Whitney, My Love (39 page)

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 �99,000!"

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."