Whitney, My Love (15 page)

"Darling, only consider the awkward position he is in.
Four years ago, everyone knew that he barely tolerated your devotion. Now he
is faced with the problem of reversing himself completely and openly
courting you." She smiled at Whitney's glum look. "If you want to speed
things up, I think you ought to take Lady Eubank's advice and give him some
competition."

Three hours later, Whitney was beginning to agree. She
was popular and sought after by every eligible man present ... except the
one who mattered.

Across the room from Whitney, surrounded by several of
the local girls, Clayton bent his head toward Margaret Merryton, smiling to
conceal his impatience with her ceaseless chatter.

After spending the past few days in London on an
emergency business matter, he'd returned just in time tonight to change and
come to this little gathering of Amelia Eubank's. And that outrageous old
harridan had greeted him in the entryway and announced that she would
appreciate it if he would be especially attentive to Miss Stone tonight, and
thus provide some romantic competition for Sevarin. As a result, Clayton was
not in the best of moods.

Rudely turning her back on the woman who was talking to
her, Amelia Eubank raised her monocle and scanned the knots of guests until
her gaze fell upon the Duke of Claymore, who was surrounded by several of
the local girls, all vying for his attention. Claymore, she noted, was
treating them with amused tolerance, but his attention was on the only
female in the room who seemed immune to his magnetism-Whitney Stone.

Amelia dropped her monocle, letting it dangle from its
black ribbon over her ample bosom. Through a distant connection of her
deceased husband, Amelia could claim a slight kinship with the duke, and
when Claymore had arrived at her home several weeks ago, announcing his
intention to take up residence five miles from her under the name Westland
"in order to take a much needed rest," she had immediately assured him of
her discretion.

Now, however, an intriguing idea occurred to her, and
her eyes took on a speculative gleam as she watched the duke watching Miss
Stone. She paused a moment to contemplate how utterly unethical and devious
her scheme was, and then, with a pleased little smile, she leaned back and
instructed a footman to bring Miss Stone to her immediately, and then to ask
Mr. Westland to join them.

Whitney was dancing with Emily's husband when a footman
appeared at her elbow and said that Lady Eubank wished to see her at once.
Excusing herself to Lord Archibald, Whitney obeyed Lady Eubank's imperative
summons with feelings of distinct apprehension, an apprehension which
immediately turned to alarm when the dowager hoisted herself out of her
chair and said irritably, "I told you competition is what Sevarin needs, and
your best friend's husband is not competition. I want you to make up to Mr.
Westland. Bat your eyes at him, or whatever it is you young gels do to
attract a man."

"No, I can't. Really, Lady Eubank, I'd rather-"

"Young woman," she interrupted, "I will have you know
that I'm giving this party for the sole purpose of helping you secure
Sevarin. Since you seem so foolish about how to go about it, you've left me
no choice but to step in. Clayton Westland is the only man here whom Sevarin
will consider a rival, and I've sent a footman for him." Whitney blanched,
and Lady Eubank glowered at her. "Now, when Mr. West-land comes, you can
either look at him the way you're looking at me-in which case, he will
probably offer to take you to a physician-or you can smile at him, so that
he will offer to take you out on the balcony instead."

"I don't want to go out on the balcony!" Whitney hissed
desperately.

"You will," her ladyship predicted, "when you turn
around and observe how charmingly Elizabeth Ashton is strolling in that
direction on Sevarin's arm."

Whitney turned and saw that Paul and Elizabeth were
indeed strolling toward the balcony doors. Discouraged, Whitney recognized
the sense in what Lady Eubank was trying to force her to do, but she was
reluctant to stoop to outright scheming. Not that her hesitancy mattered,
because Lady Eubank had neatly taken the choice out of her hands and was
already saying to a faintly smiling Clayton, "Miss Stone was just mentioning
that she is excessively overheated from all her dancing, and that she would
enjoy a stroll on the balcony."

Clayton Westland glanced toward the balcony doors, and
in the space of an instant, Whitney watched his lazy smile harden into a
mask of ironic amusement. "I'm sure she would," he said sarcastically.

He took her elbow in a none too gentle grasp, and said.
"Shall we go, Miss Stone?" Whitney let him guide her through the throngs of
chattering guests and around the perimeter of the buffet table. So lost was
she in thoughts of Paul that she didn't notice that she was being led toward
the French doors that stood at right angles to the ones Paul and Elizabeth
had used. If they went this way, Whitney realized that they would emerge
around the corner-and out of sight-of Paul and Elizabeth.

"Where are we going?" Whitney asked quickly, starting to
draw back.

"As you can see, we are going out onto the balcony," her
escort said coolly. Tightening his hold on her elbow, he opened the French
doors with his free hand, propelled her outside and closed them behind her.
Without a word, he dropped her arm and strolled over to the stone
balustrade. Perching his hip on it, he regarded her in silence.

Whitney stood there, miserable because Lady Eubank's
plan had failed, embarrassed because she had participated in it, and still
determined to somehow carry it off if possible. "Perhaps we could stroll
around to the other side?" she suggested.

"We could, but we aren't going to," Clayton almost
snapped. He gazed at her, knowing she was trying to use him as a decoy and
growing more impatient and annoyed with her as each second passed. She
looked like a wild young temptress with the moonlight gleaming on the silver
spangles of her gown as it blew gently in the midnight breeze. And she was
his, dammit! He had even paid for the gown she was wearing

After a few moments, an idea occurred to him. Leaning
back, he looked around the corner of the balcony, ascertained that Sevarin
and Elizabeth Ashton were standing at the balustrade, then returned his
undivided attention to the lovely young woman who was now nervously
fingering the folds of her gown. "Well, Miss Stone?" he drawled in a voice
just raised enough to carry around the corner.

Whitney jumped at the sound of her name. "Well what?"
she questioned, starting to move forward in the hope of peeking around the
corner and seeing what Paul and Elizabeth were doing. In this she was
instantly thwarted, because Clayton abruptly stood up and strolled toward
her, effectively blocking her view of everything but his chest and
shoulders. "Well what?" Whitney repeated, automatically stepping back in an
effort to widen the space between them. Before she realized what was
happening, she had backed into the shadowy stone wall of the house.

"Now that I've brought you out here," Clayton began
conversationally, "what do you want me to do next?"

"Next?" Whitney repeated cautiously.

"Yes, next. I want to be certain I understand my part in
this little game we're playing. I imagine I'm supposed to kiss you, in order
to make Sevarin jealous, is that it?"

"I wouldn't let you touch me to save me from drowning!"
Whitney retorted, too angry to be humiliated.

Ignoring that completely, he said thoughtfully, "I don't
mind playing my part, but I can't help wondering if I'm going to enjoy it.
Am I going to kiss an amateur, or have you been missed often enough to know
how it's supposed to be done? How may times have you been kissed?"

"I'll wager you live in constant terror of being
mistaken for 4 gentleman!" she snapped to cover her growing alarm. His hands
locked on her arms and he began drawing her toward his chest. Giving up her
futile struggle, she glared murderously at the laughter glinting in his
eyes, "Take your hands off me!"

"Are the times you've been kissed too numerous to count?
Or were they all so meaningless that you can't recall them?"

Whitney thought she was going to explode. "I have been
kissed often enough not to require lessons from the likes of you, if that's
what you have in mind!"
  
'

He chuckled as his arms encircled her rigid body. "So
you've been kissed that often, have you, little one?"

Whitney stared at his chest, refusing to look up at him.
Screaming was out of the question; her reputation would be destroyed if
anyone saw her in such a compromising situation. She could not, could not
believe this was actually happening to her. Torn between the urge to burst
into tears, or hit him, she said as calmly as possible, "If you are quite
through trying to frighten and humiliate me, please let me go."

"Not until I discover how much you've learned from all
your 'experience,'" he whispered.

Whitney snapped her head up, intending to launch into a
tirade, only to have her words smothered by his mouth. She froze at the
initial shock of the contact, then forced herself to be perfectly still
beneath the pressure of his lips. Although she had little experience in
kissing, she had considerable experience in avoiding it, and she knew that
by neither struggling nor responding, a woman could reduce an over-ardent
mate to a state of apologetic chagrin.

When Clayton finally drew back, however, he looked
neither chagrined nor apologetic. Instead he regarded her with an
infuriating grin. "Either you had very poor teachers, my lady, or you are
sorely in need of more lessons."

His arms loosened, and Whitney stepped back. Pivoting on
her heel, she vengefully fired a parting remark over her shoulder, "At least
my lessons weren't learned in a brothel!"

It happened so quickly, there was no time to react. A
hand like a vice shot out and seized her wrist, spinning her around back
into the shadows, and jerking her into his arms. "I think," he enunciated in
an awful voice, "that your problem is purely a matter of inexperienced
teachers."

His mouth crushed down on hers, mercilessly bruising her
lips, forcing them to part from sheer, cruel pressure and when they did, his
tongue plunged into her mouth, ravaging its softness.

Whitney writhed futilely in his iron embrace while tears
of impotent rage raced down her cheeks. The more she struggled, the more
insolent and punishing his mouth became, until she finally grew still,
defeated and trembling in his arms. The moment she stopped fighting, he
lifted his head and cradled her face between his two hands. Gazing into her
stormy, tear-brightened eyes, he said quietly, "That was your first lesson,
little one. Never, ever play games with me. I've played them all before, and
you can't win. This is the second lesson," he murmured as his mouth
descended toward hers.

Whitney drew a sharp breath and started to scream, but
his mouth throttled the scream to an hysterical whimper, and so gently this
time that she was stunned into silent quiescence. His hand curved around her
nape, his fingers stroking and soothing, while the other drifted over her
back in a slow, restless caress, moving her closer to his length. And all
the while, his lips were moving on hers with fierce tenderness, shaping and
fitting their soft curves to his own.

He touched his tongue to her lips, coaxing them to part,
and when they did, his tongue slid gently between them, sending wild jolts
through Whitney's body. She reached her arms around his neck, clinging to
him for support. His arm tightened protectively around her, and his tongue
fully invaded the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting and exploring, filling
her, until her whole body was a rioting mass of dizzying sensations.

He deepened the kiss, and his hand moved from her back
to her midriff, sliding upward to her breast, boldly cupping its soft,
enticing fullness.

Outrage at that intimate fondling banished every other
emotion in a blinding flash of fury. With a strength she didn't know she
possessed, Whitney tore free, flinging his arms furiously away. "How dare
you!" she hissed at the same time that she lifted her hand and slapped him
as hard as she could.

In utter disbelief, Whitney watched a slow, satisfied
grin sweep across his face. So incensed that she could scarcely draw enough
air to speak, she said, "If you ever, ever touch me again, I'll kill you!"

Her threat only seemed to please him more, and there was
no mistaking the silent chuckle that preceded his next words. "That won't be
necessary, my lady. I already have the answer I sought."

"Answers!" Whitney gasped. "If I were a man, I'd give
you an answer at the point of a pistol."

"If you were a man, you'd have no reason to."

Whitney stood there, shaking with thwarted outrage,
yearning to do or say something that would penetrate his cool, imperturbable
exterior. The tears filling her eyes were tears of fury, but the moment he
saw them he was contrite. "Dry your eyes, little one, and I'll return you to
your friends inside." So saying, he produced a white handkerchief and held
it toward her. Whitney thought she would splinter apart from the turbulence
of her hatred and animosity. She snatched the handkerchief from his hand and
flung it to the ground, spinning on her heel with every intention of
stalking into the ballroom alone.

"Excuse us," Paul said with a curt nod as he escorted
Elizabeth past them, toward the doors into the ballroom.

"How long has Paul been there?" Whitney demanded
wrathfully, facing Clayton with her fists clenched. "You vile, contemptible
. . . you did all that deliberately, for his benefit, didn't you? So that he
would see it. You wanted him to see it!"

"I did it deliberately, for my benefit," Clayton
corrected her blandly, placing his hand under Whitney's elbow and guiding
her toward the French doors