Whitney, My Love (21 page)

Clayton was already drawing the burgundy leather
wing-back chairs into place on opposite sides of the chess table. "Very
infrequently."

"Good," Whitney said with a bright, vivacious smile as
she sat down. "In that case, this won't take very long."

"Planning to trounce me, Ma'am?" he drawled, one brow
arrogantly raised.

"Soundly!" Whitney told him.

She made her moves skillfully, confident she could best
him, but careful not to underestimate his ability. He was bold at first,
decisive and quick, but after forty-five minutes, the play had slowed
considerably.

"It seems you mean to make good your threat," he
chuckled, eyeing her in frank admiration as she captured his rook.

"Not nearly as easily as I'd hoped," Whitney said. "And
I recognized your skill three moves before you became aware of mine. That
alone should have cost you the game."

"I apologize for disappointing you," he mocked.

"You are absolutely delighted to 'disappoint me' and you
know it!" Whitney laughed. She was just reaching for her bishop when her
father suddenly stood up and announced that, inasmuch as his gout was
troubling him, he would be grateful if Mr. Westland would escort Whitney
home when their game was finished. With that, he seized his sister-in-law's
hand and strode swiftly toward the door on what were obviously two perfectly
healthy legs, hauling Anne in his wake.

Whitney was already on her feet. "We can have our game
another time," she said hastily, hiding her wistful regret over being unable
to go on playing.

"Nonsense!" her father declared stoutly, hurrying over
and pressing a clumsy kiss on her forehead, while forcing her back into her
chair. "Nothing Improper about the two of you going on with your
game-there's a house full of servants for chaperones."

Having once been the object of scorn and ridicule in
this neighborhood, Whitney had no desire to bring censure down on herself
over such a trifling thing as a game of chess. "No, really, I couldn't,
Father." Unable to rise with her father's restraining hand on her shoulder,
she looked beseechingly to her aunt, who shrugged helplessly, then levelled
her rapier gaze on Clayton. "I trust you will remember to conduct yourself
as a gentleman, Mr. Westland?"

"Whitney will be treated with all the deep respect and
affection I have for her," Clayton replied with tolerant amusement.

The second game was begun, the first having ended in a
stalemate. For a while after her father and Aunt Anne departed, Whitney felt
ill at ease, but she soon relaxed, and by the time they were well into the
second game, both opponents were heckling one another outrageously.

With her elbows propped on the huge chess table and her
chin cupped in her hands, Whitney watched Clayton reach for his knight.
"Most imprudent," she advised him.

Clayton gave her a wicked grin, ignored her advice, and
advanced his knight. "You are hardly in a position to counsel me on strategy
after your last reckless move, Miss."

"Then don't ever complain that I didn't warn you,"
Whitney mused, tapping her long, tapered fingernail on an empty square,
while she pondered his wily move of the knight. Leaning forward, she plunked
her rook into position, then rested her chin on her hands again.

Each time she reached across the board, she unwittingly
afforded Clayton glimpses of the thrusting fullness of her breasts above the
scalloped bodice of her dress, until it required every ounce of his
self-control to concentrate on the game. Long ago, she'd abandoned her
slippers and now sat curled up in her chair with her legs tucked beneath
her. With her luxuriant hair tumbling over her shoulders and her green eyes
glowing with devilment, she presented such a captivating picture that
Clayton was torn between the urge to shove the chess table aside, draw her
onto his lap, and let his hands revel in the richness of his prize-and the
equally delightful desire simply to lean back in his chair and feast his
eyes on her.

At one and the same time, she managed to be an
alluringly beautiful woman and a bewitchingly innocent girl. She was a study
of intriguing and beguiling contrasts. In the course of one evening, she had
treated him with cool disdain, tempestuous rebellion, blazing anger and now,
with a jaunty impertinence and breezy impudence that he found utterly
exhilarating. And to top it all off, she played one hell of chess game.

In the spirit of bald needling and relaxed affability
which they'd been enjoying, Whitney raised her eyes to his and inquired with
a radiant smile, "Are you contemplating your next move-or regretting your
last, my lord?"

Clayton chuckled. "Aren't you the same young woman who
informed me only hours ago that you'd call no man 'my lord'?"

"I only called you that," she informed him lightly, "to
distract you so that you'd forget your strategy. However, you didn't answer
my question."

"If you must know," he said, reaching for his king and
attacking from an unexpected position on the board, "I was wondering what
possessed me to play chess with a woman, when everyone knows chess is a game
which requires a man's superior logic."

"You conceited beast!" Whitney laughed, cleverly
sidestepping his attack on her bishop. "I can't imagine why I'm wasting my
skill on such a weak opponent."

An hour later, Whitney's dark head was bent over the
chessboard as she contemplated the success of her strategy. Three more
moves, four possibly, and the game would be hers. "How perverse of you to
maneuver me into such an impossible position," she complained, smiling to
herself as he made the very move she'd anticipated he would.

"You think you have me trapped, I presume?" he observed
with alacrity.

While Whitney carefully considered her next move,
Clay-ton leaned around and nodded over his shoulder to a manservant who'd
been standing at stiff attention near the door from the moment her aunt and
father had left.

In response to the duke's silent command, the servant
went to a table on which stood several crystal decanters and poured an amber
liquid from one of them into a glass. He paused and looked inquiringly
toward the duke for instruction as to the young lady's beverage. Clayton
lifted two fingers, indicating that two brandies were to be served.
     
The servant arranged the two glasses on a small silver tray and brought it
over to the table beside the chessboard. He put it down, and at Clayton's
brief nod of dismissal, bowed, and quietly withdrew from the room, closing
the door behind him.

Whitney was oblivious to all this, but she looked up as
Clayton politely handed a glass to her. The color was obviously not that of
wine, and she glanced suspiciously from the amber liquid in her glass to
Clayton's face.

Watching her with tranquil amusement, he explained, "At
dinner tonight, you argued so eloquently against the restrictions placed
upon females by society, that I presumed you would prefer to have whatever I
drink."

He really was the most provoking man alive, taunting her
this way, Whitney thought with a smile. Determined to brazen it out for as
long as possible, she sniffed the pungent odor emanating from her glass.
Uncle Edward's favorite drink. "Brandy," she said, favoring Clayton with a
bland smile. "Perfect with a good cigar, is it not?"

"Most assuredly," he agreed straight-faced. Reaching
out, he lifted an enameled metal box from the table beside them and snapped
the lid open with his thumb. Holding the box toward her, he offered Whitney
her choice of the cigars within it.

He was so supremely blase about it that Whitney's
composure slipped another notch closer to laughter. Catching her lower lip
between her teeth to still its treacherous trembling, Whitney studied the
cigars as if trying to decide which she preferred. What would he do if she
actually selected one from the box? Light it, no doubt! she thought with a
silent giggle.

"May I suggest the longer one to your left?" he murmured
courteously.

Whitney crumpled back into her chair, convulsed with
silent mirth.

"A pinch of snuff perhaps?" he urged solicitously,
sending Whitney into gales of musical laughter. "I keep it on hand for
particularly discriminating guests such as yourself."

"You are impossible!" she laughed. When she finally
caught her breath, she lifted her glass and, under his amused gaze, gingerly
sampled her brandy. It burned a path straight down to her stomach. The
second and third sips were not quite so awful, and after a few more, she
categorized brandy as one of those things for which one must acquire a
taste. Very soon after, she became aware of an unaccustomed, delicious
warmth seeping through her, and she firmly put the glass aside, wondering
just how potent a few sips of brandy could be.

"Who taught you to play?" Clayton asked.

"My uncle," Whitney replied. Leaning forward, she picked
up her king and held it to the light to admire the splendid craftsmanship.
"If one didn't know better, one would think these pieces were actually cast
in gold and silver."

"If one didn't know better," Clayton said blandly,
removing the solid gold king from her graceful fingers to prevent her from
inspecting it any closer, "one would think you were trying to extricate
yourself from my clever trap by contriving to place him in a safer position
on the board."

Whitney was instantly alert. "Extricate myself? A safer
position? Whatever are you talking about? My king isn't in jeopardy!"

A stow, roguish grin dawned across his features.
Reaching out, he moved his bishop into position. "Check," he said.

"Check?" Whitney repeated in disbelief, staring at the
board, trying to reassess her vulnerability. She was in check! And no matter
which of the available moves she made, one of his men was poised to attack.

Slowly she raised her eyes to his, and Clayton basked in
the unconcealed admiration lighting her beautiful face. When she spoke her
voice was soft and filled with awe. "You blackhearted, treacherous,
conniving scoundrel."

Clayton threw back his head and laughed at the contrast
between her tone and her words. "Your flattery warms my heart," he chuckled.

"You have no heart," Whitney quipped, smiling dazzlingly
at him. "If you did, you'd never abuse a helpless female by luring her into
a game at which you are obviously a master."

"You lured me," he reminded her, grinning. "Now, shall
we finish the game, or do you plan to deny me my triumph by claiming the
game was incomplete?"

"No," Whitney said good-naturedly. "I surrender
completely."

Her words seemed to hang portentously in the silence
that followed. "I was hoping you would," he said quietly.

He unbuttoned his dark blue jacket, leaned back in his
chair, and stretched his long legs out beside the table. Relaxed and
comfortable, he turned his head slightly and gazed into the fire.

Whitney studied him surreptitiously as she sipped from
her brandy. Sitting like that, he looked like an artist's portrait of the
"gentleman of leisure." And yet, she had the strangest feeling that beneath
his relaxed exterior there was a forceful-ness, a power, carefully
restrained now, but gathered. Waiting. And if she made a wrong move, a
mistake, he would unleash that force, that power on her. Mentally, she gave
herself a hard shake. She was being foolish and fanciful. "I can't make out
the time," she said softly, a while later, "but it's surely long past the
hour for me to leave."

His gaze shifted from the fire to her. "Not until I hear
you laugh again."

Whitney shook her head. "I haven't laughed that hard
since the day of our spring musicale when I was twelve years old."

When he realized that she had no intention of
elaborating, Clayton said, "Since you're obviously reluctant to share it
with me, I claim the retelling of that story as my victory prize."

"First you lure me into a chess game," Whitney berated
him, smiling. "Then you outwit me, and now you want to claim a reward from
me for doing it. Have you no mercy?"

"None. Now go on."

"Very well," she sighed. "But only because I refuse to
further flatter your vanity by pleading to be let off." Her voice softened
as she looked back into the past. "It was a long time ago, yet it seems like
yesterday. Mr. Twittsworthy, our local music instructor, decided that the
village should have a spring musicale. All the females whose musical
education was entrusted to his tutelage were to display their
accomplishments by playing or singing a short piece. There were about
fifteen of us, but Elizabeth Ashton was the most gifted performer, so Mr.
Twittsworthy bestowed the honor of hosting the musicale on her mama and
papa. I didn't even want to go, but. . ."

"But Twittsworthy insisted that you must, or the
musicale would be a dismal failure?" Clayton speculated.

"Good heavens, no! Mr. Twittsworthy would have been
delighted if I'd stayed away. You see, whenever he came to the house to
listen to me play the pianoforte, his eyes began to bum and water. He
complained to everyone that my playing was so offensive to his ears that it
actually made him weep."

Clayton felt an unexplainable surge of anger at the
music instructor. "The man must have been a fool."

"Indeed he was," Whitney agreed with a breezy smile.
"Otherwise, he would have realized that I was sprinkling pepper in his
snuffbox whenever he came to give me lessons. Anyway, the morning of the
musicale, I pleaded and argued with my father that I shouldn't have to go,
but he would have it to the very last hour that I absolutely must!

"Looking back, I think Father would have relented if I
hadn't been seized with the unfortunate inspiration of sending Clarissa, my
maid, down with a note for him."

Clayton grinned at her over the rim of his glass. "What
did you say in the note?"