter.

  "I shall never brush them again," Whitney agreed with sham solemnity.

  Clayton gazed down at her entrancing cream and roses face and wondered how in the hell he had started to speak of love and ended up in an inane discussion of personal hygiene. If his emotions weren't in such a turmoil, if he weren't trying so desperately to make things right between them, he would have noticed that her overbright eyes were sparkling with suppressed tears, not laughter, and that the muscles in her slim throat were constricting spasmodically. But he was in a turmoil, and he didn't notice. "Elizabeth is a beautiful bride," he said, trying to guide their discussion around to marriage.

  Whitney laughed. "All brides are beautiful. It was decreed centuries ago-by a duke, no doubt-that all brides must be beautiful. And blush."

  "Will you blush?" he asked tenderly.

  "Certainly not," she said, managing to smile despite the catch in her voice. "I have nothing left to blush about. Not that I mind, you see, because I've always harbored a secret contempt for females who blush and swoon at the slightest provocation."

  Clayton's frustrated confusion reduced his voice to a tense whisper. "What's wrong? You weren't like this when you were in my arms outside the church-"

  Whitney's jade green eyes widened in apparent bewilderment "Was that you?"

  Ignoring the wild curiosity they were generating among the wedding guests, Clayton jerked her hard against his chest. "Who in the living hell did you think it was?"

  Whitney felt as if her heart was breaking. "Actually, I couldn't be absolutely certain who it was. It might have been …" She inclined her head toward the two groomsmen who'd been dancing attendance on her all night. "John Clifford or Lord Gilmore. They say they 'adore' me. Or it might have been Paul. He 'adores' me. Or it could have been Nicki, he-"

  In one swift motion, Clayton whirled her off the dance floor and thrust her away. He stared down at her with cold savage contempt, his voice dangerously low, hissing with fury. "I thought you were a woman with a heart, but you're nothing but a common flirt!"

  Whitney lifted her chin in scornful amusement. "I'd hardly say I was common; after all, I've fleeced you out of Ј110,000, and even so, all I have to do is smile, and you still come straight to heel, just as you did today. We are neither of us common, my lord," she taunted. "I am an accomplished flirt and you are a sublime fool."

  For a split second, Whitney thought he was going to strike her. Instead he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away. She watched him stalk past the staring guests, past the servants stationed at the doors and knew that he had just left her life forever. Forcing back her damned up tears, she searched the crowd for Emily. "Emily," she mumbled brokenly, keeping her face down, "please explain to Elizabeth that I-I felt quite violently ill. I'll-I'll send your driver back with your carriage as soon as he leaves me at your house."

  "I'll come with you," Emily said quickly.

  "No, I prefer to be alone. I have to be alone."

  Later that night Emily and Michael both paused outside Whitney's door, listening to the wrenching sound of grief being poured into a pillow. "Let her be," Michael advised compassionately. "She'll cry it all out of her system."

  However, when Whitney failed to appear for breakfast the next morning, Emily went up to her room and found her sitting in bed, her knees drawn up to her chest as if she were trying to curl into a cocoon. She looked pate and fragile but when she saw Emily, she managed a wan smile. "How do you feel?" Emily asked softly.

  "I-I'm much better today."

  "Whitney, what happened last-"

  "Don't!" Whitney implored tightly. "Please don't." When Emily nodded, the tension in Whitney's face gave way to gratitude and she relaxed against the pillows. "I've decided to begin enjoying the remainder of my time in London. Would you object if I had callers in occasionally?"

  "Of course not. In fact, Lord Gilmore and the other groomsmen are downstairs right now, hoping to see you." Despite Emily's determined cheerfulness, her voice wavered and she sat down beside Whitney, putting her arm around her. "Michael and I both want you to stay with us as long as you can. He understands that you're more like my sister than my friend."

  Whitney gave her a hard hug arid tried to laugh. "Sisters argue abominably. Friends are better."

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THAT DAY BEGAN A MONTH OF FRENETIC SOCIAL activity for Whitney. With courage and determination, she purposely kept herself too busy to think. Each night she fell into bed exhausted, and slept until it was time to dress for the next day's engagements. Nicki was her favorite and most frequent escort, but two of the groomsmen and the other eligible gentlemen she'd met at Emily's party and Elizabeth's wedding were frequently at her side, as well. With Emily normally acting as chaperone, she was escorted to rout parties, to musicales, the opera, the theatre, and balls. And she met more eligible men at those places, who then appeared with gratifying predictability at the Archibald townhouse to invite her to more parties and more balls.

  If Paris had welcomed her, London embraced her with outstretched arms, for her charm and her wit were even more rare here. Whispers began and heads turned when she walked into a room. Her humor was softer now, and shy men who would have been terrified to approach her before, flocked around her.

  She was courted and sought after. And she was unhappy beyond words.

  She was never alone. And she was never at peace.

  Occasionally at one of these functions, Whitney would hear Clayton's name mentioned, and she would the a little inside.

  But no one who saw her dazzling smile brighten even more would have guessed she cared.

  Only once during that first month did Whitney even come close to encountering Clayton. The young viscount who was her escort for that particular evening handed her into his closed carriage and announced with obvious pride that tonight he was going to escort her to "the ball of the year," then he had turned to his coachman and instructed, "Number 10 Upper Brook Street."

  The address struck Whitney like a pitcher of ice water in her face. Number 10 Upper Brook Street was Clayton's London address, the address he'd given her long ago, in case she wanted to reach him. "I detest large parties," she desperately informed him. "They give me the vapors!"

  "But Claymore gives the best parties in London!" he objected with equal vehemence. "And last week, you said you adored large parties."

  "That was last week. This week the noise makes me quite ill!"

  The viscount undoubtedly found her recently acquired allergy to noise rather extraordinary, but Miss Stone was beautiful and entertaining. And very popular. He took her to the opera instead.

  That marked the end of Whitney's good fortune: she saw Clayton the following night. She was at the theatre with Nicki, seated in a private box with an excellent view of the stage and the five tiers of seats above it. Just before the play began, her curl caught in her amethyst brooch, and Nicki leaned across to help untangle it. As he did so, Whitney's gaze wandered aimlessly across the crowd-then riveted in stricken paralysis on Clayton and Vanessa Standfield, who were just entering a box nearby which was already occupied by the Rutherfords. Clayton's hand was resting familiarly on Vanessa Standfield's waist as the two couples exchanged gay greetings. Unable to tear her eyes away, Whitney watched them take their seats. She saw Vanessa speak to Clayton, who leaned closer, the better to hear her, and whatever she said to him made him throw back his head and burst out laughing.

  Her body trembling violently, Whitney watched as
the

  Rutherfords turned to Clayton and Vanessa, obviously curious about the reason for his hilarity. Clayton spoke, and he must have repeated what Vanessa said, because Vanessa blushed gorgeously, and the Rutherfords also joined in the laughter.

  In the rows of seats below and the tiers above, heads were twisting and turning, and Whitney heard the murmurings about "Claymore" and "his grace" and "the duke." Clayton's presence in the theatre (and Vanessa's with him) was being duly noted by all.

  "Cherie, are you ill?" Nicki asked, frowning at Whitney's paleness.

  Thinking that she was going to be sick, Whitney started to rise. As she did so, Clayton glanced up and saw her. His eyes turned as flinty as steel, and his expression changed from icy distaste to bored contempt. And then he simply looked away. Whitney told herself that she had to stay in that box until the play was over, that she wouldn't, wouldn't let Clayton see that she was affected by his presence. She left ten minutes after the curtain went up. She left because tears had started to stream down her cheeks, and because she was so jealous, so unbearably, agonizingly, helplessly jealous that she couldn't bear to remain.

  Two nights later, Nicki escorted her to their second party of the evening. Arriving extremely late, Whitney handed her fur cape to the butler, then took Nicki's arm as he led her through the throngs of departing guests who were all waiting for their conveyances to be brought round. Near the rear of the group, Whitney saw Clayton helping Vanessa with her wrap, grinning down at her in that bold, intimate way of his, and her fingers tightened convulsively on Nicki's arm.

  "Where are you leading me next, my lord?" Vanessa asked Clayton as Whitney tried helplessly to move past them.

  "Astray," Clayton told her with a blunt chuckle. He glanced up and saw Whitney standing directly in front of him, but this time Clayton didn't bother to communicate his loathing. He merely looked through her as if she didn't exist for him, and then he turned his attention back to Vanessa. On a cold, blustery December afternoon two weeks later.

  Nicki proposed. Without flowery, fervent professions of his affection, Nicki gathered a pale Whitney into his arms and said simply, "Marry me, love."

  His quiet offering of himself nearly destroyed Whitney's fragile grip on her emotions. "I-I can't, Nicki," she whispered, trying to smile at him despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "I wish with all my heart that I loved you, but it would be wrong for me to marry you, feeling the way I do."

  "I know exactly how you feel, cherie," he said gently, tipping her chin up. "But I'm willing to gamble that if you marry me and come back to France, I can make you forget him."

  Whitney reached up and laid her hand against his jaw. Nicki had been someone she could count on and trust. If she refused him now, he would leave, but she couldn't bring herself to give him false hope. "My dear, good friend," she whispered brokenly. "I will love you forever, but always as my friend." Tears glittered on her tang lashes, and Whitney's voice shook. "I cannot tell you how . . . how honored I am that you would have me for your wife … or how much you have meant to me these past years. Oh Nicki, thank you. Thank you-for being all the things you are." Pulling out of his arms, she turned and fled.

  She ran blindly up the stairs, holding back her tears until she heard the front door close behind him. And then they came, streaming down her cheeks as she covered her face with her hands and rushed past Emily and Michael's open door, down the hall to the bedroom which had become her private hell, to weep out the misery which seemed to have no end.

  Emily turned on Michael, her eyes wide with alarm. "Dear God!" she cried. "What could have happened now? If Clayton Westmoreland has done anything else to her, I'll strangle him with my bare hands."

  Michael drew Emily back into their bedroom and firmly closed the door. "Emily," he said cautiously, "Claymore married Vanessa Standfield at her home four days ago. Everyone who is in a position to know has been talking about it."

  "I refuse to believe it!" Emily burst out. "Ever since I came to London years ago, I've heard endless gossip about him, and it's scarcely ever been true."

  "Perhaps. But this time I believe it. And whether it's true or not, what difference does it make? Whitney has forgotten him completely these last weeks."

  "Oh, Michael!" Emily said miserably. "How can you be so utterly blind?" Without waiting for her stunned husband to reply, she pulled the door open and walked determinedly down the hall to the blue guest bedroom. She tapped once on Whitney's door and when there was no answer, boldly opened it and stepped into the room. Whitney was lying in a crumpled heap on the bed, her eyes tightly closed, her face streaked with tears.

  "Why are you crying?" Emily asked in a kind but firm tone.

  Whitney's eyes flew open and she sat up in embarrassed surprise, groping for her handkerchief. "It seems to be the thing I do best lately," she said ruefully, dabbing at her eyes.

  "This is the silliest thing I've ever heard. I've known you since we were babies, and I can't ever remember you shedding so much as one tear until a few weeks ago. Now, Miss Stone," she demanded, "why are you crying?"

  "Nicki proposed," Whitney sighed, too exhausted to try to evade the question.

  "Which made you so happy that you burst into tears?"

  Whitney smiled but there was a catch in her voice. "I seem to have a difficult time coping with marriage proposals. You would think, with as must practice as I had in France, that I-"

  "What happened to the last one?" Emily interrupted flatly.

  Whitney looked at her in silence for a long moment, then she shrugged and looked away. "Clayton didn't want to marry me, after all."

  "Oh rubbish! How can you expect me to believe such flummery? I've seen the way that man looks at you."

  Whitney dragged herself off the bed and went over to the little French desk from which she extracted the packet Clayton had sent her. Without a word, she handed it to Emily.

  Emily sank into a chair as she began to read. Her face registered no particular reaction when she read the legal documents, but she frowned at the bank draft, and rolled her eyes in absolute disgust when she read Clayton's note. "Really!" she exclaimed in wry exasperation. "Sending you this note was too foolish for words. If he wasn't drunk as a wheelbarrow when he wrote it I can't think what was wrong with his brain. But what has all this-" she gestured to the pile of papers-"to do with the way you behaved at Elizabeth's banquet? I saw the way you avoided and ignored him."

  "I should have avoided him at the church!" Whitney said feelingly. "And I would have, except that I thought we were still betrothed. I-I didn't know about these papers until we came back here after the wedding. They were with the things my father sent from home."

  "Surely you aren't upset because the duke withdrew his offer? It would seem to me he acted correctly, knowing that he had wronged you-and believing that you could never forgive him. I'm certain he was only trying to excuse you from an obligation he believed would be repugnant to you."

  Whitney gaped at her. "How can you be so gullible? Emily, he dragged me to his bed and stole my honor, then he gave me a bank draft to pay me off, broke our betrothal, and sent me a note suggesting I marry Paul!"

  "I suppose," Emily sighed, "that were I as emotionally involved as you are, I might feel the same way. But please, just for the sake of argument, forget about the bank draft. That was too foolish for words-and very generous of him, too." Whitney opened her mouth to object angrily, but Emily shook her head and firmly interrupted her. "Whitney, I saw him at the church, after he sent you these papers. He loved you-a fool could have seen that. He stood in that church worshiping you!"

  Whitney leapt to her feet. "He stood in that church because Elizabeth invited him to her wedding. And if I'd known it at the time, I wouldn't have made such a horrid fool of myself and-"

  "Elizabeth didn't invite him," Emily said guiltily. "I did. I sent him a note on the bottom of one of Elizabeth's invitations telling him that you were going to be there. And he came because he wanted to see you. He scarcel
y knew Elizabeth and Peter, and I doubt he attends weddings of distant acquaintances he doesn't care in the least about."

  Whitney looked as if she were either going to faint or scream. "You told him?! But why-why would you do that to me? He surely thought I had put you up to it."

  Emily shook her head. "He couldn't have thought anything of the sort. I simply told him that you were going to be there. And he came because you were. Whitney, listen to me. He came after he signed those documents; after he wrote that note, which, by the way, seems to me to have been only foolish and not vile; and after he sent you the bank draft."

  A torrent of conflicting emotions battered Whitney as Emily went determinedly on. "He probably knew that Paul's circumstances are very strained. Everyone in the village knew it but you."

  "He knew," Whitney admitted. "He was in my father's study the night I found out about Paul's problems."

  "And he also knew you wanted to marry Paul?"

  Whitney nodded.

  "Whitney, for the love of heaven, can't you see what he was trying to do? He thought you hated him and he knew you wanted to marry Paul, so he sent you this . . . this fortune to help make your life easier. He gave you money to help make your life better with the man you preferred to him. Dear God! He must have loved you even more than I thought, to do a thing like this."

  Whitney snorted derisively and looked away, but Emily marched to the bed where she sat, and plunked her fists on her slim hips. "Whitney, I think you are a fool! You love that man-you told me so yourself, so don't deny it. And he loved you. He offered for you, he assisted your father when he didn't have to, then he stood by while you flirted with Paul and did a hundred other things that had to provoke him beyond words. What did you say to him at the banquet?" she demanded.

  Whitney's eyes flew to Emily's face, then slid away, in a small voice she answered, "I mocked him when he said he loved me."

  "You mocked him?" Emily gasped. "Why in heaven's name would you do such a thing after standing in his arms on the church steps?"